
<#FROWN:N01\>
"That is him," Prez said. "He wants to talk with you about a serious business deal."
Fenton laughed, then jumped into the conversation. "Now ain't that too bad. That herd is already-"
"Shut your mouth, Dan!" Zach barked.
Fenton frowned. "What the hell's the matter with you, Zach?"
"You got a bad habit of talking first and thinking second," Zach said. "That's how come I ramrod this outfit."
Fenton, embarrassed, shut up and treated himself to a drink. "Sure, Zach."
"So your boss is inter'sted in them cattle, hey?" Zach asked Prez.
"He has noted them and wants to find out more, that's all," Prez said. " If things look acceptable to him, he might make an offer." Like his employer, he wanted as little to do with gringos as possible. "I told him I didn't think it worth the effort." He added the last statement to make the bargaining easier for his boss.
But Zach wasn't buying that. "Is that why he's come up here all this way, dragging a big ol' tent and enough men to start a revolution?" He toyed with his glass. "I got my boys out keeping an eye on things, Prez."
Prez's face remained stony. "Don Diego Mendoza wants to talk to you."
"He's waiting for me, is he?" Zach inquired as he poured another drink.
"He has instructed me to take you directly to him," Prez said.
"I reckon I could do that," Zach said. "When does he want to see me?"
"I can take you there now," Prez said.
"I never seen a Mexican in such an all-fire hurry," Zach said grinning. "This must be real important to him."
"Don Diego don't like to be this close to the border for long," Prez said. "He want to talk with you, then go back to Rancho Cielo Mexicano."
"I can't fault him that," Zach said getting up. "I reckon if I had me a big ol' ranch with a grand house on it, I'd want to stay close to home too. And I'll bet he's got a perty woman to dally with and an ugly wife, like all them rich Mexicans, huh, Prez?"
Prez ignored the remark. "Let us go."
Zach pointed to Fenton. "Dan's coming with me."
"That's fine. But one man only with you," Prez said.
"That there Don Diego must be a nervous sort," Zach said laughing.
Prez didn't crack as much as a smile. "He is a wise and careful man." He turned and walked toward the door. "Come! We go there now."
Zach and Fenton followed the Mexican out to the street where all three mounted up. Prez led the way out of town, taking them down the south road and past the Rancho Cielo Mexicano guards who carefully watched Don Diego's camp. The short trip ended in front of the large tent.
"Wait here," Prez said. He went inside the canvas domicile. After a couple of minutes he emerged. "Come in." He pointed to Zach. "Only you. Don Diego waits for you."
"Keep an eye open, Dan," Zach said to Fenton. Then he grinned. "O'course there ain't much you can do if all these Mexicans decide to jump us, is there?"
"I can do plenty," Fenton boasted.
"Good," Zach said. "You just keep thinking that way." He followed Prez inside the tent.
Prez announced their names for each other. "Don Diego Mendoza. Zach Medford." Then he walked to a nearby chair and sat down.
Don Diego Mendoza was a tall, gaunt man with a large gray mustache, His skin was as white as any European's, making it easy to see that the Mendoza family had bred the Indian out of their bloodline. He sat at the table where a bottle of tequila, a bowl of salt, and slices of lemon on a saucer had been set. "Sit down," the wealthy rancher invited.
"Sure, Don Diego," Zach said. "That's right neighborly of you and I don't mind if'n I do."
"Help yourself," Don Diego said gesturing to the refreshments.
"You rich Mexicans got style," Zach said. "I'll say that for you." He poured himself a glass of tequila, then licked the top of his left hand between the thumb and forefinger. Taking some salt from the bowl, he sprinkled it on the wet spot then licked it up. After downing the glass of tequila in one quick swallow, he grabbed a hunk of lemon and sucked on it.
"You have some twenty-five head of cattle," Don Diego said. "Are they for sale?"
"They was," Zach said. "But I already sold them."
Don Diego smiled slightly knowing the kind of man he was dealing with. "That is too bad. I was interested."
"How interested?"
"I will give you two thousand dollars worth of silver pesos," Don Diego said.
"My buyer gimme three thousand in Yankee dollars," Zach said.
"I will give you two thousand dollars worth of silver pesos," Don Diego repeated.
"You're supposed to bargain up, not stay the same," Zach said.
Don Diego spoke bluntly. "I am not going to bargain. I do not believe you were given three thousand dollars. Therefore, I have made my offer. Do you take it?"
Zach liked the idea of silver coins rather than the paper money that Squint Tallislaw would pay him with. Particularly at double the amount. "Sure." He looked around. "You got it here?"
"Don't worry about that," Don Diego said. "If we make a bargain, I can get it."
"I hope it's close," Zach said. "I'm in a real hurry to wrap up this deal."
"It is close enough," Don Diego said. "What is the matter? Does the first buyer represent danger to you?"
"I can handle him, don't you worry none about that," Zach said. "But it's important to know when I got to make any necessary moves. The longer I dally around here with that herd, the sooner the other feller is gonna find out things."
"I can take over the herd now, if you wish," Don Diego said. "I have enough men."
"You get them silver pesos to me first," Zach said testily. "Then you and your boys can move them cattle. And not a minute before."
"Of course," Don Diego said. "I will give you the full amount day after tomorrow."
"Do you have some boys bringing it up from your ranch?" Zach asked.
"The method of transportation is no concern of yours," Don Diego said coldly. "Nor the time of its arrival. You need worry about nothing except the hour it will be given you. Prez will fetch you when you are to be paid."
"Sure, Don Diego," Zach said. "That's good enough for me." He stood up. "So we got a deal. Shake on it?" He offered his hand.
"I am sure you shook hands with the first buyer," Don Diego said disdainfully. "That shows the value of the trust that can be put into you. Do not trouble yourself with me. I will not be impressed nor fooled by your insincerity."
Zach laughed. "By God, Don Diego! You're a caution. You're the kind o' man I like to do business with."
"Good day, s<*_>e-tilde<*/>norse<*_>n-tilde<*/>or Medford."
Zach left the tent and joined Dan Fenton who had waited with their horses. "Let's get back to town."
As they rode out of the Mexican camp, Fenton's curiosity got the better of him. "What went on in there? And how come you're grinning like a shit-eating pig?"
"We got a good deal for them cattle from that Mexican," Zach said.
"That's good, Zach!" Then suddenly Fenton frowned in puzzlement. "But you already sold that herd to Squint."
"Well, I'm just gonna unsell it," Zach said.
"Squint ain't gonna be real happy about that," Fenton warned him.
"There ain't nobody with Squint but them two boys of his, is there?" Zach said. "We'll get George out at the herd to go with us. The three of us will let Squint know the deal is off."
"Squint don't do business that way."
"Then we'll make sure he don't give us an argument," Zach said "He won't even be able to bat an eye over the situation."
Fenton laughed. "He ain't got but one eye to bat, Zach!" Zach chuckled. "That's pretty good, Dan. Did you think o' that all by yourself?"
"I did," Fenton said proudly. Then he became serious again. "Them two pistoleros with Squint is good. Maybe we should get Ed and Bill to come in too."
"Somebody's got to watch the cattle," Zach said. "And don't worry. We ain't gonna engage Squint and his boys in a lot o' conversation. When I give the word, you and George get them two gunmen. I'll take care o' Squint."
"That's like the last cards in seven-card stud - down and dirty, Zach," Fenton said.
"Yeah. It sure as hell is." He laughed. "And we're gonna deal a hand to Squint where we know what cards he's got."
The two skirted Junto and went out to the west of the town to a wide-open range. Hundreds of cattle, all stolen, grazed under the eyes of various rustler gangs who jealously guarded their living, breathing loot, while the rustler chiefs worked hard at making deals in Junto. Many of their business associates were law-abiding citizens up in Texas or over in Louisiana. But once in Mexico, they left their moral standards behind them.
Zach and Fenton rode over to their own herd. When they came to a halt, the outlaw leader cast an appreciative eye over the longhorns they'd murdered for. "Damn fine cattle."
George Capper, Ed Maring, and Bill Draper joined the two. Capper gestured at the herd with a nod of his head. "We got them cows sold yet? Me and the boys is tired o' playing nursemaid to 'em."
Ed Maring laughed. "Yeah. It's honest work. Something I ain't real fond of."
"We got a better price from a Mexican," Zach said. "So we're taking that one."
"What about Squint?" Capper asked.
"You're going into town with me and Dan to take care o' that matter," Zach said. "Squint and his gunmen will be in the saloon by the time we get there."
"How're we gonna do this, Zach?" Fenton nervously asked.
"Listen up. I'll go in first, then you two follow. As soon as you're inside and ready, say something about the weather."
"What should we say, Zach?" Fenton asked.
"Any goddamn thing you want to," Zach said. He shook his head in exasperation."Just say that it looks like rain."
Fenton looked up at the sky. "It don't look like rain, Zach."
"That don't mean nothing, you dumb sonofabitch!" Zach almost yelled out loud. "Just say that. As soon as it's out of your mouth, we all draw and start firing. I'll take Squint. Dan you take whatever pistolero is on the left. George, get the feller on the right. Can you do that?"
"Sure," Capper said. "Don't worry none, Zach."
"Then let's ride on into Junto," Zach said. He nodded to Ed Maring and Bill Draper. "You two keep an eye on them cattle."
"That's all we been doing anyhow," Maring said.
The three traveled the short distance into Junto. All were a bit edgy about the double-dealing and killing they were about to undertake. When they reached the saloon, Zach said, "Wait here. I'll peek inside and see if Squint and his boys is there." He walked up to the door and took a quick look. He came back. "Yeah. They're at that back table. Now wait a half a minute before you come in behind me. Act casual, but be ready to shoot fast when you get through saying it looks like rain."
"We're ready," Fenton said. There was a tone of determination in his voice.
"Yeah. Let's do it," Capper said, echoing the feeling.
Zach went back to the door, this time going inside. "Howdy, Tom<*_>a-acute<*/>s," he said to the bartender. Then he feigned surprise at seeing Squint Tallislaw and his men.
<#FROWN:N02\>
"Get some boys and drag him to the jail. Log him in for murder.""You'll not get away with this, Tom," a BS rider said. "Bull will not see no man of his on the gallows."Tom ignored that. "Van, Parley, take down the names of all these men who witnessed the shooting in the saloon. After that's done, you boys ride back to the Flyin' BS and stay the hell there." He turned his back to them and faced the Carlin House. "You men clear out. Right now. Get the hell to the JC range and cool down.""You murderin' scum!" a woman yelled from the Carlin side of town. "Goddamn trash, all of you!"Sam and Matt stared at the woman. Maybe twenty-one or so, and definitely cute. But with a voice that would put a steam whistle to shame."Petunia Carlin," a shopkeeper spoke from the door of his business. "She's just getting wound up."The young woman then started letting the invectives fly, shouting the curses across the street."My word!" Sam said."I told you," the shopkeeper said."Petunia!" Tom Riley yelled. "Close that nasty mouth of yours and get on back into the dress shop. Move, girl!"Petunia stared at the marshal, stamped her little foot in anger, then gave Tom a very obscene gesture. She stomped back into the shop.A young man stepped away from the crowd and yelled, "You don't talk to my sister like that, Riley!""Pete Carlin," the shopkeeper said. "Petunia's twin brother. Crazy mean man.""Why are you talking to us?" Matt asked, twisting on the bench to look at the man. "No one else in town will.""Shut up, Pete!" Tom told the young man. "Before your butt overloads your mouth.""Aw, I figure you boys is all right," the shopkeeper said. "You just rode into a bad situation and don't have the good sense to ride out." He turned and walked back into the shop."There is some truth in his words," Sam said."You don't tell me what to do either, Tom," Pete yelled. "My pa will skin you and nail your hide to the barn door."Petunia stuck her bonneted head out of the dress shop. "Pete! Shut your damn mouth and get off the boardwalk. You know what Pa said. Move."Pete muttered something and stepped back into the Carlin House.The body of the dead A.T. puncher was toted off, and the BS rider was dragged off to jail. Matt and Sam had not left the bench during the entire episode. Tom walked slowly over to them."That gunny who squatted down and talked to you boys, who is he?""Bob Coody," Matt told him. "From Texas way. He doesn't like me very much.""Why?""He claims I killed a friend of his down along the Pecos.""Did you?"Matt shrugged. "It's a possibility.'""The lid is going to blow off this boilin' pot now," Tom said, removing his hat and wiping first his forehead and then the inside band with a handkerchief. "I expect to see the whole kit-and-caboodle of them come stormin' in.""Petunia appears to be a very nice young lady," Sam said with a straight face.Tom looked at him, astonished. Then he smiled. "Yes. Oh, my, yes. Very feminine. And what you saw today was only the tip if the iceberg, so to speak. Not that I've ever seen an iceberg. You boys really are stayin' out of this mess, aren't you?""We would have backed you if anybody had made a move," Sam told him."I appreciate that. See you boys."The brothers sat and watched the BS and most of the JC riders leave town, galloping their horses and yelling. Pete and Petunia and a few of their hands remained. Matt and Sam sat and watched Petunia and her brother meet on the boardwalk and start up toward the hotel. They were going to pass right by the brothers."You know any of the hands with them?" Sam asked."Not a one. I think they're regular punchers, but just remember they ride for the brand."When the brother and sister and entourage got within hearing distance, Pete and Petunia started whispering and giggling and pointing at Matt and Sam."Lars," Petunia said. "Do something about removing that greasy Injun from my sight, will you?""It'll be my pleasure, Miss Petunia," Lars said."Here we go," Sam spoke softly.Lars swaggered up and said, "On your feet, Injun. Get off the street so's decent women can pass.""I'm very comfortable right where I am," Sam said, and then kicked him right in the nuts with the point of a boot. Lars sank to his knees, his face drained of color, his mouth working open and closed without a sound coming out. Sam put a boot on the man's chest and shoved him off the boardwalk. He landed with a plop and a small cloud of dust."You may safely pass by, Miss Petunia," Sam said. "I assure you, this Indian has never molested a white woman nor taken a scalp in his life.""Ooohhhh," Lars moaned."You trash!" Petunia hissed at Sam."This foul-mouthed wench is calling me trash," Sam said to Matt. "Since you're my brother, I guess that tars you with the same brush.""Foul-mouthed wench!" Pete yelled. "Git up on your feet, Injun, and take your lickin' like a white man. Dave, Batty, watch Bodine."Sam slowly stood up and then uncorked a right that knocked Pete clean off the boardwalk and into the street. Matt left the bench in a rush and slugged Dave hard, knocking the puncher back into Batty. Batty fell off the high boardwalk and landed in a horse trough, his head banging against the side of the trough. He sat there, addled, water up to his neck, and with a stupid smile on his face."Why you son of a..." Dave never got to finish it. Matt plowed in, both fists swinging. One punch caught Dave on the nose, and the other slammed into his jaw. Matt followed in quickly, with a left to the wind and an uppercut that clicked Dave's teeth together and crossed his eyes. Matt measured the man and busted him square on the side of the jaw. Dave wilted on the boardwalk.Sam had punched Pete silly. The young man stood swaying in the swirling dust of the street, blood leaking from his nose and mouth and from a cut on his cheek. Matt checked Lars. Lars was in no shape to do anything except moan."Finish him," Matt said. "Quit playin' around, Sam.""He's got a head like a rock!" Sam said. "He won't go down."Pete chose that time to smack Sam in the mouth and knock him sprawling on his butt. Matt laughed and applauded. His laugh was cut off short as Batty climbed out of the horse trough and slopped over to him and hit him on the back of the head with a work-hardened fist. Matt went to his knees and shook his head to clear the birdies from it.Matt rolled and came up to his boots, facing the big and angry puncher. "I'm gonna tear your meathouse down, Bodine," Batty said.A large crowd had gathered, encircling the fighters. Even Tom Riley was there with his deputies. They seemed to be enjoying the show."Knock his teeth down his damn throat, Sam!" a man yelled."Who said that?" Pete shouted, looking around him.Sam decked him, and the young man landed hard on his butt.Batty swung, Matt ducked, and drove his right fist just as hard as he could into the puncher's belly. Batty doubled over, gasping for air, and Matt hit him with a left that caught the man directly on the ear. Batty staggered to one side in time to catch a punch on the other ear. Batty was in a temporary world of silence, except for the roaring in his head."What happened?" he questioned.Matt gave him a reply in the form of a fist to the mouth. Batty's feet flew out from under him, and he hit the street and didn't move.Sam had literally beaten Pete's face into a pulp, and still he wouldn't go down. Sam finally spun him around, grabbed the young man by the shirt collar and the seat of his britches and drove him headfirst into a hitchrail post. Pete sighed and sank to the ground, his head resting momentarily on a fresh pile of horse shit. His face slowly sank out of sight."Hold that pose!" Ralph Masters hollered, running up with all his cumbersome camera gear.Sam and Matt leaned against a hitch rail and panted while Ralph got several pictures of the scene, laughing and chuckling all the while.Petunia stood on the boardwalk, her face white with anger and shock. Nobody did this to a Carlin. Nobody. Ever. Not and get away with it."You sons of bitches!" Petunia squalled, just as Lars was sticking his head over the rim of the boardwalk. Petunia reached into her purse and hauled out a short-barreled hogleg. She jacked the hammer back just as the crowd began running in all directions.Her finger slipped off the hammer, and she blew Lars's hat off his head. Lars fainted with a prayer on his lips, sure he was mortally wounded.Matt and Sam crawled under the high boardwalk just as Petunia started letting the lead fly. Her mother had probably stood by her husband's side, helping John fight off Indians and outlaws in the early days, but Petunia was no hand with a pistol. She shot out one window of the general store, fractured the striped pole outside the barber shop, blew the saddle horn off of a hitched horse on the other side of the street, sending the frightened animal racing up the road, drilled a wooden Indian outside the tabacco and gun shop right between the eyes, and sent the sixth shot rocketing toward space. Dave was just getting to his feet when Petunia hurled the empty gun in frustration. The pistol caught the back of his head and sent him sprawling back into the street, out cold.Tom and his deputies rushed out form cover, and he told a lady to grab Petunia before she could get her hands on another gun. The ample lady grabbed the girl, and Petunia tore away and socked her on the jaw. The lady rared back and gave Petunia double what she had received. Petunia went down on her bustle with a busted lip and commenced to squalling at the top of her lungs.Tom ran over and not-too-gently jerked Petunia up and marched her toward the jail. "Thank you, Mrs. Jackson," he said to the lady."You're sure welcome, Tom. It was worth a bruised jaw."Petunia stuck out her tongue at the woman and cussed her."Pitiful," Mrs. Jackson said, as Tom marched the young woman up the boardwalk."Where the hell do you think you're taking me, you jackass?" Petunia bellered."To jail, Petunia," Tom informed her. "And you'd best shut that big mouth of yours before I forget that you're a female and turn you over my knee, take off my belt, and give you what your daddy should have given you years back.""Unhand me, you brute!"Van and Nate were dragging the unconscious Pete Carlin up the center of the street. Ralph Masters was working frantically, taking pictures of the event.Lars opened his eyes and gingerly felt his head. "Am I dead?" he asked."No," Parley told him. "Just under arrest.""That ain't good, but it's better than dead," Lars replied.And a lone figure slipped out the back of the Carlin House, made his way to the livery, and lit a shuck for home range. John Carlin was going to hit the ceiling when he learned of this.Matt and Sam crawled out from under the high boardwalk.
<#FROWN:N03\>
"Why, Mr. Chaney, everyone has to be somewhere," Lily answered.
"I agree," Buck said. "But that doesn't sound like a Texas drawl to me. I'd say it was more Mississippi or Alabama."
For just an instant, the sparkle died in Lily's eyes, and though the smile never left her face, Buck could see way down, deep inside, and he regretted making the comment.
"I'm sorry, ma'am, I've already said too much," Buck apologized. "I reckon we all have things we'd as soon not remember."
Fred, who had been talking to the young girl at the end of the bar, came back to speak to Lily.
"It's Ann, Miss Lily. She says one of her customers is getting a little rough with her. He sent her down for a bottle of whiskey, but she's afraid to go back up."
"He hit me, Miss Lily," Ann said, and Buck noticed then that there was fresh red swelling on her cheek. "Do I have go to back?"
"No, of course you don't have to go back up," Lily said. "How much did he pay you?"
"He gave me a copper chit worth two dollars," the girl answered in a soft voice.
"Fred, give me two dollars from the till," Lily ordered.
Fred opened the cash drawer and gave Lily two dollars. She clinked the coins together in her hand, then started for the stairs. At about the time she reached the foot of the stairs a man, wearing only trousers, appeared at the railing on the upper balcony.
"Hey, you girl!" he shouted down at Ann. "I sent you down there to get me a bottle of whiskey, not have a quilting bee. You've been down there long enough! Get back up here!"
"I'm not coming back," Ann said.
"What? The hell you ain't. You better get back up here now, if you know what's good for you."
"I told her she doesn't have to come back up," Lily said.
"Say, isn't that -" Lance started, but Buck answered before the question was even asked.
"Yeah," he said. "That's Jack Wiggins, the same son of a bitch I threw off the train."
"He gets around, doesn't he?"
"What do you mean she's not comin' back up?" Wiggins demanded. "I paid for her, by God. She belongs to me."
"I have your money here," Lily said, holding up the silver so he could see it. "I'll be happy to return it to you as soon as you get dressed and leave."
"By God, I ain't goin' nowhere!" Wiggins shouted. It wasn't until that moment that anyone realized he was holding a gun. He raised the pistol and pointed it toward Lily. "Now, you tell that slut to get back up here," he said menacingly. "Otherwise, I'm going to put a bullet in that pretty face of yours."
"Wiggins," Buck shouted up to him. "Put the gun down."
Wiggins looked toward Buck, then recognized him. His face contorted with rage.
"You!" he shouted. He swung his gun toward Buck and fired. The bullet slammed into the bar between Buck and Lance. In one motion, Buck had his own gun out and he fired back just as Wiggins loosed a second shot.
Wiggins's second shot smashed into the mirror behind the bar, sending shards of glass all over the place but doing no further damage. He never got a third, because Buck made his only shot count.
Wiggins dropped his gun over the rail and it fell to the bar floor twelve feet below. He grabbed his neck and stood there, stupidly, for a moment, clutching his throat as bright red blood spilled between his fingers. Then his eyes rolled up in his head and he crashed through the railing, turned over once in midair, and landed heavily on his back alongside his dropped gun. He lay motionless on the floor with open but sightless eyes staring toward the ceiling. The saloon patrons who had scattered when the first shot was fired, began to edge toward the body. Up on the second floor landing a half-dozen girls and their customers, in various stages of dress and undress, moved to the smashed railing to look down on the scene.
Gunsmoke from the three charges had merged by now, and it formed a large, acrid-bitter cloud which drifted slowly toward the door. Beams of sunlight became visible as they stabbed through the cloud. There were rapid and heavy footfalls on the wooden sidewalk outside as more people began coming in through the swinging doors. One of the first ones in was a white-haired, heavyset man with a tired, defeated look to his eyes. As he passed through the sun bars, there was a flash of light from the star on his chest.
"What's the trouble here?" he asked, looking around the room.
One of the eyewitnesses chuckled.
"Ain't no trouble now, Marshal Chism. As usual, you're about a day late and a dollar short. This here fellow done took care of it."
"You the one who did the shootin'?" the marshal asked.
"Yes," Buck answered easily.
"Then you're under arrest, mister."
"What? Marshal Chism, have you lost what few brains you have? What are you arresting him for?"
"For the murder of Jack Wiggins."
"Hold on there, Marshal," Fred said. "You're making an awful big mistake here. This man had no choice. Wiggins commenced to shootin' first."
That's the size of it, Marshal," one of the others agreed. "Fact is, he shot twice before this fellow shot once."
"That's right," still another confirmed.
"You arrest him, you're goin' to have every one of us as witnesses for the defense," still another patron put in.
"They're telling the truth, Marshal," Lily said.
Marshal Chism sighed, then slipped his pistol back into his holster. He looked down toward the body. "I don't know," he said. "I'm not much lookin' forward to tellin' the Colonel that one of his men got himself kilt, and I didn't do nothin' about it."
"Try telling him it was self-defense," Lily suggested.
"I'll try. I don't know that it'll do much good, but I'll try." The marshal looked up at the crowd. A couple of the more curious had even squatted beside Wiggins's body to get a closer look at it.
"Where you reckon all his silver is?" one of them asked.
"More than likely, up in the girl's room," another said.
"Marshal, I'll have Fred get his boots and belt buckle. If he has any family anywhere, it ought to go to them."
"All right," Chism said. He pointed to a couple of the men. "You two, get him over to Peterson's hardware store so Pete can get started on a coffin."
"You know the first question Peterson's goin' to ask, don't you, Marshal? He's goin' to want to know who's payin' for the buryin'."
"I'm goin' out to Gold Dust now. I reckon the Colonel will take care of his buryin'."
The two men Chism assigned to the job picked up the body, one under the shoulders, the other at the feet. Wiggins sagged badly in the middle and they had to struggle to carry him. A couple of the other patrons held open the swinging doors while the two men carried him out into the street.
"Miss Lily, I ... I don't want to go back into my room till all his things is gone," Ann said.
"I'll get it taken care of," Lily offered. "Why don't you go on up to my room and lie down for a while?"
"Thanks," Ann said.
With the body gone, most of the customers returned to their own tables to discuss the shooting. It was played and replayed a dozen times over during the next few minutes, and though a couple of the men made some small comment to Buck, most left him alone. For that Buck was grateful. He had only Lance and Lily for company, and that was the way he wanted it.
A few minutes later Jess Langdon came into the saloon, and he walked right up to the bar and shook Buck's hand.
"I just heard what happened. You make quite an entrance into town, young man," he said. He put out his hand toward the bar without even looking, knowing that his drink would be there and, indeed, Fred had begun pouring it the moment he saw Jess come through the door. It was there, just as Fred knew it would be.
"This isn't exactly the entrance I would have chosen to make," Buck said. "But that fellow had a burr under his saddle and there was just no getting rid of it."
"It's just as well it happened the way it did," Jess said. "Jack Wiggins is the kind who would've waylaid you without so much as a second thought." Langdon saw that they were standing with Lily. "I see you met my Lily."
"Your Lily?" Lance asked.
"Yes," Jess said. He smiled and put his arm around her. "She's like a daughter to me. But if I were thirty years younger ... hell, even if I were ten years younger I might ..." He let the sentence trail off. "Believe me, the man who does lay claim to her will have to answer to me first," he went on.
"Don't worry, Jess," Lily laughed. "I'll see to it that you approve."
Jess smiled proudly, then looked back at the two brothers. "Where will you fellows be staying?"
"To be honest, we haven't given that much of a thought," Lance answered.
"Will you be looking for work?"
"Yes."
"Have you ever worked as a ranch hand?"
"Of course."
"Well, it's all settled then. You can work for me. Come on out to the place today. I pay top dollar, I've got a really nice bunkhouse for my hands and there's plenty of room. Besides, I want you to come to a meeting tonight."
"A meeting?" Lily asked. "Jess, what's up?"
"I think you can guess, Lily," Jess answered. "I've invited all the other ranchers ... that is, the ones who are still around ... to come over tonight to discuss what we can do about Barlow. Seems he's just closed up another creek. That'll about do in the Hayes' place."
"We might be interested in coming to this meeting at that," Buck said. "Is Barlow going to be there?"
Jess chuckled. "I hardly think so."
"Too bad. I'm really anxious to meet that fellow," Buck said.
"Yes," Jess said. He rubbed the stubble on his cheek and peered at Buck and Lance through narrowed eyes, as if trying to size them up. "Now that I think of it, you two boys was askin' questions about him in Brenham. You even described him. Do you know him from somewhere?"
"If his name really is Barlow, we don't know him," Buck said.
"You mean you don't think that's his name."
"No."
"Well, we aren't that particular about folks' names out here," Jess explained. "Unless they give us reason to be particular. And I must confess, Barlow is giving us more and more reason to be curious."
"Who do you think Barlow is?" Lily asked.
"If he is who I think he might be, his name isn't Barlow. It's Armstrong," Buck said. "Samuel Armstrong."
"Actually, it is Samuel Barlow Armstrong," Lily said quietly.
"What?" Langdon said, looking at Lily in surprise. "See here, Lily. You mean you know this man? I mean, from somewhere else?"
"Yes," Lily said. "I knew him a long time ago."
"Why have you never said anything about it?"
"He knows me, too," Lily said. "I guess we both wanted to leave our past behind. Whatever he's done out here, I didn't figure his past had anything to do with it."
Jess looked at Buck and Lance. "But his past has something to do with what you want him for, right?"
"You might say that," Lance said.
"Wait a minute!" Jess suddenly said, holding up his finger in sudden recognition of the name. "Armstrong, you say? Samuel Armstrong?
<#FROWN:N04\>"That's the way they are," O'Brien's son replied on cue.
"Does no one remember the Halahan family? Has their murder been forgotten and unavenged? Bartender, give us another round!"
"Sure, we remember," the son answered loudly.
"Does no one remember poor widow Duncan asettin' in her rockin' chair, and how they split her poor gray head just for a handful of silver?"
"Sure. She never hurt anybody."
"And the Halahans, the poor young couple finally finding freedom from the English tyrants only to see them coming with their sabers and iron bars. Give them credit, they went down fighting, but the wee babes, all the three of them, murdered in their beds, God rest their sweet souls."
"Who did it?" a puncher growled. "We don't allow things like that where I come from."
"The pair locked up in the jail did it. Can you believe the sheriff would've turned them loose hadn't I made such a fuss!"
O'Brien was becoming so involved in his drama that he commenced to make his story fit the way he felt no matter how far he strayed from the truth.
"There they were with the plunder, the horses, the silver, and blood on their hands! And that sheriff said he had to protect their rights!"
"What about the rights of the widow Duncan!"
"What about the rights of the Halahans!"
"What about simple plain ordinary American justice!"
"Hurrah! Erin go bragh!" O'Brien's son at the end of the bar roared.
"I tell you, those babes' blood cries out for justice!"
"Git 'em!"
"I've got the rope!" O'Brien yelled.
"Up the rope they go!"
"Necktie party! Bring the whiskey!"
Lost in fury, the mob of punchers, townsmen, and drummers poured out into the street.
Led by the cock sparrow O'Brien, who cradled his two-bore sawed-off goose gun in his left arm, and sided by his son, who wore his six-gun low, they advanced to the jail, where they encountered the old sheriff and a man wearing a strange badge on his vest.
"Hold it there, O'Brien," the sheriff yelled, raising up his old Dragoon, "you ain't taking my prisoners."
But the pressure of the mob was too much, and O'Brien was pushed up close to the sheriff.
"Give us the keys, Sheriff, and then you can take the night off," O'Brien commanded.
"I'm givin' you nothing, O'Brien, but I'm going to arrest you when your mob strays away and sobers up."
Inexorably the hooting and hollering lynch mob crowded forward.
"Stop it!" the man in the brown peaked hat yelled, drawing his six-shooter. "I'm a U.S. marshal, and I'll count three before I start shooting off the leaders."
Hardly had he spoken than young O'Brien blindsided him with the barrel of his Colt, dropping him like a rock down a well.
That was enough for Sheriff Cook.
"Don't hurt me, boys, I'm just trying to do my job," he whined.
"The keys!"
"On the nail behind the desk."
In went the elder O'Brien with his son coming close behind.
O'Brien took the key ring hanging on the wall and held it high. "Let's go, boys!"
Inside the cell, Thomas Lamb saw the choleric Irishman advancing and said, "Maybe you better start shooting, Sam."
"I thought you was against killing."
"That I am, especially when it comes to somebody killing me."
"We've got to get him close enough to get the keys," Sam said.
"You're always thinking ahead. Quite proper, Sam."
"Out you go, you murderin' scuts!" O'Brien yelled, holding the goose gun in his right hand now, aimed at Sam's head, the keys dangling in his left hand.
"Put the gun down, O'Brien, or I'll kill you!" Sam came back strongly.
"Oh, what brave talk from the murderer of babes! I might just blow your head off right now had I not promised the boys a party."
"I'm not playing party games, mister."
"Then you're mine, and the boys can have the Englishman." O'Brien grinned and slowly pressed the trigger.
"Down!" Sam snapped, and dropping to the floor, he pulled the .45 and shot upward into the pigeon breast of the red-eyed Irishman.
He grunted like a pig kicked in the butt, his fiery eyes bulging blankly. The goose gun rose and went off, sending its charge into the ceiling. O'Brien fell in a tormented heap.
"The keys!" Sam called to Thomas as he aimed the revolver at the younger O'Brien, who, instead of going to the aid of his father, was going for his gun.
Sam shot him in the chest, the heavy lead ball slamming him backward into the arms of the men behind.
Thomas had the bloody keys in his hand and opened the iron barred door without coming into Sam's line of fire.
"Boys, you done made a big mistake, going against the law,"Sam said levelly. "These two were wrong, mule-headed wrong about us, and now they're damned dead wrong. You all just back out of here and we'll join you in the Elephant for a drink in a minute."
The men in the hall spoke tersely to those behind them, and the mob moved like a wave, backward instead of forward.
In the street there was a scramble to get out of harm's way, which panicked those in front, as they felt deserted and betrayed.
"Hey, wait!"
"Where you goin?"
Suddenly, it wasn't a retreat, it was a rout, as even those in front had smelled the stench of fresh blood and knew they had no business being where they were. At any moment another bullet might come blasting out of that six-gun and the angel of death would sweep up another cowboy caught in his own loop.
They fell over themselves, scrambling to get out of the hall, and in a moment the way was clear except for the two bodies lying in a common puddle of blood already glazing over and turning black.
"Quick, friend," Sam said, grabbing from the wall his gun belt with its Remington .44 still loaded, then moving quietly to the back door.
"Here goes," he said, feeling like he was in a leaky boat ready to go over a waterfall.
Slowly opening the door, he looked out into the gloom and saw the steel-dust and the bay, fully rigged.
Still expecting a trick or an ambush, Sam sidled outside, keeping away from the light and watching for any movement.
There was nothing. The steel-dust stamped impatiently.
Sam swiftly mounted. In a second Thomas was beside him on the bay.
"We go slow," Sam whispered, holding up his hand, putting the steel-dust into an easy trot.
Staying in the alleys, they left the west side of town undetected as the mob slowly returned, a man at a time, slightly crestfallen or lying like jack mules that never stop braying.
They'd not expected the prisoners to buy a drink in the Blue Elephant, but it sounded like a good excuse to go on back there and let things settle down.
"Those damn O'Briens, always stirring up trouble."
"Finally paid for it."
