He could imagine the wild nights in the saloons, the raucous parties thrown by the Hyde Mining Company in Hyde Hall, the constant flow of customers through the portals of Holly Ann Mayfield’s establishment on Cottonwood Lane, a short walk down the riverfront, just one of many quaint residences.
I will have two more ladies joining us next week. They hail from San Francisco and are a proper sort, accustomed to fine company and the discerning tastes of the elite. So we are growing with the town, and I’ve wondered if our good fortune might never end.
Miss Mayfield did feel optimistic about her enterprise and recorded some examples of recent receipts. All was going well until . . .
Enter the villain.
I have always striven to be a person of good will and neighborliness, as have those with whom I associate, but I must admit that any good will remaining to me is quickly exhausted in the presence of that man. He is altogether harsh and condemning, and finds no greater joy than to consign all persons save himself to the fires of hell. My ladies are afraid of him, I find him disgusting, and I fear Ben’s hatred of the man has reached murderous proportions.
To hear Holly Ann Mayfield tell it, the Rev. Charles DuBois, a black-garbed, wizened little preacher of unknown origins, had only one mission in life: to clean up and convert the town of Hyde River, whether it wanted to be converted or not.
His leaflets are everywhere, tacked to every post, every building, with or without permission, advertising the evils of Hyde River and the meetings he is conducting in Hyde Hall to turn souls away from their deadly course. Three of my ladies have attended recently, and I daresay their performance has dropped, as has the number of their clientele. The discord in the house is growing with the number of DuBois’s converts.
From her descriptions of Reverend DuBois—a weasel, an encroaching, uninvited vermin who chews on people as a rat would chew cheese . . . the only trouble this town has ever had—it was easy to see that Holly Ann Mayfield had a very low opinion of the man. Given that, Steve couldn’t be sure how sinister and disgusting DuBois was in reality, but the madam’s accounts were entertaining nevertheless.
Thanks to DuBois’s thundering orations, which I have no trouble hearing even from my own drawing room, there are those in town who are beginning to concern themselves with the hereafter and their eternal reward, and so they have become overly burdened with questions of morality. They not only speak against me and the conducting of my affairs, they also question the number of saloons in town and rail against the “moral climate” of Hyde River out of concern, they say, for their children.
Ben is the most distraught. With these new concerns about morality, some have questioned his control of their houses and lands and the rents he levies upon them. I can sympathize with their low wages, but I would still argue that they had a choice whether or not to come here and work for Hyde Mining. This is, after all, Ben’s town. If they find that disagreeable, there are other places to go.
Steve chuckled. So things weren’t all roses for Benjamin Hyde. Too bad. It seemed you just couldn’t be a despot in a company town without somebody complaining about it.
At long last, Ben has closed Hyde Hall to any more of DuBois’s meetings. I’m glad, but still disappointed. It seems the damage done to my business and to the saloons and the gaming establishments was not sufficient cause for such action. Only when a sizable group began drafting a new town charter and calling for an elected town council did Ben feel a pinch. Oh, well. At least a firm stand has been taken and a statement made. What DuBois will do now remains to be seen, although he seems to have gained a substantial momentum behind his cause.
Then the story grew intriguing.
JULY 17, 1882
Ben cannot come to dinner tonight, but must preside over a special meeting he would tell me nothing about. He has been in a deeply preoccupied mood lately, and so have the other businessmen, and I venture to guess they are meeting to discuss whatever it is they have been so broody about. I can guess it has to do with our present troubles, the bothersome shift of mood brought here by DuBois.
JULY 18, 1882
Reverend DuBois did not surprise me, not in the slightest. Others were horrified and dismayed. Two of my ladies, once his converts, returned to me. I knew his devious side must come to light sooner or later. What disturbs me so terribly is how it finally came to light, and what followed.
Poor Karlyn! So it was she he’d taken a shine to! No wonder she never told us about it. We’ve all tried to be understanding, but of course I had to chide her for her surreptitious business arrangement while under my roof, and she has promised to recompense me with my agreed percentage.
She had been the most holy reverend’s consort for the better part of a month, she says, and he paid her well. She does admit being afraid of him, however, and relates how he was given to unprovoked fits of rage and visions of demons. Last night, he flew into one such fit of rage, began to beat her, and, she says, would have killed her had she not escaped and fled to Ben for help.
The town went into an uproar. The Reverend was confined under guard in Hyde Hall while Ben and his associates decided what to do with him, but there were plenty who wanted the man hanged, including myself.
As for Karlyn, she is still in seclusion in Ben’s home, not talking to anyone. It makes me wonder, now that the trouble is over, why she will not come back to this, her home. When DuBois abused her, why did she not come to me first, since we share the same roof, but instead ran to Ben? Karlyn did not seem seriously injured when I did see her, but she would answer none of my questions as to her condition.
So the Reverend got caught with his pants down, so to speak, which turned out to be just the occasion Benjamin Hyde and his cronies were looking for. All hell broke loose after that.
