Abandon

“I been here since long before you came, hidin from injuns.”

“You shouldn’t have left your mama.”

Stephen reached forward, wrapped the cloak tighter around her small frame. “You’re shivering,” he said. “Let’s see if we can remedy that.” He stood up and took the little girl’s hand and led her over to the stove. Inside, balled- up sheets of the Silverton Standard and Miner awaited a Sunday service that would never come. A wicker basket full of dried-out fir cones sat under the closest pew, and Stephen took a handful and arranged the kindling and shoved in two logs. One strike from his machero did the job. He left the iron door open, and soon the flames raged, sending out eddies of heat, throwing firelight on the walls, the cold plank floor, the vaulted ceiling.

“Scoot up close, sweetie. I want you to get warm.”

Harriet extended her hands toward the open door and Stephen sat behind her, setting his hat on the floor, tying his hair up. He pulled a small bottle out of his pocket.

“Here, sip this tincture of arnica,” he said.

She unscrewed the cap, took a swallow, handed the bottle back.

“What are all those dots on your face?” she asked.

“Nothing.” Stephen wiped the sticky specks of her father’s blood from his brow, his cheeks, his mouth. Then he reached into his greatcoat and withdrew the single-action army revolver, opened the loading gate behind the cylinder. Three cartridges left.

Is this Your will, God? That I shoot Your child in the back of the head. Because I will do it. I am your faithful servant, but please. Please. If there is any other way . . .

“I’m hungry,” Harriet said.

“We’ll get something in our bellies here in a minute.”

He coughed to mask the sound of the hammer thumbing back.

“I got a doll for Christmas, Mr. Cole.”

Stephen blinked through the tears. “What’s her name?” He choked on the words as he put the revolver to the back of her head.

“Samantha. She has red hair.”

He knew he’d be sick after, fought off the urge to jam the barrel down his own throat. Is this Your will? Speak now or forever—

“She has two dresses, and my favorite thing is to comb her hair.”

When Stephen touched the trigger, it came—peace flooding through him, warm liquid light. “Thank you,” he whispered, and slid the revolver back into his coat.

Harriet glanced back, said, “You’re cryin again.”

“It’s okay. These are happy tears. God is so good.”

Harriet cocked her head. “Where are all the injuns?” she asked.

“How old are you, Harriet?”

“Six years.”

“I think you’re old enough to know something. Last night, God spoke to me. He told me that His judgment was coming down upon Abandon, that I was to be the instrument of His wrath, His brimstone and fire.”

“So there weren’t ever any heathens?”

“No, although at times today, God allowed me to believe there were. He let me see the heathens when I was standing at the Sawblade. Let me believe the lie. Showed me how to use it.”

“Then where’d everbody go?”

“Do you believe in God, Harriet?”

“Yes.”

“Does your father ever get upset with you? Like when you’re disobedient? When you don’t listen to what he says?”

“Yeah, when Mama’s gone, he hits my bottom real hard with the metal part of his belt.”

“But that’s his job to punish you when you misbehave. In the same way, God is the father of Abandon, and all the people who live here are His children. But do you know what?”

“What?”

“The people of this town were very wicked.”

“Why?”

“They were greedy. Sinful. They didn’t love God. Thought only of themselves and what they wanted. They were obsessed with gold, and some of them were very evil and did terrible things to others. They took what didn’t belong to them. Caused incredible pain.”

“That’s wrong. You’re supposed to be nice.”

“Yes, you are. And that’s why God decided to punish everyone who lived in Abandon.”

“What about Bethany and Mama?”