"Gutshot<sic!> the old pouter pigeon."
"Gave him a slimmin' lesson he won't forget."
"I popped a lot of caps, but them fellers had the devil's own luck."
"S'pose we ought to go after them?"
The group stared at the speaker silently until he turned away and said to the bartender, "I reckon I'll have another."
The sheriff had his hands full reviving the U.S. marshal without worrying about the two bodies lying in his hallway.
- Damned O'Briens, always carrying a chip on their shoulder. I told 'em, told 'em, and told 'em, but no, they got to show the world they're so tough. So tough they can take a ball in the belly and spit it back. Oh yes, told 'em plenty times, don't mess in my business, you goin' to get hurt.
Frank Taylor, the marshal, groaned and felt the lump on his head, looked at his fingers for a sign of blood, and nodded.
"Hat broke the blow," the sheriff said, helping the marshal to his feet.
"I'll see that sonofabitch in a federal pen," the stocky marshal rasped.
"He's dead," the sheriff said. "His pa, too. Somehow the cowboy got a gun." The sheriff eyed the marshal's left holster, which was empty.
"If he hadn't had the gun, two innocent men would have been hanging, and the guilty ones would be back on their farms bustin' sod."
"I didn't say anything," the sheriff said. "I just live a day at a time and try to stay out of harm's way."
The marshal strode to the back door of the jail and looked out to see the horses gone.
"They made it," he said.
"You goin' after them? Want me to raise up a posse?"
"Better you clean up your mess and then play mumblety-peg with yourself," the marshal rasped, and strode out into the night.
"We never got to the barbershop," Sam said, scratching at the stubble on his jaw.
"I'm just thankful we're free," Tomas said.
"I reckon you're about as gritty as eggs rolled in sand. Good having you along," Sam said.
"British pluck!" Thomas Lamb laughed at himself as he noticed he was feeling overly proud. "All I did was fetch the key."
"You coulda dropped it." Sam smiled in the darkness and wondered if the sheriff was coming after them with a posse.
Didn't seem likely, the way the old man was washed out. Might have been a hell driver once, but he'd started worrying about his old age, and that had damped his powder. Better to just give your best run, and if you starve to death or freeze to death when you can't keep yourself no more, so much the better.
Don't give me too long a life, he asked the stars, just enough to keep me occupied and looking for more.
Salina was dark when they passed through. A couple of dogs ran out and challenged them, but they retreated once they'd said their piece.
"The prairie never stops," Thomas said, longing for a soft bed.
"We ought to come into Lincoln about dawn. We'll shake down there."
The trail west ran along the Kaw River, and an occasional small settlement would be situated along its banks in the places where the water could be directed into a mill wheel. Shady Bend, Tranquillity, Luther's Mill, none of which showed a light, being only lonely beginnings of dreams, and yet there was a sort of magic about the dark, solid buildings where people slept and made love and dreamed and died.
It worked both ways, Sam knew. The solitary family on the prairie could be exterminated by the dregs of humanity wandering loose, or a traveler could ask for a room for the night, and he would end up bashed in the head and et<sic!> by the hogs with all his valuables hid under a rock in the hearth.
Such was the recent scandal of the Bender family down by Coffeyville, who had rented their spare room to eight different travelers before searchers found the remains of the bodies buried in the orchard. It was said that Kate Bender, who did the killing, was a believer in witchcraft. They all left before the law arrived and were never caught.
Travelers were both risky and at risk on the lawless frontier.
As they came up a low rise to a view of the Kaw valley in the coolness of the dawn, they saw that Lincoln had its own Main Street planted to alfalfa and a few buildings on either side.
At the end of the street they found the Windsor Hotel, where Mrs. Lewis, an early riser, greeted them, and seeing the grim marks of exhaustion on their faces showed them to clean beds, where they shucked their boots and hats and fell asleep before they hit the blankets.
When they awakened a little before noon, they discovered that Mrs. Lewis had seen that their horses were fed and grained and that she'd held off cooking dinner until the men first at their breakfast of grits, fried bacon and eggs with ponhaus and fried potatoes, and a piece of cream pie.
<#FROWN:N05\>How could anyone believe that a bird would understand a man's thoughts?
Free lowered his arms and heeled his roan forward. I looked up at the hawk, certain that the half-breed's behavior was madness. The bird beat its powerful wings above us, then I heard a fluttering sound as the hawk changed its direction, flying high above the canyon floor on a westerly course.
"Impossible," I told myself, watching the hawk lead us down the canyon. "It would have flown that direction anyway."
We changed horses a mile farther into the canyon. I cinched my saddle to the Palouse as Sam swung aboard his dun. Free was riding the bay we'd taken from the cattle rustlers as he led us away from the river, atop his high-withered blue roan. The hawk had gone on without us, proving the spirits wanted nothing to do with our advance upon the Comanche village. Evidently, Free's magic wasn't strong enough to convince the hawk to help us.
My untrained eye found no hoofprints, yet now and then Free would drop off his horse to trace his finger over the rocks. Then, without uttering a word, he would continue on as if he were sure of our destination. I rode along in silence, sleeving sweat from my eyes to see the canyon rim, wondering how long it would be before we sighted the first Kwahadies and heard their shrill war cries. I wondered, too, if I would survive my first month as Sam Ault's deputy. I was beginning to understand why the other raw recruits at Fort Smith wanted no part of the assignment in Indian Territory. They had known something I hadn't about serving with Marshal Ault.
Rounding a bend in the river, my Palouse snorted, pricking its ears forward. Free had already jerked his bay to a halt, standing in his stirrups, shading his eyes.
"Here they come," I said to myself, feeling my heart pound inside my shirt. I couldn't see any Indians, but I knew they were coming just the same.
"Comanches," Sam said, looking over his shoulder at me. "Remember what I told you before. Keep your hand away from your gun."
My hands had begun to shake, so I cupped them on my saddlehorn. We still couldn't see Indians, but my horse sensed something, pawing the ground with a forefoot. We waited in the eerie silence, straining our ears to hear the sound of approaching hooves.
A movement caught my eye on the rim above us. A Comanche stood near the edge of the cliff, cradling a rifle. Free had seen him, too. The half-breed spoke in sign language, with his face turned toward the rim.
The Indian gave some sort of answer, then Free turned to Sam. "I go. You stay," he said.
Sam shook his head. "Take the tintype. Show it to Buffalo Hump and Quannah. Tell him to name his price."
Free took the tintype that Sam dug from his saddlebags. I saw them exchange glances, as if the looks had special meaning. Then Free wheeled his bay and trotted off down the canyon.
"Will he double-cross us?" I asked softly, swallowing away the dryness in my throat.
"Maybe," Sam replied, fidgeting in his saddle.
Suddenly, half a mile down the river, I saw horsemen appear around a bend. I counted them quickly, halting the count when I noticed something unusual about them. I squinted to see them clearly in the heat waves arising from the rocks blinking and fingering the sweat from my eyes. The Indian who rode at the front of the group resembled a buffalo. The Comanche wore a bulky headdress fashioned from the skull of a buffalo. A pair of short curved horns glistened from his furry skullcap, making him look as if he were half man, half animal. He carried a long lance decorated with feathers and other ornaments. A gust of wind rustled past him and then I knew the ornaments dangling from his lance were human scalps, tossed about by the wind.
"Jesus," I whispered hoarsely. I was having difficulty when I took my next breath. "Those are scalps."
"Keep quiet," Sam warned as the warriors rode closer.
My insides had begun to dance. Several more of the Comanches wore the strange buffalo skulls, giving them the same sinister silhouettes as they rode toward us. I saw the gleam of rifles in the sun, decorated with windblown eagle feathers. More feathers hung form their ponies' foretops, dancing with the gait of the animals. I took a deep breath and gripped my saddlehorn, awaiting the first chilling scream.
Free halted his horse when he reached the line of warriors. I saw him begin sign language with the leader of the band. None of the Comanches' rifles were aimed at Free ... for the moment. I forced myself to sit still while the sign talk continued, listening to the beat of my heart.
The talk ended abruptly. Free wheeled his horse away and struck a trot in our direction. Sam's sun-browned cheeks were pale as Free advanced across the rocks.
"Stay, Starman," Free grunted when his horse stopped in front of us. "I make talk with Buffalo Hump. Talk trade. Tosi Tivo woman maybeso here."
Sam seemed to relax, but I didn't find it quite so easy. "Tell Buffalo Hump we give many horses," Sam said, accompanying his words with sign. "Tell him my words are true words."
Free rode off at a trot. I let out the breath I was holding and turned to Sam.
"Can you tell if Free intends to betray us?" I asked.
Sam watched the Comanches wheel their ponies before he gave me an answer. "Not yet. Free stands to gain from the trade, so he won't sell us out unless the bargain falls through. I reckon we'll have to wait and see."
"Why weren't we allowed to go along, so we can identify Melissa Grumann?"
Sam shook his head. "They're too smart to let us see where they've hidden their village. We could lead a troop of cavalry to 'em, and they're being careful. If they've got the right girl, they'll show her to us if Buffalo Hump wants a trade. Horses are the same as money to a Comanche. The price will be high, but they'll prove to us that they have her."
We watched the Comanches disappear around the bend. I looked up at the rim where the Indian had been standing. Now there was only barren rock. The warrior was gone.
"What are we supposed to do?" I asked.
"We wait for Free, and we keep our eyes open," Sam explained, reining his dun toward a rock ledge beneath a cliff on the north side of the river.
We rode across the shallows, to a meager patch of grass where Sam swung down.
"Hobble the horses," he said, pulling the cinch on his saddle as he studied the lay of things. "Build a fire, so they can see our smoke."
Sam uncorked a pint of whiskey and took a deep swallow, then he offered the bottle. "You'll need it before this is over," he remarked. " Steadies your nerves for the waiting."
I stripped the saddle off the Palouse and fitted the hobbles on our spare horses. Sam laid his Winchester beside a rock. I put my Sharps against the rock face, then I set out to build a fire. I kept looking up the rim, watching for the lone Comanche to reappear as I made coffee over the flames. Sam's whiskey was starting to take effect by the time our coffee was done. I could feel my brains swim.
"I saw fish when we crossed the river," I said. "With time on our hands, I suppose I could catch some for our supper."
Sam shrugged. "I ain't got much appetite just now, Mr. Dudley, but if you've a hankering to catch fish, you might as well give it a try."
To pass some time, I dug a string and a hook from my gear that I'd brought along from Mississippi. If I did anything better than I could shoot, it was to catch fish, so I hunted down a grasshopper and walked to the river. I tossed my line in the water and settled against a rock, but to tell the truth, my mind wasn't on fishing just then. I kept seeing Comanches at the far end of the canyon when I stared at the shimmering heat waves.
Dark was the worst time of all. I fried up the fish I'd caught, but only nibbled around the edges. Sam drank whiskey until the first bottle was empty, then he started on another.
"Sure is quiet," I said, listening to a coyote bark.
Sam didn't answer me, he was staring up at the stars.
"How long do you reckon it'll take to get our answer?" I asked.
"Hard to say," Sam sighed, fingering his rifle.
"It sure is quiet out here," I said again, glancing up at the rim. The sky was filled with twinkling stars. A pale half-moon hung above the horizon, lighting up the rocks around us with its silvery glow.
I wanted conversation, frightened as I was.
"What's it like to be married to a woman?" I asked, making small talk when my thoughts drifted to the girl. I wasn't thinking about marrying Sue Hawkins, but I wondered what it would be like to have a wife when I was ready for the idea.
"I reckon it's like everything else, Mr. Dudley. There's a good side and a bad. A woman has an opinion about most anything a man does with himself, whether he wants to hear it of if he don't. A married man gets tired of hearing opinions. Then there's the good side: having the comfort of a soft woman in your bed at night. And someone to talk to. It gets lonely bein' by yourself. Having a woman helps with the loneliness."
I considered Sam's answer, until he startled me with his next remark. "You thinkin' about marrying the girl back at Silverton?" he asked.
"No. I was just askin', is all. I've been wondering what it was like."
Sam stared across the river. "I suppose it's better than being alone," he said after some thought. He took a sip of whiskey and handed me the pint. "I figure you've got little Missy Hawkins on your mind," he said. "This'll help. Right now you'd better think about stayin' alive."
I took a swallow of the bitter whiskey. I'd never developed a taste for the stuff, but it helped when my nerves were on edge. Soon I settled back against my saddle, trying to find a comfortable spot. I watched Sam's face across the flames. His eyes darted from one shadow to the next, and when a mesquite knot popped in the fire, he flinched. The whiskey wasn't doing much to relax him. He seemed more skittish than ever.
"What is it about a Comanche that makes 'em worse than another kind?" I asked, seeking an explanation for Sam's fear. The marshal wasn't afraid of a saloon full of hardcases with guns and knives, but when we entered the domain of the Kwahadies, he was as jumpy as a sinner at a Sunday sermon.
Sam closed his eyes briefly, as if he was remembering something. "I've seen what they do to their enemies," he said, talking in a strained voice. "They take pride in the ways they've found to kill a man slow. They carve up an enemy so he'll live for days, screamin' his head off until the pain drives him mad. It ain't enough that they kill him. It's the way they get it done."
Just then I wished I hadn't asked. I reached for the pint and took a bigger swallow. An owl hooted once, making my scalp crawl inside my hat.
10
I spent the longest night of my life around that fire, jumping at every sound, peering into the dark.
<#FROWN:N06\>Unlike so many other Overland employees, he did not hail from Texas or one of the slave states farther east. Pretty thin ice to walk on, but Lonaker was short on option.
The night dragged on endlessly. Lonaker endured two hours on the bunk, and when he couldn't stand another minute, cat footed into the common room.
Sancho kept a pot of coffee on the stove at all times. The fire in the woodburner's black iron belly had died down to a bed of orange embers, but the coffee was still plenty warm. Lonaker poured himself a cup, lit a cheroot, and took a seat a the long trestle table, staring into the darkness.
An hour later he stepped outside, rifle in hand, to find Huck sitting with his back against the adobe wall of the station. The moon was about to set. A glance at the stars told Lonaker it was close to midnight. He turned to the brawny reinsman and nodded at the station house door.
"Get some shut-eye. I'll take over."
Huck got to his feet, stretched, and growled at cramped, complaining muscles. He looked like a grizzly bear getting up on its hind legs, ready to attack. Lonaker felt another stab of keen regret as he watched the ex-prizefighter. Huck had been a good friend. The troubleshooter was sorry for the tribulation he knew was going to descend on this man.
"How's the arm?" asked Huck.
"Hurts like hell."
The reinsman stepped to the door, paused on the threshold, brow furrowed.
"The Overland's in big trouble, isn't it?"
Lonaker nodded, his eyes probing the desert night.
Huck slapped the bullwhip against his thigh. "Well, I don't think they've invented the trouble we can't handle, Mr. Lonaker."
"Just watch your back," advised Lonaker. "Remember, you can't trust anybody. He might be a Copper-head."
"You're not. I trust you. See you in the morning. I'm going to get some of that sleep 'that knits up the raveled sleeve of care.' Shakespeare."
Lonaker turned slowly and watched Huck disappear into the black womb of the station.
He waited a half-hour before moving, silent as shadow, to the open window of the sleeping room. Huck's distinctive, wall-shaking snore was drowning out Coffman. Lonaker crossed the hardpack to the Concord, retrieved the saddlebags filled with the Army payroll, and headed for the corral.
The Reno Kid's saddle and bridle were in a shed which served as tack room. Lonaker draped the saddle and the saddlebags on the corral's top pole and climbed over to move slowly through the fourteen horses in the pen. He murmured sweet nothings to keep them calm. He caught up the blazed sorrel without undue trouble, and slipped the bridle over its head. The horse balked some accepting the bit. Lonaker twisted its ear and kept matters under control.
Leading the horse over to the saddle, he noticed Sancho standing on the other side of the corral fence. The station agent was watching him impassively.
"Been expecting you," said the troubleshooter. "You sleep light."
"Si, Se<*_>n-tilde<*/>or Lonaker." Sancho shrugged. "Pistoleros and Apache broncos have been trying to sneak up on me all my life.
Lonaker draped the saddle over the horse and cinched up.
"What's the best way to fight an Apache, Sancho?"
Sancho was an authority on the subject. "Only one way, if you want to live. You must think like an Apache. Move like an Apache. Fight like an Apache. If you don't, you will surely die."
Lonaker nodded. "I'm not fighting Apaches this time. But the men I'm up against are just as cunning. I figure my only chance against them is to be more cunning than they are." He tied off the latigo over the front rigging ring, dropped the fender and turned to the station agent. "I have a big favor to ask of you."
"Anything."
Lonaker gave him the letter addressed to Huck. "I want you to make sure Huck gets this. But don't give it to him in the morning. I reckon he'll go on to Yuma, with Coffman. Wait until the next day, then ride after him."
Sancho took the letter. "I will do as you ask."
"The kid can watch this place while you're gone. Whatever you do, don't let anyone but Huck get that letter." As he fitted boot to stirrup he had a thought. "Wait. If you can't find Huck in town, try the army post. If he's there, or if you can't find him, you can give up the letter to Colonel Dahlgren."
Sancho nodded. Lonaker swung into the saddle. The station agent lowered the gate pole.
"Buena suerte, Se<*_>n-tilde<*/>or Lonaker."
"Thanks," said Lonaker as he rode by. "I'll need all the luck I can get."
Sancho watched him go until the night swallowed him up.
Chapter Thirteen
The town of Yuma had grown to maturity under the protective wing of the federal fort, where the mighty Colorado plunged out of the mountains and twisted like a gigantic brown serpent through the malpais on its way to the border.
The fort, and orderly arrangement of stone and adobe buildings, stood on high ground overlooking the settlement. Standing grim and alone a mile out on the flat was the hulking eyesore of the territorial prison.
With the Army post, the prison and the Oxbow Route, Yuma flourished. It was a rough and ready town, providing recreation for soldiers, prison guards and the lusty men who worked the mining and lumber camps in the mountains to the north.
As he rode into town at the head of a five-man detail - one sergeant and four troopers - Colonel Eric Dahlgren cast a jaundiced <}>eyedeye upon the place. Afternoon heat shimmered off the hardpack of the wide street, deeply scored by wagon and carreta wheels.
A man could break both legs trying to walk across a Yuma street, reflected Dahlgren. And on the infrequent occasions when it rained, these same streets became treacherous quagmires of rust-colored mud. A whiskey peddler, drunk on his own snakehead, had drowned in that alley over there, one stormy night last year.
A perfect example of poetic justice, mused the colonel, a career soldier who held civilians generally in low esteem. He was willing to concede that there were a few worth their salt. But he didn't think any of them resided in Yuma.
Dahlgren fished a handkerchief out of a pocket of the white linen duster he wore to protect his uniform, and mopped the sweat off his face. His features were hawkish. His eyes, the cloudy green color of the fjords in his native Scandinavia, could cut through a man like a saber stroke.
The colonel was a highly intelligent, impeccably honest, and well-educated man. As a naive youth he had believed the poets and philosophers when they waxed eloquent about mankind's limitless potential for greatness. A lifetime of experience since then had plucked the scales from his eyes. He couldn't abide rapacity or stupidity in others. And Yuma was full to the brim with ignorant, greedy people.
He saw them now, in the open windows and doorways and in the scant shade on both sides of the street. Cardsharps, prostitutes, drummers, merchants. All of them preyed on his soldiers. Worse, they held the Army in ill-disguised contempt. It was better to receive a compliment rather than a curse from the thief who picked your pocket.
But these civilians scorned and slighted Dahlgren's soldiers. Until there was danger - until the Apaches embarked on a bloody raid, or bandit gangs started raising hell along the border, or prisoners broke out of the prison. Then the civilians howled for protection from the garrison.
I may not have much of a garrison left, thought Dahlgren, when my men learn that six months of pay in arrears has been stolen.
But the Army got what it deserved, in his opinion, when it placed its affairs in the hands of civilians.
The colonel reined his horse around a corner at the intersection of the garrison road with Yuma's main street. The detail trailed along behind. Now Dahlgren could see the crowd congregated in front of the adobe structure housing the Overland's office - between twenty and thirty men, peeking through the front windows, filling the boardwalk, spilling out into the street.
They all seemed to be talking at once, and irritating babble, but every man fell silent as Dahlgren steered his mount to a tie-rail in front of the Overland office. They knew better than to fire a lot of tiresome questions at the Fort Yuma commanding officer. Dahlgren was better known for his temper than his tolerance.
Like the Red Sea parting, they made a path for him as he crossed the boardwalk. At the door, he turned to peruse the crowd with stern disfavor, then glanced at the sergeant who, with the four troopers, was still mounted.
"Macready."
"Yes, sir."
"Move them."
"Yes, sir!"
The three-striper dismounted with alacrity and bulled his way through the throng with exuberance. The civilians tried to get out of his way, but the burly Irish noncom would not be denied his fun. He knocked one man aside with an elbow. "Excuse me, sir," he said, smiling like a leprechaun. He sent a second man staggering with another cheery apology.
Gaining the boardwalk, Macready turned to block the door through which the colonel had just passed. The sergeant planted big fists on his hips and slowly scanned the crowd.
"Now gentlemen," he said, rolling the words with a thick brogue. "I know ye must have better things to do than to be lollygaggin' out here in the hot sun. So I must ask ye to be on your way."
No one moved. Macready breathed a melodramatic sigh, whipped the pistol out of the flap holster at his side, and fired a round into the sky.
The civilians scattered like quail.
Macready watched their flight with profound gratification.
"Flamin' rabble," he murmured.
Dahlgren was met in the front room by a lanky, sandy-haired man wearing a tin star on his vest.
"Afternoon, Colonel. I sent word up to the fort soon as ..."
"Where are they, Sheriff?"
"Back room."
Dahlgren passed through the swinging gate of a counter, through another door. Long benches lined the walls to left and right. Across the room was a door leading outside. The doorway was filled by the bulk of the town's deputy sheriff. He was tilted against the frame, a shotgun cradled in his arms.
Through a window in the rear wall Dahlgren could see the Overland 'yard', encircled by a high adobe wall. Half of the yard was a corral, where two dozen horses were bunched around a water trough in the shade of an old oak. The only decent shade, mused the colonel, for twenty square miles. In the other half of the yard stood a mud wagon and, closer to the back door, a dust-covered Concord coach.
As Dahlgren entered, one of two men sitting on the bench to the colonel's left jumped up.
"Colonel, I'm Phil Coffman. I ..."
"I know." Dahlgren spared him the merest glance and turned to the other man. "You're Lonaker's driver, aren't you?"
Huck Odom sat leaning forward with his head down and hands clasped between his knees. He didn't look up.
"That's right. Huck Odom."
"Where is he?"
"I don't know."
"I can't believe it," declared Coffman. "I never thought John Lonaker would turn bad. Colonel, I promise you the Overland will do everything in its power to ..."
Dahlgren impatiently raised a hand to cut Coffman short. "Mr. Odom, am I to believe you were unaware of Lonaker's intentions?"
Tight-lipped, Huck slowly raised his head. He met Dahlgren's steely gaze without flinching.
"I'm still unaware of his intentions," said the reinsman, his tone as flat as the bottom of a frying pan.
"They should be obvious ot you. They certainly are to me."
Hand clasped behind his back, the colonel began to pace restlessly, spurs ringing against the floor. He paused once to peer curiously at the bullwhip looped over the deputy sheriff's shoulder.
<#FROWN:N07\>That's in case you'd want to get down to the marshal's office."
"Yeah, thanks," Lance said.
"'Course, bein' as you brought in a prisoner last night, I don't reckon you'd really have to go."
"I reckon not," Lance said. He strapped on his gun belt, then reached for his hat.
"But I figured you'd be wantin' to," Sam added.
"I reckon so," Lance said. He closed the door to his room behind him, then followed Sam down the hall toward the stairs.
"Lance?"
Lance turned toward the sound of the woman's voice and saw Lily Montgomery standing in her door at the far end of the hall. Lily owned the saloon.
"'Morning, Lily," Lance said, touching the brim of his hat.
"What is it? What's all the commotion?"
"The stage was held up, Miss Lily," Sam said, answering before Lance could. "There was a shootin' too, when the coach come in, the driver was layin' out on top an' the shotgun guard, why, he was inside."
"Oh, the poor men," Lily said. "Lance, be careful."
Lance smiled. "You know me, Lily," he said. "Careful is my middle name."
Lance left the saloon then hurried across the street toward the gathering crowd. Nearly everyone in town had been drawn to the stage by the curious nature of its arrival. By now the driver and the guard had been taken from the coach and were stretched out on the boardwalk in front of the marshal's office. Doc Presnell was kneeling down beside the guard, feeling for a pulse in his neck. He wasn't wasting his time with the driver. With his eyes open and opaque, and a big, black hole in his cheek, it didn't require a doctor to see that Andy McGinnis was very obviously dead.
"'Mornin', Lance," Marshal Dan Efrem said. "I see you found Lattimore. Good job."
"It was easy enough, seeing as he was right where you said he would be," Lance answered. "What do you know about this?" he asked, indicating the two men Doctor Presnell was working on.
"Not much, I'm afraid," Dan said. "Like you, I just got here." The marshal was standing just outside his office with his arms folded across his chest, watching the doctor at work.
"Can I use your door, Dan?" Doc Presnell asked, looking up at the marshal. "We've got to get Seth over to my place and we're goin' to need something to carry him on."
"Yes, of course," Dan replied, and he nodded toward two other men who, quickly, began to take the door to the marshal's office off its hinges, so it could be used a as carrying board. "Is Seth going to make it, Doc?"
"I don't know," Doc Presnell said. "He's got a chance. The bullet went through him high enough that it missed all his vitals, but you never can tell with gunshot wounds."
"Let me know how he's doin', will you, Doc?" Dan asked.
"Sure thing, Marshal."
Dan looked back at Lance.
"What time did you get in with Lattimore?"
"About five-thirty or six."
"Pretty short night for you, wasn't it?"
"I suppose so, but I'll be all right after a cup of coffee."
"There's a pot on the stove," Dan offered.
"I'll get some directly," Lance replied. "Soon as we get a handle on things."
Dan looked over at the gambler. "Johnny, you want to tell us what happened?"
"It was Rufus Blanton," Johnny said.
"Ruthless? Are you sure?" Dan asked.
"Yeah, I'm sure. I've seen him a couple of times before."
"What about you two?" Dan asked. "You go along with that?"
"I've never seen him for real," the rancher replied. "But I've seen dodgers on him and I'd say that's who it was. Besides, I heard Seth call out his name, just before he was shot."
"It was him, all right," the clerk said. "You've seen him before, have you?" Dan asked.
"Well, uh, no," the clerk admitted. "But I have heard him described. And this was him, all right. I don't have the slightest doubt about it."
The undertaker's wagon arrived. The driver halted the team and set the brake, then looked over at Dan.
"If you're through with the body, Marshal, I'll take it now," the driver said. He was wearing a long, black coat and a pair of striped pants.
"Sure thing, Mr. Albritton, but maybe you'd better hold off on doin' anything more with it 'til we hear from the widow," Dan suggested. "I reckon Mrs. McGinnis will be wantin' him brought back home."
"I've no doubt that she will. I'll just get in touch with my colleague over in Risco and keep him on ice until I get further instructions," Albritton explained.
Dan turned his attention back to the three passengers. "I'll tell you folks what has me puzzled. What I don't understand is, why someone like Rufus Blanton would want to hold up the stage between Risco and Barlow in the first place. Why, there couldn't have been more'n ten or fifteen dollars between everybody on board, could there? I mean this stage doesn't even carry a strongbox."
"The money wasn't in a strongbox, it was in a valise," Karpo said.
"The money? What money?"
"A little over three thousand dollars. This fella here, was carrying it."
"What were you doing with so much money?" Lance asked.
The bank clerk pulled himself up importantly. "My name is C. D. Adams, Marshal," he explained. "I work for the Bank of Risco and I was overseeing a species transfer to the Bank of Barlow."
"Damn," Lance said. "Someone slipped up somewhere. Those transfers are supposed to be kept secret. I wonder how Ruthless found out."
"I ... I really don't know," Adams stammered.
"The hell you don't," Karpo replied. "You were spoutin' it off all over the restaurant at supper last night. Everybody heard you. They were talking about it down at the saloon."
"Yeah," Bates said. "I even heard about it down at the feeder lot."
"Is that true?"
"I ... I suppose so," Adams replied.
"What the hell? Why didn't you just take out an ad in the newspapers?" Lance asked.
"I ... I didn't think it would do any harm," Adams insisted. "I was just trying to make an impression on Miss Kirby."
"Miss Kirby?"
"She's the waitress at the City Pig Cafe," Adams explained.
"So, because you were trying to make an impression on a waitress, you babbled all over the place that you would be carrying a lot of money between banks," Dan said scornfully. "And as a result, one man was killed and another may die. In addition to that, you lost all your employer's money."
"I didn't know anything like this would happen," Adams whined. "Honest I didn't."
"Yeah, well, I'm not the one you have to answer to," Dan said. "If I were you I'd get myself down to the bank and start making explanations there."
"You need me anymore, Dan?" Karpo asked.
"No, I guess not. You can go too, Bates," Dan replied. "And thanks for bringing in the stage ... you did a good job."
"By the way, Lance, when is your brother going to get back?" Karpo asked. "We've got a few more hands of poker to play."
"Your guess as to when Buck will get back is as good as mine," Lance answered with a little laugh. "You know how he is. There's always another town to see, another hole-card to draw to, and another bar girl to spark."
Karpo chuckled. "That's Buck, all right. It's sure hard to pin him down. I swear, I never in my life saw any two brothers as different as you two. To begin with, you don't even look alike; you're three inches taller and fifty pounds heavier. You're dark, he's light, you're settled, he's wild, the only thing alike is that a man with good sense wouldn't want to get on the bad side of either one of you. Anyway, next time you see Buck, tell him he owes me a couple of games so I can get even."
"I'll tell him," Lance promised.
"Come on in, Lance," Dan invited. "You can drink your coffee while I'm gettin' ready."
"Getting ready? Getting ready for what?"
"I'm goin' after him."
"There's no call to do that, Dan," Lance said. "The fact is, you don't really even have the authority to go after him. The town council hired you to keep the peace here in Barlow, not go running through the countryside chasing road agents."
"I know why I was hired, Lance. But I got a special want for this fella," Dan replied. He looked over at Lance. "You, of all people, should understand that."
"Yeah," Lance replied as he took a swallow of coffee and studied Dan over the rim of his cup. "Yeah, I guess I do."
The 'understanding' Dan mentioned, referred to the fact that Lance Chaney and his brother Buck had arrived in Barlow, Texas a little over a year earlier, hard on the trail of the men who had raped and killed their sister. They had started on their quest from opposite sides, for Lance had been a captain in the Union Army, while Buck was a lieutenant in the Confederacy. However, their past differences were put aside long enough for them to settle the score with their sister's killers, though it ultimately took a range war to get that accomplished.
The range war was over now, but there were still enough gunfighters, holdup men, gamblers, prospectors, cowboys and wild women to keep the place jumping, and to keep the Chaney boys interested. To the two brothers, Barlow meant two different things. Buck, being younger, quicker-tempered, and faster with a gun, rather enjoyed the excitement of the town. He hung around to take maximum advantage of all the experiences a place like Barlow had to offer, supporting himself by his wits ... gambling mostly, though he had done a little bartending and had even hired himself out as a shotgun guard on a few occasions. Buck was friendly with all the women, but so far he had managed to avoid getting too close to any woman in particular.
Lance was the more settled of the two and he stayed around Barlow because, as he said, "Everyone has to be somewhere." There were those, however, who suggested that Lance stayed in Barlow because of Lily Montgomery, the owner of the Easy Pickin's saloon. Actually, there was a great deal of truth to that suggestion. Lily was a beautiful woman and not at all like the average sporting house madam.
Lily could remember the days when she was the daughter of a wealthy Mississippi planter and the 'Belle of the County.' She still had the airs of a fine lady and cowboys who were visiting the saloon for the first time and who knew nothing of Lily's background, seemed to sense that, and react to it.
Lance and Lily had an understanding of sorts, though the parameters of that understanding had not been fully explored. Lance certainly wasn't ready to discuss marriage and he didn't consider himself engaged. Also, since their relationship had never actually been articulated they were free, technically, to see others. It was obvious to everyone, however, that while Lily ran a bar and sporting house and served drinks and a smile to men, she was interested only in Lance Chaney. It was just as obvious that Lance, who had a polite smile for all the working girls of the Easy Pickin's Saloon, was really interested in sharing his table and drinks only with Lily.
When the job was offered to him, Lance pinned on the star of deputy marshal. The new marshal, Dan Efrem, needed a deputy, and Lance Chaney needed work. What made the situation somewhat unusual was that Lance was one of those responsible for getting Efrem to come to Barlow in the first place.
Dan Efrem was a well-known and highly-respected law officer, a former Texas Ranger and United States Marshal.
<#FROWN:N08\>
The word had spread. When Pettigrew limped into the Rosita Mercantile, pants leg bloody, needing a shave, he drew stares from everyone in sight. But the store owner wasted no time asking questions until after he'd measured a yard of muslin and found a pair of the new Levi's pants, size thirty-three by thirty-three. Pettigrew would have to turn up the cuffs. There were four other customers in the store, but no one spoke. They only stared.
Then, "You're the one that rode in with that woman, ain't you? Is she really the one that was kidnapped up at Pueblo?"
"Yeah," Pettigrew answered, wearily. "Got any crackers or anything? Maybe some sardines?"
"What happened?"
"There was some shooting. She's all right now."
"Who got shot?"
"Some hardcases. Listen, I don't remember when I ate last or slept last. Got anything to eat?"
Back in the hotel room, he rewrapped his wounds, made a meal of sardines and crackers and flopped down on the narrow bed.
Lem Pettigrew slept like a dead man himself, lying on the bed wearing only his shirt, shorts and socks. His dreams were deep and vague and kept shifting scenes. There was the doctor with no name at Hardscrabble, Charles B. Atkinson, his old boss Sheriff Popejoy at Johnson County in West Texas, his childhood in the small town of Johnsonville, his work for the Pinkerton National Detective Agency, and John 'Beans' Gipson. And there the dream dwelled for a time. It was a disturbing dream.
He'd been a deputy sheriff for four years, and resigned when his boss completed his term and didn't run for re-election. It was Sheriff Popejoy who suggested he work for the Pinkertons, and it was the glowing recommendation from the sheriff that got him the job. That, and the fact that he'd done enough work on the cow outfits in West Texas that he could hold down a job as a cowboy. Plus the fact that the JS Ranch in south Texas was losing cattle and needed some undercover detective work done.
