“No,” said Shannow. “Show me the Sam Archer you wish me to find.”
The screen flickered, and Shannow saw a mountainside and a collection of tents. Several people were gathering wood. One of them was the tall, broad-shouldered man he remembered so well: Sam Archer, archaeologist and Guardian. He had a rifle looped over his shoulder and was standing on a cliff edge, staring down over a plain. On the plain was an army.
“The day following this scene,” said Lucas, “the army sweeps into the mountains, killing everyone.”
“What war is it?”
“It is the Hellborn. They have conquered and are now sweeping away the last remnants of the defeated army.”
The screen changed once more, becoming the handsome face with the clear blue eyes. “Do I exist in this world?” asked Shannow.
“You did, as a farmer. You were killed in the first invasion. Sam Archer did not know you.”
“Who rules the Hellborn? Sarento? Welby?”
“Neither. The Bloodstone rules.”
“Someone must control it, surely.”
“No, Shannow,” said Amaziga. “In this world the Bloodstone lives. Sarento drew it into himself and in doing so created a demon with awesome powers. Thousands have died since to feed the Bloodstone.”
“Can it be killed?”
“No,” said Lucas. “It is impervious to shot or shell and can create a field around itself of immense force. The Sword of God could have destroyed it, but in this world there is no missile waiting.”
“The Bloodstone is not your problem, Shannow,” put in Amaziga. “All I want is for you to rescue Sam and bring him back. Will you do it?”
“I have a problem,” he said.
“Yes, with your memory. I can help you with that. But only when you get back.”
“Why wait?”
She hesitated before answering. “I will tell you the truth and ask you to accept it. You would not be the same man if I returned your memory to you. And the man you will become—though more acceptable to me—would have less chance of success. Will you take that on trust?”
Shannow sat silently, his pale gaze locked to her dark eyes.
“You need Shannow the killer.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
He nodded. “It lessens us both.”
“I know,” she answered, her eyes downcast.
The main street of Purity was bustling with people as Nestor and Clem rode in; miners, their weekend pay burning holes in their pockets, were heading for the taverns and gambling houses, while the locals moved along packed sidewalks to restaurants and eating houses. Shops and stores were still open even though dusk was long since past, and three lamplighters were moving along the street carrying ladders and tapers. Behind them, in double lines, the huge oil lamps gave off a yellow glow that made the mud of the main street shine as if it were streaked with gold.
Nestor had never been to Purity, though he had heard that the silver mines had brought great prosperity to the community. The air stank of smoke and sulfur, and music was playing all along the street, discordant and brash as many melodies vied for the ear.
“Let’s get a drink,” shouted Clem. “My throat feels like I’m carrying half the desert caked around it.” Nestor nodded in reply, and they drew up outside a large tavern with ornate stained-glass windows. Some twenty horses were hitched to the rail, and Nestor had difficulty finding a place to leave their mounts. Clem ducked under the rail and strode into the tavern. Inside there were gaming tables and a long bar served by five barmen. A band was playing brass instruments, a pianist accompanying them. Above the gaming hall a gallery ran around the room, and Nestor saw gaudily dressed women moving along it, arm in arm with miners or local men. The boy frowned. Such behavior was immoral, and it surprised him that any Deacon township would tolerate such displays.
Clem eased his way to the bar and ordered two beers. Nestor did not like the taste of beer but said nothing as the glass was pushed toward him.
The noise in the tavern was deafening, and Nestor drank in uncomfortable silence. What pleasure, he wondered, can men draw from these places? He wandered across to a card table where men were pushing Barta notes into the center of the table. He shook his head. Why work all week and then throw your money away in a single night? It was incomprehensible.
Nestor turned away and collided with a burly man carrying a pint of beer. The liquid splashed down the man’s shirt, and the glass fell from his grasp to shatter on the sawdust-strewn floor.
“You clumsy bastard!” the man shouted.
“I’m sorry. Let me buy you another.”
