Abandon
Page 58“Why you sad?” she asked.
Stephen pulled his cape around and wiped his face with it.
“You buggered me. How’d you get out of the mine, Harriet?”
“I been here since long before you came, hidin from injuns.”
“You shouldn’t have left your mama.”
Stephen reached forward, wrapped the cloak tighter around her small frame. “You’re shivering,” he said. “Let’s see if we can remedy that.” He stood up and took the little girl’s hand and led her over to the stove. Inside, balled-up sheets of the Silverton Standard and Miner awaited a Sunday service that would never come. A wicker basket full of dried-out fir cones sat under the closest pew, and Stephen took a handful and arranged the kindling and shoved in two logs. One strike from his machero did the job. He left the iron door open, and soon the flames raged, sending out eddies of heat, throwing firelight on the walls, the cold plank floor, the vaulted ceiling.
“Scoot up close, sweetie. I want you to get warm.”
Harriet extended her hands toward the open door and Stephen sat behind her, setting his hat on the floor, tying his hair up. He pulled a small bottle out of his pocket.
“Here, sip this tincture of arnica,” he said.
She unscrewed the cap, took a swallow, handed the bottle back.
“What are all those dots on your face?” she asked.
“Nothing.” Stephen wiped the sticky specks of her father’s blood from his brow, his cheeks, his mouth. Then he reached into his greatcoat and withdrew the single-action army revolver, opened the loading gate behind the cylinder. Three cartridges left.
Is this Your will, God? That I shoot Your child in the back of the head. Because I will do it. I am your faithful servant, but please. Please. If there is any other way . . .
“I’m hungry,” Harriet said.
“We’ll get something in our bellies here in a minute.”
He coughed to mask the sound of the hammer thumbing back.
“I got a doll for Christmas, Mr. Cole.”
“Samantha. She has red hair.”
He knew he’d be sick after, fought off the urge to jam the barrel down his own throat. Is this Your will? Speak now or forever—
“She has two dresses, and my favorite thing is to comb her hair.”
When Stephen touched the trigger, it came—peace flooding through him, warm liquid light. “Thank you,” he whispered, and slid the revolver back into his coat.
Harriet glanced back, said, “You’re cryin again.”
“It’s okay. These are happy tears. God is so good.”
Harriet cocked her head. “Where are all the injuns?” she asked.
“How old are you, Harriet?”
“Six years.”
“I think you’re old enough to know something. Last night, God spoke to me. He told me that His judgment was coming down upon Abandon, that I was to be the instrument of His wrath, His brimstone and fire.”
“So there weren’t ever any heathens?”
“No, although at times today, God allowed me to believe there were. He let me see the heathens when I was standing at the Sawblade. Let me believe the lie. Showed me how to use it.”
“Then where’d everbody go?”
“Do you believe in God, Harriet?”
“Yes.”
“Does your father ever get upset with you? Like when you’re disobedient? When you don’t listen to what he says?”
“But that’s his job to punish you when you misbehave. In the same way, God is the father of Abandon, and all the people who live here are His children. But do you know what?”
“What?”
“The people of this town were very wicked.”
“Why?”
“They were greedy. Sinful. They didn’t love God. Thought only of themselves and what they wanted. They were obsessed with gold, and some of them were very evil and did terrible things to others. They took what didn’t belong to them. Caused incredible pain.”
“That’s wrong. You’re supposed to be nice.”
“Yes, you are. And that’s why God decided to punish everyone who lived in Abandon.”
“What about Bethany and Mama?”
“Even them.”
“But they aren’t evil, are they?”
“Listen, Harriet. We can’t start questioning God. Why He chooses to punish some but not others. We might not understand, but that’s our shortcoming. We can only love and obey Him.”
Her bottom lip began to quiver. “I wanna see Mama.” “Come on, sweetie. Listen to me. God told me not to punish you. That He loves you. That your heart is good. He wants me to take care of you.”
“What about Mama and Daddy?”
“You need to shuck that question. Don’t ask it again.”
Harriet turned away from him and stared into the flames. Stephen put his hands on her delicate shoulders. “Let’s walk to my cabin,” he said. “I’ll build another fire and make us supper.”
“Did God punish Samantha?”
Stephen stood up, so tired that he felt he could lie down on his pine-bough mattress and sleep for thirty years.
“We’ll stop by your old house and get her.”
Stephen helped Harriet up and took her by the hand. Then the preacher and the child walked out of the church together.
The night was clear, the moon full and rising.
Infuse me with a peace that passeth all understanding.
Pinpoints of starlight twinkled, among them the rusty bulb of Mars.
Abandon lay dark and silent in its canyon, and from high above, Stephen heard a faint sound like a distant stamp mill.
They were beating on that iron door inside the mountain.
2009
SIXTY
Abigail approached the iron door—no handle, no doorknob, no keyhole. Lawrence came up and pushed against it and yelled Quinn’s name.
She tried to rein back the fear in her voice. “Did that just happen?”
Lawrence backpedaled, then ran at the door and drove the heel of his boot into the metal.
It made a clatter that resonated through the cavern and died.
He collapsed on the rock and squeezed his ankle, wincing from the pain. Around the door’s perimeter, the rock had been worn down, chipped away. Abigail shone her headlamp over the surface of the metal. It was covered in marks of desperation—dings and numerous indentations, as if someone had assaulted the door with an assortment of implements. She saw bullet grooves, scattered dimples created by buckshot. In the middle section, a large swath of metal had been dented in, and she imagined only a boulder carried by a group of men could have made such an impression in the indomitable door.