There were figures high above on the overlook, standing where the wagon had fallen from. McParlan grunted unintelligibly and closed his eyes, worried that now he was hallucinating.
The Customs Officer sprayed the edge of the cliff with bullets, and Bart Masters dove behind the ledge. He swung the laser barrel around and charged it, about to fire over the ledge when Jem shouted for him to wait.
“They’ve got McParlan down there, nailed to a goddamn cross or something. Hold your fire. That ship down there is full of fuel. If it ignites, you’ll burn everything in that valley.”
Bullets struck the cliff again and Halladay lifted his hand to shield his face from the rock spray. “What do you propose, then? Shall we hurl stones at them?”
A voice called out from the canyon below, “Jem Clayton! Can you hear me?”
Jem laid flat and inched close to the side enough to peer over. In the light of the burning carriage, Jem could see Little Willy Harpe standing next to a large metal contraption with McParlan crucified in the center of it. “You son of a bitch!” Jem shouted.
Harpe shrugged and said, “Don’t be like that, Jem. I just want to talk to you.”
“Send up the Marshal and you and me can talk all night.”
“Well, I would but he doesn’t seem to want to do much more than hang around down here. How about you come to me and we’ll see what we can do?”
Jem tried to make out where the Customs Officers were firing from, but they were hidden in the shadows and smoke. “Set McParlan free and I’ll come down.”
“COME TO ME NOW!” Harpe’s voice boomed.
Jem squeezed his eyes shut and braced himself, waiting to fight the irresistible command. Nothing happened. Jem opened his eyes and saw Bart Masters stand up and head down the path into the valley below. “Bart! What the hell are you doing?”
Masters ignored him and quickly began navigating the winding trail until Jem lost sight of him. “He’s the next one going on the cross, Jem,” Harpe said. “Unless you walk down here on your own like a man.”
Royce Halladay stood up and started to follow Bart Masters. “Doc! Don’t listen to him. Try and fight it.”
Halladay stopped and turned around. “That is exactly what I intend to do,” he said. “Now are you coming with me or not?”
They walked down into the canyon together, past the wagon’s burning embers, past the rifles of the Customs Officers. As they got closer, Jem could see Jimmy McParlan’s head hanging against his chest. The Marshal’s head was hanging down so low that his hair covered his one eye. Firelight cast shadows across his naked, battered form, and Jem could not tell if the old man was breathing or not.
Bart Masters was standing next to Harpe with his arms stiff at his side, like a military man waiting to be inspected by a superior officer. Harpe waved for Jem and Halladay to keep coming closer.
Jem stopped in front of Harpe and said, “You must be the famous Little Willy.”
“You think so?” Harpe said with a grin.
“Maybe there’s something we can do to work this out?” Jem said.
“I don’t think so--”
Jem pulled his pistol out so quickly that he nearly fired off a shot point blank at Little Willy’s face before he could say, “STOP!” Jem’s gun fired, but his hand stiffened around the gun’s handle just as he pulled the trigger and bullet went wide, tearing Little Willy’s left ear in half. Royce Halladay was frozen at Jem’s side, his gun half-raised.
Harpe grimaced and pressed his hand to his ruined ear. He inspected the blood on his palm and looked at the stiffened faces of Jem and Doctor Halladay. “You are unbelievably fast, boy. That almost got me. Who do you two want to shoot first? The Marshal?”
Jem felt himself turning to aim his Defeater at McParlan’s chest. “What about the one with the laser?” Harpe said. Jem tried to stop himself from drawing his second pistol but it was beyond his control. He raised his second gun and aimed it at the face of Bart Masters, who stood defenseless.
Harpe turned to Halladay. “How about you? Wouldn’t you like to kill this moody little prick yet?”
Halladay stuck his gun against Jem’s chest. Harpe rubbed his hands together and admired his handiwork. He pointed at Bart Masters and said, “Point that ray gun at the old man.” Once Masters had done so, he said, “Oh my, but don’t you boys look cinematic!”
Harpe circled around them, going from one man to the next. “I know you’re all in there. I can feel you. I’d let you speak, but it would just be you talking tough or begging for mercy, and I simply don’t have the patience for it.” He stopped at Jem. “You know? I had all sorts of plans for you. We were going to have ourselves a little party after what you did to me. But since I’ve come back I’ve gained a whole new perspective and realized I have much bigger things on my plate. So, on the count of three, you’re all going to fire and I will get on with the business of recreating the universe in my image. Ready?”
Harpe started to count. “One…two….what the hell?” He looked up and saw a figure standing high above them on the cliff. It was an old man, wearing a long robe with fringe dangling from the sleeves. His white hair blew in the swirl of wind that rose around him. The old man looked down at Harpe and clapped his hands together with such force that it echoed throughout the canyon.
Mahpiya of the Beothuk chanted into the winds and aimed his staff at the creature tucked beneath Harpe’s arm. Clouds filled the sky and turned black as winds whipped through the trees overlooking the canyon, sending leaves and branches into the air. Mahpiya drew circles in the air with his staff and suddenly yanked back like he was dragging a fish from the sea with a rod and reel.
One of the creature’s long tendrils ripped itself out of Harpe’s belly. Its tendrils dripped blood as it shriveled. A second one ripped free of Harpe’s neck and he gasped and clutched the open wound left there.
Mahpiya’s chant filled the valley as two riders on destriers raced down into the canyon. Hooves beat the ground as the animal’s enormous legs pivoted each impossible twist of the path. Bug was in the lead, using his knees to steer as he lifted his bow and sent an arrow sailing into Little Willy’s leg.
One of the Customs Officers opened fire on Bug as the boy flew past. Bullets riddled the back of his destrier, sending blood and fur into the air. Haienwa’tha’s destrier leapt from the trail onto the ground and the young warrior hurled an axe at the Officer. The Officer stared at the axe’s long handle sticking out of his face before falling down dead.
Bug’s destrier fell over mid-sprint, sending him skidding across the ground. The second Customs Officer tracked Bug’s rolling form with his weapon, about to fire when an arrow whistled through the air at him from high above the canyon. Osceola watched his arrow puncture the Officer’s right temple and raced across the dark ledge to get to Mahpiya’s side.
The medicine man reached into the satchel around his waist for a handful of fluorescent powder. It crackled when he blew it from his palm, carrying through the air and raining on Harpe. Another tentacle unseated from Harpe and he dropped to one knee, screaming in pain.
Harpe reached up and snatched one of the creature’s free tentacles and started to pull. “What are you doing?” he shouted.
“Give me back my body, you thief!” It was Little Willy’s voice that came from his mouth. “Go back to the grave where you belong, Elijah!”
“Let me finish my work!” Elijah roared back. Little Willy had pulled the creature away so that it was only connected to him by its head. The head was sunk deep in his armpit with foot-long fangs, drinking from his heart endlessly.