Conn fell to his knees then and prayed in earnest, thanking God for saving him when he couldn’t save himself.
To reach the crevice, he had to pile up a lot of the debris he’d pulled loose. By the time he managed to scale the pile and squeeze into the wide crack, the stars were fading overhead as darkness gave way to a grainy light.
Conn pressed his back against one side of the crevice and pushed his boots into the opposite wall. Pushing with his feet, he inched his back upward. Then, one at a time, he brought his feet higher.
In this way, he made his slow ascent, understanding that if he slipped, he would be finished, and that the crevice might open up, become unclimbable, and finish him just as decisively.
But it hadn’t.
As dawn broke in the east, he hauled himself growling out of the crevice and collapsed on the hillside.
Dying of thirst, he’d crawled to the creek, where he’d drunk and drunk, washing away the dust.
He’d passed out for a short time—an hour or perhaps two—then struggled to his feet, said one last prayer of thanks, and set to the business of the death merchant: cleaning and reloading his weapons.
Only three shotgun shells remained.
The Remington’s metallic cartridges, on the other hand, survived.
With these implements of destruction, he set off for Salida, ignoring the fatigue and stiffness and pain, driven by the need to set things right.
Having survived impossible odds, he would allow nothing to stop him.
Did his survival mean God sanctioned this vengeance?
He didn’t know. Couldn’t.
But it might be an interesting question to ask his father if he managed to survive that long.
Meanwhile, he remained the avenger of blood.
These were his thoughts as he passed the little clapboard church at the edge of town. Folks were going through the wide open doors and entering the church, chatting happily, welcoming each other, shaking hands.
Conn felt a funny thing then, an urge to join them, to go through those doors and sing hymns and worship the Lord.
The urge surprised him. Even as a boy, worship had been little more than a hallowed formality to him. He’d had a hard time sitting still in church, and once he’d ridden off, he’d turned his back on the whole thing.
Now, suddenly, he felt himself being drawn toward those open doors, wanting to go inside.
But that, of course, was impossible.
He was bloody, muddy, and ragged. Filthy. And it wasn’t just his clothes.
Before attending church, he would need to attend to himself.
He didn’t know how, exactly, but he knew he wasn’t ready yet.
So he kept walking.
And eventually, he came to the Salida train station, where he approached the man at the counter and asked him if a group of men had come through here recently, one of them short with a scarred-up face.
The station agent nodded. “They came here yesterday and boarded the train to Leadville. Them and eight horses.”
Conn nodded. Leadville made sense. It was a wild boomtown. They could hide there and have all the fun they wanted. Lots of silver money up there, too, so the banks were probably stuffed to the ceiling with money.
Unfortunately, Toole and his crew could also hop a train to anywhere from Leadville.
Conn needed to hurry.