Plus, the Pinkertons had no agent who looked at all like a cowboy.
It was an easy assignment. Once Lem Pettigrew got acquainted with a good-looking young cowboy nick-named Beans it didn't take long to figure out what was happening.
Beans and an older man named Newt Waltham were stealing a few cattle at a time and hazing them into a corral hidden in the mesquites that grew along the Rio Grande. A crew of vaqueros drove the cattle from there across the river, delivering them to a Mexican rancher who had two hundred thousand acres to hide them in. The ranchero paid Beans and Newt about half the market price.
Pettigrew got suspicious when Beans ran out of dollars in town one day and couldn't talk a bartender into taking pesos. "God damn Mex money won't buy a piece of ass this side of the border," he'd complained. He shut up like a trap when Pettigrew asked where he got the pesos. Then Newt suffered a broken leg when a horse turned over on him, and Beans needed a new partner. Pettigrew had let it be known that he wouldn't mind raking in more than cowboy wages if he could do it without killing anyone. Beans had found his new partner.
One theft of twenty-five cows was all it took to gather enough evidence. But Pettigrew's work wasn't done. The worst part was yet to come. He had to testify in court.
In his dreams Pettigrew often saw Beans' face when he said, "I never believed you'd rat on me, Lem. I thought we was friends. I never believed you'd -"
It was a knocking on the door that woke him.
"Huh," Pettigrew snorted, jerking upright on the bed. For a long moment he couldn't remember where he was. The knocking persisted. Finally, "Yeah? Who's there?"
A muffled voice came through the door, "The proprietor, Mr. Pettigrew. I've got a message."
"All right, all right. Give me a minute." Bedsprings squeaked when he got up. He pulled on his new pants and went to the door in his sock feet. The clerk with the handlebar moustache stood there.
He said, "Mrs. Atkinson asked me to tell you that she would like to meet you downstairs."
"All right, thanks."
He washed his face in cold water, ran his fingers through his brown hair, and wished he had a comb. He knew his face bristled with several days' growth of whiskers, but he had no razor with him. His boots thumped on the stair steps.
She looked some better, sitting in the lobby, although she needed clean clothes. She even managed a small smile. Two young faces were pressed against the window pane from outside, looking in at her. The proprietor went to the open door and hollered, "Now you kids get away from here."
"I hope you got some rest, Mrs. Atkinson," Pettigrew said as he sat in one of four wooden chairs in the lobby.
"Yes. I had a bath and a nap. I was wondering, Mr. Pettigrew, whether you've talked to the officers of the law here."
"A deputy sheriff. He ought to be gone after the dead bodies now."
"Good. I'm sure he will want a statement of some kind from me too. I'm so weary I hope we can get this over with so I can get back to Pueblo."
"I told him you have to get back as fast as possible. He said a stage leaves every morning going east. I might have to stay a day or two."
"Oh, I hope not. I need your company."
"I hope not too, but ..." He shrugged. "I've been an officer of the law myself, and I know certain matters have to be settled."
"Do you suppose we could have dinner together? I feel so ... so embarrassed all alone."
"Sure. You bet. I'll buy a razor and try to make myself fit to be seen with a lady."
Seated at a table for four in the Home Cafe next door, they had roast beef, mashed potatoes and brown gravy. She ate only half of what was on her plate. Pettigrew cleaned his plate and ordered a slab of pie made of dried apples. They ate silently. She seemed to be deep in thought, and he didn't want to intrude.
They went to their separate rooms after dinner. Pettigrew took a 'whore's bath' out of the wash pan, and wished he'd had enough money to buy some clean shorts and socks. With only a few dollars in his wallet, he'd have to sell his bay horse to get stage and train fare, but once he got back to Pueblo, he'd collect his reward and be rich. Well, working-man rich.
"Uh-oh," he said aloud when the thought hit him. What if Charles B. Atkinson was dead? Would he get the reward he'd earned? Surely, the widow would see that he did. Everybody in Southern Colorado knew a reward had been promised. He sat on the bed thinking. Yeah, sure. Of course I'll get the reward.
Deputy Mulhay got back after dark. Pettigrew lit a coal oil lamp, pulled on his pants and again went to the door in his sock feet. His big toe on the right foot had worn a hole in the sock, but, oh well, the deputy had seen holes in socks before.
"We got 'em down and layed 'em out." Deputy Mulhay said, "and I just talked to Mrs. Atkinson and got her story. It checks exactly with what you said."
"Uh-huh." Pettigrew sat on the bed and motioned the deputy to the one chair.
"What I need now," the deputy said, shifting his gun-belt and sitting, "is to get a jury together. Say, oh ... four or five good men that can read and write, however many I can find, and tell 'em all about it. You'll have to be there, but I told Mrs. Atkinson she could leave on the stage in the mornin'."
"I know she appreciates that."
"Yeah, poor woman. She's had hell. I sure ain't gonna give 'er no more trouble."
"But I guess I'll have to stick around tomorrow."
"Yup. Can't be helped. What Mrs. Atkinson tells me is you saved her life more'n once."
Shrugging, Pettigrew said, "I wasn't trying to be a hero. There's a reward."
"Yup. I heered about that reward. What Mrs. Atkinson tells me is you surely earned it."
"When can you hold this inquest?"
"Not 'til mornin'. Wish we had a telegraph here. The sheriff's gone down to New Mexico Territory to eyeball a horse thief they arrested down there, and I wish I could telegraph 'im to get back up here. But we ain't and I cain't, so I'll do the best I know how."
Pettigrew almost told about having been a deputy sheriff himself, but he decided he didn't want to get into a conversation about that. Instead, he said, "Know where I can sell a good horse? I don't care to ride back over those mountains."
"Sammy buys and sells horses, mules, jackasses, wagons and just about ever'thing else. How much he pays depends on how hard up you are."
Pettigrew managed a small grin. "I'll try to put on a good act."
He saw the stage off with Mrs. Atkinson and three other passengers in it. The woman carried the saddlebags full of money. It occurred to Pettigrew to ask for an advance against the reward, but he didn't want to admit that he was broke. Sammy turned out to be a short, wide man with a nearly new brown hat and baggy wool pants. Pettigrew asked for forty dollars for the bay gelding, but settled for thirty-five. That gave him plenty of money to get to Pueblo, where he would collect his reward.
The town of Rosita had no coroner, but Deputy Mulhay called the gathering of five citizens a coroner's jury anyway. The hearing, in the combination sheriff's office and one-cell jail should have been short, but each juror had questions, mainly to satisfy their private curiosities. They didn't even leave the room to reach a verdict:
The two unnamed men met their deaths at the hands of one Lemual Pettigrew of Fremont County, state of Colorado. Mr. Pettigrew shot them in the defense of a kidnap victim, one Mrs. Cynthia Atkinson of Pueblo County. Therefore, it is the verdict of this coroner's jury that Mr. Pettigrew violated no laws of the state of Colorado.
"You understand, Mr. Pettigrew," a well-dressed juror said, "that this was not a trial, and if at some time the sheriff or the prosecutor decides to file charges against you it would not constitute double jeopardy."
"I understand."
"You're free to go on about your business."
Pettigrew bought a new shirt to go with the new pants. The new Levi's denim pants were cut full to allow for shrinkage, and they were baggy and stiff. He wished he'd bought another kind. He had a good breakfast under his belt, and a beer would have tasted good. But he didn't want to have to answer questions about the woman and her kidnappers, so he stayed out of the saloons. Now was the time to follow the advice of the doctor with no name and give his sore leg a rest.
He was dozing lightly in his room when a knock on the door brought him to his feet. "Who's there?"
A barely audible voice came through the door, "The sheriff."
It wasn't the right answer. Pettigrew drew the Colt .45, and when he opened the door he didn't stand in front of it. Instead, he stepped back, partially behind it.
The man who rushed in had a sixgun in his hand too, and he wasn't Deputy Mulhay.
Chapter Fifteen
In an instant, Pettigrew recognized the man. He fired as the man was turning toward him, then immediately dove for the floor, rolled onto his back and fired at the second man in the doorway.
<#FROWN:N09\>Listen to me, people. I know Smoke Jensen. He probably don't remember me, but I damn sure remember him. Let me name you some men who had the bad judgment to brace him. Slick Finger Bob, Terry Smith, Tom Ritter, One-Eye Slim, Warner Frigo, Canning, Felter, Kid Austin, Grisson and Clark, Curly Rodgers, Curt Holt, Ed Malone, Boots Pierson, Harry Jennings, Blackjack Simpson. Richards, Potter, Stratton. Smoke Jensen killed nineteen men by himself in a ghost town over in Idaho. Then there's Greeny, Lebert, and Augie. There was Dickerson, Brown, and Necker. Joiner and Wilson and Casey. There was Jack Waters and his three brothers. Then there was Lanny Ball and four of his friends. I think their names was Woody, Dalton, Lodi, and Sutton. Dad Estes had himself and his whole gang wiped out by Jensen. Cat Jennings and Barton and Mills and no-'count George Victor. Utah slim - everybody's heard of him - faced Smoke one day. That was the last thing he ever did. Pig-Face Phillips and a gunhand named Carson called Jensen out. They died in the dirt. You want me to name some more? Hell, I ain't even scratched the surface yet!"
Club Bowers walked the floor, eyeballing each man there. "People, understand something: Smoke Jensen was raised by mountain men. He don't fight like nobody you or me know. And when you get Smoke Jensen riled - and I've seen him riled - he's like ... well, a whole room full of grizzly bears. He's ..."
Jack Biggers waved him silent. "You're lettin' your imagination run away with you, Club. Jensen is a tough man. We all saw that when he fought Mule. But he's still just a man. He ain't got no supernatural powers."
"Injuns say he does," Fat Fosburn said. "I used to have some Injuns ridin' with me in my gang, both breeds and full redskin. They were all scared slap to death of Smoke Jensen. You see, Smoke was sort of raised up by a mountain man called Preacher."
That got everybody's attention.
"Yeah," Fat said with a smile. "Preacher hisself. The most famous mountain man of them all. Mean as a snake and tough as an oak tree. And he brought Smoke Jensen up to be just like him. And done a damn good job of it, too. Now you know why he's so damn mean. Club's right about Jensen to some degree. What we got to do, I'm thinkin', is get us a good back-shooter in here."
"You know one?" Major asked.
Fat smiled. "I've already sent for him."
The man Fat had contacted despised Smoke Jensen with a hatred that bordered insanity. Preacher had killed his father with a knife back in the mid-fifties, after he'd caught the man trying to steal one of his horses. Peter Hankins had been a boy in his teens when it had happened. A boy who was already an accomplished thief, liar, pickpocket, murderer, and just about anything else evil he was big enough to be. Trappers had brought the elder Hankins back to the trading post and dumped him at Peter's feet, telling him what had happened.
"Out here, boy," a mountain man told him. "You don't steal a man's horse. A lot of times, that's like givin' a man the death sentence. Your pa got what he deserved. Let it lie. You go after Preacher, and he'll kill you."
Peter Hankins drifted East and joined the Union Army at the start of the War Between the States. He had always been expert with a rifle, and he was made a sniper. He loved it. He loved to kill from a distance. He especially loved to kill Southerners. He'd won medals for it. When the war ended, he drifted back West, joined a gang of scum and ne'er-do-wells, and a few years later was caught up in a completely unexpected fight with Preacher and a young man named Smoke Jensen. Smoke got lead into him, although Peter doubted the young man knew it at the time. His hip still bothered him because of that fight. So after that, he shared his hatred of Preacher with hatred of Smoke Jensen.
Now he had a chance to kill him and make a couple thousand dollars in the process. It was too good to pass up.
As soon as he received the wire, he bought a train ticket and was on his way, sleeping in the car with his horse and his Sharps 'English Model' 1877 .45-caliber rifle. Peter hand-loaded his own ammunition (2.6-inch casing) and knew almost to the inch what distance they would carry, and they would carry accurately for more than fifteen hundred yards, providing the wind was not kicking up.
Peter would kill man, woman, or child. He made no distinction. He was a man utterly without morals. And he was looking forward to this job.
Smoke stepped out of the house for a breath of night air after another of Sally and Jenny's excellent suppers. The men had staggered off to the bunkhouse, all of them full as ticks. Three days after the fight, and his hands were no longer sore or swollen. There had been no trouble from Biggers, Cosgrove, or Fat. Smoke was not expecting any from Club Bowers. Scoundrel that he was, he was also a man who had been around and could read signs. Smoke had him a hunch that Club would pull out of this fight given just the slightest opportunity.
Van Horn walked up and stood silent for a moment, rolling a cigarette. "When you figure they're gonna hit us, and how do you figure it?"
"Just as soon as they get everyone in here that's coming in."
"You know of a person name of Peter Hankins?"
"Peter Hankins?" Smoke mused. "Yes. I do. He's a long-distance shooter. He uses a special made Sharps .45. Sharps made the rifle for about a year, I think. Made it for target shooters. It had something to do with English marksmanship rules, I believe. I've never seen one. Hankins, huh? My mentor killed Hankins' father. Preacher caught him stealing horses and carved him up. That was years before I knew Preacher. I've known for a long time that Hankins hates me."
"How old a man would he be?"
"Probably in his early to mid-forties. He was a teenager when Preacher killed his father back in '55 or so. I have no idea what he looks like or where he lives. He's a loner. He comes in, bodies fall, he leaves. Usually without anyone ever seeing him. How'd you find out about him coming in?"
Van Horn smiled. "Oh, those sources of mine I told you about."
Smoke chuckled. "You mean the girls at the Golden Cherry, don't you?"
Van Horn laughed quietly. "Not much gets by you, does it, Smoke?"
"I can't afford to let much by me, Van. I have too many people who want to see me dead."
"I do know the feelin'," the old gunfighter said. "But if they attack this ranch, they're gonna be in for a tough fight of it. That's a salty bunch yonder in the bunkhouse."
"They'll attack. It's coming. That's why I sold off most of the cattle, except for the good breeding stock, and had you bunch the rest in that box. Will the girls tell you when Hankins gets into town?"
"Within the hour."
"Let me know. Tomorrow we all work close to the ranch. We've got to get ready for anything that might come our way."
"See you in the morning."
Smoke was up before dawn, as usual, and with coffee in hand, stepped outside to meet the dawning, about a half hour away. Wolf Parcell had been waiting on him.
"What's on your mind, Wolf?"
"Let's take the fight to them. Kill them all," the old mountain man said coldly and bluntly. "End it. Then the girl-child can live in peace."
Smoke smiled in the darkness. Mountain men were not known for their gentle loving nature toward anyone who had openly declared themselves an enemy. And for the most part, that philosophy was shared by Smoke. But he had learned to temper his baser urgings ... to a degree. "Those days are just about gone, Wolf. Besides, we've got to keep public sentiment on our side."
The old man harrumped at that but said nothing in rebuttal for the moment. He drained his coffee cup and stuffed a wad of chewing tobacco into his mouth. He chomped and chewed and spat and finally said, "Two Injun friends of mine come of the bunkhouse last night. Told me a whole passel of gunslingers rode into town 'bout ten o'clock."
"I thought I heard something about one."
"Figured you would. Injuns asked about you. I told 'em you wasn't near 'bouts ugly as Preacher, and you was sizable bigger and somewhat smarter."
Smoke chuckled. And waited. He knew Wolf had more on his mind and would get to it in his own good time.
"Said they was a double handful of the gunslingers," Wolf said, after he spat. "They didn't know no names."
"The odds are getting longer, aren't they?"
"Yep. But we can handle them come the time. You'll cut your puma loose soon enough I reckon. And we'll be right there with you."
"You're looking forward to this, aren't you?"
"I'd be lyin' if I said I wasn't. That's a good girl in yonder. I like her. I ain't got no use for people who'd hurt a girl like that. Riles me up considerable. I take it personal. Bad Dog feels the same way. So's the rest of the fellers. When they come, Smoke, I ain't offerin' no quarter to none of them. I just want you to know that. I'm speakin' for me, Pasco, and Bad Dog. Cain't talk for none of the others."
"Try not to take scalps," Smoke said drily.
"I'll think about it." The old mountain man got up as silently as a stalking cat and moved into the darkness. He stopped and turned around. Smoke could see the faint smile on his lips. "You're a fine one to tell me not to take scalps, Smoke."
"That was a long time ago, Wolf."
Wolf chuckled. "You ain't old enough for it to be that long ago, boy. You got more of Preacher in you than you think. And I think this here fight's gonna turn real interestin'. For a fact I do."
Fourteen
Smoke saddled up, secured his bedroll, and rode out alone, taking a couple of sandwiches with him. He had told Sally, "I'll be back."
She did not question him. He might be back by noon, or he might return the next day. He might be back in three or four days. Sally knew they were in a fight to the death now, for her husband never tried to shield her from the truth. Hired guns were riding in from all over a three-state and territory area. By stage, by train, by horse. They were coming to Red Light to accept the fighting wages of Biggers, Fosburn, and Cosgrove. They were coming in to attempt to kill Smoke Jensen.
And this teenage girl, Sally added, cutting her eyes to the young girl standing at the kitchen counter, kneading dough for bread. They have no right to do that, Sally mused, her thoughts turning savage. She has harmed no one. She has a right to live on the ranch her mother left her, and to live in peace. Damn those men who would harm a child ...
"When you finish with that, Jenny," Sally said, "get your guns. We're going to practice awhile."
"Yes ma'am. Won't Uncle Smoke be alarmed at the gunfire?"
"No. I told him about it." Sally went to the front door and looked for Van Horn. The old gunfighter was by the corral, Wolf Parcell and Bad Dog with him. She walked down to him. He turned at her approach, taking off his hat.
<#FROWN:N10\>
30
The Air France Concorde touched down at Dulles Airport and taxied up to an unmarked U.S. government hangar near the cargo terminals. The sky was overcast, but the runway was dry and showed no sign of rain. Still clutching his backpack as if it was part of him, Gunn exited the sleek aircraft almost immediately and hurried down the mobile stairway to a waiting black Ford sedan driven by uniformed capital police. With flashing lights and screaming siren, he was whisked toward the NUMA headquarters building in the nation's capital.
Gunn felt like a captured felon, riding in the backseat of the speeding police car. He noticed that the Potomac River looked unusually green and leaden as they shot over the Rochambeau Memorial Bridge. The blur of pedestrians was too immune to revolving lights and sirens to bother looking up as the Ford shot past.
The driver did not pull up at the main entrance but swung around the west corner of the NUMA building, tires squealing, and flew down a ramp leading to a garage beneath the lobby floor. The Ford came to an abrupt stop in front of an elevator. Two security guards stepped forward, opened the door, and escorted Gunn into the elevator and up to the agency's fourth floor. A short distance down the hallway they stood back and opened the door to the NUMA's vast conference room with its sophisticated visual displays.
Several men and women were seated around a long mahogany table, their attention focused on Dr. Chapman, who was lecturing in front of a screen that depicted the middle Atlantic Ocean along the equator off West Africa.
The room abruptly hushed as Gunn walked in. Admiral Sandecker rose out of his chair, rushed forward, and greeted Gunn like a brother who had survived a liver transplant.
"Thank God, you got through," he said with unaccustomed emotion. "How was your flight from Paris?"
"Felt like an outcast sitting in a Concorde all by myself."
"No military planes were immediately available. Chartering a Concorde was the only expedient means of getting you here fast."
"Nice, so long as the taxpayers don't find out."
"If they knew their very existence was at stake, I doubt if they'd complain."
Sandecker introduced Gunn around the conference table.
"With three exceptions I think you know most everyone here."
Dr. Chapman and Hiram Yaeger came over and shook hands, showing their obvious pleasure at seeing him. He was introduced to Dr. Muriel Hoag, NUMA's director of marine biology, and Dr. Evan Holland, the agency's environmental expert.
Muriel Hoag was quite tall and built like a starving fashion model. Her jet-black hair was brushed back in a neat bun and her brown eyes peered through round spectacles. She wore no makeup, which was just as well, Gunn thought. A complete makeover by Beverly Hills' top beauty salon would have been a wasted effort.
Evan Holland was an environmental chemist and looked like a basset hound contemplating a frog in his dish. His ears were two sizes too large for his head, and he had a long nose that rounded at the tip. His eyes stared at the world as if they were soaked in melancholy. Holland's appearance was deceiving. He was one of the most astute pollution investigators in the business.
The other two men, Chip Webster, satellite analyst for NUMA, and Keith Hodge, the agency's chief oceanographer, Gunn already knew.
He turned to Sandecker. "Someone went to a lot of trouble to evacuate me out of Mali,"
"Hala Kamil personally gave her authorization to use a UN tactical team."
"The officer in charge of the operation, a Colonel Levant, acted none too happy to greet me."
"General Bock, his superior, and Colonel Levant both took a bit of persuading," Sandecker admitted. "But when they realized the urgency of your data they gave their full cooperation."
"They masterminded a very smooth operation," Gunn said. "Incredible they could plan and carry it through overnight."
If Gunn thought Sandecker would fill him in on the details, he was to be disappointed. Impatience was etched in every crease in the Admiral's face. There was a tray with coffee and sweet rolls, but he didn't offer Gunn any. He grabbed him by one arm and hustled him to a chair at one end of the long conference table.
"Let's get to it," the Admiral said brusquely. "Everyone is anxious to hear about your discovery of the compound causing the red tide explosion."
Gunn sat down at the table, opened his knapsack, and began retrieving the contents. Very carefully, he unwrapped the glass vials of water samples and laid them on a cloth. Next he unpacked the data disks and set them to one side. Then he looked up.
"Here are the water samples and results as interpreted by my on-board instruments and computers. Through a bit of luck I was able to identify the stimulator of the red tide as a most unusual organometallic compound, a combination of a synthetic amino acid and cobalt. I also found traces of radiation in the water, but I do not believe it has any direct relation to the contaminant's impact on the red tide."
"Considering the hardships and obstacles thrown in your path by the West Africans," said Chapman, "it's a miracle you were able to get a grip on the cause."
"Fortunately, none of my instruments were damaged after our run-in with the Benin navy."
"I received an inquiry from the CIA," said Sandecker with a tight smile, "asking if we knew anything about a maverick operation in Mali after you destroyed half the Benin navy and a helicopter."
"What did you tell them?"
"I lied. Please go on."
"Fire from one Benin gunboat did, however, manage to destroy our data transmission system," Gunn continued, "making it impossible to telemeter my results to Hiram Yaeger's computer network."
"I'd like to retest your water samples while Hiram verifies your analysis data," said Chapman.
Yaeger stepped next to Gunn and tenderly picked up the computer disks. "Not much I can contribute to this meeting, so I'll get to work."
As soon as the computer wizard had left the room, Gunn stared at Chapman. "I double- and triple-checked my results. I'm confident your lab and Hiram will confirm my findings."
Chapman sensed the tension in Gunn's tone. "Believe me when I say I don't question your procedures or data for a minute. You, Pitt, and Giordino did one hell of a job. Thanks to your efforts we now know what we're dealing with. Now the President can use his clout to lean on Mali to shut off the contaminant at the sourse. This will buy us time to formulate ways to neutralize its effects and stop further expansion of the red tides."
"Don't break out the cake and ice cream just yet," Gunn warned seriously. "Though we tracked the compound to its entry point into the river and identified its properties, we were unable to discover the location of its source."
Sandecker drummed his fingers on the table. "Pitt gave me the bad news before he was cut off. I apologize for not passing along the information, but I was counting on a satellite survey to fill in the missing piece."
Muriel Hoag looked directly into Gunn's eyes. "I don't understand how you successfully pursued the compound through 1000 kilometers of water and then lost it on land."
"It was easy," Gunn shrugged wearily. "After we sailed beyond the point of highest concentration, our contaminant readings dropped off and the instruments began showing water with commonly known pollutants. We made several runs back and forth to confirm. We also took visual sightings in every direction. No hazardous waste dump site, no chemical storage or manufacturing facilities were visible along the river or inland. No buildings or construction, nothing. Only barren desert."
"Could a dump site have been buried over at some time in the past?" suggested Holland.
"We observed no evidence of excavation," replied Gunn.
"Any chance the toxin was brewed by mother nature?" asked Chip Webster.
Muriel Hoag smiled. "If tests bear out Mr. Gunn's analysis of a synthetic amino acid, it must have been produced by a biotech laboratory. Not mother nature. And somewhere, somehow, it was discarded along with chemicals containing cobalt. Not the first time accidental integration of chemicals produced a previously unknown compound."
"How in God's name could such an exotic compound suddenly appear in the middle of the Sahara?" wondered Chip Webster.
"And reach the ocean where it acts as steroids to dinoflagellates," added Holland.
Sandecker looked at Keith Hodge. "What's the latest report on the spread of the red tide?"
The oceanographer was in his sixties. Unblinking dark brown eyes gazed from a continually fixed expression on a lean, high-cheekboned face. With the correctly dated clothing he could have stepped from an eighteenth-century portrait.
"The spread has increased 30 percent in the past four days. I fear the growth rate is exceeding our most dire projections."
"But if Dr. Chapman can develop a compound to neutralize the contamination, and we find and cut it off at the source, can't we then control the tide's expansion?"
"Better make it soon," answered Hodge. "At the rate it's proliferating, another month and we should see the first evidence of it beginning to feed off itself without stimulation flowing from the Niger."
"That's three months early!" Muriel Hoag said sharply.
Hodge gave a helpless shrug. "When you're dealing with an unknown the only sure commodity is uncertainty."
Sandecker swung sideways in his chair and gazed at the blown-up satellite photo of Mali projected on one wall. "Where does the compound enter the river?" he asked Gunn.
Gunn stood and walked over to the enlarged photo. He picked up a grease pencil and circled a small area of the Niger River above Gao on the white backdrop reflecting the projection. "Right about here, off an old riverbed that once flowed into the Niger."
Chip Webster pressed the buttons of a small console sitting on the table, and enlarged the area around Gunn's marking. "No structures visible. No indication of population. Nor do I make out any sign of excavated dirt or a mound that would have to be in evidence if any type of trench was dug to bury hazardous materials."
"This is an enigma, all right," muttered Chapman. "Where in the devil can the rotten stuff come from?"
"Pitt and Giordino are still out there searching for it," Gunn reminded them.
"Any late word of their condition or whereabouts?" asked Hodge.
"Nothing since Pitt's call aboard Yves Massarde's boat," replied Sandecker.
Hodge looked up from his notepad. "Yves Massarde? God, not that pond slime."
"You know him?"
Hodge nodded. "I crossed paths with him after a bad chemical spill in the Med off Spain four years ago. One of his ships that was carrying waste carcinogenic chemicals known as PCBs for disposal in Algeria broke up and sank in a storm. I personally think the ship was scuttled in a combination insurance scam and illegal dump. As it turned out, Algerian officials never had any intention of accepting the waste for disposal. Then Massarde lied and cheated and pulled every legal dodge on the books to evade responsibility for cleaning up the mess. You shake hands with that guy and you better count your fingers when you walk away."
Gunn turned to Webster, "Intelligence-gathering satellites can read newspapers from space. Why can't we orbit one over the desert north of Gao in search of Pitt and Giordino?"
Webster shook his head. "Negaitve. My contacts at the National Security Agency have their best eyes in the sky keeping tabs on the new Chinese rocket firings, the civil war going on in the Uraine, and the border slashes with Syria and Iraq. They're not about to spare us time from their intelligence scans to find civilians in the Sahara Desert. I can go with the latest-model GeoSat. But it's questionable whether it can distinguis human forms against the uneven terrain of a desert like the Sahara."
<#FROWN:N11\>
VII
(ONE)
FERDINAND SIX
BUKA, SOLOMON ISLANDS
0605 HOURS 7 SEPTEMBER 1942
Sergeant Steven M. Koffler, USMC, woke suddenly and sat up, frightened. His guts were knotted and he had a clammy sweat.
It was from a nightmare, he concluded after a moment, although he couldn't remember any of it.
The feeling of foreboding did not go away. Something was wrong. There was enough light in the hut for him to see that Patience was gone. That was not unusual. Since she had moved in with him, she habitually rose before he did and was out of the hut before he woke.
But then, slowly, it came to him, what was wrong. He heard no noise. There was always noise, the squealing of pigs, the crying of children, the crackling of a fire, even hymn singing.
That image sent his mind wandering. They don't sing hymns here, like in church. It has nothing to do with God. It's just that 'Rock of Ages' and 'Faith of Our Fathers' and 'God Save the King' and 'Onward Christian Soldiers' and the other ones are the only music these people have ever heard. He corrected himself: Plus the Marine Hymn, which of course me and Lieutenant Howard taught them.
Why can't I hear anything?
He felt another wave of fear and reached for the Thompson. He checked the action and then stuck his feet in his boondockers and stood up.
He went to the door of the hut and looked out. No one was in sight.
Where the fuck is everybody?
With his finger on the Thompson's trigger, he left the hut, took one quick look to confirm that no one was visible, then ran into the jungle behind the hut. He moved ten feet inside it, enough for concealment, and then he moved laterally until he found a position where he could observe the other huts.
There was no one there. The fires had gone out.
Even the fucking pigs are gone!
The sonsofbitches ran off on me!
Well, what the hell do you expect? he asked himself. If I wasn't here, they're just a bunch of fucking cannibals; the Japs don't give a shit about cannibals unless they're causing trouble. The worst thing the Japs would do would be to put them to work.
With me here, they're the fucking enemy. The Japs would kill them, slowly, to show they're pissed off. And they'll do it so it hurts, to teach the other cannibals it's not smart to help the White Man. Like cutting off their arms and legs, not just their heads, and leaving the parts laying around.
A chill replaced the clammy sweat.
What the fuck am I going to do now?
He was suddenly, without warning, sick to his stomach. When that passed, he had an equally irresistible urge to move his bowels.
He moved another fifteen yards through the jungle and watched the camp for another five minutes. Finally he walked out of the jungle and started looking in the huts.
The radio was still there.
Why not? What the hell would they do with the radio?
And he found some baked sweet potatoes, or whatever the hell they were, and some of the smoked pig.
A farewell present? Merry Christmas, Sergeant Koffler? How the fuck long are those sweet potatoes and five, ten pounds of smoked pig going to last me?
Oh, shit!
There came the sound of aircraft engines, a dull roar far off.
Fuck 'em! What the fuck do I care if the whole Japanese Air Corps is headed for Guadalcanal?
He walked to the tree house. They'd left him the knotted rope, he found to his surprise. He used it to walk up the trunk.
"Good morning, Steven," Patience Witherspoon said. She was sitting on the floor of the platform, wearing an expression that said she expected to be kicked.
Ian Bruce was leaning against the trunk.
"You heard the engines, Sergeant Koffler?"
"Fuck the engines, where the hell is everybody?"
"The men went to seek Lieutenant Reeves," Ian said. "The women have gone away from here."
"Gone where?"
"You would not know where they have gone," Ian said with irrefutable logic. "Away."
"Why?"
"If it has not gone well with Lieutenant Reeves, the Japanese will come looking for us. If they find this place, with the radio, they may believe there were no other white men. You will come with us to where the women are making a camp. We may be able to hide you."
"You think something fucked up, went wrong, don't you?"
"I think something has fucked up. Otherwise Lieutenant Reeves would have returned when he said he would return."
"Why wasn't I told?"
"Because I knew you would forbid it," Ian Bruce said. "Lieutenant Reeves left you in charge; he told me I was to take your orders as if they had come from him."
"What are you doing up here, then?" Steve asked.
"Watching for the Japanese aircraft," Ian said. "We will need the binoculars."
"They're in my hut," Steve replied automatically.
"I will get them," Patience said, and quickly got to her feet and started down the knotted rope.
"If we're going to hide in the goddamned jungle," Steve asked, "why are be bothering with this shit, anyway?"
"Because," Ian Bruce said, again with irrefutable logic, "we do not know that Lieutenant Reeves is dead. We only believe he is. Until we know for sure, or until the Japanese come, we will do what he wishes us to do."
"Semper Fi, right?"
"I do not understand."
"Yeah, you do," Steve said.
"Is that English?"
"It's Marine," Steve said. "It means ... you do what you're expected to do, I guess. Or try, anyway."
"I see," Ian Bruce said solemnly.
(TWO)
USMC REPLACEMENT DEPOT
PARRIS ISLAND, SOUTH CAROLINA
2250 HOURS 7 SEPTEMBER 1942
Because he was on a routine check of the guard posts, the officer of the day happened to be at the main gate when the 1939 LaSalle convertible pulled up to the guard and stopped. It had been a long and dull evening and showed little prospect of getting more interesting.
"Hold it a minute," the OD said to his jeep driver.
"Aye, aye, Sir," the driver said and stopped the jeep.
The OD got out and walked toward the LaSalle. The driver was apparently showing his orders to the guard, for the beam of the guard's flashlight illuminated the interior. The OD saw that the car held two lieutenants, neither of whom was wearing his cover.
But what the hell, it's almost eleven o'clock.
"Welcome to sand flea heaven," the OD said. "Reporting in?"
"Just visiting," McCoy replied.
He was a first lieutenant, the OD saw, not any older than he himself was. But he was wearing a double row of ribbons, including the Bronze Star and what looked like the Purple Heart with two clusters on it. The other one was a second lieutenant, and he too was wearing ribbons signifying that he had been wounded and decorated for valor.
Am I being a suspicious prick, or just doing my job? the OD wondered as he reached to take the orders from the guard.
The orders were obviously genuine. They were issued by Headquarters, USMC, and ordered First Lieutenant K. R. McCoy to proceed by military or civilian road, rail, or air transportation, or at his election, by privately owned vehicle, to Philadelphia, Penna., Parris Island, S.C., and such other destinations as he deemed necessary in the carrying out of his mission for the USMC Office of Management Analysis.
What the hell is the Office of Management Analysis?
"Well, as I said," the OD said, smiling, "welcome to sand flea heaven."
"I know all about the sand fleas," McCoy said, smiling. "But how do I find the BOQ?"
"How do you know about the sand fleas and not the BOQ?" the OD asked, and immediately felt like a fool as the answer came to him: This guy was a Mustang. He had gone through Parris Island as an enlisted man before getting a commission. He knew about sand fleas. But marine boots do not know where bachelor officers rest their weary heads.
"Follow the signs to the Officer's Club," the OD said. "Drive past it. Look to your right. Two-story frame building on your right."
"Thank you," McCoy said.
The guard saluted. McCoy returned it. McCoy drove past the barrier.
"Interesting," the OD said to the guard. "Did you see the ribbons on those officers?"
"Yes, Sir. And one of them had a cane, too."
"I wonder what the hell the Office of Management Analysis is?" the OD asked, not expecting an answer.
