Black Noon

by Andrew J. Fenady

Genres: Westerns

Synopsis

Owen Wister Award-Winning Author

Terror in a small town

When their wagon breaks down in the desert, Reverend Jon Keyes and his ailing wife, Lorna, find themselves at the mercy of blistering heat, punishing thirst, and circling buzzards. On the brink of death, they are rescued by Caleb Hobbs and his beguiling daughter, Deliverance, who take them to their home in San Melas. It's a strange little town, built to resemble the New England village they left behind.

Everyone in the community is convinced that Jon's been sent from heaven - that he's capable of healing their sick and saving their flock. But can he save these God-fearing folk from the gunslinger, Moon, who descends on the town like a bloodthirsty vulture? Can he explain the robed figures who gather and chant after midnight? And finally, can a good man wage war with evil itself - without losing his life or his soul?

Release date: December 1, 2015

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 336

Sample

It was a long way from Monroe to Saguaro, much longer than they had anticipated as they journeyed by creaking wagon—pulled by a two-up team, through Missouri, southwest into Kansas, across the one hundredth meridian, to the panhandle of Texas, then the desolate New Mexico Territory and its arid, unforgiving terrain.

There had been a few respites such as Amarillo and Santa Fe, too few and too far between, and they had so far averted sudden, deadly threats from hostile red natives, who resented trespassers coming into their ancient domain.

This was Dry Tortuga—although they didn’t know it—and no one really knew where it began and ended—a worthless span of earth where God had stomped the dirt and dust off his boots, with little or no water to provide nourishment, no game to provide food, or no fertile fields to provide crops.

And so they faced the vast emptiness between the winds—grassless, barren, rock hard, boiling windless days under a blistering sun, and relentless freezing nights under the worn canvas of the Conestoga.

Still, there were forced smiles, mostly from the young bride, unaccustomed to such trials.

“Jon, tell me more about Saguaro.”

“There’s not much I can tell except what was in the letter from the retiring reverend that we served together in the war . . .”

“Served gallantly.”

“Most of those who served gallantly are dead.”

“But not all, those medals you . . .”

“The war’s over, Lorna. That’s all in the past.”

“But not our honeymoon. That’s just beginning.” She smiled.

“Some honeymoon.” Keyes barely smiled. “Hundreds of miles in nowhere, to a place we know little about . . .”

“Except they need a minister named Jon Keyes.”

She rested a soft white hand on his muscled arm that held the reins.

After a strained silence, he spoke without looking at her.

“But, Lorna . . .”

“What, Jon?”

“I’ve been thinking . . .”

“About what?”

“You and me. You mostly . . . did you make the right choice? You could have had your pick of rich young men in Monroe, of the elite society you were born into, with all the comfort you’re used to, with everything . . .”

“. . . Everything except the man I love . . .”

“. . . Maybe your family was right . . .”

“As you said, Jon, about the war . . . all that’s in the past. Our future’s in Saguaro.”

“Saguaro . . . you know what’s been said. ‘There’s no God in Saguaro.’”

“Reverend Jonathan Keyes can do something about that.”

“We’ll see.” Then he added, “If we ever get there.”

“We’ll get there. I have no doubt about that . . . or you.”

But after what seemed like infinite days and nights, the prospect of Saguaro became less likely and more doubtful—much more doubtful.

The parched earth of the desert had claimed countless pilgrims wasted into dried-out meatless bones, picked clean by ravenous, far-seeing blackbirds who preyed on those who had prayed in vain—until they could pray and breathe no longer.

After scores of unnumbered days and nights lost in the no path terrain, with far away mountain peaks that never came closer—but vultures that circled ever nearer, it seemed inevitable that two more bodies and souls would soon surrender to the fate of those who had gone before.

It was a burning day with a bald desert sky, cloudless, as if painted, but pierced by the hot circle of sun that sent shimmering waves across jagged, burnished peaks bleached for a million years by the same immemorial sun.

Nothing moved, until . . .

For the first time there was motion.

Circling in the distance, death’s patient sentinels, several black buzzards . . . drifting . . . waiting . . .

