'There's a nest there,' said Shannow.
'I don't see a nest.'
'A small owl, in that hole. Let's move further out.' Shannow strode away. The desert sun was riding high now, the temperature searing. Some way to the right he saw what could have been a small lake, but was more likely to be a mirage. He pointed it out to Amaziga.
There's nothing there,' she said. 'During the last century scores of settlers died here, taking their tired oxen down into the valley, expecting water. It's a harsh country.'
'It is one of the greenest deserts I've seen,' observed Shannow.
'Most of the plants here can live for up to-five years without rainfall. Now, how about that saguaro? See any nests?'
Shannow ignored the sarcasm and hefted the weapon, aiming from the hip at a small barrel cactus close by. He pulled the trigger and the cactus exploded; the sound of the shot hung in the air for several seconds. 'It's grotesque,' said the Jersualem Man. 'It would tear a man's arm off.'
'I would have thought you would have loved that,' put in Amaziga.
'You have never understood me, woman, and you never will.'
The words were not spoken with anger, but Amaziga reacted as if struck. ‘I understand you well enough!' she stormed. 'And I'll not debate my thoughts with the likes of you.' Swinging, she aimed her own squat weapon at a saguaro and pulled the trigger. A thunderous wall of sound erupted from the gun, and Shannow was peppered with bright brass shell-cases. The saguaro leaned drunkenly to one side, its thick body showing gaping holes half-way up the central stem, then it fell to the desert floor.
Shannow turned and headed back for the house. He heard Amaziga ram another clip home, and a second burst followed the first. Inside, he dropped the shotgun to the table.
'What did she shoot?' asked the machine.
'A tall cactus.'
'A saguaro,' the machine told him. 'How many arms did it have?'
Two.'
'It takes around eighty years before a saguaro grows an arm. And less than a second to destroy it.'
'Is that regret?' Shannow asked.
'It is an observation,' answered the machine. The bird you saw is called an Elf Owl; they are quite common here. The desert is home to many interesting birds. The man, Lucas, used to spend many long hours studying them. His favourite was the Gilded Flicker. It probably made the nest hole the Elf Owl now inhabits.'
Shannow said nothing, but his eyes strayed to the shotgun. It was an obscene weapon.
'You will need it,' said Lucas.
'You read minds?'
'Of course. My clairvoyant abilities are what caused Amaziga to create me. The Devourers are powerful creatures. Only a shot to the heart with a powerful rifle or pistol will stop them. The skulls are thick and will resist your weapons. What are they, thirty-eights?'
'Yes.'
'Amaziga has purchased two forty-fours. Smith and Wesson, double-action. They are in the box on the floor.' Shannow knelt by it and opened the flaps. The guns were long-barrelled and finished in metallic blue, the butts white and smooth. Lifting them clear, he hefted them for weight and balance. 'Each weighs just under two and a half pounds,' Lucas told him. The barrels are seven inches long. There are three boxes of shells on the table.'
Shannow loaded the weapons and stepped out into the sunlight to see Amaziga walking back towards the house. There was a small sack hanging on a fence post some thirty feet from the Jerusalem Man.
Moving to it, she pulled out four empty cans which she stood on the fence rail, around two feet apart.
Stepping aside, she called to Shannow to try out the pistols.
His right arm came up. The pistol thundered and a can disappeared. The left arm rose, but this time his shot missed. 'lAjt them close together,' he ordered Amaziga. She did so and he fired again. The can on the left flew from the rail. 'More cans,' he called. Reloading the pistols, he waited as she set out another six.
This time he fired swiftly, left and right. All the targets were smashed from the fence.
'What do you think of them?' asked Amaziga, approaching him.
'Fine weapons. This one pulls a fraction to the left. But they'll do.'
The salesman assured me they would stop a charging rhino… a very large animal,' she added, seeing his look of puzzlement.
He tried to drop the pistols into his scabbards, but they were too bulky. 'Don't worry about that,'
Amaziga told him. 'I picked up a set of holsters for you at Rawhide.' She chuckled, but Shannow could not see the reason for humour.
Back inside the house she unwrapped a brown parcel, handing Shannow a black, hand-tooled gun-belt with two scabbards. The leather was thick, and of high quality, the buckle highly-polished brass. There were loops all around it, filled with shells. 'It is very handsome,' he said, swinging it around his hips. 'Yes, very handsome. My thanks to you, lady.'
She nodded. They do suit you, Shannow. Now I must leave you again. We'll be back at dusk. Lucas will brief you.'
'We'll be back?' queried Shannow.
'Yes, I'm going to meet Gareth. He'll be coming with us.'
Without another word she left the house. Shannow watched her move to the circle of broken stones.
There was no bright light; she merely faded, and disappeared from sight.
Inside once more, Shannow gazed at the calm, tranquil face on the screen. 'What did she mean, brief me?'
'I shall show you the route you will travel, and the landmarks you must memorise. Sit down, Mr Shannow, and observe.'
The screen flickered, and Shannow found himself staring out over a range of mountains, thickly covered with pine.
Jacob Moon watched as the painted wagons moved slowly out of sight, the tall, slender blonde woman riding the last of them. He hawked and spat. On another day he would have extracted a price for freeing the sandy-haired young man. . Meredith? And the price would have been the woman, Isis. Mostly Jacob Moon liked his women fat, but there was something about this girl that excited him. And he knew what it was. Innocence, and a fragile softness. He wondered if she was consumptive, for her skin was unnaturally pale and she had, he noticed, difficulty climbing to the wagon. Turning away, he focused on more important matters.
Dillon's body lay in the undertaker's parlour, and the Jerusalem Man rode free somewhere in the mountains. The trackers had followed him, but lost the trail in the desert. Shannow and a companion had ridden their horses into a circle of stones — and vanished. Moon shivered.
Could the man be an angel? Could the whole sorry Bible fairy tale be fact? No. He couldn't believe that.
If God existed, then why does he not strike me down? Christ alive, I've killed enough people! He was quick enough to strike down Jenny, and she never harmed anyone.
It's all random, he thought. A game of chance.
The strong survive, the weak die.
Bullshit! We all die some day.
The town was unnaturally quiet today. Yesterday's shooting had astonished them. True, Dillon had been a feared man, but more than that he had been full of life. A loud, powerful, bull of a man radiating strength and certainty. Yet in the space of a few heartbeats he had been cut down by a stranger who had stood in the street and named their sins.
Jacob Moon had arrived in Domango three hours after the killing, when the hunters were just returning.
Then a rider had come in from the Hankin farm. Two more men dead. The Jerusalem Man? Probably, thought Moon.
Still, sooner or later he would have Shannow in his sights. Then that problem would be over.
Moon smiled, and recalled the woman. With Dillon's blood still staining the street, she had walked into the Crusader office and approached him. 'I understand, sir, that you are a Jerusalem Rider.' Moon had nodded, his hooded eyes raking the slender lines of her body. 'My name is Isis. I have come to you for justice, sir. Our doctor, Meredith, has been wrongly imprisoned. Would you release him?'