"I'll tell you something else interesting, Sir," the guard said. "The sergeant major is looking for them. At least for Lieutenant McCoy. He passed the word through the sergeant of the guard we was to call him, no matter when he came aboard."
"Him? Not the OD? Or the General's aide?"
"Him, Sir."
"Well, in that case, Corporal, I would suggest you get on the horn to the sergeant major. Hell hath no fury, as you might have heard."
"Aye, aye, Sir."
"Does this place fill you with fond memories?" McCoy asked as they drove through the Main Post, an area of brick buildings looking not unlike the campus of a small college.
"I would rather go back to Guadalcanal than go through here again," Moore said.
"How's your legs?"
"I won't mind lying down."
"Well, you wanted to come."
"And I'm grateful that you brought me. I was going stir crazy in the hospital."
"I think what you need, pal, is a piece of ass. I also think you're out of luck here."
"Says he, the Croesus of Carnal Wealth," Moore replied.
"What?"
"Says he, who doesn't have that problem."
"What Ernie and I have is something special," McCoy said coldly.
"Hell, I realized that the first time I saw you two looking at each other in San Diego," Moore said. "My reaction then, and now, is profound admiration, coupled with enormous jealousy."
"Your lady really did a job on you, huh?"
"When I got her letter, in Melbourne, I was fantasizing about getting to be an officer and marching into the Bellvue-Stratford in my officer's uniform with her on my arm ... 'Dear John,' the letter said."
"Hell, your name is John," McCoy said. "And you have your officer's uniform, three sets of khakis, anyway ..."
"And thank you for that, too. I wouldn't have known where to go to buy them."
"Horstmann Uniform has been selling uniforms to The Corps since Christ was a corporal," McCoy said. "And as I was saying, your Dear John letter lady is not the only female in the world."
"So I keep telling myself," Moore said.
"Well, there's the club, and it looks like it's still open. Would you like a drink?"
"I'll pass, thank you," Moore said. "But go ahead if you want to."
"I've got a couple of pints in my bag," McCoy said. "I didn't really want to go in there anyway." A moment later he said, "That must be it."
Moore looked up and saw a two-story frame building. McCoy drove around behind it and parked the car. Since he'd packed Moore's two spare khaki uniforms in his own bag, there was only one to carry.
A corporal was on duty in the lobby of the Bachelor Officer's Quarters.
McCoy told him they were transients and needed rooms; and the corporal gave them a register to sign, then handed each of them a key.
"End of the corridor to the right, Sir. Number twelve."
"Thank you," McCoy said and walked up the stairs.
Halfway down the corridor he swore bitterly: "Shit! Sonofabitch!"
Moore saw the source of his anger. A neatly lettered sign was thumb-tacked to one of the doors. It read, RESERVED FOR KILLER MCCOY.
He walked quickly to the sign and ripped it down. He started to put his key to the lock in the door, but it opened before he could reach it.
<#FROWN:N12\>
EIGHT
FOR DILLON in the Mini-Cooper, the run from London went easily enough. Although there was a light covering of snow on the fields and hedgerows, the roads were perfectly clear and not particularly busy. He was in Dorking within half an hour. He passed straight through and continued toward Horsham, finally pulling into a petrol station about five miles outside.
As the attendant was topping up the tank Dillon got his road map out. "Place called Doxley, you know it?"
"Half a mile up the road on your right a signpost says Grimethorpe. That's the airfield, but before you get there you'll see a sign to Doxley."
"So it's not far from here?"
"Three miles maybe, but it might as well be the end of the world." The attendant chuckled as he took the notes Dillon gave him. "Not much there, mister."
"Thought I'd take a look. Friend told me there might be a weekend cottage going."
"If there is, I haven't heard of it."
Dillon drove away, came to the Grimethorpe sign within a few minutes, followed the narrow road and found the Doxley sign as the garage man had indicated. The road was even narrower, high banks blocking the view until he came to the brow of a small hill and looked across a desolate landscape, powdered with snow. There was the occasional small wood, a scattering of hedged fields and then flat marshland drifting toward a river, which had to be the Arun. Beside it, perhaps a mile away, he saw houses twelve or fifteen, with red pantiled roofs, and there was a small church, obviously Doxley. He started down the hill to the wooded valley below and as he came to it, saw a five-barred gate standing open and a decaying wooden sign with the legend Cadge End Farm.
The track led through the wood and brought him almost at once to a farm complex. There were a few chickens running here and there, a house and two large barns linked to it so that the whole enclosed a courtyard. It looked incredibly run down, as if nothing had been done to it for years, but then, as Dillon knew, many country people preferred to live like that. He got out of the Mini and crossed to the front door, knocked and tried to open it. It was locked. He turned and went to the first barn. Its old wooden doors stood open. There was a Morris van in there and a Ford car jacked up on bricks, no wheels, agricultural implements all over the place.
Dillon took out a cigarette. As he lit it in cupped hands, a voice behind said, "Who are you? What do you want?"
He turned and found a girl in the doorway. She wore baggy trousers tucked into a pair of rubber boots, a heavy roll-neck sweater under an old anorak and a knitted beret like a Tam o'Shanter, the kind of thing you found in fishing villages on the West Coast of Ireland. She was holding a double-barreled shotgun threateningly. As he took a step toward her, she thumbed back the hammer.
"You stay there." The Irish accent was very pronounced.
"You'll be the one they call Angel Fahy?" he said.
"Angela, if it's any of your business."
Tania's man had been right. She did look like a little peasant. Broad cheekbone, upturned nose and a kind of fierceness there. "Would you really shoot with that thing?"
"If I had to."
"A pity that, and me only wanting to meet my father's cousin, once removed, Danny Fahy."
She frowned. "And who in the hell might you be, mister?"
"Dillon's the name. Sean Dillon."
She laughed harshly. "That's a damn lie. You're not even Irish and Sean Dillon is dead, everyone knows that."
Dillon dropped into the hard distinctive accent of Belfast. "To steal a great man's line, girl dear, all I can say is, reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated."
The gun went slack in her hands. "Mother Mary, are you Sean Dillon?"
"As ever was. Appearances can be deceiving."
"Oh, God," she said. "Uncle Danny talks about you all the time, but it was always like stories, nothing real to it at all and here you are."
"Where is he?"
"He did a repair on a car for the landlord of the local pub, took it down there an hour ago. Said he'd walk back, but he'll be there a while yet drinking, I shouldn't wonder."
"At this time? Isn't the pub closed until evening?
"That might be the law, Mr. Dillon, but not in Doxley. They never close."
"Let's go and get him, then."
She left the shot gun on a bench and got into the Mini beside him. As they drove away, he said, "What's your story then?"
"I was raised on a farm in Galway. My da was Danny's nephew, Michael. He died six years ago when I was fourteen. After a year, my mother married again."
"Let me guess," Dillon said. "You didn't like your stepfather and he didn't like you?"
"Something like that. Uncle Danny came over for my father's funeral, so I'd met him and liked him. When things got too heavy, I left home and came here. He was great about it. Wrote to my mother and she agreed I could stay. Glad to get rid of me."
There was no self-pity at all and Dillon warmed to her. "They always say some good comes out of everything."
"I've been working it out," she said. "If you're Danny's second cousin and I'm his great-niece, then you and I are blood related, isn't that a fact?"
Dillon laughed. "In a manner of speaking."
She looked ecstatic as she leaned back. "Me, Angel Fahy, related to the greatest gunman the Provisional IRA ever had."
"Well, now, there would be some who would argue about that," he said as they reached the village and pulled up outside the pub.
It was a small, desolate sort of place, no more than fifteen rather dilapidated cottages and a Norman church with a tower and an overgrown graveyard. The pub was called the Green Man and even Dillon had to duck to enter the door. The ceiling was very low and beamed. The floor was constructed of heavy stone flags worn with the years, the walls were whitewashed. The man behind the bar in his shirt sleeves was at least eighty.
He glanced up and Angel said, "Is he here, Mr. Dalton?"
"By the fire, having a beer," the old man said.
A fire burned in a wide stone hearth and there was a wooden bench and a table in front of it. Danny Fahy sat there reading the paper, a glass in front of him. He was sixty-five, with an untidy, grizzled beard, and wore a cloth cap and an old Harris Tweed suit.
Angel said, "I've brought someone to see you, Uncle Danny."
He looked up at her and then at Dillon, puzzlement on his face. "And what can I do for you, sir?"
"Dillon removed his glasses. "God bless all here!" he said in his Belfast accent. "And particularly you, you old bastard."
Fahy turned very pale, the shock was so intense. "God save us, is that you, Sean, and me thinking you were in your box long ago?"
"Well, I'm not and I'm here." Dillon took a five-pound note from his wallet and gave it to Angel. "A couple of whiskys, Irish for preference."
She went back to the bar and Dillon turned. Danny Fahy actually had tears in his eyes and he flung his arms around him. "Dear God, Sean, but I can't tell you how good it is to see you."
The sitting room at the farm was untidy and cluttered, the furniture very old. Dillon sat on a sofa while Fahy built up the fire. Angel was in the kitchen cooking a meal. It was open to the sitting room and Dillon could see her moving around.
"And how's life been treating you, Sean?" Fahy stuffed a pipe and lit it. "Ten years since you raised Cain in London town. By God, boy, you gave the Brits something to think about."
"I couldn't have done it without you, Danny."
"Great days. And what happened after?"
"Europe, the Middle East. I kept on the move. Did a lot for the PLO. Even learned to fly."
"Is that a fact?"
Angel came and put plates of bacon and eggs on the table. "Get it while it's hot." She turned with a tray laden with teapot and milk, three mugs and a plate piled high with bread and butter. "I'm sorry there's nothing fancier, but we weren't expecting company."
"It looks good to me," Dillon told her and tucked in.
"So now you're here, Sean, and dressed like an English gentleman." Fahy turned to Angel. "Didn't I tell you the actor this man was? They never could put a glove on him in all these years, not once."
She nodded eagerly, smiling at Dillon, and her personality had changed with the excitement. "Are you on a job now, Mr. Dillon, for the IRA, I mean?"
"It would be a cold day in hell before I put myself on the line for that bunch of old washer women," Dillon said.
"But you are working on something, Sean?" Fahy said. "I can tell. Come on, let's in on it."
Dillon lit a cigarette. "What if I told you I was working for the Arabs, Danny, for Saddam Hussein himself?"
"Jesus, Sean, and why not? And what is it he wants you to do?"
"He wants something now - a coup. Something big. America's too far away. That leaves the Brits."
"What could be better?" Fahy's eyes were gleaming.
"Thatcher was in France the other day seeing Mitterand. I had plans for her on the way to her plane. Perfect set-up, quiet country road and then someone I trusted let me down."
"And isn't that always the way?" Fahy said. "So you're looking for another target? Who, Sean?"
"I was thinking of John Major."
"The new Prime Minister?" Angel said in awe. "You wouldn't dare."
"Sure and why wouldn't he? Didn't the boys nearly get the whole bloody British Government at Brighton?" Danny Fahy told her. "Go on, Sean, what's your plan?"
"I haven't got one, Danny, that's the trouble, but there would be a pay day for this like you wouldn't believe."
"And that's as good a reason to make it work as any. So you've come to Uncle Danny looking for help?" Fahy went to a cupboard, came back with a bottle of Bushmills and two glasses and filled them. "Have you any ideas at all?"
"Not yet, Danny. Do you still work for the movement?"
"Stay in deep cover, that was the order from Belfast so many years ago I've forgotten. Since then not a word and me bored out of my socks, so I moved down here. It suits me. I like the countryside here, I like the people. They keep to themselves. I've built up a fair business repairing agricultural machinery and I run a few sheep. We're happy here, Angel and me."
"And still bored out of your socks. Do you remember Martin Brosnan, by the way?"
"I do so. You were bad friends with that one."
"I had a run-in with him in Paris recently. He'll probably turn up in London looking for me. He'll be working for Brit intelligence."
"The bastard." Fahy frowned as he refilled his pipe. "Didn't I hear some fanciful talk of how Brosnan got into Ten Downing Street as a waiter years ago and didn't do anything about it?"
"I heard that story too. A flight of fancy and no one would get in these days as a waiter or anything else. You know they've blocked the street off? The place is a fortress. No way in there, Danny."
"Oh, there's always a way, Sean. I was reading in a magazine the other day how a lot of French Resistance people in the Second World War were held at some Gestapo headquarters.
<#FROWN:N13\>When I was a boy we had in our home a clay figure of the earth goddess, and she was a delightful fat little woman smiling and making the land fruitful with her blessing. Whenever we looked at her we felt good, and I can think of no primitive gods that were gentler than those of Toledo. I know of few civilizations that came so close to providing an ideal life for their people.
Carved hieroglyphics have been recovered outlining Ixmiq's code of laws, and although it is likely that we are misreading some of them, it is not conceivable that we have misunderstood them all. In Toledo, in the year 650, a woman whose husband had died leaving her with children not yet old enough to work was given a share of the produce of land owned by families with grown sons. On the other hand, a woman who committed adultery once was publicly shamed; on the second offense she was killed. It was conspicuous in the law of Ixmiq that priests had nothing to do with the execution of criminals; this was carried out by civil officials. In fact, in the entire history of these six centuries there is no record of priests being other than the spiritual heads of the community. They lived intimately with the gods and advised the populace of decisions made in heaven.
We have one old stone, dug out of the pyramid in the 1950s, which shows a dignified leader who might have been Ixmiq. He is depicted as a stocky man with a long, straight nose, high cheekbones, Oriental eyes and powerful arms. He wore a towering headdress, probably ornamented in gold and silver, that must have stood about two feet high and that had feathers and flowers streaming from it in profusion. He carried a scepter topped by an animal's head, a ceremonial robe of cotton and feathers, and a bunch of flowers. He was naked to the waist, but wore a kind of sarong and sandals.
Ixmiq certainly was in touch with the Mayas to the far south and with the nondescript tribes that flourished to the southeast around what is now Mexico City, for he had a zoo in which he kept animals from distant areas and in it were birds from the seacoast areas controlled by the Mayas. But he seems to have been ignorant of the dreadful Altomec and Aztec tribes that were gathering strength in their caves to the north.
It is impossible to guess how large City-of-the-Pyramid was in those early days, but my father once estimated that it would have required no fewer than fifteen hundred men to work constantly for forty years to build the first pyramid, and he guessed that each man would have to be served by three others who quarried and transported the building blocks. This would mean about six thousand men, or a total population of somewhere around twenty thousand people. We know from excavations undertaken at the time of the building of the cathedral and the aqueduct that these people, whatever their number, lived in a sprawling Indian city built of mud and wood and located around the plaza that now serves as the center of modern Toledo.
I stress these matters because throughout my adult life I have been irritated by people who glibly suppose that Spaniards brought civilization to Mexican people who had previously been barbarians, when this was clearly not the case.
In the year 600 the civilizations of Spain and Mexico were roughly comparable, except for the fact that the former had profited from the invention of the wheel, the development of the alphabet and the knowledge of how to smelt hard metals. In any event I choose to measure advances in civilization by noting such things as soundness in the organization of the state, the humaneness of the religion, the care given to the indigent, the protection of trade, the advances in sciences such as astronomy, and the cultivation of music, dancing, poetry and other arts. In these vital respects my ancestors in City-of-the-Pyramid were just about even with my ancestors in Spain and infinitely far ahead of all who shivered in caves in what would become Virginia.
In the matter of astronomy, Ixmiq was incredible. He calculated the orbits of the planets and based his century on the movements of Venus, whose behavior he had calculated within an error of only a few days. Unaided, so far as we know, by a single hint from Europe or Asia, Ixmiq solved most of the major problems of keeping time and had even discovered that in the year of 365 days that he had devised, even if he added four days every thirteen years, at the end of his fifty-two-year cycle he would still be one day short of the world's exact movement, so for that time he added an extra day. It is possible that he may have borrowed his major concepts from the Mayas, but everything he took he perfected.
I have mentioned the portrait believed to be that of Ixmiq; there is another - but some argue that it is not Ixmiq - which shows a man as I like to think he must have been. He is seated in the center of a huge stone carving and about him are flutes, trumpets, drums made of snakeskin, and shell horns; pitch pine from the forest serves as a torch. The ground seems to be covered with woven mats and ambassadors are waiting to talk with him.
Ixmiq had fifteen or twenty wives and from one of these sprang the line that ruled City-of-the-Pyramid for nearly half a millennium. Around the year 900 one of these descendants known as Nopiltz<*_>i-acute<*/>n inherited the kingdom, which was now somewhat changed from the days of Ixmiq. For one thing, the pyramid had been rebuilt twice in the interim and was now approaching its present size. The enlargements had been accomplished by the simple process of resurfacing the entire structure with two or three layers of new rocks quarried from the original site. Just when these resurfacings took place we do not know, but each probably occupied the community for fifteen or twenty years, for with any enlargement the number of blocks required to cover the structure increased considerably. Thus in 900, when Nopiltz<*_>i-acute<*/>n took command, each side of the huge edifice was five hundred feet long with a height of about two hundred feet, producing an enormous flat top for the various wooden temples that now crowded the platform.
The effectiveness of the pyramid as a religious edifice had also been enhanced by a simple improvement. Ixmiq's original structure had resembled an Egyptian pyramid, with straight, unbroken edges running from the ground to the platform above, but in subsequent rebuildings four huge setbacks had been constructed, yielding four spacious terraces on which religious celebrations could be held. Furthermore, to provide a series of terraces, the angle of incline between the various terraces varied sharply, with the result that a worshiper standing at the base of the pyramid and looking upward could see only so far as the edge of the first terrace; the great temples at the top were no longer visible and the pyramid seemed to soar into the clouds.
Up the southern face led a steep flight of steps, which paused four times at the terraces, and it must have been one of the most exciting experiences in Mexico to climb these steps, not knowing what one was to find at the topmost level; at the apex one came upon a broad platform, now larger than in the days of Ixmiq, containing four temples to the rain god, the gods of earth and sun, and the mysterious serpent god that protected all things of beauty. There had still, in the days of Nopiltz<*_>i-acute<*/>n, been no man sacrificed to these gods, although turkeys, flowers, musical instruments and cakes were regularly offered at the four altars.
It is difficult for me to write of what happened next, because it shows my Indians in a poor light, and this provides fuel for Christian apologists who preach that when Hern<*_>a-acute<*/>n Corts invaded Mexico in 1519 he found it occupied by barbarians to whom he brought both civilization and Christianity. Even in 900 Nopiltz<*_>i-acute<*/>n's people were not barbarians, but they became so lax in guarding their marvelous civilization that they allowed real barbarians to overrun them.
The events I am about to discuss are genuinely historic, for they derive from records uncovered by archaeologists. Such records, of course, were written in hieroglyphics and not in words, for our Indians had no alphabet, but they are at least as substantial as many related to Europe's Middle Ages. But in the reign of Nopiltz<*_>i-acute<*/>n, when the building of pyramids had long since stopped, the civilization of the high valley fell into a curious state of apathy. When wars ceased there was nothing to excite the passions of the citizens; when building halted, there was nothing to engage their energies.
Some years ago I helped excavate an ancient quarry site that proved, by carbon dating, that no significant activity had occurred there for a period of three hundred years. How did the team of which I was the reporter know this? Because at the site we unearthed much pottery from the early Ixmiq age and each subsequent period down to 900. Then for three hundred years, through the 1100s, we found no local pottery of any kind, and when I asked the leader of our dig what this signified he explained: "We often see this phenomenon in Near East digs. It means the locals had acquired enough wealth that they could stop making things for themselves and import them from other regions in which workmen remained at their kilns." But at the upper edge of this dead period comes a flood of Altomec pottery that can be positively dated to about 1200. The record was as clear to us as if work sheets had been kept at the site.
Worship of the old gods seems also to have diminished and a tradition arose that the flowered serpent had left the area to return at some future date. Because the high valley was not plagued by droughts, the god of rain was taken more or less for granted. The sun god lost his fury, and the goddess of earth grew prettier and less motherly in her pottery representations. Peaceful trade relations to the east, south and west had reached their maximum advantage, and practically every good thing known to Mexico at large was now available in City-of-the-Pyramid.
In the year 900, during the reign of Nopiltz<*_>i-acute<*/>n, life was probably as good in the high valley as it was anywhere on earth, but some of the older priests, led by their superior, Ixbalanque, eighty years old and clothed with wisdom and power, questioned the status quo. Their view was ably voiced by a fiery younger prelate: "Our citizens are growing soft. They pay no attention to the old virtues. The king ought to launch some significant project to enlist his people's energies." When his companions agreed, it fell to High Priest Ixbalanque to present their concern to the king.
It's not easy, at this distance from the year 900, to define the relationship between the old priest Ixbalanque and the young king Nopiltz<*_>i-acute<*/>n, but it is possible to gain some idea of the story from what the old murals show and what the archaeologists have been able to uncover. Power and responsibility among the Builders was cunningly divided: the king controlled short-term decisions, the high priest those of which the long-term welfare of the people depended. The king could declare war and prosecute it; the high priest determined the terms of peace, but since no wars occurred for long periods, these powers remained in limbo. The king could collect taxes, but the priest decided how the money should be spent for the welfare of the people.
<#FROWN:N14\>There hadn't been any mention in the dream of what it was that Wren's presence was supposed to accomplish. Maybe it would take another vision to find out.
She grinned at her own impudence and was pulling on her boots when the grin abruptly faded.
What if the importance of her return was that she carried with her the Elfstones? What if she was expected to use the Stones as a weapon against the demons?
She went cold with the thought, remembering anew how she had been forced to use them twice now despite her reluctance to do so, remembering the feeling of power as the magic coursed through her, liquid fire that burned and exhilarated at the same time. She was aware of their addictive effect on her, of the bonding that took place each time they were employed, and of how they seemed so much a part of her. She kept saying she would not use them, then found herself forced to do so anyway - or persuaded, perhaps. She shook her head. The choice of words didn't matter; the results were the same. Each time she used the magic, she drifted a little farther from who and what she was and a little closer to being someone she didn't know. She lost power over herself by using the power of the magic.
She jammed her feet into the boots and stood up. Her thinking was wrong. It couldn't be the Elfstones that were important. Otherwise, why hadn't Ellenroh simply kept them here instead of giving them to Alleyne? Why hadn't the Stones been used against the demons long ago if they could really make a difference?
She hesitated, then reached over to her sleeping gown and extracted the Elfstones from the pocket in which she had placed them the night before. They lay glittering in her hand, their magic dormant, harmless, and invisible. She studied them intently, wondering at the circumstances that had placed them in her care, wishing anew that Ellenroh had agreed last night to take them back. The she brushed aside the bad feelings that thinking of the Elfstones conjured up and shoved the troublesome talismans deep into her tunic pocket. After slipping a long knife into her belt, she straightened confidently and walked from the room.
An Elven Hunter had been posted outside her door, and after pausing to summon Garth, the sentry escorted them downstairs to the dining hall and breakfast. They ate alone at a long, polished oak table covered in white linen and decorated with flowers, seated in a cavernous room with an arched ceiling and stained-glass windows that filtered the sunlight in prismatic colors. A serving girl stood ready to wait upon them, making the self-sufficient Wren feel more than a little uncomfortable. She ate in silence, Garth seated across from her, wondering what she was supposed to do when she was finished.
There was no sign of the queen.
Nevertheless, as the meal was being completed, the Owl appeared. Aurin Striate looked as gaunt and faded now as he had in the shadows and darkness of the lava fields without, his angular body loose and disjointed as he moved, nothing working quite as it should. He was wearing clean clothes and the stocking cap was gone, but he still managed to look somewhat creased and rumpled - it seemed that was normal for him. He came up to the dining table and took a seat, slouching forward comfortably.
"You look a whole lot better than you did last night," he ventured with a half smile. "Clean clothes and a bath make you a pretty girl indeed, Wren. Rest well, did you?"
She smiled back at him. She liked the Owl. "Well enough, thanks. And thanks again for getting us safely inside. We wouldn't have made it without you."
The Owl pursed his lips, glanced meaningfully at Garth, and shrugged. "Maybe so. But we both know that you were the one who really saved us." He paused, stopped short of mentioning the Elfstones, and settled back in his chair. His aging Elven features narrowed puckishly. "Want to take a look around when you're done? See a little of what's out there? Your grandmother has put me at your disposal for a time."
Minutes later, they left the palace grounds, passing through the front gates this time, and went down into the city. The palace was settled on a knoll at the center of Arborlon, deep in the sheltering forests, with the cottages and shops of the city all around. The city was alive in daylight, the Elves busy at their work, the streets bustling with activity. As the three edged their way through the crowds, glances were directed toward them from every quarter - not at the Owl or Wren, but at Garth, who was much bigger than the Elves and clearly not one of them. Garth, in typical fashion, seemed oblivious. Wren craned her neck to see everything. Sunlight brightened the greens of the trees and grasses, the colors of the buildings, and the flowers that bordered the walkways; it was as if the vog and fire without the walls did not exist. There was a trace of ash and sulfur in the air, and the shadow of Killeshan was a dark smudge against the sky east where the city backed into the mountain, but the magic kept the world within sheltered and protected. The Elves were going about their business as if everything were normal, as if nothing threatened, and as if Morrowindl outside the city might be exactly the same as within.
After a time they passed through the screen of the forest and came in sight of the outer wall. In daylight, the wall looked different. The glow of the magic had subsided to a faint glimmer that turned the world beyond to a soft, hazy watercolor washed of its brightness. Morrowindl - its mountains, Killeshan's maw, the mix of lava rock and stunted forest, the fissures in the earth with their geysers of ash and steam - was misted almost to the point of invisibility. Elven soldiers patroled the ramparts, but there were not battles being fought now, the demons having slipped away to rest until nightfall. The world outside had gone sullen and empty, and the only audible sounds came from the voices and movement of the people within.
As they neared the closest bridgehead, Wren turned to the Owl and asked, "Why is there a moat inside the wall?"
The Owl glanced over at her, then away again. "It separates the city from the Keel. Do you know about the Keel?"
He gestured toward the wall. Wren remembered the name now. Stresa had been the first to use it, saying that the Elves were in trouble because its magic was weakening.
"It was built of the magic in the time of Ellenroh's father, when the demons first came into being. It protects against them, keeps the city just as it has always been. Everything is the same as it was when Arborlon was brought to Morrowindl over a hundred years ago."
Wren was still mulling over what Stresa had said about the magic growing weaker. She was about to ask Aurin Striate if it was so when she realized what he had just said.
"Owl, did you say when Arborlon was brought to Morrowindl? You mean when it was built, don't you?
"I mean what I said."
"That the buildings were brought? Or are you talking about the Ellcrys? The Ellcrys is here, isn't it, inside the city?"
"Back there." He gestured vaguely, his seamed face clouded. "Behind the palace."
"So you mean -"
The Owl cut her short. "The city, Wren. The whole of it and all of the Elves that live in it. That's what I mean."
Wren stared. "But ... It was rebuilt, you mean from timbers the Elves ferried here ..."
He was shaking his head. "Wren, has no one told you of the Loden? Didn't the queen tell you how the Elves came to Morrowindl?"
He was leaning close to her now, his sharp eyes fixed on her. She hesitated, saying finally, "She said that it was decided to migrate out of the Westland because the Federation -"
"No," he cut her short once more. "That's not what I mean."
He looked away a moment, then took her by the arm and walked her to a stone abutment at the foot of the bridge where they could sit. Garth trailed after them, his dark face expressionless, taking up a position across from them where he could see them speak.
"This isn't something I had planned on having to tell you, girl," the Owl began when they were settled. "Others could do the job better. But we won't have much to talk about if I don't explain. And besides, if you're Ellenroh Elessedil's grandchild and the one she's been waiting for, the one in Eowen Cerise's vision, then you have a right to know."
He folded his angular arms comfortably. "But you're not going to believe it. I'm not sure I do."
Wren smiled, a trifle uncomfortable with the prospect. "Tell me anyway, Owl."
Aurin Striate nodded. "This is what I've been told, then - not what I necessarily know. The Elves recovered some part of their faerie magic more than a hundred years back, before Morrowindl, while they were still living in the Westland. I don't know how they did it; I don't really suppose I care. What's important to know is that when they made the decision to migrate, they supposedly channeled what there was of the magic into an Elfstone called the Loden. The Loden, I think, had always been there, hidden away, kept secret for the time when it would be needed. That time didn't come for hundreds of years - not in all the time that passed after the Great Wars. But the Elessedils had it put away, or they found it again, or something, and when the decision was made to migrate, they put it to use."
He took a steadying breath and tightened his lips. "This Elfstone, like all of them, I'm told, draws its strength from the user. Except in this case, there wasn't just a single user but an entire race. The whole of the strength of the Elven nation went into invoking the Loden's magic." He cleared his throat. "When it was done, all of Arborlon had been picked up like ... like a scoop of earth, shrunk down to nothing, and sealed within the Stone. And that's what I mean when I say Arborlon was brought to Morrowindl. It was sealed inside the Loden along with most of its people and carried by just a handful of caretakers to this island. Once a site for the city was found, the process was reversed and Arborlon was restored. Men, women, children, dogs, cats, birds, animals, houses and shops, trees, flowers, grass - everything. The Ellcrys, too. All of it."
He sat back and the sharp eyes narrowed. "So now what do you say?"
Wren was stunned. "I say you're right, Owl. I don't believe it. I can't conceive of how the Elves were able to recover something that had been lost for thousands of years that fast. Where did it come from? They hadn't any magic at all in the time of Brin and Jair Ohmsford - only their healing powers!"
The Owl shrugged. "I don't pretend to know how they did any of it, Wren. It was long before my time. The queen might know - but she's never said a word about it to me. I only know what I was told, and I'm not sure if I believe that. The city and its people were carried here in Loden. That's the story. And that's how the keel was built, too. Well, it was actually constructed of stone by hand labor first, but the magic that protects it came out of the Loden. I was a boy then, but I remember the old king using the Ruhk Staff.
<#FROWN:N15\>
"I'm going to fight," he told Sara the following Sunday. He had been nervous all day about telling her, and as he stood next to her while she prepared a salad he suddenly blurted out the news.
She paused and looked at him. "You're going to box?"
"Yes. In a few weeks."
"But why?"
He told her about Dominic's offer. She listened, but in the end shook her head. "I feel like Lucinda," she said, "I just don't like it. Isn't there another way? Maybe I could go to Mr. Johnson -"
"No, Mam<*_>a-acute<*/>! I don't want you to have to beg from that man. If he knows, he won't say anything. Look, it's just one fight."
She knew how much he had suffered when Junior died, and how hard it was for him to go back into the ring, and it was natural for him to want to know his father. But she didn't like his being mixed up with the attorney who was so rich and always in the papers. Being mixed up with the rich could only bring trouble. She didn't like it, but for her son she would bear it without complaint.
"Go and get Lucinda, I'll finish here," she said calmly. He handed her the vegetables he had cut, and washed his hands.
"It's going to be all right, jefita. It's something I have to do." He kissed her.
"I know, I know," she answered. "Go on, the enchiladas will be ready when you return."
He drove to Lucinda's. She was radiant in a white summer dress. She kissed him and whispered, "T<*_>u-acute<*/> eres t<*_>u-acute<*/>. You're all I want."
Sara had prepared red chile enchiladas, beans, and tortillas. For dessert she served sopa, a sweet bread pudding topped with melted cheese. It felt good to have Lucinda in her home. This was what Abr<*_>a-acute<*/>n needed, not the boxing and not the running around and making deals with the big-shot lawyer.
Time was the most valuable ingredient in life, and for Sara it was to be enjoyed with family and friends. She sipped wine and enjoyed the warmth of their company as they ate. Lucinda talked about her life in the mountain village of C<*_>o-acute<*/>rdova. Sara had asked her about her family. <*_>initial question mark<*/>Quin es tu familia? was one of the first questions that was always asked. One was known by one's family.
Lucinda told about her father and how he came to be a santero, and she told them about her mother and many of the old customs in the isolated villages of the Sangre de Cristo. She wanted Abr<*_>a-acute<*/>n to visit her family, she said with a glance at Sara. "That would be good for Abr<*_>a-acute<*/>n," Sara agreed. "He's a city boy. He needs to see the villages."
"How about the training?" Lucinda asked.
"I can jog up and down the mountain," Abr<*_>a-acute<*/>n said. "We'll go on Good Friday, come back after Easter. The doctor gave me a physical, and I'm in great shape."
"I knew that," Lucinda teased him.
"He is in good shape," Sara said as she cleaned up the dishes. "He runs every day, he doesn't smoke, but he drinks beer," she said with a mock frown. "Bueno, let's go in the living room. Lucinda, help me get the coffee and sopa. Then I want Abr<*_>a-acute<*/>n to read the beautiful story Cynthia wrote. She was not only an artist, she could write like a poet."
They gathered in the front room for dessert. Abr<*_>a-acute<*/>n flipped through Cynthia's diary. "This is an old entry, and it's as close as she comes to describing my father. They went to a matanza in the South Valley, near Los Padillas. It was the day they discovered the bower where we buried her ashes. She never mentions his name. She refers to him only as 'mi <*_>a-acute<*/>rabe.'"
"So he is dark," Sara said. A dark and handsome Mexicano was her son's father, an indio like Ramiro, a dark, curly-haired <*_>a-acute<*/>rabe. She looked at her son and admired him. Yes, he would find his father, it was best to believe that. He had been bound by destiny long enough, now he had to break those old ropes and create his own future.
Abr<*_>a-acute<*/>n smiled at his mother. "Yes. Bueno, aqu<*_>i-acute<*/> 'st<*_>a-acute<*/>."
He read Cynthia's 'la matanza,' the entry that described the killing of the hogs for winter meat:
It was in the fiestas of the people that I discovered the essence of my people, the Mexican heritage of my mother. Other painters had concentrated on the Indians; I went to the small, out-of-the-way family fiestas of the Mexicanos. There is a chronicle of life in the fiestas, beginning with baptism. La fiesta de bautismo. I painted the padrinos at church as they held the baby over the font for the priest to bless el ni<*_>n-tilde<*/>o with holy water. In the faces of the padrino and madrina I saw and understood the godparents' role. The padrinos would become the child's second parents, and the familial kinship in the village or in the barrio would be extended. La familia would grow. I painted a scene where the baby was returned from church by the padrinos, the joy of the parents, the song of entriego, the return of the child, the food and drink, the hopeful, gay faces of family and neighbors.