And below, the team of horses, unhitched but with barely enough strength to stand on the desert crust. The Conestoga wagon. A wheel broken off. All its contents emptied. Trunks. Tables. Chairs. The remnants of civilization—and the bent figure of a man.

Jon Keyes managed to waver toward the side of the wagon where a barrel was tied. He had a red scarf in one hand, and with the other hand he twisted the spigot of the barrel.

Nothing. It was empty.

Desperately he placed the scarf under the spigot, hoping for even a single drop. He shook the barrel with fading strength—to no avail.

With face parched, lips cracked, he breathed heavily and looked off in another direction.

Lorna lay motionless in the shade he had managed to fashion from some of the wagon’s unloaded contents.

Keyes staggered back toward the inert figure of his bride. As he did, his stumbling feet inadvertently kicked an empty canteen on the ground—and nearby was the Bible he had carried for years. He picked up the Bible and moved on, then fell to his knees beside Lorna, unconscious and probably much worse. He placed the scarf on her brow, he held the Bible in both hands.

“Lorna.”

But there was no answer.

There had been none for a long while.

With the Bible still in his grasp, his face tilted upward.

“Lord in heaven . . . we beg of you . . . deliver us,” he whispered.

That was all the prayer he could manage.

He placed the Bible near her, then struggled to his feet. Keyes weaved toward the heavy wheel that was off the wagon. With all the might of his remaining strength, he tried to lift and roll the wheel closer to the Conestoga but lost control and collapsed as the wheel crashed hard on top of him.

He did not move.

But something else did and landed on a nearby jagged rock.

A buzzard, one of the desert sextons, without so much as a blink over its vast graveyard, gazed at the buckled body of Jon Keyes. The gold watch he wore on his vest had fallen out, but was still attached to the button hole by a heavy gold chain.

Before the vulture moved, as the other blackbirds circled, there appeared, as if out of a mirage, through the undulating heat waves, a large buckboard wagon.

Cheated, the buzzard flew off.

As the squadron of buzzards winged away, the large buckboard drew closer to the crippled Conestoga.

Three people were aboard the approaching wagon.

At the reins, Caleb Hobbs, middle-aged, tall, clean featured, with a smooth, almost saintly face.

On the far side, Joseph, rope-thin, with a long elfin visage, creased by a thin-lipped smile.

And in between the two men, Deliverance, the young woman out of the dream, and even though her garments now were much less revealing, and her hair was pulled taut from her forehead, there was still a soulful, suasive look about her.

Caleb Hobbs tugged gently at the reins and the twin white horses obeyed his silent command to stop between the unconscious woman and the man under the fallen wheel.

All three stepped off of the buckboard, not fast, not slow, with just the right effort for people who knew the desert. Deliverance and Joseph each carried a canteen.

“From the looks of ’em,” Joseph said, “none too soon.”

“We’ll do what we can,” Caleb replied.

As they approached, Joseph noticed something on the ground next to the inert woman.

He picked up the Bible.

“See here, Caleb.”

The tall man nodded and bent over Keyes. He looked for just a moment, then reached down and lifted the gold watch on which there was an inscription. He read it with a voice just above a whisper.

“‘To Reverend Jon Keyes. Mother and Dad.’”

His voice was still soft, but deeper as he looked at Deliverance and Joseph.

“Literally sent from heaven. This man is a minister.” Caleb glanced in the direction of Keyes’s wife. “Joseph.”

Joseph nodded and walked toward Lorna as Caleb put the watch into Keyes’s vest, rose, and moved toward the buckboard.

Deliverance knelt beside Keyes with the open canteen in one hand and placed her other hand gently on the left side of Keyes’s bruised face.

Suddenly there was the sound of a nearby rattle, then the warning hiss.

Deliverance looked up, but not abruptly, at the uncoiled snake about to strike. Her expression remained unchanged, her eyes unafraid. She did not move, except for her eyes ever so slightly, and not really a movement, more a penetration.

The snake ceased its rattle, recoiled . . . then slithered away.