A fist hit Nestor square in the face, hurling him back over a card table, which toppled, spilling Barta notes to the floor. Nestor rolled and tried to come upright but, dizzy, stumbled back to his knees. A booted foot cracked into his side, and he rolled away from the blow but came up against a table leg. The man reached down and dragged him up by the lapels of his jacket.
“That will be enough,” Nestor heard Clem Steiner say.
The man glanced around. “It will be enough when I say it is. Not before,” retorted his attacker.
“Let him go or I’ll kill you,” said Clem.
The music had ceased when Nestor had been struck, but now the silence was almost unbearable. Slowly the man let him go, then pushed him away. He turned toward Clem, his hand hovering over the holstered gun at his hip. “You’ll kill me, dung breath? You know who I am?”
“I know you’re a lardbelly with all the speed of a sick turtle,” Clem said with an easy smile. “So before you make an attempt to pull that pistol, I should call on what friends you have to stand beside you.”
The man swore and made a grab for the gun, but even as his hand closed on the butt, he found himself staring down the barrel of Clem’s nickel-plated revolver. Clem walked forward until the barrel rested on the man’s forehead. “How did anyone as slow as you live to get so ugly?” he asked. As he finished speaking, he stepped forward and brought his knee up hard into the other’s groin. With a groan the man slumped forward, and Clem’s pistol landed a sickening blow to the back of his neck. He hit the floor face first and did not move.
“Friendly place,” said Clem, holstering the pistol. “You finished fooling around, Nestor?”
The boy nodded glumly. “Then let’s find somewhere to eat,” said Clem, clapping the younger man on the shoulder.
Nestor stumbled forward, still dizzy, and Clem caught him. “By God, boy, you are a trouble to be around.”
An elderly man approached them. “Son, take a little advice and leave Purity. Sachs won’t forget that beating. He’ll be looking for you.”
“Where’s the best eating house in town?” Clem countered.
“The Little Marie. Two blocks down toward the south. On the right.”
“Well, when he wakes up, you tell him where I’ve gone. And tell him to bring his own shovel. I’ll bury him where he lands.”
Clem steered Nestor out of the tavern and half lifted him to the saddle. “Cling on there, boy,” he said. “The pain’ll pass.”
“Yes, sir,” mumbled Nestor. Clem mounted and led Nestor north. “Ain’t we going the wrong way, sir?”
Clem just chuckled. Several blocks farther along the street they came to a small restaurant with a painted sign proclaiming “The Unity Restaurant.” “This will do,” said Clem. “How are you feeling?”
“Like a horse walked over me.”
“You’ll survive. Let’s eat.”
The restaurant boasted just five tables, only one of which was occupied. The diner was a tall man wearing the gray shield shirt of a Crusader. Clem hung his hat on a rack by the door and walked to a table. A slender waitress with honey-blond hair approached him. “We got steak. We got chicken. We got ham. Make your choice.”
“I can see the reason for the restaurant’s popularity,” said Clem. “I hope the food is warmer than the welcome.”
“You won’t find out till you make a choice,” s
he said without a change of expression. “We got steak. We got chicken. We got ham.”
“I’ll have steak and eggs. So will he. Medium rare.”
“Er, I prefer mine well done,” said Nestor.
“He’s young, but he’ll learn,” put in Clem. “Make it two, medium rare.”
“We got local wine. We got beer. We got Baker’s. Make your choice.”
“How good is the wine?” She raised one eyebrow. “Forget I asked. We’ll take the beer.”
As she walked away, Nestor leaned forward. “What kind of a town is this?” he asked Clem. “Did you see what they were doing in that tavern? Gambling and consorting with … with …” The young man stumbled to a halt.
Clem chuckled. “You mean the women? Ah, Nestor, you’ve got a lot to learn, boy.”
“But it’s against the Deacon’s laws.”
“There are some things you can’t legislate against,” said Clem, his smile fading. “Most men need the company of a woman from time to time. In a mining community, where men outnumber women maybe twenty to one, there’s not enough to go around. That sort of situation leads to trouble, Nestor. A good whore can help keep the peace.”