And I painted wedding scenes. Gloria has my favorite. She has the painting that captures the moment when two of the groom's friends grab the bride and stand ready to spirit her away. The bridegroom is caught off-guard, someone is pouring him a glass of champagne. The fiddler is leaning low, playing away, his eyes laughing. The other m<*_>u-acute<*/>sicos join in the polka, drawing attention away from the traditional 'stealing of the bride.'
Fiestas, I loved the fiestas. There is a series: 'Spring Planting,' 'Cleaning the Acequias,' 'Misa del Gallo,' 'Los Matachines.' I did the Bernalillo Matachines, although my favorite were the Jmez Pueblo Matachines. I painted los hermanos penitentes on Good Friday, the holy communion of Easter Sunday, the little-known dances of Los Abuelos and Los Comanches. I painted a triptych of Los Pastores at the Trampas church one Christmas. And the Christmas Posadas. All the fiestas of life that might die as the viejitos die.
I painted the fiestas of the R<*_>i-acute<*/>o Grande, the fiestas of your people, mi amor, the fiestas my mother used to tell me about when I was a child, because if life had not been so cruel, we would have shared these fiestas.
Do you remember la Matanza in Los Padillas, mi <*_>a-acute<*/>rabe moreno? We were invited by your friend Isidro. His family was having a matanza. We had fallen in love that summer, and suddenly it was October, a more brilliant October I never saw again. The entire river was golden, the <*_>a-acute<*/>lamos had turned the color of fire. Long strings of geese flew south and filled the valley with their call, and we, too, drove south along Isleta. Farmers lined the road, their trucks filled with bushels of green chile, red chile ristras, corn and pumpkins, apples. It was autumn, and the fiesta of the harvest drew people together.
It was my first trip into the South Valley. I was a gringita from the Country Club; I had been protected from the world. But the valley was to become my valley. I would visit the villages of the R<*_>i-acute<*/>o Grande again and again, until the old residents got to know well the sunburned gringa who tramped around with easel, paint, and brushes. I earned their respect. They invited me into their homes, and later they invited me to their fiestas. Their acceptance kept me alive.
The night had been cold, and the thin ice of morning cracked like a fresh apple bitten. The sun rising over Tijeras Canyon melted the frost. Gloria helped, as usual. She picked me up. I told my parents I was spending the day with her. Without her help we could never have had time together. Why did she marry F? What a pity.
The colors of autumn were like a bright colcha, a warm and timeless beauty covering the earth. The sounds carried in the morning air, and all was vibrant with life before the cold of winter. Oh, if we had only known that the wrath of parents can kill!
The matanza was beginning when we arrived. Cars and trucks filled the gravel driveway. Family, friends, and neighbors filled the backyards of the old adobe home. Isidro greeted us.
"Just in time," he said and we followed him to the back where the women were serving breakfast. They had set a board over barrels to use as a table, and on it rested the steaming plates of eggs, bacon, potatoes, chile stew, hot tortillas, and coffee. The men were stuffing down the food. Somebody had already called for the first pig to be brought out of the pen. Whiskey bottles were passed around; those who had gotten up early to help the women start the fires and heat the huge vats of lye-water had been drinking for hours.
A very handsome, but very troubled, young man held a rifle in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. Remember Marcos? I will never forget him; he learned a lesson that day. We all did. At the pigpen the frightened sow was being roped and wrestled out.
The women watched; they goaded the men. My mother was a woman of great strength, I always knew, and I saw that same strength in those women of the valley.
"Ya no pueden," they teased the men wrestling with the sow. The worst thing to tell a macho, especially when he's drinking and doing the 'bringing the meat home' business. But it was a fiesta, and the teasing was part of it.
"<*_>initial exclamation mark<*/>Andale! <*_>initial exclamation mark<*/>Con ganas!"
"<*_>initial exclamation mark<*/>Qu ganas, con huevos! "
They laughed; the men cursed and grunted as they lassoed the pig.
"Don't shoot yourself, Marcos!"
"Don't stab yourself, Jerry!" they said to the young man who held the knife.
Isidro told us that Marcos was an attorney in town and Jerry was a computer man at Sandia Labs. Like other young men who had left the valley for a middle-class life in the city, they only returned once in a while to visit the parents and grandparents. Or they returned for the fiestas. They had almost forgotten the old ways, and so the older aunts teased them.
Who remembered the old ways? The old men standing along the adobe wall warming themselves in the morning sun. With them stood don Pedro, Isidro's grandfather, the old patriarch of the clan. These were the vecinos, the neighbors who had worked together all their lives. Men from Los Padillas and Pajarito and Isleta Pueblo. Now they were too old to kill the pigs, so they had handed over the task to their grandsons. They warmed their bones in the morning sun and watched as the young men drank and strutted about in their new shirts and Levi's. Those old men knew the old ways. Maybe it was that day that I vowed to paint them, to preserve their faces and their way of life for posterity. They would all die soon.
'Hispano Gothic,' I called the painting I did of those old men. The last patriarchs of the valley. And their women, las viejitas, las jefitas of the large families, stood next to their men and watched. These old men and women remembered the proper way of the fiestas, and so they watched with great patience as their uprooted grandsons struggled to prove their manhood. What a chorus of wisdom and strength shone in their eyes. What will happen to our people when those viejitos are gone? Will our ceremonies disappear from the face of the earth? Is that what drives me to paint them with such urgency?
Time has been like a wind swirling around me, my love, since I last touched you.
<#FROWN:N16\>
I
San Francisco, December 1895
"What do you mean you won't come to my Christmas dinner?" Rosebay Ware fixed a piercing blue gaze on her employer. "I've had it all planned for a month now." Her lower lip quivered. "It was goin' to be so nice." A trace of her Appalachian accent, a remnant of her girlhood, could be detected under the more refined San Francisco overlay.
Tim Holt cast around for some explanation. "I have to take my grandmother to Washington for the holidays. She's much too old to travel alone."
"Stuff." Rosebay pulled off her eyeshade and slapped it down on her desk, whapping it solidly on a stack of ledgers. "Peter's going east, and she's his granny, too. There's not one reason why you have to go."
"Well, my family's all there."
"And you should've thought of that a month ago when you told me you'd come. Hugo's been counting on it."
Tim cast an apprehensive glance down the Clarion's hallway toward the newsroom. Rosebay's husband, Hugo, was supposedly out on assignment, but you never knew. "Rosebay, I just couldn't face it," he said desperately.
"Well, you just got to," Rosebay said. "We made our bed, Tim, and we're going to have to lie in it."
Tim winced. It was too appropriate an expression, but Rosebay would not appreciate his pointing that out. She was a literal-minded soul; puns left her puzzled. She had used the expression in its usual sense. Any reference to the bed that the two of them had once made - or unmade - together would not be a good idea.
Tim looked at her despairingly. Rosebay was a little thing, pale and graceful with a lily-stalk slenderness that he knew covered an interior as tough as gristle. Her hair was so blond it was nearly white, and it framed her beautiful face in a pale aureole that not even a green eyeshade could make ugly. Rosebay Ware was self-taught, and she had a natural gift for mathematics. In a fit of inspiration, Tim's cousin Peter Blake had installed her as the Clarion's business manager. She had the Clarion in the black now, and Tim was fiercely proud of her, particularly in the face of predictions of disaster from the rival Chronicle's accounting office. If the unconventionality of a female accountant was all that troubled him about Rosebay Ware he would be a happy man. Tim hunched his muscular shoulders and dug his fists into the pockets of his frock coat.
"Don't do that," Rosebay said. "It makes you look like a tough. And it'll spoil your coat."
Tim took his fists out of his pockets and ran his fingers through his thick sandy hair, then over his face. In accordance with prevailing fashion, he had recently shaved off his handlebar mustache and couldn't rid himself of feeling that he had lost some privacy. He stuck his hands back in his pockets, but he didn't ball them into fists.
"It's my coat," he said mildly. "Rosebay, I can't come to dinner. I can't stand it. We agreed we'd have to go on as if nothing had happened between us, but seeing you across Hugo's table, carving up Hugo's turkey, is more than I can take."
When Hugo had proposed to Rosebay, Tim, totally unaware that she was in love with him, had cheered her on to marry Hugo. Only after it was too late to do either of them any good had Tim managed to fall in love with her.
"You're going to spoil my table," Rosebay said. "Now I'm going to be one man short."
"Then you'll have to find her another dinner partner," Tim said. "I can't take any more of that, either."
"Tim Holt, I've never done anything but introduce you to nice girls when one happens to be staying with me." Tears filled her eyes. "I was just trying to help."
Rosebay took in boarders in the big old house she and Hugo owned at the foot of Telegraph Hill. Altruistically, she introduced Tim to the pretty ones.
"That isn't going to help," Tim said. "Just take my word for it. I'm sorry to bow out so late, but I've got to. Gran's expecting me." Thank God for Gran, he thought.
"What about Peter?"
"Peter's going direct from here. He's got two big buyers for his motorcars lined up within a week of each other - one here and one in Washington. He hasn't got time to detour through Oregon and pick up Gran."
Rosebay snorted. It was a ladylike snort, but it indicated derision and disbelief.
"I can handle being your boss in the office." Tim said with finality, "but don't expect me to socialize or try to be pals."
"I thought we were pals," Rosebay said sadly. "It hurts too much to be pals!" Tim discovered he was yelling and lowered his voice. He came closer to the desk and leaned over her. "Being friends works fine for you. You've got Hugo, who worships you, and you've got me on a string, too, to see whenever you feel like it. But it doesn't work out so well for me. I haven't even got what you might call half a loaf."
"What about Hugo?" Rosebay demanded. "You going to disappoint him, too?"
"He's just going to have to stand up to it," Tim said sarcastically. He snatched up his hat - he had deliberately chosen to confront Rosebay on his way out of the Clarion building. That way he knew he could cut and run as soon as it was over. "Rosebay, I am not going to be your tame beau forever, and I am not coming to Christmas dinner!"
He jammed the tall hat down on his head and marched out, avoiding both the newsroom and his own office, where some unfortunate soul might have his head bitten off for the crime of needing to talk with the boss.
Outside the weather was cold and dank - one of those gray, miserable San Francisco days when the cold saltwater seemed to come out of the bay and wrap itself around buildings and citizens until everyone felt chilled to the bone and pickled in brine. Even the gargoyle above the Clarion's main door on Kearny Street looked cold and disgruntled. A pigeon landed on the pencil behind the gargoyle's ear and, after fluffing its feathers for warmth, turned itself into a ball. Tim wound his muffler around his throat. There were days when he hated to leave San Francisco. This wasn't one of them.
Maryland
"Sir!" Tim's cousin Frank Blake, aged seventeen, saluted General Wallace (Retired), commanding officer of Hargreaves Academy. Frank's polished boot heels were aligned precisely in the center of the general's carpet, his spine was ramrod straight, and his right arm was cocked at precisely the proper angle. His blue uniform jacket, without a bulge or a crease, was buttoned to the chin.
"At ease, Blake." The general's gruff expression would have struck terror into a stranger, but Frank recognized it as the general's smile. "So you're going home to Alexandria for the holidays."
"Yes, sir. My bags are waiting outside for the station hack."
"Be certain to give my regards to your father. A fine man. You do him credit. I've seen your mid-year marks."
"Thank you, sir." Frank was immensely proud of those midyear marks.
"You might be pleased to know, Blake, that they are not only the highest of any cadet's this year, they are the highest in the past twenty-six years of the school's history. I have a letter, which I wish you to deliver to Colonel Blake, apprising him of the fact."
"Thank you, sir."
The general's gray marble eyes were steely and unblinking beneath a hedgerow of bushy eyebrows. "Have you made any decision about your future, Blake?"
"Yes, sir, I'm hoping to go to West Point if they'll have me."
"They'll have you," the general said. "An excellent choice. Your father will be pleased. Did I ever tell you, I knew your grandfather?"
"I believe you mentioned it, sir."
Frank's grandfather, General Leland Blake, had been a soldier of distinction all his life. Frank's father, Henry, was acquiring much the same reputation. The general viewed Frank with relief. It was gratifying to be able to present to Colonel Henry Blake a son who was so obviously qualified to wear the family mantle - particularly since Frank's elder half brother, Peter, had been asked politely to withdraw from Hargreaves.
The general managed to smile. Francis Leland Blake was the perfect cadet. Even at his young age he had his father's height and bulk - tall, dashing, muscular, and handsome. He cut an imposing figure, from his thick sandy hair, close-cropped now in a proper military cut, to the size-twelve boots, which this year had looked more in proportion with the rest of his frame. In the past he had looked like a huge-footed puppy.
The general presented him with the letter, and Frank snapped a salute.
"Go along now, Blake. Rest and enjoy yourself. Dance with all the girls. We've work to do in January."
"Yes, sir!" Frank saluted again, pivoted in the prescribed patterns, then marched through the general's oiled mahogany door. Outside in the corridor he let out a whoop and threw his cap in the air.
Alexandria, Virginia
Tim found himself lulled by the warmth of the room into a kind of somnolent watchfulness as he observed the workings of his clan's interlocking family machinery. It seemed to him that the farther away the children moved and the older they got, the more their parents yearned to collect them all in one place on holidays. His aunt, Cindy Blake, looked with vast contentment down the length of her dining table and with a kind of happy wriggle settled deeper in her chair. The servants had put all three extension leaves in the table, so that it stretched the length of the dining room and into the entrance foyer.
Tim looked through the window. Outside it was snowing, which it so rarely did at Christmas in Alexandria that everyone considered it a present. The old cobbled streets were covered with snow, and it muted the sound of harness bells and the shrieking of children turned loose from Christmas dinner.
The Blakes and the Holts were still feasting, halfway into a pair of roasted geese and a Virginia ham. Between Cindy and her husband, Henry, at opposite ends of the table, were Tim's parents, Toby and Alexandra, who had driven across the river from their house in the District; Toby and Cindy's mother, Eulalia, dutifully delivered from Oregon by Tim; and all the children. Tim's brother, Mike, and his new wife, Eden, and Tim's sister Janessa, and her husband, Charley Lawrence, had all come from New York, the Lawrences with twins to show off.
Peter had arrived from San Francisco, as had Frank, looking proud and grown-up in his dress uniform. The table was rounded out by Cindy's Midge and Toby's Sally, trying to look grown-up, too, but, being ten and twelve years old respectively, lapsing into Christmas silliness and the giggles.
When was the last time they had all been together? Tim wondered. Probably Grandpa Lee Blake's funeral - not a happy occasion. Eulalia, twice widowed, seemed increasingly frail to Tim, although she had withstood the railway trip well, all the way from Madrona, the Holt home ranch in Oregon. Cindy and Toby, and then Toby's children, had all grown up on that ranch but were firmly rooted elsewhere now. Selling it was unthinkable, and the family joke that Sally had to grow up and marry an Oregon boy wasn't very far from the truth. Toby or Cindy might go back to the Madrona one day, but not so long as Henry was with the army and Toby was in the State Department.
Tim eyed his father, aware that that appointment could change with the next presidential election, only a year away. Grover Cleveland wouldn't run again, Tim mused.
<#FROWN:N17\>
ONE
Virginia
October 1864
The pain had come to life again.
The seed planted in torn flesh spread its roots and thrust tendrils of thorns through the leg of the tall, gaunt man who limped along the dusty road at the edge of the battered column of Confederate prisoners.
Isom Prentice Olive, First Texas Volunteers, Hood's Brigade, Confederate States of America, tried to ignore the pain along with the bite of autumn wind through the remnants of faded butternut cloth that once had been a uniform. The rough material scraped against ridged scars on his right shoulder and upper back, the legacy of a canister shell in the desperate battle for the place called Gettysburg. The musket ball that seeded the pain in his left thigh was a souvenir of The Wilderness.
It was getting to the point, he thought, where a man could follow the course of the war just by counting the scars on Print Olive's body. At least, by God, he told himself, we dealt out more than we took and we took a hell of a lot; the First Texas never quit a fight -
A sudden stab of new pain shattered the thought.
Print spun to face the Union soldier who had jabbed his rifle muzzle into Print's still-sore shoulder. "Move along, Reb." The guard's thumb rested on the hammer of the Springfield. His thin mouth twisted in a sneer. A flare of rage pushed away Print's pain. He lunged forward, slapped away the muzzle of the rifle and cocked a clubbed fist. A hand clamped onto his arm before he could swing.
"Easy, Print," Deacon Scrugg's voice near his ear said, "don't give the blueleg an excuse. We've been through too much together to get killed now."
The Union guard stumbled back a step, shaken by the unexpected attack.
"You Yankee sonofabitch." Print's voice was low, hard and cold. "You come at me again and I'll stick that rifle up your ass and pull the trigger."
The guard recovered from the shock, sputtered in outrage and thumbed back the hammer of the rifle. A Union sergeant sprinted to the guard and shoved the rifle aside. "Back off, Private! Show these men the respect they deserve! We're here to swap prisoners, not to shoot them!"
Deacon's grip was still firm on Print's arm. "Let it go, Print. It's not worth it."
The Union sergeant turned to Print. "Your friend's right, soldier," he said. "This war's nearly over. There's no sense in getting killed now, for nothing."
Print willed his muscles to relax. His anger was checked more by weakness and exhaustion than by reason. Thirty months of war, almost constant hunger, cold and heat, two wounds, and half a year in a Union prison camp had taken the edge from his body, if not his temper. He fixed a steady glare on the young private. "The next time we meet I'll kill you," he said. "And if it's not in this war, by God, you have my personal invitation to come to Williamson County, Texas, to settle up. Just ask for Print Olive whenever you get tired of living."
The restraining hand fell away from Print's arm. "Come on, Print, let it slide."
Print sighed, turned from the Union soldier and let Deacon Scruggs set the pace as they rejoined the ranks of Confederate prisoners. Deacon was almost a head shorter than Print but packed a lot of muscle into a short frame. He had the powerful arms and hands of a blacksmith, a barrel chest and legs that seemed stubby beneath his massive trunk. A bandage crusted with dried blood covered his left eye.
Deacon twisted his head to look at Print with his remaining eye. "I reckon that sergeant's right, Print," he said. There was sadness in his words. "The Yankees are likely gonna win this war. But we give'em a helluva scrap along the way."
Print grunted an agreement, still struggling to contain his anger, and walked in silence for a hundred yards. Then he glanced at his companion. "Deacon," he said, "I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I'm hurting. But I'll promise you this right now. No man is ever again going to tell me when I'm whipped. I've been pushed around and ordered around for the last time. And they'll have to kill me before they take my guns away again."
TWO
Williamson County, Texas
August 1865
A gentle southwest breeze flattened the gray-white smoke from the open charcoal pits where slabs of beef, quartered pigs and whole chickens dripped juices onto the smoldering embers below. The scent set Jim Olive's mouth watering as he looked over the growing crowd.
Jim sometimes had trouble accepting the idea that more than twenty years had passed since he, his wife Julia and their two children, Elizabeth and Print, had settled at the Lawrence Chapel community on Brushy Creek. It just doesn't seem that time can get away from a man that fast, he thought. But it had.
Overall, it had been a good twenty years, Jim had to admit. The store he had founded in Lawrence Chapel was doing well. His holdings in land and cattle were sufficient to feed his wife and their nine children. In fact, Jim Olive was a wealthy man, at least in cash-strapped Texas terms. The land and the store were paid for, free and clear, and he had hard cash in the bank. Not a lot, but enough. And enough was a lot more than most of the state's merchants and farmers had.
Now, Print, the eldest son, was twenty-five and a grown man, home safe from the war. He had almost recovered from his wounds and his six-foot frame had fleshed out to its normal hundred-ninety solid pounds. This gathering served a twofold purpose, both on Print's behalf; to celebrate his return and to welcome his bride, Louise, into the family.
Jim's gaze drifted over the crowd. As was usual with a gathering hosted by the Olives, almost half the Williamson County populace was on hand. Not all of them were friends or even acquaintances. Some came just for the food and drink. Jim didn't mind feeding a hungry stranger and his family once in a while.
No one would have any trouble picking the Olive boys out in the crowd, he thought. Print, Jay, Marion and even young Bob carried their mother's stamp. Julia Ann Brashear Olive couldn't deny them. They all favored the dark-skinned, dark-eyed and handsome part Cherokee woman who had helped Jim Olive build a comfortable living from the loamy soil, thick brush and timber of central Texas. If I never did anything else right in my life, Jim thought, at least I picked the best woman any man could want to share a life with.
He wasn't so sure about Print's new wife. His eyes narrowed as he watched Print and Louise greet the latest arrivals. Louise was barely five feet tall, slender, delicate almost to the point of appearing frail. She looked as though she might break in a sudden gust of wind. Her eyes frequently held the look of a frightened doe. Jim knew her life hadn't been an easy one. Orphaned as a young girl and raised by her widower grandfather on a hard-scrabble farm a few miles from town, Louise had known little but want during her young life. If dowries still mattered, Jim thought, she would have been out of luck. A couple of home-made housedresses and one Sunday church outfit wouldn't buy a girl much of a man. Now she had her man. But Jim wasn't sure she was strong enough to survive Print Olive.
Print had always been wild, even as a young boy. Print's quick temper and a stubborn streak wider than Brushy Creek in the rainy season had landed him more than a few stroppings behind the woodpile. There should have been more trips to that woodpile, Jim thought; maybe I could have beaten some sense into Print if I'd set my mind to it. Even as the thought formed, Jim Olive dismissed it. He'd done the best he could, what with Julia always taking up for Print, trying to keep the boy's misdeeds hidden from Jim as much as possible. Print had always been her favorite. In the mother's eyes her eldest son could do no wrong. "He has spirit," was her dismissal for Print's transgressions.
That spirit had led Print, at age ten, to beat a boy two years older and fifteen pounds heavier to a bleeding wreck in the dust of the churchyard over some insult. The older boy never fully regained the sight in one eye. Jim had thrashed Print, more for fighting on the Lord's land than for the fight itself. Eventually, Jim came to realize that punishment seemed only to make the boy more headstrong and moody. He gave up on the trips to the woodpile.
Jim had hoped the passing years would tone down Print's temper. They hadn't. Neither had the war. If anything, the War Between the States had sharpened that temper to a razor edge. A man did well these days to walk soft around Print Olive.
Most young men returning from battle bought a new pair of boots or a new hat as soon as they hit Texas soil. Print's first purchase had been a Remington New Model Army forty-four handgun, the second a Henry repeating rifle and the third a bottle of whiskey. It was not, Jim knew, a good sign.
"God give you strength, Louise Olive," Jim whispered toward the small auburn-haired woman standing beside Print, "because I fear you're going to need it with my son."
The clanging of the cook's triangle put an end to Jim Olive's musings. The crowd surged toward the cooking pits and nearby tables covered with fresh vegetables, steaming bread, pies, cakes and fruit. Jim rejoined his guests, pausing frequently to shake the hand of a new arrival. For now it was enough to enjoy good company and good food. Tomorrow would be soon enough for a talk with Print ...
Isom Prentice Olive leaned against the corral gate, his gaze drifting over the handful of saddle horses as they squealed, bit and kicked at each other over grain in the feed troughs. He glanced up and nodded a greeting as Jim Olive stepped alongside and propped a foot on the lower rail of the gate.
The two men stood in silence for a moment, watching the horses sort out the pecking order for feeding time. It was a ritual that had been followed through the ages since the first domestication of the animal. Print dug a tobacco pouch from a shirt pocket, rolled a cigarette and fired it with a match scratched across a fence rail. "You wanted to talk, Pa?" he said.
"Yes, son. I'd like to know what your plans are now that you've a wife to look after."
Print turned to his father, squinting through the cigarette smoke. "Simple enough, Pa. I'm going to get rich."
Jim stared at his son for a moment, startled by the simple declaration. There was no sign of excitement or indecision in Print's black eyes, just a calm, deep confidence.
"Well, Print," Jim said, "I always have admired ambition in a man. But we've got plenty-"
"Pa," Print interrupted, "you may be satisfied with what we've got. Satisfied with a good farm, a half section of grass, and trading flour and sugar for pennies. It's not enough for me. I want to see the day come that when Print Olive talks, people listen."
Jim Olive reached for his battered pipe. "I suppose you've got this all worked out? Getting rich doesn't just happen to a man, you know."
Print stubbed his cigarette butt against a corner post. "Cattle," he said. "I've talked some with Dudley and J. W. Snyder. They know cattle. They trailed many a beef from Williamson County to the Confederacy during the war."
<#FROWN:N18\>
ONE
The two men presented an unlikely appearance: a Catholic priest on his first trip into the West and an Unkpapa Sioux man, returning to his home for the first time in seventeen years. They stood in the aisle of a New Year's Day train running west from Council Bluffs, Iowa, each insisting the other have the privilege of the window seat.
They stood nearly the same medium height, both slim, yet sturdily built. The priest's deep blue eyes and reddish-blond hair contrasted sharply with his black Jesuit cassock. The conductor called "All aboard!" for the last time, and the train lurched into motion. The Sioux man sat down in the aisle seat, and the priest sat down next to the window.
The train was filled with westbound passengers eager to view the solar eclipse expected later in the morning. Although the Sioux man was dressed neatly, no one had wanted to sit next to him. The priest, being the last aboard, had found the aisle seat next to the Sioux the only seat left unoccupied. The Sioux man had risen to offer his choice seat out of respect.
Startled by the articulate insistence from one in braids and buckskin, the priest stared at the Sioux man. "I'll be able to see the eclipse just fine," he said. "Is that why you're being so kind?"
"You don't want to look at the eclipse," the Sioux man said. "It will make you blind."
"Yes, I suppose you are right," the priest acknowledged with a laugh. "So why were you so persistent?"
"I felt that if I were kind to you, maybe they wouldn't make me ride back in the luggage car."
"Oh, I see," the priest said.
"Yes they do that," the Sioux man continued. "When they crossed our lands, the railroad said we could ride the Iron Horse for free. They just didn't tell us where we would be put."
"That isn't quite fair, is it?"
"Not many things in life are fair", the Sioux said. "But now I won't have to worry about my death." He looked at the priest, a smile beaming from his dark eyes. "I've heard that those who are good and follow the Black Robes' medicine are to be favored in the next life."
The priest raised an eyebrow. "I've never heard it put that way before."
"Isn't that the idea, though?"
"Is that what you believe?"
"That's why I gave you the seat."
The priest laughed and extended his hand in introduction. "My name is Father Mark Thomas. I'll do what I can for you, but don't expect any miracles."
"I am Shining Horse, and I've received my share of miracles already," the Sioux man said. "So I won't expect you to perform any in my behalf. But for my people ... well, that's another matter."
"What do you mean?" Father Thomas asked.
"It's going to take a great many miracles to keep my people from losing everything they have," Shining Horse said. "It is a very trying time. Everything is changing, and not for the better. So maybe you're right. Maybe you haven't got the right connections to be of much help to my people. I'm not certain that the white man's god cares that much."
"There is only one God," Father Thomas said. "He represents all races."
"I noticed you said represents and not serves," Shining Horse said. "I am of the opinion that the white race pushes into line first, and if there's anything left, everyone else must fight for it."
Father Thomas studied him without comment.
"Are you shocked by my words?" Shining Horse asked. "Does it surprise you that I can tell you these things so well in your own tongue?"
"I would be lying if I said otherwise," Father Thomas admitted. "I have no doubt that you are well educated."
"I was taken when I was eight and sent to school at Carlisle. I didn't know anything about Pennsylvania or any of the lands east of my home. A rich family wanted to make me into a Wasichu, a white man, and decided I should be James Williams. I was James Williams while I lived back there and went to their schools. Now I'm Shining Horse once again, and on my way back home to my people."
"You are very articulate, Shining Horse. What made you decide to come back out here?"
"No matter how well I speak the Wasichu tongue, I will always be of red skin. The two worlds are very different. I don't know if they will ever be one. Certainly not in my lifetime."
"Won't coming back be a bigger change for you than when you left as a child?"
"It might be so," Shining Horse acknowledged. "I just hope I can remember my own tongue. You don't speak Lakota, do you?"
Father Thomas chuckled. "I must admit that I know very little about your race. But that is all going to change. Very soon."
"I would bet that you're being sent to a mission."
"Yes, as a matter of fact," Father Thomas said, "I'm going to St. Francis Mission on the Rosebud to learn from the priests already there." He pulled a letter from his pocket. "I have orders from my new Provincial, in St. Louis, to bring the word of God to your people."
"I know it is an honor among Black Robes to go on missions," Shining Horse said, "but do you really know what you are in for?"
"What do you mean?"
"My people already know about the Black Robes. They have seen your kind and heard your words. Those who have not welcomed you never will."
"Yes, but that is why I wanted to come out here," Father Thomas said. "I believe I can reach those among your people who have shunned others." He opened the letter. "In fact, my orders state that I am 'to bring the word of Jesus Christ to those on the Sioux reservation who are the farthest away from God.'"
"There are many who will not embrace the Wasichu god," Shining Horse said. "A great many."
"Where are they living?" Father Thomas asked.
Shining Horse shrugged. "All over the reservation."
"But who are the farthest from God?"
"Maybe the Minneconjou on Cheyenne River. Yes, Kicking Bear and his people on Cherry Creek do not have a mission. Sitanka, the one they call Big Foot, he asked for a mission. But Kicking Bear does not want anything to do with the Wasichu god."
"It sounds to me like your people are divided," Father Thomas said. "They don't all hold the same views?"
"There is a lot of bitterness among my people now," Shining Horse replied. "Your government has decided to pick the men among our leaders who best suit its needs and to give them the power to speak and sign papers for the entire Lakota nation. That does not sit well with the older leaders. They are the ones who are keeping the old ways alive. This has caused infighting among my people."
"But that is not the fault of spiritual people, such as myself," Father Thomas said.
Shining Horse chuckled. "They don't tell you much before you come out here, do they? You men of the Wasichu god have your own wars."
"What do you mean?" Father Thomas asked again.
"The Catholics and the Episcopals have a war going between themselves," Shining Horse said. "They both want the exclusive rights to force the Wasichu god on my people. I know about that. Too many different speakers for the same white man's god."
"How do you know so much about what's going on out here?" Father Thomas asked. "I thought you told me you haven't been back since you were a child."
"I made it a point to talk to the delegations who have traveled to the eastern lands over the years," Shining Horse explained. "There have been a number of them, from many different tribes. They come to try to settle some legal dispute, usually a treaty that has been broken. I know what's happening out here."
"I'm afraid I don't know enough about the situation," Father Thomas said. "With God's help, I will do as much good as I can."
"You had better have your god teach you the ways of a warrior," Shining Horse told him. "You won't do any good at Cheyenne River unless you learn how my people think."
"I'm sure I'll be learning more of what you've talked about," Father Thomas said. "I will be given a lot of instruction at St. Francis."
Both men looked out the window as a long shadow began moving across the landscape. Slowly the shadow grew longer as the moon's path took it closer to the sun. Everyone on the train began talking excitedly. Everyone except Shining Horse.
"The eclipse has begun," Father Thomas said. "Aren't you interested in things scientific?"
"I have already seen a great many things scientific," Shining Horse replied. "Including the Iron Horse, which destroyed the buffalo hunting grounds. I do not feel that this event we are now watching should be classified as scientific."
"You are a hard man to please," Father Thomas said. "Very hard, indeed."
"You will see that I am pretty open-minded compared to the others," Shining Horse said. "When you reach Cherry Creek, you ask Kicking Bear and his people what they thought of the sun turning black. I'm certain they will not call it a scientific event. They will call it a bad time, a time when the sun deserted them. Some will be angry, some will be sad. All of them will be changed, and that is what you will have to deal with."
Mako sica, the Badlands, locked in frozen white, showed no signs of life but for a lone Minneconjou Sioux woman riding horseback through the lower reaches of Big White River. Those who knew Fawn-That-Goes-Dancing were not surprised at her taking off alone in the dead of winter, having no fear of either the elements or the prospect of not eating until she reached her destination. But many found surprise in the reason for her journey.
Fawn was torn. She had received a letter from the Holy Rosary Mission at Pine Ridge, written and signed by a Black Robe, announcing that her mother, along with another woman, was to be married on the third day of January in front of the Wasichu god. Fawn had spent a day in the hills shedding bitter tears. It had been hard enough to see her mother leave the summer before to live with an Oglala man at Pine Ridge; but Fawn had never dreamed that Sees-the-Bull-Rolling would make her mother travel the White Man's Road.
Fawn dismounted at a small spring, her face turned against a sharp northerly breeze. She rubbed her hands together briskly, working the circulation through numbed fingers. After dislodging a large, pointed rock from the hillside, she slammed it through the brittle ice at the mouth of the spring, then stepped back while Jumper, her red pinto pony, sucked noisily from the thin flow, his nostrils flaring in the cold.
Fawn pulled the remnants of a tattered woolen blanket closer around her shoulders. Underneath, she wore an old, loosely fitted deerskin dress given to her by her mother on the eve of her first marriage. Her legs and feet were covered with cowhide leggins and moccasins, her feet wrapped in rags for added measure against the cold.
Maybe she was getting too old for this. Maybe she should have stayed back in the village at Cherry Creek and not risked the trek across Mako sica alone. Her younger brother, Catches Lance, had said he would ride with her and bring his closest friend, a warrior of mixed Sioux and Negro blood named Tangled Hair. Though Tangled Hair had argued they should go, Catches Lance had changed his mind and unsaddled his pony at the last minute.
Nothing, aside from death itself, would have stopped Fawn from going to Pine Ridge. She did not want her mother to think she no longer cared for her, even though her mother had decided to travel the White Man's Road and leave her old customs behind.
<#FROWN:N19\>
NORMAN MANEA
Proust's Tea
The people crowding outside the big, heavy, wooden doors, curious about the spectacle, were perhaps themselves travelers, or their companions, or loiterers of the sort often found in train stations, but on that afternoon not one of them was allowed into the waiting room. Nor could they see what was going on inside. The windows were too high, the rectangular glass panes in the doors too dirty and clouded with steam.
The waiting room was immense; it was hard to imagine anything bringing it to life; everything got lost, swallowed up in it. Crouched over their bundles, people in rags were huddling one on top of the other in clusters from the walls all the way to the center, filling up the room. The din was unending.
Shrill and desperate voices, hoarse voices, sometimes deep moans, grew suddenly louder when the nurses came by. The white uniforms barely managed to squeeze through the tangle of legs and bodies. Hands rose up all around to grab hold of the hems, the sleeves, even the shoulders, necks, and arms of these fine ladies. People were screaming, begging, groaning, cursing. Some were crying, especially those who were too far away and had lost all hope of getting a packet of food and a cup.
Those crowded on the other side of the wood and thick glass doors would have tried in vain to guess ages and sexes from the faces on the mass of skeletons, dressed in rags tied with string, that crammed into the waiting room. The women all looked like old, wretched convicts, and children with oversized skulls popped up all around them like apocalyptic men, compressed, stunted, as if an instrument of torture had shrunk them all.