Caleb at the buckboard had unhinged a chain and started to lower the tailgate. Joseph was still at Lorna’s side. If they were aware of what had just happened they displayed no reaction.

And neither did Deliverance.

She poured water from the canteen into her palm and fingers, then softly pressed her long, milk-white fingers across Keyes’s sun-scorched lips . . . until his face moved tenuously.

His eyes fluttered and opened out of some bottomless graveyard pit, into the blinding glare of the sun, and finally into focus came the face of Deliverance . . . cool and beatific . . . the haunting face in his dream.

But this was not a dream.

Or was it?

Then he heard a dim voice.

Not hers.

“It’s all right, Reverend,” Caleb said, “we’ll take care of you.”

Reverend Jon Keyes had only a hazy, billowing recollection of the journey from death’s doorway on the desert—as a cat sitting on its haunches with its forelegs straight like a statue, neck extended—watched in the large comfortable bedroom appointed in New England décor.

The feline had placed itself near the foot of the canopied bed and gazed toward the unconscious form of Lorna lying on the bed.

Keyes sat on a chair, still showing the effects of their ordeal, still weak, but running his fingers through his thick thatch of auburn hair, his present thought only of Lorna’s condition.

He spoke to the others in the room without looking at them.

“Have you sent for a doctor, Mr. . . . ?”

“Hobbs. Caleb Hobbs.” The tall man smiled.

“Yes, of course, Mr. Hobbs . . . have you . . .”

“Dr. Moody had a much better offer in North Fork. He and his family moved there just a few weeks ago. We’re still looking for a replacement . . .”

“Do you think Lorna will be all right?”

“I’m sure she will, m’boy. Our housekeeper, Bethia, will look after her. Won’t you, Bethia?”

“Of course, Mr. Hobbs.” Bethia, a middle-aged, dignified woman dressed in New England tradition, was placing a damp cloth on Lorna’s brow.

“Bethia did quite a bit of nursing,” Caleb said, “in a veteran’s hospital when the war ended.”

“I’ll take good care of her, Mr. Keyes.”

“Thank you, Bethia.” Keyes turned his attention to Caleb Hobbs standing nearby. “I haven’t any idea of how long we were out there. Lost all track of time.”

“The important thing is that you’re both here now . . . and safe.”

“Thanks to you. Kept moving as long as we could . . . but never seemed to get anywhere.”

“The desert all looks the same.”

“The mountains appeared never to get closer.”

“You must’ve taken a wrong turn. It’s happened before, but with worse results . . . much worse.”

“If you hadn’t . . .”

“Don’t even think about that, Reverend.”

“How did you know,” there was a quizzical look on Keyes’s face, “that I am a minister?”

“Your watch, it had fallen from your pocket. The inscription . . .”

“Oh, yes. Mr. Hobbs . . . something else . . . I seem to remember . . .”

“Now, m’boy, you mustn’t strain yourself. We’ll have time to talk about all of it as Mrs. Keyes recovers.”

“You’re very kind, Mr. Hobbs, and you’re right . . . as of now I’m not really sure . . .”

“You can be certain of one thing, but first of all I’m not Mister Hobbs. Please call me Caleb, and we only did what . . .”

“You said ‘we’ . . . I do seem to remember . . .”

But before Keyes went on, his attention was drawn to the sound of the doorknob turning as the cat bolted from the foot of the bed and stood in front of the opening door. Deliverance entered without speaking.

She stood not as in the dream, but dressed as she had been in the desert, except her flaxen hair now flowed onto her shoulders, still as chimeric, with those silver-blue eyes directed at Keyes, who rose from the chair, looked at her, and brought his fingers to his lips in remembrance of her touch as he lay in the wasteland.

Caleb Hobbs took a step closer to the minister.

“You’ll have to excuse my daughter, Reverend. You see Deliverance has . . . an affliction.”

Keyes’s eyes remained on Deliverance. Whatever the “affliction,” it certainly was not evident.

“She can’t speak,” Caleb continued. “But she can hear and understands everything we say. However, she is unable to speak.”

Deliverance’s long expressive fingers moved in a rhythmic pattern as she looked at her father, who nodded in response.