I could not go out for fear. Reverend DuBois was hanged in Hyde Hall with Ben and his friends in attendance and a mob in the street cheering. I had hoped it would have ended there, but from there it only spread like a fire. Men from the mining company began scouring the town for any of DuBois’s sympathizers, anyone at all who attended his meetings, spoke well of him, became his converts, or raised moral objections to Ben’s leadership. All night long, the town was overrun with madness. I have seen mobs running by my house, dragging my neighbors out of their homes, dashing their belongings out in the street. Three of Ben’s assistants came to our door demanding the women who converted in one of the meetings, but since Ben had no quarrel with me I was able to speak on my ladies’ behalf and they were spared.
Early this morning, Suzanne brought further word from Hyde Hall: DuBois was given no trial. With no witnesses called and no opportunity to defend himself, he was quickly and summarily put to death. I should not be bothered by that, since I so despised the man, and yet, and I write this knowing Ben will never read it, I am beginning to have questions about Karlyn’s account, DuBois’s guilt, and Ben’s response.
In the past, we have winked at Karlyn’s penchant for elaborate tales and excuses, but now, having seen people die around me, I am haunted, no, terrified, by the possibility that her tale of DuBois’s violence against her could be just that: a tale. I have questioned the other ladies thoroughly, and not one of them has ever seen DuBois anywhere near this house or near Karlyn, for that matter. Indeed, her sudden account of DuBois abusing her came as a shock to all of us.
As for Ben, there is no question in my mind that today’s violence and carnage will, in the end, be all to his advantage. After what has happened today, who will dare to question his power?
I think I’ve heard this story before, Steve thought.
For the next several pages, Mayfield chronicled the events of that night and the following day in a hurried, cursory account.
The Abner Smyths were driven from their home. Abner fought against the mob and was shot. I don’t know what happened to his wife and children.
Cecil Ames, owner of the Ames Hotel, was untouched, but Timothy Stanley, the desk clerk, was dragged into the street
and shot.
The Norwegian family three doors down had no connection with DuBois that I know of, but were deeply religious to begin with. John Sanders and his brothers wanted to torch the house, but Ben was able to prevent it, fearing the fire would spread. The family left on today’s steamer.
The Larsons, newlyweds, were converted at one of DuBois’s meetings. They were shot.
Hiram Walters, one of the drafters of the failed town charter, was shot along with his wife and two sons.
Amos Tyler, friend of Walters, was shot.
Jeremiah Carson, editor of the Hyde River Post, was shot. He was sympathetic to the shifting moral climate and ready to sign the Walters charter.
Joseph Gustafson, a miner, was shot.
Matthew Farwell, a miner, was shot.
William DeWalt, a miner, was shot.
Clarence Miles, a miner, was shot, and so was his wife Clarice. Their two children were sent away on the steamer.
A fire broke out in the livery. The livery burned down, but the fire didn’t spread.
Someone pushed Kenneth Chatney’s wagon into the river. It floated downstream and then overturned on the rocks. Then Kenneth Chatney was shot. He owned the mercantile. The property will revert to the Hyde Mining Company.
Horace Davis, chief assayer for the company, shot and killed three men who had come to kill him before he himself was shot.
And so it went, for page after page. Then came something familiar, something that brought back the memory of that special table in the home of Harold Bly.
Having done away with the trouble, Ben produced a new town charter and invited me to be one of the signatories in Hyde Hall. I thought it strange that he could prepare a fresh document so quickly on the tail of such an upheaval—to be honest, I have no doubt that the charter was prepared before the great purging— but I agreed to attend and to sign. It would be the first time I dared to venture from my home.
The names of the signatories are on the document. With the signing, a new future was to unfold, a clearer vision for the town of Hyde River. The past, especially this day and the preceding night, are to be forever buried and forgotten.
But I will never forget.
Twenty-seven people died that I know of, and I can only guess the others fled with whatever they could carry away. I could hear the screams and the shooting all night long, and I dared not venture out.
The Reverend DuBois was left hanging in Hyde Hall until this afternoon. I informed Ben and the others that I would not attend the signing of the charter until the body was removed, so Ben ordered it cut down, taken out, and buried with the others.
By late afternoon, the people who remained in Hyde River were back in the mines as if nothing had happened, and I also attended to my business. After nightfall, we gathered in Hyde Hall under cover of darkness and signed the charter. With the signing of our names we took an oath of silence, so I cannot speak of these things but only write them secretly.
The trouble is over, but I am no happier. I am afraid of what we have done. I am afraid of tomorrow.
The eyes were like pure gold, and as it returned my gaze I could sense a remarkable intelligence but also a hatred so intense I feared for my life. I guessed it to be the size of a large horse, though it slunk like a lizard, and it was only visible for a moment before vanishing into the forest on the other side of the river. Totally beside myself, I ran back into town and immediately met Harrison Bly coming the other way. I tried to tell him what I had seen, but he only laughed in my face, delighted to see me in such a state.
“So how do you like our little pet?” he asked, and acted as if he knew all about it.
“You were right, Clarice, and your warnings well-founded after all. Harrison Bly, having married into the Hyde family, has followed them in contracting with the devil himself.”
