Bloodstone

Shannow glanced up at the blackboard and the dishes and drinks scribbled in chalk. ‘I’ll have bread and cheese, and some warmed milk, if you please.'

'You want honey in the milk?' she asked him.

That would be pleasant.'

As she walked away his thoughts returned to the meeting in the office. The Crusader's reactions had been wrong. There was no surprise when Shannow mentioned the murder, and the man's twin concerns had been the whereabouts of the children and whether Shannow had seen the body. When the waitress returned with a mug of sweetened milk, Shannow thanked her, then asked in a low voice, 'There is a man in this area named Jack Dillon. How will I know him?'

'Best if you don't,' answered the woman, walking away. As she passed the table of the slim black man Shannow saw her bend her head and whisper something to him. The man nodded, then rose and walked towards Shannow's table. Reversing a chair, he sat down opposite the Jerusalem Man.

'Dillon's big and he's bald and he sports a thick beard,' said the newcomer. ‘Is that a help?'

'Where will I find him?'

'If you are looking for him, my friend, he will find you. Seeking to work for him, are you?'

'What would make you think so?'

'I know your kind,' said the black man. 'Predator.'

'If that is the case,' said Shannow, with the briefest of smiles, 'then are you not walking a perilous path by insulting me?'

The man chuckled. 'All life involves risk, friend. But I think it is minimal in this situation. For you see I am armed — and facing you.' His dark eyes were gleaming, and the fact that he held Shannow in contempt was all too obvious. 'What do you say to that?'

'A fool uttereth all his mind, but a wise man keepeth it in,' Shannow told him. 'Beware, boy, it can be fatal to make hasty judgements.'

'You calling me a fool?' The black man's hand was hovering now over the enamelled pistol-butt beneath his jacket.

'I am stating a fact,' said Shannow, 'and if you listen very closely you will hear the sound of a pistol being cocked.' The double click of the drawn-back hammer sounded from below the table. 'You seem very anxious to cause.trouble, young man,' continued Shannow. 'Could it be you have been sent to kill me?'

'No one sent me. I just despise your kind,' the man answered.

'The young are always so swift to judge. Did you know a farmer named Hankin?'

'I know him. Men like you forced him off his place. Couldn't find three people to give Oath for him.'

'He was murdered,' said Shannow. 'Shot to death, his children hunted like animals. I am waiting to see the Captain of the Crusaders; then I shall file a complaint against Jack Dillon.'

The black man leaned forward, elbows on the table. 'You really don't know anything about Dillon, do you?'

‘I know that he — and other men — shot an unarmed man in cold blood. And I will see him brought to justice.'

The black man sighed, ‘I guess I may have been wrong about you, friend. But I'm not the only one who's being foolish. I think you should just ride out now — far and fast.'

'Why would I wish to do that?'

The black man leaned in close. 'Jack Dillon is the Captain of the Crusaders. Appointed last month by the Apostle Saul himself.'

'What kind of settlement is this?' asked Shannow. 'Are there no honest men?'

The black man laughed. 'Where have you been living, friend? Who is going to speak against an anointed Crusader? There's forty of them — and Jacob Moon and his Riders. No one is going to go against them.'

Shannow fell silent, and the black man heard the welcome sound of the pistol hammer being eased forward. 'My name is Archer, Gareth Archer.' He extended his hand.

'Leave me, boy. I have much to think on.'

Archer moved away, and the waitress returned with a second mug of sweetened milk. This time she smiled. Shannow gazed out of the window at the settlement's main street. Beyond the buildings to the west he could see the mines on the distant hillsides, and beyond them the smoke from smelting houses and factories. So much dirt and darkness from the soot and smoke.

A face leapt unbidden to his mind, a slender man in late middle age, balding and sharp-featured with soft brown eyes.

'It's progress, Preacher. Ever since the planes landed and we found out what once we were, things changed. The planes carried engineers and surgeons, all sorts of skilled people. Most of them died within the year, but they passed on a lot of knowledge. We're building again. Soon we'll have good hospitals and fine schools, and factories that can manufacture machines to help us till the land and gather the harvest. Then there'll be roads and cities to those roads. It will be a paradise.'

'A paradise built on belching smoke and foul-smelling soot? I see the trees have all died around the canning plant, and there are no fish now in the Little River.'

Shannow sipped the sweetened milk, and sought a name for the face. Brown? Bream? Then it came to him: Broome. Josiah Broome. And with it came another face, strong female features surrounded by corn-blonde hair.

Beth.

The memory struck him like a knife in the heart.

'Jesus Christ! You used to be a man. Now you let scum like Shem Jackson strike you in front of a crowd. Knock you down in the dirt! God's teeth, Jon, what have you become?'

'The blow lessened him more than me. I have done with killing. Beth. I have done with the ways of violence. Can't you understand that there must be a better way for men to live?'

'What I understand is I don't want you here any more. I just don't want you!'

The sound of approaching horses jerked Shannow back to the present as four riders drew up in front of the Crusader offices. Shannow stood, left a half-silver on the table, then walked to the door.

Gareth Archer moved alongside him. 'Don't be a fool, man! Dillon is a dead shot, and those others with him are no angels.'

'If thou faint in the day of adversity, thy strength is small,' said Shannow. Stepping out, he moved from the wooden sidewalk, down the three short steps to the dusty street.

'Jack Dillon!' he called. The four men dismounted and the tallest of them, dark-bearded and powerfully-built, swung round to face him.

'Who wants me?' he replied. People who had been moving along the street stopped and watched the two men.

‘I am Jon Shannow and I name you as a murderer and a brigand.' Shannow could hear the sharp intake of breath from the crowd, and he saw the bearded man redden.

Dillon blinked and licked his lips, then he recovered some of his bluster. 'What? This is nonsense!'

Shannow walked slowly towards him, and his voice carried to all the observers. 'You shot down a farmer named Hankin, murdered him in cold blood. Then you hunted his children. How do you answer this accusation, villain?'

'I don't answer to you!' The big man's hand swept down towards his pistol and the crowd scattered.

Dillon drew first, a bullet slashing past Shannow's cheek. His own guns boomed in reply and Dillon, struck in the chest and belly, staggered back, triggering his revolver into the dust. A second man loosed a shot at Shannow, the bullet passing high and wide. Sighting his right-hand pistol, Shannow shot the man in the chest; he fell back over a guard-rail and did not move. The other two Crusaders were standing stock-still. Dillon was on his knees, blood drenching his vest.

Shannow strode to where the dying man waited. "Who so diggeth a pit shall fall therein, and he that rolleth a stone, it will return upon him.'

'Who… are… you?' Dillon fell sideways, but his pain-filled eyes continued to stare up at his killer.

'I am retribution,' Shannow told him. Kicking away the man's pistol, he scanned the crowd. 'You have allowed evil to prosper here,' he said, 'and that is a shame upon you all.' To his left he saw Gareth Archer move into sight, leading Shannow's horse.

Keeping the two remaining Crusaders in sight, Shannow mounted.