The nurses knew, of course, that there were no men in the waiting room, nor young women. Had they understood the cries and the wailing around them, they would have realized that it was this very absence that aggravated the panic: the rescued did not understand, nor did they want to accept, that they had been saved. They suspected that this was a new ruse, even more diabolical, that would undoubtedly lead to new tortures, perhaps even to the end. Why else had the men and able-bodied young women been left behind? To bring them here later, on another train? Because there hadn't been enough room? Perhaps someone had objected to piling them on top of one another?
They could have done without those big, luxurious railway cars that swayed like imperial barges... They wouldn't have mined traveling in carts, walking for miles and miles, so long as they'd been allowed to stay together, husbands, wives, sisters, sons and daughters, the old and the children, all of them.
Shorn like the others, her head covered by some sort of burlap hood, the woman before whom the nurse had stopped was ageless like the rest. She made no sound. She had not said a word when the person next to her had taken from her hands a piece of blanket and covered herself with it. She didn't flinch when the old woman on her left, sensing in her silence a confirmation of her own foreboding, became excited, raising her arms to the sky. Finally she lifted her head: a face shrunken, withered, old, like a Phoenician mask. But she didn't move, not even when the nurse passed by. She just kept watching, intense, like the midget resting its small yellowish head on her bare shoulder.
The air in the room quivered with heat. The continuous pulsing rumble of the mass lowered the ceiling and pulled the walls in closer. The hall had shrunk. Everything was happening close to the ground, at the height of the crowd. Only when you threw your head back and looked up did the ceiling recede, like a soaring, ever more unreachable sky. From the heights, the noise lagged, distant, weak, somewhere down below. Those who remained on the ground were deafened by it, drained by fear, oblivious to everything.
She, too, couldn't stop thinking about what might be happening on the train that never arrived. She couldn't have been allowed on board, she knew all too well that she looked like an old woman, no one would have believed that she was not yet thirty. But then she would have had no reason to want to be on the train for men and young women. Surely she too had seen how they had clung to each other without shame- my father and my cousin- the moment they left the lineup. She did not look at them, but without a doubt she had seen everything. Disciplined, she had joined her column, holding in her limp hand the hand of the midget trailing behind her. She didn't even yank at his arm as she helped him climb the high steps onto the train. She saw that the child, when he reached the top of the steps, had turned his wrinkled face toward the two who were left on the platform, sitting on the bench too close to each other. But the woman had not said a word; she sat down on the seat in the train and closed her eyes, exhausted.
Perhaps the commotion of so many confused voices coming from down below overwhelmed her, allowed her to forget, but suddenly she had turned around, pushing against the little midget's scrawny neck and dislodging him from his nest. In any event, her bony, dampish shoulder could not replace, even in the child's memory or dreams, the plump, fresh cheeks of the pillow he craved.
The hands that touched the neck and the matchstick arms of the little savage were those of the lady in the white uniform. The lady was smiling at the little midget, bending over him, the red cross on her forehead shining, coming nearer. She held out the bag of biscuits and the tin cup.
The cup was hot. The little beast's cheeks bent over the yellowish, liquid circle, into the fragrant steam. A pleasure that could not last; a pleasure one should not dare prolong, no matter what happiness one felt. An impossible pleasure, but real, because the hall was real too, and buzzing, and he heard the bag being ripped open over his head, and his hand filled with biscuits.
The boy sipped, numb with pleasure, frightened. He understood that everything was real and, therefore, that it would end; it was he, giddy with delight, who impatiently hastened its end. The cup was half emptied. He stopped drinking and looked at the stubby, fat biscuits in the palm of his hand. He began to nibble, patiently, on one of the grainy, sweet, scallop-edged shells. Only then did he feel hunger. He grabbed the bag with one hand. In the other he held the cup. He shoved a fistful of biscuits into his mouth. A little midget who inspired tenderness however ghastly he looked, and so the lady put an extra bag in his mother's hand.
"Drink the tea also. Drink, while it's still hot."
Perhaps the souls of those we've lost do indeed take refuge in inanimate objects. They remain absent until the moment they feel our presence nearby and call out to us for recognition, to free them from death. Perhaps, indeed, the past cannot be brought back on command, but is resurrected only by that strange, spontaneous sensation we feel when unexpectedly we come across the smell, the taste, the flavor of some inert accessory from the past.
But the aroma of that heavenly drink could not be reminiscent of anything; he had never experienced such pleasure. This magic potion could not, by any stretch of the imagination, be called 'tea.'
So it was necessary to look up toward the sky of dirty stone, where black clouds of flies swarmed, and where he expected Grandfather to appear, the only person who would have had an answer.
They had gathered, as usual, around him, everyone was holding his hot cup of greenish water infused with local herbs picked in those alien places, to which Grandfather would add, whenever he found them, acacia blossoms.
High up on the arched ceiling of the waiting room, where the light bulbs attracted billows of insects, Grandfather appeared as if on a round screen, and Grandmother, and his parents, and his aunt. They were warming their hands on the steaming cups, all of them staring at the same point high above, in front of them. Anda was there, too, of course. She took part, humble, submissive, but shameless enough, nevertheless, not to miss the tea ritual to which Grandfather summoned everybody, sometimes looking at each person a long time, letting them know that he knew everything about everybody, even about his son-in-law and this beautiful and guilty granddaughter.
Grandfather did not take his eyes off the little white cube of sugar that hung, as usual, from the ceiling lamp. They all had to stare at it intensely for some minutes before sipping the hot water. Those who remembered the taste of sugar, those, that is, who had the time, before the disaster, to accustom their palates to the sweetness of the little white lumps, gradually felt their lips become wet and sticky. The brackish green drink became sweet, good, 'real tea,' as Grandfather would say.
The ceremony was repeated almost every afternoon, presided over sternly yet not without a touch of humor by the old man, his unkempt beard mottled in black. He was convinced that he would return home, and he conserved as a symbol of that world, and for that world, a dirty sugar cube. While the boiling water was being poured, no one was allowed to look anywhere but in his own cup, and one waited to hear the water splash and bubble in the neighboring cup, until one by one all of them were filled. Then everyone raised his eyes toward the lamp from which a tiny parallelepiped of almost white sugar hung on a string. They had to stare at it patiently for a long time, and had to sip the tea slowly, until everyone felt his lips, tongue, mouth, his entire being refreshed, mellowed by the memory of a world they must not give up, because, Grandfather firmly believed, it had not given them up and could not do without them. The tea steamed in the cups; everyone was silent, all concentrating, as they had been told to, on a small, dirty cube of sugar that Grandfather had had the idea to save and hang up in front of them every day.
Up there, above the din in which the poor wretches tried, uselessly, to return to another life, up there, in an open space, isolated from the huge waiting room, Grandfather, confident in a return that would not come pass, could have assured them that the magic potion was indeed proof that the world had welcomed them back. But even this strange drink did not remotely resemble 'real tea.'
"Dunk the biscuits in the tea. Drink it while it's hot."
"Drink while it's hot," repeated now one woman, now another.
Dunked in the tea, the plump, round biscuits had the very flavor of happiness- had there been time for surrender, utter abandon, a dizzying fullness of feeling, the priceless gifts that only a chosen few can hope to deserve, and that some day must be returned in a miraculous exchange.
The biscuits tasted like soap, mud, rust, burnt skin, snow, leaves, rain, bones, sand, mold, wet wool, sponges, mice, rotting wood, fish, the unique flavor of hunger.
There are, then, certain gifts whose only quality and only flaw is that they cannot be exchanged for anything else. Such gifts cannot, at some later time, be recalled, repossessed, or returned.
If, later, I lost anything, it was precisely the cruelty of indifference. But only later, and with difficulty. Because, much later, I became what is called... a feeling being.
<#FROWN:N20\>
The Strange Affair of the Spirit Cats
Douglas Kaufman
It was a gloomy night in Khartoum. The Pharaoh's artificial sun had set over an hour ago. The faint glimmer of evening stars was obscured behind an ominous layer of black clouds.
In the alleyway, three shapes floated like ghosts through the darkness and evening mist. Given the state of Earth since the invasion of realities, the chance that they were in fact ghosts could not be dismissed lightly. One of the larger shapes, thinking upon just that likelihood, harrumphed and fumbled about in its waistcoat pocket, as if looking for a lost bit of change.
"G'dam," it muttered. "Jacques, did I give you that Pharaoh's Curse Lucky Charm? What have I done with it?" As he spoke, the third shape approached the other two ... slowly ... ominously. The large shape now turned out his pockets in measured, slightly frantic, haste.
"Ex - excuse me," trilled a pretty, young voice from out of the darkness. "I can't see you very well, but - you wouldn't by some chance be the man known as Lord Cunningham?"
"Goodness!" exclaimed the large waistcoated shape. "Either you're not supernatural or my reputation is such that even the spectres know me!"
"Am I a spectre, then?" A flame was struck from a match, held in the hand of the owner of the pretty young voice. It was, in the vernacular, a Pretty Young Thing who held the match in a white-gloved hand. A small hat stood atop an exquisitely formed face piled high with auburn hair, and green eyes glowed faintly in the red firelight. The small pouting lips, also shining in the match light, held an expression of mock insult. She regarded the waistcoated man steadily, as the match burned down nearly to her fingertips.
Behind Lord Cunningham, the third shape growled low in his throat.
"Jacques reminds us that in this part of town, it's best not to call attention to oneself," said Cunningham, revealed in the matchglow as an immensely fat man with a huge white mustache. He was dressed in the height of fashion and was impeccably groomed - except for an egg stain on the left side of the coat covering his amazing paunch. "There's a dear; just put out the flame and we'll make our way to the club. I assume you are here for the club dinner?" He adjusted the monocle he wore as he spoke, as if to get a better view of the lady.
"Yes indeed," she said from out the dark, but the flush on her cheeks was audible. "The Explorer's Club dinner! How thrilling!"
"Quite," drawled Cunnigham. "Have you an invitation?" There was a rustle of paper, and something passed from white-gloved to meaty hand.
"Can't very well read it here, can I?" muttered Cunningham. "Know I had a light of my own somewhere about here ... damn pockets ... like the Caves of Orion ... Oh, fine," he said aloud. "Come along. I'm sure everything's in order." And without further ado he took her arm unerringly in the dark, and whisked her toward a blank wall. The one called Jacques followed, vigilantly scanning the darkness behind them for signs of unwanted intruders.
At the wall, Cunningham rapped lightly on the third brick up, fifth brick over from the left, and called softly, "Remmy, Moxis, Attun!" The wall slid back and to the side, accompanied by the sound of sandpaper on stone.
"Oh!" exclaimed the lady.
The three passed within, and wall slid shut behind them. The darkness was then disturbed only by the plaintive meowing of a small alley cat.
***
"And now for a proper introduction," said the huge man. In the light of the gas lamps within the club, his girth, florid face, and mustache made him look like nothing so much as a surprised walrus rearing up on its hind flippers. He doffed a pith helmet, graciously took the lady's hat, and handed both to a nearby servant.
"I," he announced as the servant moved silently away, "am Lord Cunningham, one of the founding members of the Explorer's Club. We are a band of adventurers, dedicated to the overthrow of the Pharaoh, otherwise known to us as ..."
"Mobius," she whispered, eyes wide. There was a moment of silent fear as she pronounced the name of their greatest enemy out loud. A hush fell over the club. Several heartbeats passed. Then the hum of conversation resumed within the dark oak and mahogany confines of the room.
"We'll not rest," said Cunningham, obviously quoting something or someone, "until the scourge of Mobius is lifted from the land. And who do I have the pleasure of addressing, my dear?"
"I am the Lady Tria," the pretty young thing replied, giving a slight curtsey. "I was invited by Mr. William Quest, who unfortunately could not be here tonight."
"Old Billy-Q?" roared Cunningham. "That goat! Where did he come across such a treasure as you?"
"I am his niece," she replied, a little uncertain, but still smiling.
"Oh. Quite." Cunningham blew out on his mustache, nonplussed. "And that invitation? Perhaps I should look at it now?"
"I gave it to you, Lord Cunningham," she said. "Outside, in the alley," she added helpfully.
"Oh?" He fumbled again at various pockets. "I seem to have dropped it or misplaced - Jacques! Have you seen Lady Tria's paper?"
The one called Jacques, mostly hidden behind Cunningham's great bulk, made no reply. Lady Tria moved slightly to her left, to try to get a little better look at the silent man.
"Ah, well," sighed Cunningham, making a last ineffectual pat at his sides. "You obviously belong here. Come, you may sit at my table this evening."
"Thank you," she replied daintily. "I - oh!"
At that moment she rounded Cunningham's prodigious left hip, and stared full into the eyes of the man called Jacques - and was instantly lost within the dark confines of his eyes.
The square jaw, dark hair, dark skin, perfect nose, devilish brows and perfect teeth all smiled at her, knowingly. She sighed for all the lost years of her life. "Hello, sir," she managed, squeaking slightly on the upstroke. The faint glistening of a teardrop was visible in one eye.
"My dear, let me present my good friend Jacques," said Cunningham, seemingly oblivious to the smoldering looks that were passing between the two younger people. "Jacques is an apprentice member of the Club, and accompanies me on many of my adventures."
"What an exciting wife - er, life," Lady Tria said. From somewhere she produced a feathered fan and began vigorously cooling herself, staring all the while into the molten pools of Jacques' eyes.
"It is a bit warm, isn't it?" said Cunningham. "Shall I get you a drink?" Without waiting for a reply, he bustled off, leaving a swirl of displaced air in his considerable wake. The lady breathed silent thanks and lowered her eyes, raising them coquettishly to meet a fiery look from Jacques.
Neither spoke for a long time. Finally, impatience winning over social grace, Lady Tria said, "Sir ... Jacques ... I'm afraid I don't know your full name. I trust that, as you are a member here, I will meet you again in the near future, when my patron Mr. Quest brings me again to visit. I look forward to it." She held her breath in anticipation of his reply.
Jacques bowed, then opened his mouth as if to speak. Time seemed to stand still. Various tunes and marches played within the lady's mind.
"Here we are!" bellowed Cunningham, bustling between them like a bull in stampede. "And how are you two getting along?" He handed the lady an unwanted drink.
"Quite well, thank you," the lady replied icily. Jacques said nothing, the merest hint of an amused smile on his lips the only indication of his feelings. The lady continued, "Jacques is -"
"Certainly a mysterious fellow, isn't he?" Cunningham said jovially, throwing a thick arm around Jacques' perfectly shaped shoulders. "Doesn't need to say much!"
"Oh, I don't know," Lady Tria said. She mounted a new attack, trying to sidestep Cunningham and get back next to the man of her dreams. "Do you mean to tell me, Jacques, that you have a reputation for being the strong, silent type?"
"He certainly does," cried Cunningham, before Jacques' lips could even part for a reply. "By Jove, I remember Jacques facing down a horde of villainous minions of Mobius. They taunted him until their faces turned blue, but he never said a word. Never lost that slight, sardonic smile of his. Eh, Jacques?" Jacques smiled sardonically, and said nothing.
"Minions of Mobius! Dear me!" The lady fanned herself prettily. "And Jacques, how did you come to be facing a horde of Mobius' minions?"
Jacques drew in a breath (as did the lady Tria).
"By god, that's our mission here in the Explorer's Club!" cried Cunningham. "We dedicate ourselves to the overthrow of Mobius. We have chosen to oppose him by denying access to the artifacts he so craves. You've heard of Natatiri, his minion in Khartoum? And you heard the rumors a while back, of a mind-transfer device that she was using? Well, the fact that you've heard no stories recently is solely due to the efforts of the Explorer's Club. Without them, that device might still be terrorizing innocent citizens." Cunningham held his own drink in both hands, warming both to the brandy and to his subject.
"The Explorers are all archaeologists extraordinaire," he said. "Adventurers of the highest caliber, men who are not afraid to venture into the unknown and face unspeakable dangers, implacable foes, and nearly unbeatable odds!" Cunningham was getting positively red in the face as he went on. "Jacques," he finished breathlessly, "is one such man."
"I see," the lady said impatiently. "And Jacques." She emphasized the word strongly, to make sure there could be no misunderstanding concerning to whom she was talking. "Is your line archaeology?"
"He's actually more of an explorer," Cunningham interrupted, and Lady Tria made a low growling sound very far down in her throat. "He's strong and brave, and has protected me from harm on many of our adventures."
There was no way around the man, literally or figuratively. The lady sighed forlornly. It was either be socially unspeakable, or speak with Cunningham. As an absent member's guest, she couldn't afford to be rude without taking a chance on being thrown out.
"Lord Cunningham," she said, almost hoping that if directly addressed he would not answer. "..." She had a sudden brainstorm. "How is it that you and Jacques met?"
"Ah, now there's a tale!" Cunningham bellowed.
***
Said Cunningham: On a mission, I was, for the Explorer's Club. Well nigh unto eight months ago, in the very depths of this benighted continent. I was posing as a big-game hunter, hot on the trail of a mysterious talisman said to possess the power to bind spirits and ghosts to the will of the wielder. Well, given the prevalence of sundered spirits, as well as ghosts and other supernatural entities all over the planet, it was deemed High Priority that Mobius not recover this item.
So there I was, Cunningham the 'great white hunter', with my squad of Askaris (that's soldiers to you, my dear), guides and bearers, following an ancient map, recently discovered, whose mystic runes I had deciphered myself.
We were on the veldt, nearing the entrance to an area where, according to the map, the talisman lay resting in a lost temple deep within the jungle. My group was getting edgy, but I knew we had to press on. It was on a day just like all the others - hot, uncomfortable, and fly-ridden - that a maddened rhino suddenly attacked the camp! A rare black rhino, it was, and to this day I suspect that black magic was what made it charge us.
At any rate, I picked up my rifle and calmly shot the beast once in the shoulder - but astoundingly, it barely faltered in its strides as it bore down on us like a runaway freight train.
<#FROWN:N21\>
Devils Highway
Cross should have filled the water bottle at the liquor store in Clifton, just across the line in Arizona, but a dazed-looking Indian slammed through the door and stood muttering behind him while he paid for the bourbon. He left quickly and went to the pay phone in the parking lot. He called his wife to tell her he would not be near a telephone that night. No way hed stay in that town. She replied with words of sympathy, almost sounding like she meant them.
It was accepted between them that she became angry when he traveled. He was free on the road; she was trapped at home. He hadnt the kids to care for, no drudgery of laundry and dishes, no whining over every snack and meal. For him, space and time were open: his schedule was his own. He failed to convince her that travel wore him down, that the motels were bad and the food worse, that like it or not, the days on the road were part of his job and paid the bills.
A tractor rig roared by, gears clashing. He shouted into the phone: "There's an old rancher I've got to see in Show Low tomorrow. Probably I'll camp up the road a ways and get there in the afternoon." Her faint good-bye had just a trace of edge.
By then it was dark. From Clifton the road rose to Morenci, then climbed beside the rim of the Phelps Dodge pit, where a mountain of copper once stood. He drove for miles, the pit gaping beside him. There were no other cars. He pulled off the road three times to gaze into the void. Far below, the lights of heavy equipment flickered through clouds of dust, and the growl of engines gusted with the wind.
There was a hole like that in his dream. He slept in the back of the Bronco with the seat folded down and dreamt of falling into a void. The empty darkness pulled him and he wanted to surrender to it, but a cyclone fence, like the fence around the Phelps Dodge pit, held him back. In his dream he searched for a hole in the wire, so that he could be pulled through and fall forever. But the seamless fence held firm, and he found no passage to the welcoming, irresistible abyss.
Awaking from the dream, he felt his wifes anger like a presence beside him. He knew one day she would do something extreme - go crazy or just go away - he wasnt sure what. He feared for the boy and the girl, whose guileless affection still surprised him. Would she take them or leave them behind?
It was cold. The whiskey hed drunk before turning in had made him thirsty, but he didnt want to stir from his cocoon. He pulled the purple sleeping bag around him and gazed at stars through the window of the Bronco. He wondered if his wife ever wakened in the night, sick with worry for him.
He awoke again at first light, with a headache from the bourbon. He was in an empty Forest Service campground where slick-barked trees arched above concrete tables. One cup of coffee would make him well. Two cups, and he would write up his notes from yesterday and take his time getting on the road. He fetched the Nescaf and campstove from his provisions, then went to fill the bottle. He found spigots but no water. The campground was still shut down for winter.
He had to pin his hopes on finding a cafe in Alpine, by the map no more than forty miles away. He stuffed the sleeping bag in its sack and stowed it with his other gear. Then he put the Bronco on the two-lane headed north.
The road cut into a mountainside of bare rock, prickly pear, and scrub. It rose and fell without rhythm, twisting in hairpins. He never touched fourth gear and kept downshifting into second. On his right was the mountain. On his left, the land fell away in cliffs. Canyons and mesas, which the map said belonged to the San Carlos Apaches, stretched to the horizon. He stopped and got out once to take in the view, but a cold wind drove him back to the truck and soon he drove on.
Coffee might have smoothed the rough edges and eased the headache. Without it, he felt disassembled, as though parts of him had elected to go separately through the day and refused to merge. Distractedly he talked to himself as he drove and heard himself repeat his own name, George Cross, George Cross, in the tone of someone trying to remember an acquaintance.
He surveyed the infinity of canyons stretching westward and heard himself speak again. You couldnt justify fifty an acre for that. No timber to cut, too rough to graze without losing cows, too remote for recreation. All you pay for, this was Pearces favorite line, is to keep hell from shining through.
As an appraiser for the Bureau of Land Management, Cross saw a lot of property like that. Working for the government and valuing land for exchanges and rights-of-way wasnt the stuff of high drama, least of all by his wifes standards, but he earned a fair living and, as Pearce his supervisor put it, Were the ones who deal with whats real - with actual values, not with expectation.
After half an hour, Cross had driven a dozen miles, no more. He was rounding a hairpin, climbing slowly in second, when two grizzled men leaped in front of his truck.
Bandits! he thought. He had to stop or hit them.
Then: Not bandits. Apaches. He was almost stopped. Maybe prospectors - they had a weathered look.
The men waved their arms. Grins - or grimaces, it was hard to tell - split their ragged beards. They were brown and very small, their skin sun-baked, the original color indeterminable. Their dingy coats hid layers of shirts that puffed them out, making their arms look as useless as a ticks.
When Cross stopped, the men hurried to the side of the road and scooped up a clutch of day packs and plastic shopping bags. Then one came running to the truck; the other shuffled behind.
Cross realized with fear and disappointment he would have to pick them up. The road was empty. They were needy. They were dark enough to be Apache, and hard luck enough as well. He prayed they were as harmless as they looked.
Cross got out and unlocked the back of the Bronco. Thank you, man, said the one who had run. Gracias, said the other, out of breath, and Cross realized they were not Apache, but Hispano. This is one bad deserted road, man. We could of waited here forever.
The two wizened men, each a foot shorter than he, climbed into the space that last night served as a camper. He told them to make room for themselves, and they shoved aside his duffel, the cooler, the shovel he carried for off-road trouble, and the cardboard box that held his sleeping bag and other gear.
Cross closed the cargo door. As he climbed back in the drivers seat, the reek of unwashed clothes and bodies assaulted him. It was the smell of crowded rooms and shantytowns, and it made him think, A person who is desperate will do anything. Again he felt a surge of fear.
He wondered if they could smell him too, apprehensive as he was. Did they have a gun in one of those bags or the pocket of an overcoat? Stealing glances in the rearview mirror, he put the truck in gear and resumed the slalom of the highway.
He could see one but not the other. The one who had run now sat directly behind him, out of view, but the other, leaning against the cargo box, coughed some, then seemed to drop into a trance, eyes unfocused, face impassive. He was too weathered for Cross to tell his age. He could have been seventy and young-looking. He could have been thirty and old before his time.
Where are you headed? asked Cross.
Springerville, came the voice behind him. The one who had run. He pronounced it Sprin-ger-ville, with the g hard. It was not an accent Cross could place but seemed oddly familiar just the same.
I can take you as far as Alpine.
Okay, thats good. Thank you very much.
Youre on a lonely road.
Yah, we could of freezed last night.
You slept out?
Yah, we had a ride to Morenci yesterday. Then we walked up the mountain from there. Musta been twenty miles. Thats a steep mountain too, we had to rest every coupla miles. When it was dark, we just made a fire and laid down. But I was afraid it was gonna rain, and we could of freezed if it did.
Cross looked in the mirror. The other rider smiled, and coughed again.
See? said the voice behind him. My partners sick. Its too hard for him to travel like this. He was already sick when we left Ju<*_>a-acute<*/>rez. That was April nine. What day is it now?
The twenty-third, Cross said, and added, I think. But he knew very well it was the twenty-third. The I think was about his growing uncertainty. They were wetbacks. He shouldnt be transporting wetbacks. And what about their story? All that time to come as far as most people would drive in a day? And sleeping on the cold ground in the mountains in April - just lying down?
See? That makes two weeks from Jua<*_>unch<*/>ez to here, no?
Yeah, I guess, Cross agreed.
And he been sick all along. He has to get home to Cortez in Colorado. He has a wife there, see? But he had to go down to Zacatecas, where he was born, to get some certain papers. Certificates from the church and things like that. They dont give a green card without those papers.
Did he get them?
Oh, sure. Cross heard the crackle of flimsy plastic as the man dug around among the bags theyd brought. Then a white K mart sack was thrust forward. It didnt seem to contain much. With these papers in here, the man continued. Jes<*_>u-acute<*/>s can stay legal as long as he wants. They got an amnesty goin now, see. All you got to do is show your papers by the deadline.
Thats good, said Cross. Hed heard about the amnesty program. The newspapers said lawyers everywhere were making bundles with the filings. How about you? Are you from down in Mexico too?
No, I come from Espa<*_>n-tilde<*/>ola. Over there in New Mexico.
Yeah? Now Cross recognized the accent. Espa<*_>n-tilde<*/>ola was practically next door. He said, I live in Santa Fe.
I got an uncle, I think he been working at the capitol for many years. Albert Moya, you know him?
Cross thought a moment to show politeness. He knew some people at the capitol but surely not a relative of this man. No, I guess not. Whats he do?
I donno. Maybe just sweeping up. I aint been back there in a long time. Probably hes dead now.
Cross adjusted the mirror so he could see the nephew of Albert Moya. Is your name Moya, too?
No, Trujillo. Antonio Trujillo. Call me Tony. Tony Trujillos eyebrows were black and bushy, his beard gray. He wore a baseball cap that said Montevista Feeds. Tony Trujillo stretched out a thin brown hand. Cross reached back over his shoulder and shook it. It was as dry as a leaf.
Im George Cross.
And my partner here is Jes<*_>u-acute</>s Zuniga. He dont speak English. Then another brown hand appeared over his shoulder. It too felt leaflike, but warm, a leaf in the sun.
Cross said, Mucho gusto, which was about all the Spanish he knew.
Jes<*_>u-acute<*/>s Zuniga answered in Spanish, going on for a minute or more.
<#FROWN:N22\>
Bees Bees Bees
Joanna Scott
Francis is fifteen years old, ill with a fever. He is asleep, dreaming, and in his dream he is crawling on hands and knees across a narrow bridge. When he reaches the middle of the bridge he stops and pokes his head over the side, expecting to see his own shadow floating on the creek below. Instead he sees a man's hand and part of the arm stretching toward him - the rest of the body is a formless white mass in the murky water. As the hand glides beneath the bridge the boy is suddenly afraid that it will rise up from the other side and pull him off the bridge and drown him. He squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for the worst. Nothing happens. After a minute or so he blinks and peeks out at the water, only to discover that he is back in his own bed, his nurse Nanette is mumbling to herself, and the sky outside the window is the flat gray of another November afternoon.
Just then, to his delight, the gray fills with snow, as though someone standing below the window had broken open seedpods and tossed up fistfuls of white puffs. It is snowing. He is not going to drown. It is snowing in swirls and waves. When he closes his eyes again he sees the snow in his mind. When he opens his eyes a second later he sees nothing.
Bees are the souls of the dead. They are the tears of Christ. They are the offspring of the nymph Melissa, who was transformed by Zeus into a queen bee. If a bee brushes against an infant's lips he will grow up with the gift of song. Bees are spontaneously generated in a bull-calf's crooked horn. Bees are good luck. Bees are bad luck. Bees were sent straight from Paradise by God to provide the wax for church candles. During the winter bees neither hibernate nor die - they fly to Barbary and sing the captured Moors to sleep.
"Francis, where are you, Francis? Nanette is not amused. Not in the least is Nanette amused. Come out now, Nanette has something for you. Aha! You wicked boy, you thought you could hide from your old nurse, such a foolish child. You think Nanette can't see you crouching beneath that chair? Sweet pig, here's a pinch for all the trouble you put me through, here's a pinch for mussing your clothes, and here's a good sharp pinch as a warning.
"Oh, darling pipkin, don't cry. Nanette doesn't like to see you cry. Here, Francis, here's a special treat for you today, so wipe the tears from your face and be a soldier like your papa. My little rabbit, there's so much you don't know yet, including how ugly your Nanette is growing as she grows old, a good thing you're still a baby and too young to care. You won't despise me when you're a man, you won't ever despise me, will you, Francis? A five-year-old boy can do as he pleases but Nanette will never have a choice, no, Nanette is first and foremost your loyal servant, she's born with an instinct and will never waver, for better or worse, all her life long. Now there's a prince, no more sobs, and Nanette will give you a reward. Close your eyes, go on, now open your mouth, open wide, and prepare to taste a miracle.
"Well? You can't tell me you've ever tasted anything so marvelous. Do you want another taste? You don't even have to say please, your smile says enough. For such a smile you will have another taste, and another, two more splendid tastes! Ah, you'd finish the whole jar if you had your way. But Nanette is in charge, she decides how much is good for you, and three spoonfuls, she declares, is quite enough.
"But you are confused. How could you know what you've tasted if you've never tasted anything like it before? You, dear Francis, have just tasted the nectar of bees. You'll never forget the taste, will you? I'm sorry to say this first taste will never be matched, no matter how wonderful it tastes in the future. My unfortunate boy. From now on you'll want more and more, yet no matter how much you get you'll never have enough. Like the taste of woman. Just like the taste of woman. You can blame old Nanette for the introduction!"
Francis Huber was born in Switzerland in 1750. When he was fifteen years old he suffered from an infection of the eye, which left him blind. When he was seventeen his parents moved permanently to their country estate outside Lausanne and hired a tutor to instruct him in various subjects that might be useful later in life: philosophy, theology, Latin. The tutor found the boy rather an indifferent student and soon grew bored with their daily lessons. For amusement he went fishing for trout at night.
One night Francis secretly followed the tutor. Even though he had been totally blind for two years, he had spent every summer of his life at the estate and knew the countryside intimately. He felt his way along a path about thirty yards behind the tutor, trailing after him up the rocky slope of a hill and back down into a creek bed. He hid behind a boulder while the tutor slipped off his buckled shoes and walked straight into the icy torrent.
A few days later the tutor told him to recite in Latin. "What should I recite?" Francis asked. "Anything," the tutor said. "Make up a story." So Francis began a story in Latin about a man who went fishing at night with a lantern and club, but after a few words he slipped back into French. The tutor didn't correct him. He described the round globe attached to a tube of metal three feet long, explained with remarkable precision how the man placed a candle inside the sealed globe and used the lantern to illuminate the river bottom. The trout, fascinated by the light, followed the globe when the man submerged it in the water and rose as he lifted the lantern. When the trout appeared at the surface the man struck them with the club.
All the names and purposes of things Francis knew from his nurse Nanette. She was an inexhaustible source. But his tutor concluded that he was either a seventeen-year-old charlatan who had been feigning blindness, or a genius. After much probing and testing, he decided that Francis was a genius and for the next few years he served as an important ally, convincing the boy's parents, despite Nanette's warnings, to indulge him in whatever he wished.
When Francis was eighteen he was given his first strawkeep of bees. By the following summer he had three separate colonies. After long years of patient study he became an expert, and with the help of a servant named Burnens he carried out a series of experiments that laid the foundations of our scientific knowledge of the life history of the honeybee.
His nurse Nanette grew senile before his reputation was widely established. He was sorry for that. She had been, however unintentionally, his inspiration through his youth. It was Nanette who had nurtured his curiosity in the world - he had her to thank for his expertise.
If a girl leads her lover past a beehive and the bees rush out to sting him, she knows that he has been unfaithful. If a man carries the bill of a woodpecker in his pocket he will never be stung. When a swarm passes a front door it means a stranger will arrive the next day. If a swarm lands on the house, the owner will become rich. If a swarm lands on a rotten branch, it will bring misfortune. And if a man cuts down a tree filled with bees, there will be a death in the family.
Honeybees are skilled in astronomy and long anticipated Copernicus's diagrams in the patterns of their dances. Honeybees can predict rain. Honeybees can even suck their young, completely formed, from flowers.
In general, the eighteenth century had been a dull century for science so far, in Francis Huber's opinion. In the face of the controversy over the source of life, van Leeuwenhoek's compound microscope was consulted with increasing determination, and now that minute structures could be observed directly, scientists set out to describe the particular functions of individual organs, believing that the microscope, in time, would expose the true nature of life. So science was concerned primarily with descriptive work, and the question of a special vital animating spirit was left hanging, like the conclusion of a novel. Vitalists and mechanists alike simply kept on reading and charting the world - they'd find the answer eventually, if they were patient and persistent.
While other men made taffeta pants for toads to collect specimens of toad semen, Francis Huber was exploring the complex system inside the beehive. From the beginning of history, honeybees had been a rich source of metaphorical illumination, used by writers to reveal fundamental aspects of human nature. Francis Huber decided that if philosophers could make so many useful and expansive comparisons, he could do the same under the guise of science - eventually his research would be used to heal the human body, as truth is used to heal the soul.
He had learned from his nurse Nanette the importance of developing his five senses when he was a young boy. She had taught him how to roll a chestnut between the sole of his shoe and the ground and then to peel it with a penknife. She had fed him honey, chocolate, and milk laced with kirschwasser. She had pinched and petted and bathed him and combed his hair until it was as smooth as silk. Thanks to her, Francis was more alive - if life is measured by awareness - than most of us, even after he'd lost the faculty of sight. Each new sensation of touch, taste, sound, and smell had its analogue in a memory that he was quick to retrieve; each new experience evoked a vivid dj<*_>a-grave<*/> vu, and often he felt as though he were repeating his life. Because he seemed able to remember whatever he'd experienced, Francis convinced those around him that he knew everything about everything. His grandeur grew as his experiences accumulated - his parents, his servant, and later his wife considered him the genius that his tutor had announced him to be when he was seventeen years old.