From a confidential letter written by Mrs. Sarah Alice Thompson, a resident of Hyde River, to Mrs. Clarice Stevens, half-sister of Abby Bly, Harold Bly’s mother
Sixteen
THE MARK
TRACY WAS HOPING Phil’s fear would encourage him to open up, but it seemed the opposite was true. She stood outside his cell, trying to be casual and conversational, even telling a few little jokes to loosen things up. But all he did was sit on his little bunk, staring at the concrete floor and wringing his hands.
“Phil, come on. If somebody put you up to this, they’re going to walk if you don’t say anything.”
He said not a word.
“I don’t think you’d assault a total stranger for no reason. Come on, Phil, what’s going on here?”
Nothing.
She leaned against the wall, arms crossed, trying to come up with something else to get him talking. “Of course, you don’t have to say anything, I know. But you could make things easier on yourself. Have you thought of that? You could turn state’s witness, cut a bargain. I don’t think you’re all alone in this thing. Am I right?”
He trembled a little but did not respond.
“What about Harold Bly? Did he put you up to this?”
“No!” he said emphatically.
Well. A response. “Phil—what are you afraid of?”
“I’m not afraid.”
“Well you could’ve fooled me. Just look at yourself. You’re shaking, you’re nervous—”
“I’m not afraid!” he insisted.
“What about the Oath, Phil? You know, the old Hyde River Oath? Is that why you can’t say anything?”
He seemed almost apologetic. “I can’t tell you anything, Tracy. I just can’t.”
She went close to the bars and sank down so she was at his eye level. “Phil, I talked to Charlie not long before he had that car crash. He was scared too, just like you are. And you know what else? I talked to Maggie just before she disappeared, and she was acting just like you are, really scared. And I kept wondering just what they were so afraid of. Phil, what are you afraid of?”
“I’m not afraid.”
It was time to bring up the forbidden subject. “Did I tell you about my hunting trip the other day? Professor Benson and I tracked something all night long, something huge.”
For the first time, he looked at her, his eyes widening with a new horror.
“We never saw it clearly, but apparently, it could fly. It dropped right out of the sky and just about killed both of us. We shot at it, but it got away.” Then she added, “Oh. Did I tell you we were in Hyde Hall at the time?”
His eyes got wider, and his whole body started to quiver.
“Yeah. We started by staking out Hyde Hall because that was where Maggie and Vic both disappeared. Well, we just about found out what happened to them, but like I said, it got away.”
He began shaking his head back and forth, his eyes wide, his voice weak and trembling. “Oh, you shouldn’t have done that. You . . . oh, why did you—”
“Is that what you’re afraid of, Phil? Is there really something out there that might—come and get you?” He reacted as if the question had stabbed him like a knife. She tried another one. “Is that why you tried to kill Evelyn Benson, because she saw it, because she knows what it is?”
“No . . .”
“Why are you protecting it, Phil? Why are you protecting something that kills people?”
“No!” he screamed. “I’m not saying anything! I’m not gonna talk about anything!”
Like Charlie, she thought.
She rose and looked down at the pitiful wreck of a man. He was bent over, his head almost between his knees, rocking gently, muttering in fear, “I didn’t talk . . . I didn’t do anything . . . I’m not saying anything . . .”
Well. At least he was in a jail cell. This would be the first victim who couldn’t wander or drive off.
“Try to get some sleep,” she said finally. “I’ll see you again in the morning.”
She clicked off the hall light and left him there.
FLIPPING THROUGH the pages of the binder, Steve came to a photocopy of a finely lettered
document with a large, bold title:
OFFICIAL CHARTER OF THE CITY OF HYDE RIVER
Not a bad piece of work for something so hastily thrown together, he thought. Holly Ann Mayfield could have been right: Benjamin Hyde already had this thing drawn up before the massacre, meaning he could have planned the massacre all along, including the trumped-up charge against Charles DuBois that triggered it.
One giveaway was the date, July 19, 1882, which had all the appearance of being filled in after the fact. Steve had to chuckle at the recollection of how proud Harold Bly was of his great, great granddaddy.
“Whereas,” the document began, like so many documents did. Okay, we’ll read what these killers have to say for themselves.
Whereas the undersigned, having founded and established the city of Hyde River through their own resources, wisdom, and resolve, and. . . .
Whereas, no appeal has been made to, nor any strength or assistance received from, the so-called Almighty or any deity of any kind, and. . . .
Whereas, the undersigned, confident of their own capacity for good, do wish to pursue happiness, peace, and contentment by whatever avenue they may choose. . . .
We the undersigned do declare and affirm that. . . .
We are the masters and makers of our own destiny.
There is no God but Reason.
Only by Reason can Truth be established.
Only by living according to the Truth we have Established, shall we secure for ourselves and our posterity enduring Wealth and Happiness, our supreme goal.
These precepts shall be the Creed and Guiding Light of the City of Hyde River, for ourselves and for our posterity.
If This Be Sin, Let Sin Be Served.
It seemed a rather flimsy set of precepts on which to found a town, Steve thought, more of a reaction against the influence of the Reverend DuBois than a workable charter. But such a vague document gave Benjamin Hyde all the room he needed to run things his way, so in that sense, it must have satisfied the signatories.