“Your friend is a wise man,” said the Crusader, easing back his chair and wandering over to their table. He was tall and stoop-shouldered with a drooping mustache. “Welcome to Purity, boys,” he said. “I’m Seth Wheeler, local captain of the Crusaders.”
“Those are the first pleasant words we’ve heard,” said Clem, offering his hand.
Wheeler shook it and pulled up a chair. “Just visiting?” he asked.
“Passing through,” Clem said, before Nestor could speak.
Wheeler nodded. “Don’t judge us too harshly, young man,” he told Nestor. “Your friend is right. Once the silver mines opened up, we got every kind of villain here and some four thousand miners. Hard men. At first we tried to uphold the laws regarding gambling and the like, but it went on just the same. Tricksters and con men fleeced the workers. That led to killings. So we opened up the gambling houses and tried to keep them fair. It ain’t perfect, but we do our best to keep the peace. It ain’t easy.”
“But what about the law?” said Nestor.
Wheeler gave a weary smile. “I could make a law that says a man can only breathe on a Sunday. You think it would be obeyed? The only laws men will follow are those that they agree with or that can be enforced by men like me. I can make the miners and the rogues stay away from the decent folk here. I can do that. But Unity needs silver, and this is the richest strike ever. So we got special dispensation from the Apostle Saul to operate our … places.” It was obvious that Wheeler did not like the situation, and he struck Clem as a decent man. “So where you heading?” he asked Nestor.
“We’re looking for someone,” replied the youngster.
“Anyone in particular?”
“Yes, sir. The Preacher from Pilgrim’s Valley.”
“Jon Cade? I heard he was killed after his church was burned down.”
“You knew him?” asked Clem.
“Never seen him, but word spread that he was friendly to Wolvers—even had them in his church. No wonder it got blazed. He’s alive, then, you reckon?”
“Yes, sir, we think so,” said Nestor. “He killed some of the raiders, but he was wounded bad.”
“Well, he’s not been here, Son. I can assure you of that. Still, give me a description and I’ll see it’s circulated.”
“He’s around six feet two, dark hair, a little gray at the temples. And he was wearing a black coat and a white shirt, black trousers and shoes. He’s sort of thin in the face, with deep-set eyes, and he don’t smile much. I’d say he was around thirty-five, maybe a little older.”
“This wound he took,” said Wheeler softly. “Was it in the temple … here?” he added, tapping the right side of his head.
“Yes, sir, I believe so. Someone seen him riding out, said he was bleeding from the head.”
“How would you know that if you haven’t seen him?” put in Clem.
“Oh, I’ve seen a man who answers that description. What else can you tell me about him?”
“He’s a quiet man,” said Nestor, “and he doesn’t like violence.”
“You don’t say? Well, for a man who doesn’t like it he’s mighty partial to it. He shot our Oath Taker to death. Right there in the church. I have to admit that Crane—the dead man—was an odious little runt, but that ain’t hardly the point. He was also involved in an earlier gun battle when Crane and some other men attacked a group of Wanderers. Several men—and a woman—were killed. I think the wound must have scrambled your preacher’s brains, Son. You wouldn’t believe who he’s claiming to be.”
“Who?” asked Nestor.
“The Jerusalem Man.”
Nestor’s mouth dropped open, and he swung a quick glance to Clem. The older man’s face was expressionless. Wheeler leaned back in his chair. “Don’t seem to have surprised you none, friend.”
Clem shrugged. “Head wounds can be very tricky,” he said. “I take it you didn’t catch him.”
“Nope. To be honest, I hope we don’t. That’s a very sick man. And he was provoked. I’ll tell you this, though: he can surely handle a pistol. That’s a surprising gift for a preacher who don’t like violence.”
“He’s a surprising man,” said Clem.