With such sensitivity to sensation, it was natural that he cultivated the parallel faculty: imagination. With remarkable accuracy he could imagine the experiences of others; he had watched attentively for fifteen years, and now with a few sensory clues he could follow people in his mind almost as though he were observing them. The cook seasoning stew, the gardener pulling weeds, children ice-skating, his parents sipping wine - he experienced these in the richest detail. Perhaps empathy rather than imagination would more accurately describe this skill. But whatever it might be called, it was a skill that turned this ordinary man into an extraordinary scientist. His knowledge of bees, tested and confirmed by his servant's observations, went unsurpassed for decades.
A genius? No, he was too steady to be a genius, too content, too appreciative. He had no capacity for a genius's agony. Each little discovery delighted him, sometimes even made him laugh aloud, and opened up possibilities of new discoveries. He spent his days imagining the life of bees and with the help of Burnens comparing his imagination with the facts, facts that were like sweet tastes, like spoonfuls of honey, satisfying and enticing. Somewhere deep inside him was buried a sorrow, perhaps with a tinge of bitterness, over the great loss of his sight. But life to him was too full of pleasant surprises to dwell on what he'd lost.<FROWN:N23\>
Crocodilopolis
Matt Forbeck
There I was, nursing my lunch at a corner table in Rick's American Cafe and wondering - amongst other things - how I could talk Afif into shutting off the elevator music streaming out of his damned juke-box, when all hell broke loose. The front door of the joint suddenly smashed flat down on the floor. It narrowly missed crushing the bouncer sitting on the bar stool beside the now empty doorway.
Now, I've never been overly fond of that man - I mean the bouncer, whose name I can never seem to remember - but I winced when the first of Wu Han's shocktroopers stomped into the saloon and shot what's-his-name down in cold blood. Immediately after which, of course, I grabbed my beer, turned over the table in front of me and sat down behind it.
I was scrabbled around behind the table. I set down my beer and drew my gun, making sure it was loaded. The rest of the Pharaoh's boys in bronze skin tones waltzed into the place and gunned down everything that was standing. Luckily, the rest of Rick's patrons had taken their cue from the falling door and had quickly found shelter from the hail of lead falling in their general directions. No one else died.
Old joke: Why is Mobius so desperate for cash? So he can afford to buy shirts for his soldiers. Okay, so I only heard it a few weeks ago, but I've been told it's been around for a while.
The bullets hit other things, though. The bottles lining the back wall of the bar burst into sparkling shards of alcohol-covered glass. Light fixtures shattered, half-finished meals spattered off tables and holes pocked the walls. Providentially, a bullet shot right thoughthrough the front of the jukebox and cut short 'The Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B' in the middle of its twenty-second playing of the day. Long live rock and roll.
No matter what you may read in your favorite pulp magazine, discretion is the better part of valor. I didn't see any sense in wasting my precious hide by capping one of the uninvented guests with my Peacemaker just to be repaid by being knocked six feet under by a burst from a KK81. So I just sat back, sipped the head off of my beer and wondered where the hell those so-called Mystery Men were when you needed them? The old radio-show Shadow might know, but these real-life downs couldn't find their own shoelaces without directions. Eventually, the racket let up.
Then I heard a voice shout out something in Arabic. Although I never admit it in public, I do have a rudimentary grasp of the language. It comes in handy in my line of work. People say the damnedest things right in front of you when they think you can't understand them. But this was Terran Arabic, Mobius' language, the Arabic of the invaders, and it still gives me problems from time to time. But I did catch the man dropping my name.
Nobody had to tell me that when a squad of shocktroopers beats down the door of your favorite speakeasy and starts slinging lead before even asking your name, it's time to skedaddle. There was a back door near my table. No coincidence - I had planned it that way. Before the guys in the white skirts and way out-of-style headgear could punctuate their question with another round of gunplay, I was gone, lost in the winding, narrow streets and alleyways of Cairo.
This was not the Cairo I had visited in the more carefree days of my youth. It had been changed with the coming of the invaders and now resembled something more out of an Indiana Jones flick than any city ever seen on this earth. Even stranger, the Pharaoh's artificial sun burned overhead, perpetually in the high noon position, adding its heat to the already sweltering Egyptian day. Still, one sun or two, I knew where I was going and how to get there, and I arrived soon enough.
Omar had given me a key to his bar in case of just such a situation as this one. Rumrunners weren't exactly popular with Wu Han right now, and you never knew when you were going to need a safe place to hide. At that point in my life, I was thankful to have a safehouse to run to.
Particularly since smuggling liquor was just a cover for what I was actually doing. I mean, sure, I brought booze into the Nile Empire, but that was only to help pay the bills. It was what I bought out of the country that was important: guns.
To all people in Egypt, I was nothing more than a small time rumrunner. To Omar, my contact with the Egyptian resistance movement, and Pilar, my contact with the Israeli-NATO forces, I was a godsend. The weapons Omar and his people supplied me with went straight to Pilar and her people, who distributed them to the multinational armed forces stationed in Israel.
The soldiers were able to use the Terran weapons throughout the Nile Empire, where their own armament was useless. Thus, Omar, Pilar and myself were able to do some good for our own version of reality and turn a tidy profit for our efforts. Not that any of us cared about the money, though. This had to do with honor. We'd have done the same for nothing at all.
Omar's was virtually empty when I sneaked into it through the back door. The place was in the same state as Rick's had been when I'd left it. The joint's owner and namesake was busily sweeping up when I walked out of the back room and into the saloon. He was the only one there - unless you counted the odd body or two on the floor.
Omar looked up and dropped his broom when I entered. A look of surprise crossed his dark-bearded face, then a smile. "Angel, my friend! I'm so happy to see that you are not dead." We embraced quickly, and then I asked him what had happened.
"You old Spaniard, are your ears stuffed with wax? Wu Han has declared war on illegal liquor, the kind that you bring into this fair city. My establishment is simply the latest casualty in this battle." The burly Egyptian picked up his broom and resumed sweeping.
I checked the faces on the bodies. One of them belonged to Basaam, a bartender who had always served me liberally strong drinks. The others were not familiar. As I stood over the bartender, staring at him, Omar stopped sweeping for a moment and said with great intent, "My friend, they were looking for you."
I stopped feeling sorry for the dead and decided to concentrate on the living instead. "They asked for me by name?"
"Yes, just before they shot Basaam. You look troubled." Concern showed clearly on Omar's well-tanned face.
I explained to him that a similar thing had just happened to me in Rick's Cafe just minutes ago while I'd been waiting to meet Pilar. Omar's concerned look turned suddenly to one of surprise mixed with fear. "Then she is not with you?"
"What? No, I told you I was waiting to meet her. Why?"
"The shocktroopers, my friend, they left you a message, one I did not believe could be true."
Omar was scaring me now. I grabbed him by the shoulders and held him firmly at arm's length, staring hard into his saddened eyes. "What message? What did they say?"
"The leader, he told me that they have her captive. That they are now holding Pilar, but that they want you. If you do not come forward soon, she will die."
I pushed Omar away and tried to absorb what he had said. Failing that, I dashed out through the front door of the cool, dark saloon and into the hot, sunlit street. I leaped over a grey-haired old drunk in filthy robes who was lying outside the doorway.
By the time I made it to my apartment, my heart was pounding against my rib cage like it wanted out. I was almost out of breath. Shouting Pilar's name, I burst into the loft over the corner grocery store, only to trip over a small stool that had been tossed in front of the doorway. Even as I was falling and grumbling to myself about someone's poor choice in rearranging the furniture, shots rang out, and two bullets pierced the air where my head had been.
Lucky.
As I hit the floor, I rolled to my left and took cover behind a high-backed couch that was there. Then I pulled out my gun and took a deep breath. The shots had come from near the window on the other side of the room.
I counted three and then popped up on my knees, saw two soldiers looking in my direction and drew a bead on the man holding the smoking gun. After pumping three bullets into the shocktrooper's bare chest, I realized that I probably should've shot his pal first. He had the Tommy gun.
I ducked back down, hugged the floor and wormed my way underneath the seat of the couch while a burst from the submachine gun stitched a deadly design across its back. Using the barrel of my revolver to poke aside the fringe that hung from the couch to the floor, I saw the soldier glaring nervously at his handiwork. He was probably wondering whether or not it was safe to look behind it.
My first shot tagged him in his right arm, and he dropped his gun. Then he turned and ran for the balcony. I started to crawl out from under the couch, but halfway out I realized that he'd be long gone before I'd make it.
Just as the shocktrooper made it outside, my second shot caught him in his right shoulder-blade, spinning him around against the railing. Pain and fear warred across his face. My last shot pierced his forehead and knocked off his headdress, sending him crashing to the street below.
Crawling out from beneath the couch, I ran to the balcony and looked down. A crowd was already beginning to form around the fallen soldier. More of Wu Han's men would be here soon.
The apartment had been ransacked, torn to pieces, presumably by the two recently deceased men. Could they have been looking for a clue as to the location of Abdul's warehouse? Did these idiots think I'd leave a map to the place lying around?
I kept the location to that place secret, even the fact that I knew where it was. That kind of knowledge can be dangerous to its possessors. As such, I had told nobody that I knew where it was, not even Pilar. In fact, I don't think even Abdul himself was aware of my knowledge, and I wasn't about to tell him.
The man who'd let me in on the whereabouts of Abdul's hideout had apparently been a bit too free with that information for his own good. My favorite English drinking companion, old George Howe, the independently wealthy ex-actor, had stumbled onto the place during one of his infamous binges. Within the week, his body was found in a Chinatown alley. His tongue was missing.
He'd been crawling over the moonlit rooftops of the city in an effort to evade the soldiers that had chased him out of King Tut's, where he'd started a brawl with one of Mobius' men over how silly he thought grown men looked in skirts. A quick fist fight and a dash up a back stairwell later, George found himself leaping from one Cairo rooftop to another, leaving his pursuers vainly hunting for him in the labyrinth of alleyways behind the bar. It was during his escape that George made the discovery that would change his life and mine.
As he was strolling along across one particularly large rooftop, George noticed a patch of brightness streaming out through a skylight before him.
<#FROWN:N24\>
VERY OLD BONES
fire and brimstone so tortured peter phelan that he had to paint them to get rid of them
fiction
By WILLIAM KENNEDY
IN EARLY childhood Peter Phelan had heard the Malachi events spoken of in cryptic bits by his mother, later heard more from his brother Francis, who was seven when it happened, and in time heard it garbled by street-corner wags who repeated the mocking rhyme:
If you happen to be a Neighbor,
If you happen to be a witch.
Stay the hell away from Malachi,
That loony son of a bitch.
When the story took him over, Peter moved out of portrait sketching into scenes of dynamic action and surreal drama that in their early stages emerged as homage to Goya's Caprichos, Disparates and Los desastres de la guerra. But in his extended revelation of the Malachi and Lizzie tragedy (and mindful of Goya's credo that the painter selected from the universe whatever seemed appropriate, that he chose features from many individuals and their acts, and combined them so ingeniously that he earned the title of inventor and not servile copyist), Peter imposed his own original vision on scandalous history, creating a body of work that owed only an invisible inspiration to Goya.
He reconstituted the faces and corpora of Lizzie and Malachi and others, the principal room and hearth of the McIlhenny three-room cottage, the rushing waters of the Staatskill that flowed past it, the dark foreboding of the sycamore grove where dwelled the Good Neighbors, as Crip Devlin arcanely called those binate creatures whose diabolical myths brought on that terrible night in June of 1887.
His first completed painting, The Dance, was of Lizzie by the sycamores, her bare legs and feet visible to mid-thigh in a forward step, or leap or kick, her left hand hiking the hem of her skirt to free her legs for the dance. But is it a dance? In the background of the painting is the stand of trees that played such a major role in Lizzie's life, and to the left of her looms a shadow of a man, or perhaps it is a half-visible tree in the dusky light. If it is a tree, it is beckoning to Lizzie. If it is a man, perhaps he is about to dance with her.
But is that a dance she is doing, or is it, as one who saw her there said of it, an invitation to her thighs?
In the painting, it is a dance, and it is an invitation.
Why would Lizzie McIlhenny, a plain beauty of divine form and pale brown hair to the middle of her back, choose to dance with a tree, or a shadow, or a man (if man it ever was or could be) at the edge of a meadow, just as a summer night began its starry course? Aged 26, married ten years to Malachi McIlhenny, a man of formidable girth whose chief skill was his strength, a man of ill luck and no prospects, Lizzie (nee Elizabeth Cronin) had within her the spirit of a sensuous bird.
Malachi imposed no limits of space on their marriage, and so she came and went like a woman without a husband, dutiful to their childless home, ever faithful to Malachi and, when the bad luck came to him, his canny helpmate: first trapping yellow birds in the meadow and selling them to friends for 50 cents each, but leaving that when she found that fashioning rag birds out of colored cloth, yarn, thread, feathers and quills was far more profitable; that she could sell them for a dollar, or two, depending on their size and beauty, to the John G. Myers dry-goods and fancy-goods store which, in turn, would sell them for four and five dollars as fast as Lizzie could make them.
At the end of a week in early June, she made and sold 16 birds, all of a different hue, and earned 27 dollars, more money than Malachi had ever earned from wages in any two weeks, sometimes three. The money so excited Lizzie that, when crossing the meadow on her way home from the store, she kicked off her shoes, threw herself into the air and into the wind, danced until breath left her, and then collapsed into the tall grass at the edge of the sycamore grove, a breathless victim of jubilation.
When she regained her breath and sat up, brushing bits of grass from her eyelashes, she thought she saw a man's form in the shadowy interior of the grove, saw him reach his hand toward her, as if to help her stand. Perhaps it was only the rustling of the leaves or the sibilance of the night wind, but Lizzie thought she heard the words "the force of a gray horse," or so it was later said of her. Then, when she pulled herself erect, she was gripping not the hand of a man but the low-growing branch of a sycamore.
Malachi's troubles crystallized in a new way when he lost his only cow to a Swedish cardsharp named Lindqvist, a recently arrived lumber handler who joined the regular stud poker game at Black Jack McCall's Lumber District Saloon, and who bested Malachi in a game that saw jacks fall before kings. Lindqvist came to the cow shed behind Malachi's cottage and, with notable lack of regret, led Malachi's only cow into a territorial future beyond the reach of all McIlhennys.
The lost cow seemed to confirm to Malachi that his life would always be a tissue of misfortune. At the urging of his older brother, Matty, who had come to Albany in 1868 and found work on a lumber barge, Malachi, at the age of 17, had sold all that the family owned and left Ireland in 1870, along with his ten-year-old sister, Kathryn, and their ailing father, Eamon, who anticipated good health and prosperity in the new world. In Albany the three penniless greenhorns settled in with Matty at his Tivoli Hollow shanty on the edge of Arbor Hill. Within six months Matty was in jail on a seven-year sentence for beating a man to death in a saloon fight. Within a year he was dead himself, cause officially unknown, the unofficial word being that a guard, brother of the man Matty killed, broke Matty's head with an iron pipe when the opportunity arose; and then, within two years, Eamon McIlhenny was dead at 59 of ruined lungs. These dreadful events, coming so soon after the family's arrival in the land of promise and plenty, seemed to forbodeforebode a dark baggage, a burden as fateful as the one the McIlhennys tried to leave behind in County Monaghan.
Malachi did not yield to any fate. He labored ferociously and saved his money. And, as he approached marriage, he bought a small plot of country land on Staats Lane, a narrow and little-used road that formed a northern boundary of the vast Fitzgibbon (formerly Staats) estate, and built on it, with his own hands, the three-room cottage that measured seven long paced deep by nine long paces wide, the size of a devil's matchbox. In 1882 Malachi moved into the cottage with his bride, the sweet and fair Lizzie Cronin, a first-generational child of Albany.
After five years the marriage was still childless, and Lizzie slowly taught herself to be a seamstress as a way of occupying her time, making clothing for herself and Malachi. But, with so few neighbors, she found other sewing work scarce and her days remained half empty, with Malachi working long and erratic hours. And so Lizzie looked for her pleasure to the birds, the trees, the meadows of the Fitzgibbon estate and the Staatskill, a creek with a panoramic cascade, churning waters and placid pools. Malachi saw his wife developing into a fey creature of the open air, an elfin figure given to the sudden eruption off her tongue of melodies that Malachi did not recognize. She began to seem like an otherworldly being to Malachi.
In the spring of 1887, two days after Malachi lost his cow, the waters of the Hudson River, as usual, spilled over their banks and rose into the lumber mills, storage sheds and piles of logs that were the elemental architecture of Sage's lumberyard, where Malachi worked as a handler. One log slipped its berth in the rising waters, knocked Malachi down, and pinned his left shoulder against a pile of lumber, paralyzing his left arm and reducing the strength in his torso by half, perhaps more. So weakened was he that he could no longer work as a handler, that useless left arm an enduring enemy.
He found work one-handedly sickling field grass on the Fitzgibbon land, work that provided none of the fellowship that prevailed among the lumber handlers. He worked alone, came home alone, brooded alone until the arrival of his wife, who grew more peculiar with every moment of Malachi's increasing solitude. He topped her at morning, again at evening after she returned from her communion with the birds of the field, and he failed to create either new life in Lizzie or invincible erectness in himself.
To test himself against nature, he sought out the woman known to the canallers and lumber handlers as the Whore of Limerick, her reputation as an overused fuckboat appealing to Malachi's free-floating concupiscence. After several iniquitous successes that proved the problem existed wholly in Lizzie, Malachi abandoned the fuckboat and sought solace again in Lizzie's embrace, which cuddled his passion and put it to sleep. He entered heavily into the drink then, not only the ale that so relieved and enlivened him, but also the potsheen that Crip Devlin brewed in his shed.
Drink in such quantity, a departure for Malachi, moved him to exotic behavior. He lay on his marriage bed and contemplated the encunted life. Cunt was life, he decided. Lizzie came to him as he entered into a spermatic frenzy, naked before her and God, ready to ride forever into the moist black depths of venery, indeed even now riding the newly arrived body of a woman he had never seen, whose cunt changed color and shape with every nuance of the light, whose lewd postures brimmed his vessel. Ah love, ah fuckery, how you enhance the imperial power of sin! When he was done with her, she begged for another ride, and he rode her with new frenzy; and when he was done again, she begged again and he did her again, and then a fourth ride and a fifth; and, as he gave her all the lift and pull that was left to him, his member grew bloody in his hand. When the woman saw this, she vanished, and Lizzie wept.
The following morning when he awoke, Malachi found not only his wife already gone from the house, he also found himself bereft of his privities, all facets of them, the groin of his stomach and thighs as hairless, seamless and flat as those groins on the heavenly angels that adorned the walls of Sacred Heart church. Here was a curse on a man, if ever a curse was. God was down on Malachi - God or the Devil, one.
Malachi clothed himself, drained half a jug of potsheen, all he had, then pulled the bedcovers over his head. He would hide himself while he considered what manner of force would deprive a man not only of his blood kin, his strength, his labor and his cow, but now, also, his only privities. He would hide himself and contemplate how a man was to about living without privities; more important, he would think about ways of launching a counterattack on God, or the Devil, or whoever had taken them, and he would fight that thief of life with all his strength to put those privities back where they belonged.
In the painting he called The Conspiracy, Malachi's nephew, Peter Phelan, created the faces of Malachi and Crip Devlin as they sat in Malachi's primitive kitchen with their noses a foot apart, the condiments and implements of their plan on the table in front of them, or on the floor, or hanging over the fireplace.
<#FROWN:N25\>
The Land Below
Stewart Wieck
Field Report #083
To: Overgovernor Red Hand
Message Origin: The Land of the Dead
After almost three months of searching and reporting, Field Major Hopten-Ra is confident that we are in the correct region of the Land of the Dead. Soon we embark upon the mission you wisely bade us to pursue. Hopten-Ra has declared a two day stop to rest and prepare for the fantastic journey that is before us.
It is almost humorous where this search has brought us. Following everyone's expectations, we began looking in remote regions of the Land of the Dead, as cited in my earlier reports. It seems that the prize has been under our noses for quite some time. We will begin our descent from a region almost overflowing with mining operations.
When we referred to the diagrams and cross-sectional maps provided by the Operations Office, we immediately noticed a handful of unexplored caverns. Finally, only this morning, a search partly led by Dr. Nasca Belar returned with news of a perpendicular tunnel the scientist feels is our answer. While I questioned your appointment of a scientist such as Nasca Belar to this mission, your wisdom, as always, has been borne out. My magic suggests Nasca Belar's hypothesis is well-founded and thus Hopten-Ra's decision to descend.
Unless this is not the tunnel we are searching for, this will be my last report until we return. I anticipate news of a wondrous discovery that may well allow Pharaoh Mobius to gain an edge over the other High Lords.
Your Loyal Servant,
Engineer Takken Soth
***
Kord stood tensed in the center of the small clearing, his powerful, tall frame ready to respond the slightest signal of danger. The sabertooth tiger stalking him was somewhere in the overgrown brush at the edge of the clearing, but the animal was too quiet to be heard. Too crafty for Kord to see it. So Kord spun every few seconds in a short arc in a random direction. Left. Left. Right. Left. Right.
Then Kord realized that he was simply tiring himself as the big cat waited patiently somewhere nearby. So he tried a strategy he had taught himself in the months past. Still tensed for action, Kord fixed his stance and kept his eyes forward. He flexed his nostrils to make a show of searching for a scent, but he couldn't sniff out the well-groomed and clean tiger.
If he remained poised like this for long enough, the tiger could try a surprise assault from behind, even if he suspected a trap. It was a trap, and a good one.
The slightly luminous glow emitted from the south that illuminated the world was at Kord's back. Kord carefully scanned the ground in front of him.
There it was. A four-legged shadow flashed onto the ground and hurtled toward Kord's own shadow. The almost naked man quickly dropped to a prone position. A well muscled, giant tiger sailed over Kord. The beast's tawny hide was taut over working muscles. A paw raked down at Kord, but the man evaded the tiger.
Snarling, the tiger landed gracefully, the muscles of his forelegs bunching to absorb the impact of the large frame.
Kord couldn't match such a foe, but all he needed to do was evade the beast. Kord did a quick backward somersault. He made ready to dash into the underbrush, but a growl from the tiger brought him short. The sabertooth had already spun around and was facing Kord. If Kord turned his back to flee, the tiger could sink his long curving canines deeply into white, hairless flesh.
Kord smiled as he settled into a ready-stance and prepared for the next assault.
The tiger did not wait long. He sprang and slashed out with a huge paw. Kord sidestepped the blow with reflexes born of survival instinct. The blow went wide.
Already unbalanced from the poor strike, the tiger quickly tried to recover. However, Kord didn't give the animal the chance. He swept a foot at the tiger's other front leg and kicked it from the ground. Now unbalanced, the tiger fell to his side with the help a hard nudge from Kord.
The surprised tiger twisted his body to complete the roll and came up on his feet, but the clearing was empty. Only a slight wavering in the heavy brush told the tiger where Kord had broken through.
The tiger exploded into a run. The same brush which once gave the tiger the advantage of cover, now hindered him more than the long-legged and acrobatic man who bounced and hopped quickly over any large obstructions. The tiger's body was built for ambushing, not high-speed chases.
Kord didn't dare glance over his shoulder. The temptation was tremendous, but when the tiger drew close enough to pounce then he would be able to hear the crashing of the animal's movements.
Moments later, when Kord was halfway to the falls, he knew that he had won. He had escaped. Or so he thought. Ahead, Kord spied the shadow of long, curving teeth. A few steps more, before he had time to slow, Kord was able to make out the animal entirely. He chuckled to himself. It was only Sharsa.
The female sabertooth continued to rest on the jungle floor as she watched Kord flip through the air over her. Kord landed on the run and left a soft 'mew' floating in the air behind him.
Kord wished he could see the reproaching look Sharsa was sure to give the pursuing Shakart. The strong male tiger would be embarrassed for some time over the incident. After all, Sharsa was a young female yet without a mate.
Soon, Kord reached the falls. Where the water dropped off the river was only as wide as three times his own height, but that was too dangerous and probably too far for the bulky sabertooth to leap. Kord could make it easily with the help of a vine that conveniently hung over the center of the precipice.
Expecting the vine to be there, Kord did not slacken his pace. As he drew near he succumbed and glanced over his shoulder to see if Shakart would witness his triumphant escape. The tiger was within sight for the foliage became less thick near the falls.
When Kord redirected his attention on the nearby falls, he startled in surprise. His vine was gone! It was too late to stop. He would slide over the edge and plummet into the churning waters below if he tried. When his toes lipped over the edge of the earth, Kord leaped with all his might. His arms spun in circles in mid-air and he crash landed on the other side.
Kord sprang to his feet, enraged. Shakart growled with pleasure, the vine dangling from a crooked paw. Kord couldn't help but smile too. Kord may have won the game, but the sabertooth tiger had earned the last word.
"Very good, my friend," chuckled Kord. With quick motions of his hands he told the cat the trick was a bit too dangerous.
***
A bare-chested, muscular man kicked sand onto the backs of the sleeping soldiers. "Up, swine," he commanded. "It is time to serve your master, Pharaoh Mobius."
The squad of ten Egyptian soldiers roused themselves amidst mutters of how well they had served during the past three months of tromping through jungles and deserts. Field Major Hopten-Ra returned to his own tent to prepare for the day's descent.
"Get your equipment together, Nasca Belar. I will not suffer delay because you cannot find an all-important transducer," Hopten-Ra continued.
Hopten-Ra hurled the command in the direction of a wizened crone. She sat hunched in the sand over a pile of wires, metal bits, and other seemingly useless equipment. Nasca Belar looked up and squinted into the rising sun. She could make out the confident stride of Hopten-Ra, one of Red Hand's most able commanders and therefore the perfect commission for this quest. Besides, he had helped Pharaoh Mobius conquer several worlds before this one called Earth. Her deft hands continued their work of collecting the pile of supplies even when her attention was diverted. Those hands could perform scientific miracles, so such a simple task was taken for granted.
Nasca Belar watched as Engineer Takken Soth hurried to the entrance of Hopten-Ra's tent. The scientist knew that Takken Soth distrusted her. She did not desire for the attention or appreciation of such an obsequious beast, especially one that was an engineer. But the honor that Red Hand had bestowed upon her, with instructions from Mobius himself, was certainly reason enough to endure the young man's unending genuflecting.
Takken Soth's long robes flowed around him as he stopped at the tent. "Hopten-Ra, I am ready to depart. We must begin our journey at once."
"I knew you were ready, Takken Soth. That's why I did not command you to prepare," came the harsh reply from inside the tent.
Nasca Belar smiled at Hopten-Ra's quick response. The Field Major was impressed by kowtowing. She liked that in him. If she served Mobius well and was rewarded by permission to draw energy from the Pharaoh's Idol, his Darkness Device. She would youthen her tired, old body and let the Major know just how much she appreciated him.
Hopten-Ra stepped out of the tent, now fully dressed in his officer's regalia: a gold-plated headdress, a large medallion of Ra on a thong around his neck, a revolver in a holster strapped to his chest, and a strong steel saber at his waist. He shouted to the soldiers, "Break this tent down." Hopten-Ra's spiked beard stuck angrily in the direction of the still waking soldiers.
However, three of the soldiers were quick to respond. Their headdresses swirled about their faces as they made quick work of the simple task. They packed the tent into separate bundles, strapping them to the backs of two soldiers who did not move quickly enough to help break the tent down. The two soldiers had to carry these packs plus the climbing gear that already burdened them.
The first gust of wind of the new day blew the sand into the faces of the Egyptians as they began the short trip to the nearby slave mines. Hopten-Ra had insisted that he spend his last night above ground in sight of the glorious heavens. Takken Soth, of course, commended him for such dedication, but Nasca Belar knew the Major simply wanted fresh air.
Ten minutes later, the group arrived at the entrance to the gold mines. Slaves, taken mostly from the nearby Israeli front, worked the mines in shift. Most of those who entered the mines spent their lives inside. Only the ones charged with the favored job of pushing carts laden with ore-filled rocks had the pleasure of ever seeing the brilliant golden disk of the sun. They had to shield their eyes whenever they left the mines. The guards told them that it was the forgiving eye of Pharaoh Mobius watching over them, though they knew it was the god Ra watching over everyone.
Hopten-Ra despised the additional delay. The rigid command structure of the Tenth Empire demanded that he deal with Chufu, the bureaucrat in charge of the slave mines. Unfortunately, Chufu was waiting for him, as scheduled, near the mouth of the mine. Hopten-Ra would rather have honored the agreement by stopping, but not waiting for the fat, underworked man to arrive.
"Field Major," Chufu shouted gleefully, clapping his hands in greeting. A half dozen soldiers stood behind where they restrained two Israeli men.
"We are departing, Chufu," Hopten-Ra explained. "Please accept this as your official notification of our departure time."
"Yes, of course. I understand that your mission is of great importance. I hear it even has the approval of the Pharaoh himself." Chufu winked at Hopten-Ra for some sort of verification of the last bit of news, but the Field Major did not bite.
<#FROWN:N26\>
No Pardon For McAlester's "Mad Artist"
By GLENN SHIRLEY
Conrad Maas was one of the strangest, if not the most unfriendly, characters on the Oklahoma Territory frontier. He was contemptuous of others, taciturn, square-jawed, beak-nosed, and had dark blue, brooding eyes and a long bushy beard. Maas was thirty years old in 1897 when he came from his native Germany to Blaine County - a part of the Cheyenne and Arapaho Indian reservation opened to homestead settlement by the land run of April 19, 1892.
Though sparsely settled, the county was blessed with fertile, sandy loam soil, scenic beauty, and plenty of water - bounded on the northeast by the Cimarron River, traversed in the center by the North Canadian, and bound on the south by the South Canadian. It boasted immense crops of wheat, corn, and cotton, and prospects for the next year's crops could not have been better when Conrad Maas appeared in the county seat of Watonga with considerable money and his eighteen-year-old wife, Martha, a buxom blonde woman with sparkling eyes.
The couple took a claim in the most remote of the rural districts, four miles west of Bridgeport - a crossing on the South Canadian to the Wichita-Caddo reservation where cattlemen still grazed large herds under lease agreements with the Indians. In the side of a hill, Maas constructed and furnished a two-room dugout, roofed and lined it with split logs, and equipped it with a fireplace for winter. The following spring, he planted corn and grain sorghums.
Maas worked hard in his primitive surroundings but had difficulty adjusting to the democratic ways of his scattered neighbors. He was especially hostile to the Indians and cowboys south of the river. When he did speak it was with a guttural, almost unintelligible accent that carried a haughty insolence. His saving graces were his unflagging industry and obvious love for his pretty wife. They were often seen in the fields together and walked hand-in-hand on the streets when shopping in Watonga.
Martha adored her husband, and his attitude toward others seemed not to embarrass her. She spoke English better than Maas, and laughed and chatted with the townswomen. She invited some of them to her dugout home to see the heirlooms and artifacts her husband had brought from Europe, but few accepted. Maas's ill-tempered glances made it clear he did not care for visitors.
Many thought he just wanted to keep his young bride to himself; that he liked the country but wanted no truck with the people who lived there. They reckoned he had a right to be left alone.
Watonga's early frame buildings were being replaced by stone and brick structures, and Maas occasionally worked in town as a bricklayer. On the job he squabbled with fellow workers and ate away from them. At night he walked the streets restlessly. He carried himself strictly erect, with squared shoulders and a precise tread that led many to believe he had served in the German army before coming to America.
Such speculation gained credence when he began receiving letters from the old country. Some of them, as Watonga's postmaster revealed, bore return addresses of a Count von Maas and a Count von Hohenstein. One bore the imperial stamp of the Kaiser in Berlin. A German storekeeper in Watonga suggested quietly that Conrad Maas was a high-born member of the Hohenzollerns, Prussia's ruling dynasty.
Maas remained tight-lipped, and Blaine County citizens asked no questions.
As the months passed, Maas grew sullen and brooding. Simple farm life became more and more distateful. He quit his brick-laying job and only appeared in Watonga to make some minor purchase. Martha Maas no longer accompanied him. She complained to Bridgeport neighbor Nancy Banks that her husband spent all of his time examining his old military papers and relics. He was to be restored to the command of his battalion in the German army, which angered her - she had deserted her home and country for love of him and did not wish to return. They quarreled frequently.
On a bitterly cold day - Monday, December 5, 1898 - Maas drove into a Watonga livery stable, saying he would like to board his team while away on urgent business. He carried a suitcase and seemed anxious to catch the train for Kansas City.
Asked about his wife, Maas said, "It iss not possible for her to go -" He hesitated, then confided to the surprised attendant, "She iss going to 'ave a baby. I didn't vant to burden her with care of the animals. But I am vorried about her safety in this country vile I am gone."
"Can she use a gun?" the attendant inquired.
"Martha has a shotgun and iss a good marksman," Maas replied.
"She'll be all right then, if you won't be gone long," the attendant assured him.
"I vill be gone a veek - maybe longer," Maas said.
Word soon spread of the German's departure and his wife's delicate condition. Snow began falling that evening and continued two days. When the weather broke the morning of December 8, Nancy Banks decided to look in on the woman, and drove to the Maas farm.
The place seemed deserted. No smoke came from the chimney and there were no tracks in the snow that had drifted across the doorstep. Mrs. Banks pounded on the locked door but got no answer. Puzzled and alarmed, she returned to her buggy and made a hard drive to Sheriff J.K. Kenney's office at Watonga.
Sheriff Kenney and Deputy J.D. Marion rode to the dugout at once. Unable to rouse anyone, they broke in and found a scene of horror.
It appeared that Martha Maas had just finished breakfast when an intruder surprised her. She had attempted to defend herself with a double-barreled shotgun, which the attacker seized, emptying both barrels at her. The weapon lay in a pool of dried blood under the table. The woman had left a trail of gore from the kitchen into the bedroom, where her body lay on the floor, "clothing badly torn and a large gunshot wound in the left side." The second blast had "blown her head almost entirely off." Stray pellets were imbedded in the kitchen ceiling and walls. Portions of her flesh were "distributed about both rooms, having been torn away and mutilated by rats."
The dugout had not been pilfered, and the lawmen discounted robbery as a motive. The killer had locked the door as he fled, the officers theorized, to discourage early discovery of his crime by a passerby.
While Kenney proceeded with the investigation, Marion hightailed back to town for the undertaker and coroner. By nightfall, the coroner had made a cursory examination, and the body was removed to Watonga. More than a score of angry citizens joined Kenney and Marion during the night in an effort to pick up the killer's trail or a clue to his identity.
