The Ghost of Apache Creek

Chapter 50

The deacon staggered across the short grass, a gun in each hand, muzzles pointing to the painted sky.

As though anger had cleared his vision, he saw the Apaches now, gathered on the bank of the creek.

He glanced at the sky. It would be dark soon. A single star shone in the east, heralding the coming night. It was a pleasant evening and he felt like a man taking a stroll along a city boulevard.

He walked on, leaving a loathsome trail behind him as his rupturing guts emptied again and again.

Every step weakened him, and he did not know how many were left to him.

Enough.

Soon he’d be among the savages, where he would play hob.

His voice, weak, thin, reedy, rose in song.

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord,

He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored . . .

Now he was marching, by God. Marching to glory.

He fired his guns. Two fast shots that racketed across the hush of the evening.

“I’m a-comin’ for y’all!” he yelled. “Hear me! The deacon’s on his way.”

Steadily now, he triggered his revolvers, a rolling thunder of gunfire from the weapons of a master.

Mine eyes have seen the glory ...

A bullet crashed into the deacon’s left thigh and shattered bone. He dropped to a knee, staggered to his feet, and walked on, gritting his teeth.

He sang his war song like that, the words wrenching out of him.

Of the coming of the Lord . . .

Two bullets now, fired with fine accuracy from .44-40 Winchesters.

One ball slammed into the deacon’s chest, the other lower, deep in his belly.

He fell to his knees, triggered his guns.

Empty clicks.

Bullets hammered into him. Shredded him. Destroyed him.

The deacon took a last look at the sky, caught a glimpse of something terrifying, then screamed and fell on his face.

His body erupted one last time, but Deacon Santee was already dead.

The Apaches left him where he lay and did not go near his body.

They knew and feared the ways of cholera.