Hallowed Ground

Chapter Twenty-Seven

As the sun set over Rookwood, the last of the wagons and horses slowly moved out of town. Brady stood in the center of the street, staring after them. His own horse was saddled and ready. He wasn’t a religious man, far from it. What he was, was a careful man – and he took his job seriously. After the night he’d lived through he wasn’t about to take any chances.

Every man jack and swaddled babe in a ten mile radius of town was headed for the Deacon’s camp. There was no way in hell he could’ve protected them all, not the stragglers and the keen who raced ahead, so he’d deputized half a dozen men he grudgingly trusted and sent them around to fetch the reluctant and downright lazy. No one was to be left behind.

For the most part it was easy enough. No one wanted to miss the festivities. Nothing this close to exciting had happened around Rookwood in years, the place was buzzing with talk of last night’s gunplay and the coming revival. Suddenly there was life in Rookwood, and like everything else in this place it had a name, and its name was Danger. Something, some sixth sense, set Brady’s skin to crawling. He walked with his hand never more than a few inches from the trigger, alert to the point of edginess.

As it was, they flocked together as they headed out of town, like crows, he thought as he stood watching them. He didn’t move on until he was sure he’d seen the last of them go. If the crow men chose to come back today they’d find nothing but dust.

Creed had lit out at the crack of dawn and not returned. Brady hadn’t exactly been sorry to see him go. The way he saw it, whatever was going on with those strangers Creed was slap bang in the middle of it. It wasn’t about Rookwood, it was all about Provender Creed. So, with Creed gone he could concentrate on getting the rest of the town out to the revival tents and back safely.

Behind him a door slammed. He turned. Silas latched the tavern door with exaggerated care. When the barman was done, he looped the key around his neck on a long leather thong and started up the street toward Brady.

"Reckon we’d better get on with it," Brady said. "The last of ‘em headed out a few minutes back. We can catch up to them, watch the rear. I got deputies all along the trail from here to the Deacon’s camp. Don’t know how much good they’ll do if those…strangers…return. Anything else, though, we should be able to handle."

Silas grunted and slid his shotgun into the sheath beside his saddle. The two men mounted up, and turned toward the edge of town. Behind them, the town lay empty and gray. Every light had been snuffed out. No one wanted to come home to a fire. Brady glanced back, and couldn’t suppress the cold shiver that slid down his spine. Rookwood looked like a ghost town.

He turned toward the road and jabbed his spurs into his horse’s flanks. Silas followed a moment later, and they galloped off after the last of the good citizens of Rookwood.

‡‡‡

The Deacon stood at the edge of his camp and greeted each and every man, woman and child who entered, taking the time to grip arms, smile, offer reassurance and welcome. He very deliberately positioned himself several yards inside the circle bisecting the incense bowls. The main tent was lit up brightly. The canvas pulled on its guide ropes, loose ends flapping in the wind. Music played. It wasn’t happy, it wasn’t sad, but there was something off about it and not merely that it was out of tune. When the first wagon had rolled in, the Deacon recognized McGraw, the piano player from the saloon, and had him escorted to his own keyboard, an ancient, upright console that hadn’t carried a tune for several months. With no one to play it, the Deacon had let it run to wrack and ruin, but listening to McGraw hammer away at the keys it was like the old soundboard had never been silenced. The eight-fingered piano player had an oddly full repertoire of hymns and spirituals. The music hung in the heavy air like shards of broken glass.

Somehow the missing digits on the musician’s hands fit the old piano, and the camp, in a way they’d never been able to merge with the saloon. McGraw played with his eyes closed, lost in the music. Several of The Deacon’s people gathered round and raised their voices, filling in the missing notes so that piano and vocals came together in what could only be called joyous noise.

Finally, the Sheriff and the barman rode in. The Deacon held out his hand, but neither man made a move to take it. He made no sign they’d ruffled him. He simply nodded, and they followed the rest of the citizens of Rookwood toward the main tent, dismounting and tying off their horses in silence.

When they were safely inside, the Deacon nodded toward the shadows. Sanchez and the boy rose and took off at a trot. Sanchez carried a small torch. The Deacon’s instructions had been clear. No more than fifteen minutes to make the circuit of the camp and light the braziers. They were to be careful to remain on the near side of the four bowls – the camp side. When they were done, they were to wait for him near his tent. Near Colleen and the child. The Deacon wasn’t certain what would come of the next few hours, but he knew that once the wards were posted and the circle was sealed, he wanted anyone he might call an ally on the inside.

When everyone had made their way into the main tent, The Deacon slowly followed suit. He didn’t enter by the main door, but circled toward the rear. He passed Longman’s trailer, and stopped, just for a moment, to peruse the latest design.

It was a skeleton, advancing on some unseen foe. The beautifully rendered bony hands gripped a scythe tightly, brandishing it into the unknown. At the creature’s feet, decapitated heads glared up. All of their eyes watched The Deacon as if alive and daring him to proceed. In their midst, however, a sapling sprouted. On that small, struggling branch a single leaf budded.

In the Tarot, he knew Death did not necessarily mean death, not in the same way as it did in life. It meant the end of one thing, the beginning of something new. It was a card of new beginnings and shifting power. He walked on from the wagon, rounded the main tent and slipped between two flaps of canvas into the rear of the services, which were already in full swing.

Cyrus was speaking, faithful, dependable Cyrus. He was a man of few words, and most of those he knew were culled from The Bible. He read with passion and in the dim, candle-lit tent his oddly deformed features only served to enhance the already deep tones of his voice. He read from Psalms, and then he led those gathered into song.

The Deacon pulled his watch from his pocket, glanced at it, and nodded. There had been sufficient time for the braziers to be lit. The circle should be solid. It was time. There was no turning back. Along the back of the tent, the sisters had set up a rickety table. On that table a kettle rested. It was large and cast in iron. The Deacon had mixed the refreshments himself. Soon he would call for them to drink – to toast their lord – to wash away their sins.

He closed his eyes and saw the flash of serpentine coils. He heard the deep, insistent rattle of warning. He shivered, just for a second. The pouch throbbed against his chest. The Deacon smiled. He heard the last strains of The Old Rugged Cross rolling across the tent…and he stepped from the shadows, raising his arms on high.