"It is a case of cold, cowardly murder," observed the Watonga Republican. "The demon who committed it should be punished to the full extent of the law."
The hunters, like Kenney and Marion, directed their suspicions first toward the enemies of the dead woman's husband. Maas had made many Blaine County people hate him, but most thought it a dirty shame that someone had taken it out on his wife. A few mentioned the trouble he'd had with the Wichita-Caddo reservation cowboys passing through the farm looking for stray cattle; some pointed to the "bad" Indians that hung out drunk in the South Canadian bottoms, none of whom were beyond attacking a lone woman when full of forbidden "firewater."
There was also concern for the introverted German himself. The death of his beloved Martha would only aggravate his sullenness.
The investigation might have gone off on a dozen tangents, except for two things. A final examination of the woman's body revealed she was not pregnant, and that she was already dead the day Maas left town.
Kenney and Marion made another search of the dugout. They discovered that Maas had taken his military relics and nearly all his clothes, indicating he had no intention of returning. What he did leave were several letters he had received from Germany. He had cached them behind a loose stone in the fireplace and apparently forgotten them in the haste of departure.
The officers took the letters to the German storekeeper in Watonga. "Can you tell us what they say?" asked Kenney.
The grocer scanned the writings and his brow knitted.
"Maas was in the army, all right," he said. "Held the rank of major. He's a high-born member of the Hohenzollerns, the ruling dynasty - a friend of young Wilhelm himself, who is head of the Order of Eagles, a secret society sworn to uphold and protect one another. His brother-in-law is Supreme Judge Reiss of Berlin. Count von Maas is a brother and Count von Hohenstein an uncle. They are urging him to return to his homeland. Wilhelm has even agreed to restore his commission if he gives up Martha Muller."
"Who's Martha Muller?" the sheriff asked.
"Must have been his wife's maiden name. Seems he gave up his army career to marry a commoner." The storekeeper flipped a page. "Here it is - this passage, 'When this ridiculous fascination has passed, you will find yourself in need of your own country and your own kind. You understand, of course, that the girl will never be allowed to re-enter Germany.'
"Seems Martha Muller was the root of his trouble - caused him to resign his commisssion and elope with her to America," the storekeeper continued. "Seems your next step, sheriff, is to find Conrad Maas."
The Watonga railroad agent looked surprised when the officers questioned him. "Why, Maas didn't go to Kansas City at all," the agent said. "He took a train east. By now he's probably in some East Coast seaport trying to board a ship for Germany."
Kenney vowed to keep Maas from sailing if he had to "call every port from New Orleans to Boston."
On authority of a murder warrant, issued December 9 by Blaine County Attorney J.H. Campbell, the officers were compiling a list of embarkation points when a telegram from Canadian County Sheriff Cosby at El Reno informed Kenney, "I think we have your man."
Kenney and Marion hurried to El Reno, and heard a startling tale. According to the sheriff, Maas had wandered into his office late Monday night, claiming to be a well-to-do farmer living in Custer County, four miles west of Weatherford. "He stated that his wife had been murdered, and that he had come here to escape a mob," the sheriff said. "I telegraphed Weatherford, but officers there had never heard of Maas and could not establish that any woman had been found dead."
"Maas wrote telegrams to the German consul in St. Louis, which we neither sent nor could understand. Next day he said he didn't know whether his wife had been killed or not, but believed she had been kidnapped about Thanks-giving time. He acted like an insane man, and we kept him in jail. We were starting proceedings to send him to the asylum at Norman when newspapers here picked up the murder story in the Watonga Republican."
The prisoner refused to accompany Kenney and Marion back to Blaine County, and they were forced to put him in handcuffs and chains. County Attorney Campbell accused Maas, saying, "You were threatened with disinheritance and exile if you didn't give up Martha Muller. Visions of your former wealth and splendor kept recurring in your mind until it became the ruling passion of your life, and you knew you could never gratify it unless you returned to your homeland alone. You blamed Martha Muller for your predicament and made up your mind that she would have to die."
Maas staunchly denied that he had murdered his wife. However, confronted with demands for explanations of his claim of his wife's pregnancy to the Watonga livery stable attendant, of his sudden attempted departure from the country, and of the statements he made to the Canadian County sheriff, he became confused and stammering.
<#FROWN:N27\>
What did he mean? Down at the lower level of his new headquarters? Well, The Penguin supposed since he had made the deal, he had to put up with Max. He never realized how much it would interfere with his work here.
"Plans," he repeated halfheartedly, "Swell. Later."
He slammed down the phone. He'd deal with Max at the proper time. For now, he had to finish off the phone books and his list.
It was a lot of work, but because of this, his final revenge would be that much sweeter. He returned to matching addresses with every single name.
After all, all play and no work made a dull Penguin.
CHAPTER
Eighteen
It was time to prowl.
She could no longer stay in her den, even after it had been transformed. Cats were meant to roam the night.
So she roamed.
What did we have here?
The dirty streets of Gotham seemed to have coughed up some more of their scum. And who is it today? Just your average, garden-variety mugger, who had grabbed a pretty young woman and dragged her back into an alley.
"Help, Batma -" the woman began.
Batman? Is that all the woman could think of?
"Now, now," the mugger smirked, "pretty young thing, nice and easy -"
The victim cowered and held out her purse. "Please. Don't hurt me. I'll do anything -"
The other woman had had quite enough of this.
She leapt from the fire escape, landing squarely on the mugger's back. He flew forward to the ground.
"I just love a big strong man who's not afraid to show it," she mentioned as he rolled beneath her, "with someone half her size."
The mugger had managed to roll onto his back. He stared up at her in astonishment. "Who the -" he began.
"Be gentle," she replied. "It's my first time."
Apparently he wasn't listening, because he leapt up with a growl, intent on grabbing her.
She darted out of the way, and gave him a savage kick. All the breath left him as he staggered back.
Hey, not bad, she thought. But before he could recover, it was time for the talons.
She jumped forward and set to work scratching up his face.
The mugger screamed and fell to the asphalt.
"Tic-tac-toe," she murmured in triumph.
The victim rushed up to her side.
"Thank you," she gushed, "thank you. I was so scared -"
Her defender had had enough of this, too. She pushed the victim back against the wall with one of her claws.
"You make it so easy, don't you?" she asked in disgust. "You pretty, pathetic young thing? Always waiting for some Batman to save you."
The victim cringed again, quaking, expecting something even worse.
She leaned forward to whisper in the victim's ear: "I am Catwoman. Hear me roar."
And with that, Catwoman leapt away, cartwheeling out of the alley to disappear into the night.
CHAPTER
Nineteen
With all these interruptions, The Penguin would never finish!
He looked up to see Max Shreck stepping between the members of the Red Triangle Circus, past the TatooedTattooed Strongman, rippling those belly dancers he had tattooed on his biceps, stopping to let one of the acrobats walk past on his hands. Max grinned at The Penguin. Somehow, he seemed much too cheerful for a businessman.
Max nodded at all the performers around them.
"Ah," he remarked, "your - extended family."
The Penguin sighed. Max was leading up to something. His lists would have to wait for the minute.
"Come on downstairs, Oswald," Max urged. "I have a - surprise."
The Penguin scowled. "I don't like surprises." Sometimes, The Penguin still thought it was a mistake to come out of those sewers.
But Max was insistent. He waved The Penguin away from his desk and toward a spiral stairs.
Hesitantly, The Penguin walked forward. So far, Max had more than held up his part of the bargain. And the businessman certainly knew, should anything happen to The Penguin, his circus friends were very good at revenge.
So this had to be something good.
Still, The Penguin thought of icy waters.
"Don't want to spoil it!" Max explained as he tried to put his hands over the Penguin's eyes.
The Penguin growled. Trusting people was one thing, but certain people were asking for it. Max quickly pulled his hands away.
"Then close your eyes," Max insisted.
Oh, all right. The Penguin dutifully closed his eyes almost all the way as Max led him down the stairs. This had better be good, or he'd let the circus gang practice on Max even earlier than he had planned.
He opened his eyes when they went from stairs to concrete.
"Ta-da!" Max announced.
The Penguin looked around the storefront. It had been transformed from an old drugstore into something bustling and cheerful, full of brand-new desks and state-of-the-art computers and smiling college kids. The place had gotten a bright white coat of paint, too, after which the walls had been covered with red, white, and blue bunting. But the most astonishing things here were the signs and posters, the biggest of which read COBBLEPOT FOR MAYOR.
As if this wasn't enough, there were posters taped all around, and every one had The Penguin's picture on it, along with the words OZZIE VS. THE INSIDERS!
Everyone cheered and applauded. Max's grin got even bigger.
The Penguin was flabbergasted.
"But -" he began. "What -" he added. "I - I mean -" he tried.
He didn't know what he meant.
What was going on here?
"Yes," Max said effusively, "adulation is a cross to bear. God knows I know. But someone's got to supplant our standing-in-the-way-of-progress mayor, and don't deny it, Mr. Cobblepot, your charisma is bigger than both of us!"
"Mayor?" The Penguin replied.
Max smiled and grinned. "Mayor."
But this didn't make any sense, even to somebody who had lived most of his life in the sewers.
"Max," he pointed out, "elections happen in November. Is this not late December?"
Max waved a well-dressed pair forward; so well-dressed that they smelled of money, and success, and power. One man and one woman, both wearing appropriately dark-colored suits, both smiling perfectly gleaming white smiles.
They made The Penguin nervous.
The man stared critically at The Penguin before his smile returned.
"Keep the umbrella!" he announced. "Works for you! I'm Josh. Here!" he shoved something in The Penguin's mouth. "Reclaim your birthright!"
The Penguin glared down at the new object between his lips. It was a jet-black cigarette holder. The woman was circling him now. The Penguin wished he were back upstairs with his yellow notepads.
"I'm Jen," she announced as she grabbed his sleeve. "Stand still for a second while I slip on these little glove thingies -"
Glove thingies? The Penguin glanced over at her handiwork. She was rather attractive under that suit. And he would certainly like to get under that suit. Her smile turned to a grimace as she touched his flippers. It was, The Penguin guessed, just that special way he had with women.
"Our research tells us that voters like fingers," Jen explained as she slipped on the deep black material.
The Penguin frowned at his new gloves. Still, if women liked fingers rather than flippers -
That Josh person, in the meantime, was fingering The Penguin's coat. Now what was this guy's problem? Sure The Penguin's clothes were worn, certainly they were tattered, and perhaps the fabric had stood so much use that it had turned a bit shiny, but as far as The Penguin was concerned, these clothes were a part of him.
"Not a lot of reflective surfaces down in that sewer, huh?" Josh remarked.
Reflective surfaces? Oh, he meant mirrors. Jen laughed. The Penguin liked the way she laughed. He laughed, too. All the people around them started to laugh as well.
"Still," The Penguin remarked, "it could be worse. My nose could be gushing blood."
Josh frowned at that. "Your nose could? What do you mean?"
So The Penguin bit him, quickly, viciously, right on the nose. Make fun of him, would they? Well, the penguins who had raised him had shown him a trick or two!
"Enough!" Max called, pulling the two combatants apart. "Everyone -"
He waved them all back to work as Josh fainted to the floor. The fellow had no stamina at all. Max would have to get a better grade of consultant than that to keep up with The Penguin!
Max led the short man in black over to a quiet corner.
"You're right," Max admitted when they could not be overheard. "We missed the regularly scheduled election. But elected officials can be recalled, impeached, given the boot! Think of Nixon, Meachem, Barry -" he paused, and pointed to the great banner overhead. "Then think of you, Oswald Cobblepot, filling the void."
But Oswald Cobblepot was still watching Jen. "I'd like to fill her void," he murmured.
"We need signatures," Max insisted. "To overturn the ballot. I can supply those, Oswald."
"Teach her my 'French flipper' trick," The Penguin continued. It was amazing, the wonderful things you could learn while working for the circus.
"Oswald," Max persevered. "We need one more thing."
The Penguin blinked. Oh, yes. The Mayor's office; that's what they were talking about, wasn't it?
"A platform?" he suggested. "Let me see. 'Stop Global Warming! Start Global Cooling!' Make the world a giant icebox -"
"That's fine, Oswald," Max agreed all too readily. "But to get the mayor recalled, we still need a catalyst, a trigger, an incident."
Yeah, The Penguin thought, mayor. Now that he had gotten used to the idea, he really liked it. He could hear them now.
"You're doing great. Mayor Cobblepot," he said aloud. Yeah. He liked the sound of that. And more than that. "Your table is ready, Mayor Cobblepot," And how about women? Women like Jen? Hey, once he was a mayor, he would have his pick of women! "I need you, Oswald. I need you now. That's the biggest parasol I've ever -"
"Like the Reichstag fire," Max continued urgently. "The Gulf of Tonkin."
What was Max saying? Perhaps that The Penguin wasn't mayor quite yet. Okay, he would accept that. After all, he used to do twelve shows a day; he could handle anything.
But there was work to do. Dirty work. And The Penguin knew just who could do it.
"Ah," he suggested. "You want my old friends upstairs to drive the mayor into a foaming frenzy."
Max grinned at that.
"Precisely," he agreed. "But they must always come and go via the plumbing ducts that I've provided."
Then Max was suggesting secret sabotage?
"Sounds like fun," The Penguin agreed. "But I -"
He hesitated. This was all happening so fast, he had almost forgotten his true purpose.
Max looked at him questioningly.
"I mustn't get sidetracked," The Penguin explained. "I've got my own -"
"Sidetracked?" Max interrupted. He threw open his arms to include not only their surroundings but all of Gotham City. "Oswald, this is your chance to fulfill a destiny that your parents carelessly discarded -"
Hey. Max had a point there. What was it that obnoxious pantywaist Josh had said? Oh, yeah.
"Reclaim my birthright, you mean?" The Penguin asked. Now that he thought of it, it sounded pretty good.
Max nodded, arms still opened wide. "Imagine." He closed one fist. "As mayor you'll have the ear of the media." He closed the other fist. "Access to captains of industry." He opened both hands and cupped them before him. "Unlimited poontang!"
The Penguin was impressed. "You drive a hard bargain, Max." He paused only long enough to realize he had made up his mind. "All right. I'll be the mayor."
He turned away from the businessman, and walked over to the windows of the storefront, which were hidden behind a heavy set of blinds. Thrusting his new glove between the slats, he looked out at Gotham City at night; a city that would soon be his. He could have it all - the mayor's office first, and then, with the whole city at his feet, he'd complete his sweet revenge.
<#FROWN:N28\>
The Chekhov Strain
Christopher Kubasik
Wu Han's thoughts raced with the manic energy of a Core Earth kid high on cotton candy. He was a happy man: insidious, villainous, cunning, and malicious. He was an overgovernor of the Empire of the Nile, an evil subordinate to the despot Dr. Mobius and he was good at his job. He awoke each morning and leaped out of bed knowing he would accomplish countless activities that day. He felt himself a part of the universe, a force as strong as a hurricane. He needed nothing and no one, for he was a part of everything.
He loved his life.
He stalked up the length of his council chamber. The scarlet dragon on the back of his silk robe danced happily as he gesticulated wildly with his long-nailed hands. His long Fu-Manchu mustache tightly framed his inscrutable smile. White teeth gleamed against his golden flesh.
"I need a plan!" he exclaimed and whirled around at the head of the council chamber's large table. He spoke in precise English, but his speech was marred by an Oriental accent that had more to do with Western stereotyping than China.
His lieutenants, thugs and thieves from countless ethnic backgrounds, grunted and nodded their heads in approval from their chairs around the table. When Wu Han wanted a plan, life filled with action.
"Duuh, what are yuh thinking about boss?" asked Scourge. Scourge had a quizzical face resembling a bulldog from a Warner Brother's cartoon that had just been smashed by a frying pan.
"Something very large, I believe!" Han exclaimed. A thrill ran through the hearts of his minions, for never had they seen the insidious Oriental master criminal so full of life. The invasion of Earth was going well. Han was inspired.
Han's thoughts now moved like a movie projected at four times normal speed. He began contemplating information he had learned about Core Earth during his journeys into the native lands of the planet. (Just a note: the thought of Wu Han actually taking the time to contemplate was not necessarily an oxymoron, but certainly stretched Han to the limits of his mind. He thought like a gymnast moved, each thought flipping into the next trick in the routine. If there was ever a moment's pause, he did it only to balance himself for the next mental leap. He felt uncomfortable if he paused to consider something for too long. The rhythm of the pulp reality demanded constant motion, physical and mental, from its heroes and villains. Han was happy to oblige.)
"Another Death Maze?" asked Achmed D'uarb, an Arab assassin whose every other tooth gleamed gold.
"Another search deep into the Egyptian desert for an eternity shard?" whispered Scar, whose ruined throat hinted of the long ago splash of acid.
"Another stelae to be planted out in Earth?" put forth Mr. Hoggs, whose immense flesh jostled as he spoke.
"Kill another Storm Knight?"
"Try to betray Mobius again?"
"Agitate tribal wars in Afghanistan so we can run guns?"
"Make another stab at the diamond mines under Mrs. McReady's farmlands?"
"No" whispered Wu Han, curling his long fingers before him. "I need something unique."
A hush fell over the room, a silence created by thrill and ... fear. It was not every day that a pulp villain wanted change. The results could be very profitable ... or completely disastrous and unknown.
"I want something so large, so devastating to the people of Earth, that my reward from Dr. Mobius would compare even with the riches of the ancient pharaohs." The villain smiled a cruel smile. It had worked. He had applied himself to coming up with a fantastic and daring plan, and it had happened. Possibility energy infused Wu Han's thoughts, to the villain's advantage. Events tended to go his way.
"I will poison the earth," he said levelly.
"The water supply?"
"Their food?"
"No! You insufferable buffoons! I do not desire to kill them! We need them alive so we might steal their possibility energy! No, I need a creative way to poison them ... Poison their behavior, make them easier to defeat ..."
"Perhaps we could create some sort of toxic radio wave transmitter?" suggested Scar.
"Shut up," said Wu Han quietly. A deep chill ran through the room as his evilness permeated the souls of his henchmen. Han infused them with the desire and strength to do harm. "I have an idea even more absurd. Something only someone as insidious as myself could ever have come up with. Gentlemen," he said, resting his hands on the table, leering at them, "prepare yourself<&|>sic. We make history in the course of the Possibility Wars."
He walked down the length of the chamber, ignoring the men in the room completely. Then, suddenly, he placed his bony hand on Scar's shoulder. Scar flinched.
"Scar. Arrange the following. I need a library. I require a library containing books and stories from the beginning of this world's Western civilization."
"Books?"
"That's right. Books."
"You mean like Earth's pulp stories?"
"Well, yes, some of them, of course. A sampling of everything. Their religious allegories, their tawdry parlour dramas, their snail-paced English murder mysteries, their existential essays disguised as novels. A whole pastiche of their boring civilization. Begin."
The sound of chairs sliding on stone filled the room as the thugs sprang into action. If Wu Han wanted books, then books it would be, no matter how useless the request seemed.
As the men rushed out of the room, Wu Han smiled. His eyes were distant. If he was thinking about the future outcome of the orders he had just given, there was no way to tell. He was like that. He'd be plotting one moment, and then plotting something else the next.
***
Los Angeles had been deserted when the Living Land invaded. The city had been reclaimed during the Miracle of California. Now it struggled against the hideous reality of Tharkold. The city still struggled to live. Many who stayed behind were actors and directors and technicians and craftsmen of theater and film. They kept working, and beleaguered citizens came to see the shows.
A production of Anton Chekhov's The Seagull had just opened at the Mark Tapper Forum. A rapt audience filled the large theater. The play, like most of Chekhov's work, dealt with loss, and the desire to keep living in the face of adversity. This audience lived in a country at war with invaders who ripped reality away from the conquered. The play cast a spell of truth.
The first act of The Seagull takes place beside a lake. The set of the Mark Tapper Forum's production showed a beautiful sunset that slowly faded as the act progressed. On the left side of the stage, in front of the false lake, was a stage for, as it said in the play's stage notes, 'private theatricals.' It was a stage on the stage. The curtain on the stage upon the stage was drawn shut. It would remain shut until Konstantin, the young writer in The Seagull, opened the curtain. He would present a play he had written to his friends and family. It would be a play within a play.
Wu Han hid behind the curtain of the smaller stage, waiting for the moment Konstantin revealed him to the audience and the actors. Han would take them completely by surprise.
Wu Han was bored, bored, bored.
He had hidden himself behind the smaller stage before The Seagull had begun. He so far had endured nearly twenty minutes of the production. He could not believe that Core Earthers considered such naturalist drivel entertaining. He exerted more energy going to sleep than all the characters in the play used up during the whole show.
The play revolved around a dozen characters living on an estate in Russia at the turn of the century. Most of them were out on the stage at the moment, waiting for the play Konstantin had written to begin. Some of the characters were servants, some writers, some actors. Some were related by blood, some by marriage, some by love. Each wanted something from another character in the play. As it was a Chekhov play, they never got what they wanted.
Konstantin told Nina, the aspiring actress and his young girlfriend, to get ready to perform his play. She started toward her position behind the drawn curtain of the small stage.
Wu Han drew his K08 pistol out of his golden sleeves. Heather Davis, the actress playing Nina, came around the small stage and took two steps up the small ladder to the platform.
She looked up and saw Wu Han, smiling patiently, pointing his pistol at her face.
She froze in fear.
She was young, no more than 20, with pale skin, and straight, thick black hair, a gift of her Native American ancestry. She was at once vulnerable due to her small frame, but, in her eyes, owner of a certain toughness. Wu Han found her charming.
For a moment she considered turning and running. Wu Han shook his head. Then, with his empty hand, he crooked his finger, gesturing for her to approach.
She finished walking up the steps. Han put his hand on her shoulder and forced her to sit. He then placed the tip of his gun against her head.
He then stood quietly. He listened to the dialogue of the play he had read and re-read in Egypt come to life.
On the other side of the small stage's curtain, Arkadina, the famous Russian actress, played by the actress Elaine Sanders, asked her son, "When are you going to begin, dear?" Already, only listening to her for about a quarter of an hour, Han had discovered he was fond of the character's manipulative manner, but could not stomach her petty aspirations. A woman of her skills could easily rule a nation if she applied herself.
"In a minute, Mother," replied the boy. "Please be patient." Konstantin, Wu Han thought, was a useless pup, more pathetic than Han had even expected in his reading of the script. The boy craved his mother's approval on everything. He could not simply write just to write, act for action's sake, for the thrill of simply doing what he wanted. He needed everyone around him to tell him that he was of value. He craved Arkadina's affirmation that what he wanted to do he should do.
Konstantin would last no more than three minutes in the Empire of the Nile.
But that behavior, that despairing inaction, was the core of what Han sought for his disease. It was so perfect he almost let loose an evil laugh.
"'Oh, Hamlet,'" Arkadina began, quoting Shakespeare's Ophelia, "'Speak no more; Thou turn'st mine eyes into my very soul; And there I see such black and grained spots as will not leave their tinct.'"
Konstantin countered,"'Nay, but to live in the rank sweat of an enseamed bed, stewed in corruption, honeying and making love over the nasty sty - '" the sound of a horn cut him off. He turned to his audience: his mother, her friend Trigoran, family members, servants, and hangers on. They sat on wooden benches by a lake, looking toward a small stage. Konstantin stood by the stage, looking back at the assembled group and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, the play is about to begin. Quiet, please, quiet! I begin."
The boy tapped a stick against the ground three times and raised his voice. "O, ye venerable old shades that hover over this lake at nighttime, send us to sleep and let us dream of what will be in two hundred thousand years."
Sorin, Arkadina's brother, said with complete coolness, "There'll be nothing in two hundred thousand years." Han smiled. So weak. All they could contemplate was the final demise of their world, cities, their entire race. Dr. Mobius and the inhabitants of the Nile made plans for an empire that would last for eternity. He fingered the trigger of the pistol in his right hand and looked down at the girl.
<#FROWN:N29\>
2
The President of the United States, his jaw firm, his angry eyes steady and penetrating, accelerated his pace along the steel-gray corridor in the underground complex of the White House. In seconds, he had outdistanced his entourage, his tall, lean frame angled forward as if bucking a torrential wind, an impatient figure wanting only to reach the storm-tossed battlements and survey the bloody costs of war so as to devise a strategy and repel the invading hordes assaulting his realm. He was John of Arc, his racing mind building a counterattack at Orleans, a Harry Five who knew the decisive Agincourt was in the immediate picture.
At the moment, however, his immediate objective was the anxiety-prone Situation Room, buried in the lowest levels of the White House. He reached a door, yanked it open, and strode inside as his subordinates, now trotting and breathless, followed in unison.
"All right, fellas!" he roared. "Let's skull!"
A brief silence ensued, broken by the tremulous, high-pitched voice of a female aide. "I don't think in here, Mr. President."
"What? Why?"
"This is the men's room, sir."
"Oh? ... What are you doing here?"
"Following you, sir."
"Golly gee. Wrong turn. Sorry about that. Let's go! Out!"
The large round table in the Situation Room glistened under the wash of the indirect lighting, reflecting the shadows of the bodies seated around it. These blocks of shadow on the polished wood, like the bodies themselves, remained immobile as the stunned faces attached to those bodies stared in astonishment at the gaunt, bespectacled man who stood behind the President in front of a portable blackboard, on which he had drawn numerous diagrams in four different colors of chalk. The visual aids were somewhat less than effective as two of the crisis management team were color-blind. The bewildered expression on the youthful Vice-President's face was nothing new and therefore dismissible, but the growing agitation on the part of the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff was not so easily dismissed.
"Goddamn it, Washbum, I don't -"
"That's Washburn, General."
"That's nice. I don't follow the legal line."
"It's the orange one, sir."
"Which one is that?"
"I just explained, the orange chalk."
"Point it out."
Heads turned; the President spoke. "Gee whiz, Zack, can't you tell?"
"It's dark in here, Mr. President."
"Not that dark, Zack. I can see it clearly."
"Well, I've got a minor visual problem," said the general, abruptly lowering his voice, "...distinguishing certain colors."
"What, Zack?"
"I heard him," exclaimed the towheaded Vice-President, seated next to the J.C. chairman. "He's color-blind."
"Golly, Zack, but you're a soldier!"
"Came on late, Mr. President."
"It came on early with me," continued the excitable heir to the Oval Office. "Actually, it's what kept me out of the real army. I would have given anything to correct the problem!"
"Close it up, gumball," said the swarthy-skinned director of the Central Intelligence Agency, his voice low but his half-lidded, dark eyes ominous. "The friggin' campaign's over."
"Now, really, Vincent, there's no cause for that language," intruded the President. "There's a lady present."
"That judgment's up for grabs, Prez. The lady in question is not unfamiliar with the lingua franca, as it were." The DCI smiled grimly at the glaring female aide and returned to the man named Washburn at the portable blackboard. "You, our legal expert here, what kind of ... creek are we up?"
"That's better, Vinnie," added the President. "I appreciate it."
"You're welcome ... Go on, Mr. Lawyer. What kind of deep ca-ca are we really into?"
"Very nice, Vinnie."
"Please, Big Man, we're all a little stressed here." The director leaned forward, his apprehensive eyes on the White House legal aide. "You," he continued, "put away the chalk and let's have the news. And do me a favor, don't spend a week getting there, okay?"
"As you wish, Mr. Mangecavallo," said the White House attorney, placing the colored chalk on the blackboard ledge. "I was merely trying to diagram the historical precedents relative to the altered laws where the Indian nations were concerned."
"What nations?" asked the Vice-President, in his voice a trace of arrogance. "They're tribes, not countries."
"Go on," interrupted the director. "He's not here."
"Well, I'm sure you all recall the information our mole at the Supreme Court gave us about an obscure, impoverished Indian tribe petitioning the Court over a supposed treaty with the federal government that was allegedly lost or stolen by federal agents. A treaty that if ever found would restore their rights to certain territories currently housing vital military installations."
"Oh, yes," said the President. "We had quite a laugh over that. They even sent an extremely long brief to the Court that nobody wanted to read."
"Some poor people will do anything but get a job!" joined in the Veep. "That is a laugh."
"Our lawyer isn't laughing," observed the director.
"No, I'm not, sir. Our mole sends word that there've been some quiet rumors which may mean absolutely nothing, of course, but apparently five or six justices of the Court were so impressed by the brief that they've actually debated its merits in chambers. Several feel that the lost Treaty of 1878, negotiated with the Wopotami tribe and the Forty-ninth Congress, may ultimately be legally binding upon the government of the United States."
"You gotta be outta your lemon tree!" roared Mangecavallo. "They can't do that!"
"Totally unacceptable," snapped the pinstriped, acerbic Secretay of State. "Those judicial fruitcakes will never survive the polls!"
"I don't think they have to, Warren." The President shook his head slowly. "But I see what you mean. As the great communicator frequently told me, 'Those mothers couldn't get parts as extras in Ben-Hur, not even in the Colosseum scenes.'"
"Profound," said the Vice-President, nodding his head. "That really says it. Who's Benjamin Hurr?"
"Forget it," replied the balding, portly Attorney General, still breathing heavily from the swift journey through the underground corridors. "The point is they don't need outside employment. They're set for life, and there's nothing we can do about it."
"Unless they're all impeached," offered the nasal-toned Secretary of State, Warren Pease, his thin-lipped smile devoid of bonhomie.
"Forget that, too," rebutted the Attorney General. "They're pristine white and immaculate black, even the skirt. I checked the whole spectrum when those pointy-heads shoved that negative poll tax decision down our throats."
"That was simply grotesque!" cried the Vice-President, his wide eyes searching for approval. "What's five hundred dollars for the right to vote?"
"Too true," agreed the occupant of the Oval Office. "The good people could have written it off on their capital gains. For instance, there was an article by a fine economist, an alumnus of ours, as a matter of fact, in The Bank Street Journal, explaining that by converting one's assets in subsection C to the line item projected losses in -"
"Prez, <tf>please?" interrupted the director of the Central Intelligence Agency gently. "That bum's doing time, six to ten years for fraud, actually ... A lid, please, Big Man, okay?"
"Certainly, Vincent ... Is he really?"
"Just remember, none of us remember him," replied the DCI, barely above a whisper. "You forgot his line item procedures when we had him at Treasury? He put half of Defense into Education, but nobody got no schools."
"It was great PR -"
"Stow it, gumball -"
"'Stow it,' Vincent? Were you in the navy? 'Stow it' is a navy term."
"Let's say I've been on a lot of small, fast boats, Prez. Caribbean theater of operations, okay?"
"Ships, Vincent? They're always 'ships.' Were you by the way of Annapolis?"
"There was a Greek runner from the Aegean who could smell a patrol boat in pitch dark."
"Ship, Vincent. Ship ... Or maybe not when applied to patrols -"
"Please, Big Man." Director Mangecavallo stared at the Attorney General. "Maybe you didn't look good enough into that dirtbag character spectrum of yours, huh? On those judicial fruitcakes, as our high-toned Secretary of State called 'em. Maybe there were omissions, right?"
"I used the entire resources of the Federal Bureau," replied the obese Attorney General, adjusting his bulk in the inadequate chair while wiping his forehead with a soiled handkerchief. "We couldn't hang a jaywalking ticket on any of them. They've all been in Sunday school since the day they were born."
"What do those FBI yo-yos know, huh? They cleared me, right? I was the holiest saint in town, right?"
"And both the House and the Senate confirmed you with rather decent majorities, Vincent. That says something about our constitutional checks and balances, doesn't it?"
"More about checks made out to 'cash' than balances, Prez, but we'll let it slide, okay? ... Owl Eyes here says that five or six of the big robes may be leaning the wrong way, right?"
"It could simply be minor speculation," added Washburn. "And completely in camera."
"So who's takin' pictures?"
"You misunderstand, sir. I mean the debates remain secret, not a word of them leaked to the press or the public. The blackout was actually self-imposed on the grounds of national security, in extremis."
"In who?"
"Good heavens!" cried Washburn. "This wonderful country, the nation we love, could be placed in the most vulnerable military position in our history if five of those damn fools vote their consciences. We could be obliterated!"
"Okay, okay, cool it," said Mangecavallo, staring at the others around the table, quickly passing by the eyes of the President and his heir apparent. "So we got us some room by this top-secret status. And we also got five or six judicial fruitcakes to work on, right? ... So, as the intelligence expert at this table, I say we should make sure two or three of those zucchinis stay in the vegetable patch, right? And since this sort of thing is in my personal realm of expertise, I'll go to work, capisce?"
"You'll have to work quickly, Mr. Director," said the bespectacled Washburn. "Our mole tells us that the Chief Justice himself told him he was going to lift the debate blackout in forty-eight hours. In his own words, Chief Justice Reebock said, 'They're not the only half-assed ball game in town' - that's a direct quote, Mr. President. I personally do not use such language."
"Very commendable, Washbloom -"
"That's Washburn, sir."
"Him, too. Let's skull, men - and you, too, Miss ... Miss ..."
"Trueheart, Mr. President. Teresa Trueheart."
"What do you do?"
"I'm your Chief of Staff's personal secretary, sir."
"And then some," mumbled the DCI.
"Stow it, Vinnie."
"My Chief of Staff ...? Gosh 'n' crackers, where is Arnold? I mean this is a crisis, a real zing doozer!"
"He has his massage every afternoon at this hour, sir," replied Miss Trueheart brightly.
"Well, I don't mean to criticize, but -"
"You have every right to criticize, Mr. President," interrupted the wide-eyed heir apparent.
"On the other hand, Subagaloo's been under a great deal of stress lately. The press corps call him names and he's quite sensitive."
"And there's nothing that relieves stress more than a massage," added the Vice-President. "Believe me, I know!"
"So where do we stand, gentlemen? Let's get a fix on the compass and tighten the halyards."
"Aye, aye, sir!"
"Mr. Vice-President, give us a break, huh? ... The compass we're locked into, Big Man, should better be fixed on a full moon, 'cause that's where we're at - looney-tune time, but nobody's laughin'."
"Speaking as your Secretary of Defense, Mr. President," broke in an extremely short man whose pinched face barely projected above the table and whose eyes glared disapprovingly at the CIA director, "the situation's utterly preposterous. Those idiots on the Court can't be allowed to even consider devastating the security of the country over an obscure, long-forgotten, so-called treaty with an Indian tribe nobody's ever heard of!"
"Oh, I've heard of the Wopotamis," the Vice-President interrupted again. "Of course, American history wasn't my best subject, but I remember I thought it was a funny name, like the Choppywaws. I thought they were slaughtered or died of starvation or some dumb thing."