Jacob Moon was thinking of other, more weighty matters as the mortally wounded man crawled painfully across the yard, trying to reach the fallen pistol. He was considering his prospects. The Apostle Saul had treated him fairly, giving him back his youth and supplying a plentiful share of wealth and women. But Saul’s day was passing.
Saul might think he could take the Deacon’s place, but Moon knew it would not happen. For all his bluster and his willingness to kill for power, there was a weakness in Saul. Others had not apparently noticed it. But then, they were blinded by the brilliance of the Deacon and failed to see the flaws in the man who stood beside him. Let’s face it, thought Moon, Saul casts a mighty thin shadow.
The wounded man groaned. He was close to the pistol now; Moon waited until his hand closed over the butt, then shot him twice in the back. The last shot severed the spine just above the hip, and the man’s legs were useless. Moon’s victim, the pistol in his hand, was trying to roll over to aim at his assailant. He could not. The legs were dead weight now.
Moon moved to the right. “Over here, Kovac,” he said. “Try this side.”
Gamely, the injured Bull Kovac pushed against the ground, his powerful arms finally twisting him far enough to be able to see the tall assassin. With trembling fingers Bull eased back the hammer of his pistol. Moon drew and fired, the bullet entering Kovac’s head just above the bridge of the nose.
“By God, he was game,” said one of the two Jerusalem Riders accompanying Moon.
“Game doesn’t get it done,” said Moon. “You boys get back to Pilgrim’s Valley and report the attack on Kovac’s farm. You can say that I’m out hunting the killers. If you need me, I’ll be in Domango. And Jed,” he called as the riders turned their mounts.
“Yes sir, Jacob?”
“I haven’t the time to deal with the storekeeper. You handle it.”
“When?”
“In two days,” Moon told him. “The night before the Oath Taking.”
As the men rode away, Moon stepped across the corpse and strolled into the house. The log walls were well crafted and neatly fitted, the dirt floor hard-packed and well swept. Bull Kovac had traced a series of motifs into it, making it more homey. There were no pictures on the wall, and all the furniture was handmade. Moon pulled up a chair and sat down. A jug of Baker’s was still sitting on the old iron stove, gently steaming. Reaching out, he filled a mug, his mind returning to the problem of Saul.
The Apostle was right. Land was the key to wealth. But why share it? Most of what they had gathered was already in Moon’s name. With Saul dead I will be doubly rich, he thought.
A smal
l black and white cat moved out of the shadows and rubbed against Moon’s leg. It jumped to his lap and began to purr. Moon stroked its head, and the animal gratefully curled up, its purrs increasing.
When to kill him was the question now.
Stroking the cat, Moon found his inner tension subsiding, and he remembered a line from the Old Testament, something about for every thing there is a season, a time to plant, a time to reap, a time to live, a time to die. That sounded right.
It was not the season on Saul just yet …
First there was the Jerusalem Man. Then the woman, Beth McAdam.
Moon finished his mug of Baker’s and stood, the cat dropping to all fours on the floor. As he strode from the building, the cat followed and stood in the doorway meowing.
Moon turned and fired in one flowing motion. Then, reloading his pistol, he mounted his horse and set off for Domango.
7
People say we no longer live in an age of miracles. It is not so. What has been lost is our ability to see them.
The Wisdom of the Deacon
Introduction
JOSIAH BROOME PUT aside his Bible. He had never been a believer, not in the fullest sense, but he valued the sections of the New Testament that dealt with love and forgiveness. It always amazed him how people could be so quick to hate and so slow to love. But then, he reasoned, the first seemed so much easier.
Else was out for the evening at the Bible study group held every Friday at Frey Bailey’s home on the outskirts of town, just beyond the meeting hall, and Josiah Broome was enjoying the unnatural silence. Friday night produced an oasis of calm in his tidy home. Replacing the Bible on the bookshelf, he moved to the kitchen and filled the kettle. One mug of Baker’s before retiring, heavily sweetened with honey, was his one luxury on a Friday night. He would carry it out onto the porch and sip it while watching the distant stars.
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