The Ghost of Apache Creek

Chapter 42

“Well, now,” the deacon said aloud to himself, as was his habit. “What the hell have we here?”

Four riders came down off the ridge and onto the flat.

For a few moments the shimmering heat haze elongated both men and horses so they looked gaunt, emaciated, like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse in a stained glass window.

The Peacock brothers rode closer, resumed their mortal size, and headed in the deacon’s direction.

Santee, a careful man, drew his revolvers and set them on the flat parapet of the well.

When the riders were close enough, he smiled and said, “Howdy, boys. Good to see you again. You catch up with that feller you was hunting?”

The younger Peacock’s mouth moved, no sound coming out.

“Is the water good to drink?” his brother said for him.

The deacon nodded. “It’s cool and sweet. He’p yourself, boys.”

The young Peacock’s mouth moved again, his blue, staring eyes fixed on the deacon.

His brother said, “We know where the man called Mash Lake is. He is here, in this place, and here we will destroy him.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, boys, but where?” Santee said. “I’ve been all over the damned town.” He holstered his guns, a movement that tensed the Peacocks. “I reckon he’s one of the murdering scum who killed my sons.”

The dumb Peacock spoke again without words.

“There are three of them,” his brother said for him. “Two men and a woman.”

“Where?”

“In the church bell tower.”

“Hell, how do you know that? I ain’t seen nobody. Of course, I haven’t searched the church yet.”

The wordless Peacock’s lips moved.

“Nonetheless, that is where they are,” his brother said, his words exactly matching the lip movements. “I can smell their sweat and their fear.”

“Then let’s go get them,” the deacon said.

The Peacocks didn’t react to Santee’s suggestion.

They dismounted and passed around the dipper and, like the deacon, drank deeply, for the day was hot and the air as dry as bone.

“Did you see coal oil in any of the stores?” one of the brothers asked.

“Yes, I think I did.” The deacon turned and pointed. “Over there, to the general store.”

“Then we will use it,” the silent Peacock said.

Talking to a mute who could only speak through his brother spooked Santee, and if there weren’t four of the Peacocks he would have shot the dumb son of a bitch for the sake of his own peace of mind.

One of the brothers who hadn’t spoken before said, “Gather up the coal oil and bring it to the saloon.”

He said this to the deacon, who immediately took offense. He wasn’t a lackey to be bossed around like a common laborer.

Then he looked at the man’s face.

Like his brothers’, his skin was drawn tight to the skull, fish-belly white, thin lips of the same shade. But his eyes burned with an unholy green fire, unblinking, measuring, relentless.

The deacon looked away. Damn it, you’re not a man. You’re a demon.

“I’ll bring the coal oil right away,” the deacon said.

Santee stepped out of the saloon and glanced at the bell tower. There was no sign of life. Nothing moved and there was no sound. Dead quiet.

He shook his head.

Hell, if the Peacocks claimed they were up there, then they were up there.

Them boys seemed to know things mortal folks didn’t.

It was downright strange.

“We’ll light the fire at dusk,” one of the brothers said. “We wish to watch the flames light Mash Lake’s path to hell.”

Deacon Santee had given up trying to tell the Peacocks apart. He filled their glasses from a dusty bottle of Hennessy cognac he’d found under the bar counter.

“Drink hearty, one and all,” he said. He raised his glass. “Here’s to the darkness and the flames.”

The brothers ignored him.

The mute’s mouth moved and his brother filled in the words.

“Here’s some fun. Who among us will toll the bell? Come, now, we need a volunteer.”

“You mean fer them in the tower?” the deacon said.

Another brother grinned and looked at Santee, his teeth large and yellow in his mouth.

“ ‘Never send to know for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee,’” he said.

“Ah yes,” the deacon said, “that’s in the Good Book, ain’t it?”

“The English poet John Donne wrote that line three hundred years ago.”

“That was gonna be my second guess,” the deacon said, blinking.

“Come, now, who will toll the bell?” the speechless Peacock said, his silent mouth smiling as his brother spoke for him. “Let’s have some fun.”

Four pairs of green eyes focused on Santee.

The deacon forced a smile. “It will be my pleasure,” he said. “I’ll take pots at it with a rifle, right?”

“No, you will toll the bell,” the mute said. “With the rope. There’s good sport for all and no mistake.”

The deacon met the man’s eyes and quickly glanced away.

Damn, it was like staring into green ice and hellfire.

He felt a niggling little twinge of pain in his belly.

Was it caused by fear of the Peacocks or the damned brandy?

He didn’t know.

But he did know enough to say “I’ll haul on the rope. Wake them up, huh?”

“Yes, haul on the rope,” a brother said. “We knew you would.”