The Ghost of Apache Creek

Chapter 29

Deacon Santee was in a killing rage.

Beau Harcourt had kidnapped his woman, he’d been shot at, and when he’d dived for cover he’d landed belly first in a steaming pile of cow shit.

Harcourt realized the danger he was in and desperately tried to rewrite the history of the last few minutes.

“Hell, Deacon,” he said, “I was saving her for you.”

“Humping her for me, you mean?”

Santee looked small and narrow and his eyes were ugly.

“I swear I didn’t touch her,” Harcourt said. “I was saving her for you, Deacon. I figured when we got paid for the herd, I’d loose her to you, as a celebration, like.”

Santee’s eyes glowed with blue fire, and Harcourt knew he was now walking the edge.

“I can’t trust you anymore, Harcourt,” the deacon said. “Verily the traitor shall perish in the flames and the demon ravens will peck out his lying eyes.”

“I didn’t taste her, I swear,” Harcourt said. He bowed his head in mock humility. “All I did was try to please you, Deacon.”

“Where are my sons?”

Santee’s question took Harcourt by surprise.

“Why . . . why, they’re with the herd.”

“My other sons, Jeptha and Enoch. You had the woman here, so their search for her was in vain. My boys should be back by now. Where are they?”

Harcourt shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Did you have them murdered to get to the woman?”

“No, Deacon. I found the woman in the ghost town.”

“Did you kill my boys, Harcourt?”

“No, no. I swear on the Bible I didn’t.”

“I hope you’re telling the truth. If my sons have been killed, better that their murderer had never been born. Better he tie a millstone around his neck and cast himself into the depths of the sea.”

The oiled blue metal and yellowed ivory of the deacon’s guns caught and held Harcourt’s attention.

How fast was he? Hell, Harcourt had seen his draw.

He was faster than anyone could imagine.

He’d answered his own question.

But he consoled himself with one thought: A bullet in the back was the ultimate equalizer.

Santee turned and called out to the young woman who’d been bathing earlier. He peeled off his reeking frock coat and vest and threw them at her. “Wash those.”

The girl wrinkled her nose and held the clothes at arm’s length with a forefinger and thumb.

“Oooh, they stink,” she said.

The deacon’s anger flared. “Do as I say or I’ll take a crop to you.”

The girl sniffed and flounced toward the creek, still holding the deacon’s coat and vest at arm’s length.

He watched her go, grunted at Harcourt, then pulled his right-hand Smith & Wesson, broke it open, and punched out the spent shells. He reloaded with rounds from his pocket and did the same for his second revolver.

Santee holstered his guns and smiled at Harcourt.

The rancher’s handsome face creased as he returned the smile. It seemed that, despite everything, the deacon had forgiven him.

Santee drew and fired.

The bullet took off Harcourt’s left thumb at the base, ranged downward after striking bone, and severed his forefinger at the second joint.

Harcourt screamed and clutched his wrist, staring in horror at his mutilated hand.

The deacon smiled. “That’s your comeuppance for deceiving me, Beau. For hiding my woman from me.”

“You bastard!” Harcourt shrieked. “You piece of motherless scum.”

Harcourt’s right hand dropped to his gun, but the deacon’s voice stopped him.

“I’ll take the other one off at the wrist, Beau.”

Harcourt very much wanted to live, an instinct stronger than his urge to kill.

He held his wrist again, his lips tight, grimacing against the pain.

Women tumbled out of the wagons and watched the scene in numb fascination. The cook and Harcourt’s remaining puncher came running, then stopped when the deacon swung his icy eyes on them.

The puncher, a tall drink of water wearing batwing chaps and a worried expression, stepped beside Harcourt and said, “You all right, boss?”

Harcourt held up his bleeding hand. “What the hell do you think?”

The puncher glanced at Santee, looked away, and said, “How do I play this, Mr. Harcourt?”

“You don’t, boy,” the deacon said. “Not if you want to go on living.”

The cowboy was young and there was a recklessness in him.

“You don’t scare me none, mister,” he said.

The almost benign expression on the deacon’s face didn’t change.

“I should,” he said.

Harcourt kicked out at the puncher’s leg. “Damn it, don’t stand there trying to prove how brave you are. Tear up a shirt or something and bind my hand before I bleed to death.”

The cowboy walked away and the deacon smiled. “I’d say that young man likes to live dangerously. What do you think, Beau?”

“Go to hell,” Harcourt said, wincing against the pain.

“That won’t happen, Beau. My destiny is to enter paradise and sit in a golden throne on the right hand of God. Such is the reward for piety and a life of prayer.”