The Six Messiahs - Mark Frost [162]
The group was currently suffering a heated division about which menace to society they should hunt down first: the Chinaman or that back-stabbing, snake-eyed, double-dealing, son-of-a-whore convict Buckskin Frank McQuethy. But they were agreed that whichever one of these running dogs they caught up with first would get fitted for a hemp necktie pronto and swing from the nearest tree.
Sheriff Tommy Butterfield felt the most personal sense of betrayal; he'd gone to bat with the governor about Frank, for Christ's sake. Put his trust in the man, laid his own political future on the line, and this was how Buckskin repaid him: a note pinned to a stable wall and vanishing into the night. The rat bastard could be halfway to Guadalajara by now. Tommy had been able to persuade the posse to ride on to Skull Canyon according to Frank's instructions that morning, but when they got there and found him gone again, the call for retribution turned into a chorus.
Throughout the next day, the talk grew meaner and the interrogation of the hotel staff rougher, until finally one of the clerks admitted that Frank had not gone off toward Prescott as they'd originally told the posse—according to Frank's orders under a severe threat of death, he was fast to add—but had been seen riding west toward that religious settlement. Where the actors and Chop-Chop the Chinaman had been headed in the first place. Now the room really fell into an uproar.
We'll ride there tonight, went the prevailing sentiment, ride in shooting and root out both of 'em; God take pity on anybody who stands in our way. All that remained was figuring out how to find the place.
That's when the gentleman who'd been sitting quietly in the corner with his four traveling companions spoke up for the first time.
We know that road, offered the gentleman. In fact, we're headed that way ourselves, and we would be more than happy to show you the way.
Right now?
Yes, we were planning to leave tonight, the man explained. And we know a good campsite along the way should you decide to break up the ride.
What's your business in this religious place? somebody asked.
We're Bible salesmen, said the man, and sure enough one of his companions showed them a valise that was chock-full of holy books.
A caucus ensued among the posse's elders; these fellas looked legit, sharply dressed and groomed, obviously Godfearing men, and they seemed to know the territory. The verdict came back fast and unanimous: The posse would ride with them at once.
By the time the thirty-eight amateur lawmen had assembled outside, the five Bible salesmen were saddled up, ready to go. None of the vigilantes overheard their leader, the man who'd spoken up first inside, the handsome one with the slight German accent, say quietly to his companions:
"Wait for my signal."
chapter 14
FRANK WAITED UNTIL FIVE MINUTES PAST SUNRISE TO RIDE up to the gate; a man and woman wearing identical white shirts, both carrying Winchesters, stepped out of the guardhouse to meet him.
"Welcome to The New City," said the woman.
"Nice to be here," said Frank.
"Isn't it a glorious day?"
"Seen worse," said Frank.
"What is your business with us today, sir?" Both of them smiling.
"Figured on joinin' up," said Frank, grinning right back at (hem.
"Joining ... up?" asked the woman.
"Yup."
Their smiles wore down around the edges; they glanced at each other uneasily.
"Joining up," said the man.
"Yup."
"Excuse us a moment, please, sir," said the woman.
The two moved back into the guardhouse, whispering to each other; Frank could see the man through the window, working a telegraph key. Looking up, he traced the suspended wire following the road toward the distant town. He took out his field glasses and trained them east, where he'd seen the military maneuvers taking place during the night; looked like a firing range set up there, sandbags and targets.
Frank heard