Chapter Thirty-Three
The Chapel on the North Pasture
They had gone little more than a dozen paces on the road when the cottonwoods at the north bend gave up the riders.
Wade was at the front of the three, at ten paces, his two hands out at his sides where Jameson could see t them.
Zoe came behind, her arm in Jameson's grip, the cold snow dragging at her wet skirts.
George came at the rear at Jameson's word, not liking a foot of it.
The small procession had turned to the chapel gate when a horse came out of the north cottonwoods at a walk, then a second, and then more.
Ben was at the front on the chestnut mare.
Cord came at his right hand. Two men off the Bozeman road came at his left, and a third and a fourth behind with their rifles up and pointed at Jameson. They came to a stand across the mouth of the chapel road forty feet off.
“That is far enough, Dawson.” Ben held the chestnut still at the front of the line, revolver steady in his hand. “We’ve got you surrounded. Set the pistol down. Let the woman step clear. It’s over.”
Jameson turned with Zoe hard in front of him.
His eyes went to the line of rifles and Zoe felt the hand around her arm go stiff, then go slack, then go stiff again, a thing at the end of its rope.
“You have come at a fair number, Sheriff.” Jameson's voice came flat and dry.
“We have come at the number the thing wanted.” Ben held the revolver steady. “There is a road out of this yet that ends at a courthouse and not at a grave. Set the pistol down.”
Jameson held for a long count.
The pistol came down off Zoe’s temple by the inch. After the second inch, the man at her back drew a long, slow breath and set the pistol down.
“There.” Ben eased the chestnut a slow step forward, the revolver steady in his hand. “That’s it.”
Zoe stepped clear.
She had barely taken the second step, her eyes on Wade and chest coming loose at the sight of the pistol going down, when Jameson's face changed, and the greed came back over it. His hand stopped and closed around the grip instead.
He came up off his knee. He brought the pistol up.
Not at the ring of rifles. Not at Ben. He pointed it at Wade.
“Wade!” The cry tore up out of Zoe raw.
Zoe did not think.
She dove for Wade.
She took him by the shoulder and the chest with the whole of her weight, and the two of them went down in the snow. The pistol went off and the bullet, which had been meant for Wade's, hit Zoe in the left shoulder.
The pain of it came white and far and like a thing happening to a person a mile off.
The ring of rifles went off at the once—Ben's revolver and the deputy's rifle and the men from Bozeman, the reports rolling flat across the snow and back off the far ridge. Jameson went down.
Zoe lay at the cold snow at the ten paces with Wade under her.
The pain had begun to come up warm and terrible at her shoulder. The bright sky wheeled above. Wade came up from under her turned her, pale blue eyes gone wide and wild with fear the sight of the red stain blooming on the gray wool of her dress.
“Zoe! Zoe! Look at me. You will not go anywhere, do you hear? You have not come all this way to die. Look at me. Keep your eyes on me.”
“Wade.” Her voice was small and distant to her own ears.
“Keep your eyes on me, Zoe. George! George, ride to the doctor. Ben! I want a wagon at the gate. Zoe! Keep them open! Keep your eyes on me!”
“I am not going anywhere, Wade,” she said. “I am only—I am only tired. I have—I—”
Wade knelt and bent his head at the top of her dark hair, and the words came low and broken and little practiced.
“Lord. Lord. Keep her. Keep her with me.”
“Stay with me, Zoe. You have not said yes to me yet. You have not stood at the book at the back of the chapel and said it. I am not letting you go before you have said it. Stay with me, and say it, and I will spend the whole of the rest of my life earning the yes. Stay.”