“Very good, my dear.” Caleb smiled at Keyes to interpret her message. “I sent Joseph and some of the other men. They’ve brought back your wagon.”

“Oh, I’d . . . I’d like to thank them.”

“You’re still weak. It might be better if you wait.”

“I’m all right. I’d like to.”

“Very well.”

As the two men spoke, Deliverance had moved toward the bed near Bethia, but looked down at Lorna, then at her father, as once again her hands and fingers sent a silent communication.

“Well, Deliverance,” Caleb smiled, “it appears that Mrs. Keyes is going to be all right, but she’ll need some time to recover.”

Deliverance nodded.

“Thank you for your concern,” Keyes said to Deliverance. “My wife and I are grateful to all of you for saving our lives and for all you’ve done.”

Deliverance acknowledged with a slight nod and smile.

“Well, Mr. Hobbs . . . Caleb, shall we go to see Joseph?”

“Certainly.” Caleb touched Keyes’s shoulder and led the way toward the open bedroom doorway.

Deliverance watched them leave and looked toward Bethia—then to Lorna—and then to the cat, who was already looking at her.

The street with its buildings looked nothing like what Keyes had seen since he and Lorna had started on their journey through the West, nor did its citizens.

The buildings were scrubbed and freshly painted, constructed in a New England style, and the people, young and old, were dressed more like pilgrims debarked from the Mayflower or some other vessel newly arrived from abroad. The citizens carried no weapons, and Keyes noted the absence of any sign of a saloon that inevitably adorned other western streets.

But before he could take it all in, he saw a faintly familiar figure standing beside the battered Conestoga with several other men nearby.

“Reverend,” Caleb said, “do you remember Joseph? He was with Deliverance and me when we found you.”

“Yes, yes, I do . . . now.”

Keyes extended his hand.

“Joseph, we are beholden to you and to these other gentlemen.”

“You’ll get to know the others later,” Caleb said as Keyes and Joseph shook hands while the other men nodded and walked away. “They’ll take the wagon over to Sam Hawkins’s stable. He’s a blacksmith who can fix anything.”

“Happy to help you, Reverend.” Joseph smiled. “Like the Book says, ‘Gather up the fragments that remain, that nothing be lost.’”

“Yes,” Keyes said. “And if you hadn’t gathered up my wife and me and brought us to . . .” He realized he didn’t know where he was.

“San Melas.” Caleb smiled as Keyes took further note of the surroundings.

“San Melas,” Keyes repeated. “We’ve passed through many a western town, but . . .”

“I know what you’re thinking.” Caleb motioned. “Things here are a little . . . different and so are we. We’re from New England. Connecticut. Some of the buildings we’ve constructed, our dress, even our speech . . . it’s hard to break old ties.”

“It’s charming,” Keyes said. And as his glance swept the street a young boy of seven or eight years, on crutches, hobbled toward them accompanied by his mother and father. In spite of his handicap, the youth’s face had a happy aspect.

“Hello, Mr. Hobbs,” the young boy greeted. “How are you today, sir?”

“Just fine, Ethan. And you?”

“Never better, sir.” Ethan smiled as his parents drew closer.

“Oh, Reverend Keyes, this is the Bryant family. Pricilla and William. William is in charge of our grocery-hardware store.”

The Bryants were a handsome couple, both in their thirties.

“Good day, Reverend.” Mr. Bryant nodded. “We heard what happened. Welcome to our little community.” Bryant pointed to the Conestoga. “If you need anything please come and see me. Just across the street.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bryant. You’ve all been very kind. A pleasure meeting you . . . and you, too, Ethan.”

“Thank you, sir,” Ethan replied as he made his way just ahead of his parents.

“Poor lad.” Caleb shrugged at Keyes. “Injured by a runaway wagon. He’ll never be able to walk without those crutches . . . only one of a series of misfortunes that’s lately struck our village.”

“Misfortunes?” Keyes repeated.

“There’s no need to trouble you, Reverend.”

“I’d like you to tell me.”

“Well, as I told you, our doctor moved away. . .