Denver. “This one is Ervil Beauchamp.”
When Zenas said nothing more, Wager asked, “Can you tell me why somebody would shoot them?”
Zenas, looking at Orrin rather than at Wager, said bitterly, “They were killed by the Antichrist!”
Again Wager waited, until finally he had to ask, “What’s that mean?”
“Tell him, Zenas,” said Orrin. “You can trust him.”
The beard wagged once, in either agreement or resignation. Then he began to speak in a kind of biblical cadence. “There were two brothers, Ervil and Willis Beauchamp, sons of Jonathan Beauchamp, who saw that the Salt Lake people had turned from God’s commandments, and followed a false prophet, and refused to return to the ways of the Lord. So Jonathan Beauchamp gathered up his people and fled. He fled first into Arizona to Short Creek, where he lived in peace until the Lord saw fit to visit punishment upon his people by sending the Gentile police down on them. Once more he fled, going down into Mexico, where the Lord saw fit to gather up Jonathan. Before he died, the progenitor anointed the head of Ervil, naming him President of the High Priesthood. Then the sons of Jonathan settled their wives and chattels in Mexico. There, after much travail, the Lord rewarded them for their faithfulness to his Word and they prospered, for what the Lord taketh he returneth a hundredfold to the faithful. But the enemy of the faithful never sleeps.” A calloused finger rose in warning.
Wager listened to the man recount the religious history of an obscure handful of fanatics in the only formal language he knew, and he found nothing at all to laugh at.
“Dissension came between the brothers, and Willis, the younger, claimed to be Prophet, Seer, and Revelator. Ervil spoke against this false claim, and their people divided into a true and a false church and warred among themselves. And it brought down the armies of the papists who, like the armies of the pharaohs of old, only awaited their chance to move against the children of righteousness whose lands they coveted. And Willis, listening to the Enemy of God, did denounce his brother, Ervil, and join with the papists to drive them from their homes and scatter Ervil and his followers to wander without rest in the lands of strangers.”
Orrin sat up suddenly, eyes wide. “Is that who came here, what, two or three years ago?”
“He and some of his people came asking help, and the Lord moved my heart to charity.”
“Where did they go from here?” asked Wager.
Zenas still spoke to Orrin, as if the story had to be filtered first through half-faithful ears. “They went to hide among the Gentiles, abiding the Lord’s time until Ervil could gird up his loins to strike back at Willis and destroy this false brother and false prophet.”
“But where?” Wager insisted. “What was his last address?”
“Zenas, it’s the only way. Already those two are dead. And Mueller, too.”
“Mueller is a Gentile. He’s not important dead or alive.”
“But not Asa or Ervil,” Orrin said. “And their families—you know what the destroying angel means.”
The bearded man closed his eyes for a long moment, as if asking once more for strength or guidance from some inner voice. When he opened them, he looked directly at Wager. “West Mosier Street—2444.”
“In Denver? The Mosier Street in Denver?”
“Even so.”
The long, bumpy climb back was hot, and the wind carried the dust into the cab to coat Wager’s teeth with a gritty film and to make his watering eyes itch. Tears dried at their corners, making them crusty, and he felt the sweat glue his back to the jiggling, thumping seat behind him.
“Do you think he doesn’t know Mueller?”
“He said Mueller was a Gentile. He wants nothing to do with Gentiles, alive or dead. Zenas wouldn’t lie, Gabe; if he or one of his church members had killed Mueller, he’d tell you. Kruse and Beauchamp are important to him, but Mueller’s not.”
“Why did he come
When Zenas said nothing more, Wager asked, “Can you tell me why somebody would shoot them?”
Zenas, looking at Orrin rather than at Wager, said bitterly, “They were killed by the Antichrist!”
Again Wager waited, until finally he had to ask, “What’s that mean?”
“Tell him, Zenas,” said Orrin. “You can trust him.”
The beard wagged once, in either agreement or resignation. Then he began to speak in a kind of biblical cadence. “There were two brothers, Ervil and Willis Beauchamp, sons of Jonathan Beauchamp, who saw that the Salt Lake people had turned from God’s commandments, and followed a false prophet, and refused to return to the ways of the Lord. So Jonathan Beauchamp gathered up his people and fled. He fled first into Arizona to Short Creek, where he lived in peace until the Lord saw fit to visit punishment upon his people by sending the Gentile police down on them. Once more he fled, going down into Mexico, where the Lord saw fit to gather up Jonathan. Before he died, the progenitor anointed the head of Ervil, naming him President of the High Priesthood. Then the sons of Jonathan settled their wives and chattels in Mexico. There, after much travail, the Lord rewarded them for their faithfulness to his Word and they prospered, for what the Lord taketh he returneth a hundredfold to the faithful. But the enemy of the faithful never sleeps.” A calloused finger rose in warning.
Wager listened to the man recount the religious history of an obscure handful of fanatics in the only formal language he knew, and he found nothing at all to laugh at.
“Dissension came between the brothers, and Willis, the younger, claimed to be Prophet, Seer, and Revelator. Ervil spoke against this false claim, and their people divided into a true and a false church and warred among themselves. And it brought down the armies of the papists who, like the armies of the pharaohs of old, only awaited their chance to move against the children of righteousness whose lands they coveted. And Willis, listening to the Enemy of God, did denounce his brother, Ervil, and join with the papists to drive them from their homes and scatter Ervil and his followers to wander without rest in the lands of strangers.”
Orrin sat up suddenly, eyes wide. “Is that who came here, what, two or three years ago?”
“He and some of his people came asking help, and the Lord moved my heart to charity.”
“Where did they go from here?” asked Wager.
Zenas still spoke to Orrin, as if the story had to be filtered first through half-faithful ears. “They went to hide among the Gentiles, abiding the Lord’s time until Ervil could gird up his loins to strike back at Willis and destroy this false brother and false prophet.”
“But where?” Wager insisted. “What was his last address?”
“Zenas, it’s the only way. Already those two are dead. And Mueller, too.”
“Mueller is a Gentile. He’s not important dead or alive.”
“But not Asa or Ervil,” Orrin said. “And their families—you know what the destroying angel means.”
The bearded man closed his eyes for a long moment, as if asking once more for strength or guidance from some inner voice. When he opened them, he looked directly at Wager. “West Mosier Street—2444.”
“In Denver? The Mosier Street in Denver?”
“Even so.”
The long, bumpy climb back was hot, and the wind carried the dust into the cab to coat Wager’s teeth with a gritty film and to make his watering eyes itch. Tears dried at their corners, making them crusty, and he felt the sweat glue his back to the jiggling, thumping seat behind him.
“Do you think he doesn’t know Mueller?”
“He said Mueller was a Gentile. He wants nothing to do with Gentiles, alive or dead. Zenas wouldn’t lie, Gabe; if he or one of his church members had killed Mueller, he’d tell you. Kruse and Beauchamp are important to him, but Mueller’s not.”
“Why did he come
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