Hendrik went to a crouch, alert, taking cover behind the bell. Someone with a rifle had intervened. He remembered the horseman of the dawn and, with a dizzying certainty, knew the stranger was Brother Carey's murderer.
He looked to the fields. They had burned down to stubble. Thinning smoke poured into the air, a veil over the landscape. Through the gauzy wisps, Hendrik saw the horse and the rider. They advanced deliberately through the burned fields. Hendrik lost himself in the shimmer, a great tiredness falling upon him.
The horseman could not possibly reload his rifle in the saddle. Hendrik stood up, ready to chance a bullet, and stepped away from the bell. The boards under his boots were slippery. He was shivering again, shocked awake. The cries of the dead pressed in on him. Again, he had made sacrifice and not been freed. The white pain still waited. He cast his razor away.
No Gentile stood. Josephites had fallen too, and Indians. Animals and men kicked their last, leaking life into the soil, seeding the dirt. Maybe these sacrifices would be the foundation of Joseph's shining city.
The horseman advanced, empty rifle held easily. Hendrik saw a battered face under a battered hat. A long duster lifted in the breeze around his flanks.
To Hendrik, the saddle tramp looked like an executioner from God. He strode past Carey and his kill, stepping off the floor that would never be covered by a church. After a dozen strides, he was walking on the crunchy black stubble of the field. His bootsoles wanned in the thick ash. A ripe, cooked-corn smell hung in the air.
Hendrik thought he must have sacrificed ten or twenty Gentiles He was Bonnet of Death. He stopped shaking. The stench of blood was as strong as the smell of the corn. All his offerings had been rejected. Despite it all, he was not free.
Somewhere, a goat-horned Jesus was laughing, and in his laughter was Eddy's "tekeli-li, tekeli-li, tekeli-li…"
The horseman dismounted and slipped his rifle into a long holster by his saddle. A pistol hung on his hip.
Hendrik unholstered his Colt. It had been forgotten until now; neglected in favour of more personal killing irons. The gun was heavy in his hand. With his thumb, he eased back the firing hammer.
The horseman had also drawn his pistol. A curtain of smoke and low flame hung between them. The heat haze played tricks, making the horseman waver like a reflection in disturbed water.
Hendrik was aware of another in the field. The Ute, a long rifle raised as he paced steadily. Around his knees the flames still burned, but the sham Indian ignored any pain he felt. He waded through fire towards the stranger.
The horseman whirled around slowly, bringing up his pistol. He sighted on the Ute as the Ute sighted on him. The stranger presented his side to Hendrik.
At the edges of the smoking field, the survivors of the war party stood, silent like a congregation. Even the sorely wounded had hauled themselves to a position where they could watch. Crow Who Mourns held up his hand, keeping everyone else out of the drama. This was between the three of them.
The horseman and the Ute were fixed on each other, like a hawk and a snake. Their guns held steady. Hendrik brought up his Colt and sighted on the horseman. The stranger had a thick moustache and a crinkle of lines around his ice-blue eyes. A straggle of white-blond hair escaped from under his hat.
The three men stood, fingers tight on triggers. The moment extended. Hendrik realised his own hand was shaking. He saw the stranger in his line of fire but he also saw the whole scene from above. A triangle of men in a black-burned scar on an infinite plain of white. The black patch seemed smaller, the white sands a continent.
He blinked and focused on his gunsight. Beyond was the red-painted face of the Ute, mirror glasses flashing sunlight.
He glanced away at the horseman, who stood like a statue, and back at the Ute.
In the mirror-glasses, Hendrik saw tiny reflections. His own image was held in one lens, the horseman's in the other.
"Thou must make sacrifice, Hendrik," the Ute said.
Hendrik had been made to kill women and children. He had been made to do worse things than that.
The horseman did not avert his eyes from the Ute. The smoke was almost cleared now.
If Hendrik shot the Ute, would the slate be wiped clean? Was this the sacrifice that was truly demanded?
"On three," the horseman said. His voice was strong, unwavering. The Ute nodded assent.
"One," the Ute said.
Hendrik sighted on the horseman.
"Two," the stranger said.
Hendrik sighted on the Ute.
"Three," Hendrik said, firing…
XI
Three shots sounded at the same instant.
The Ute's black hat flew off, a dash of blood appearing at his temple, smearing into his hair. Two wounds flowered in the stranger's chest.
Hendrik had shot the horseman. His choice was made. It had been made for a long time. He had only deluded himself that things were other than they were.
The Ute lowered his rifle. He did not touch a hand to his wound. A tear of blood ran under his unharmed spectacles and dropped from his cheek.
The horseman staggered, arms out. He looked at the gouting holes in his shirt and dropped his gun. His knees gave way and he fell back in the stubble.
Hendrik had no idea who the stranger was.
The Ute did not make a move to reload his rifle. He stood tall, fires dead around him.
The stranger's horse nosed the dead ground.
Hendrik walked across the ashes and looked at the fallen man. Wounds still pumped and eyes still fluttered. He was alive.
"You're fast," the horseman said, through blood. "Faster'n him," he indicated the Ute. "I'd have holed his evil eye, broke his damn mirrors, only you got me fust."
Hendrik cocked his Colt again and took aim on the stranger's left eye. The horseman was unafraid.
"Finish the sacrifice, Hendrik," said the Ute.
Hendrik looked across at the Ute. He was walking away to rejoin the war party. Hendrik had no idea who the Ute was either, but the man with the mirror glasses believed he owned Hendrik Shatner.
That might not be entirely true.
Hendrik pulled the trigger and put a bullet in the ground by the horseman's head. Dirt kicked and the stranger lay still, holding his wounds.
"Done," Hendrik called out.
The horseman, stilled, looked up with clear, shocked eyes. He must be in great pain, but he might alive. And the Ute might live to regret his assumptions.
"Mighty fine shooting, pilgrim," the horseman whispered.
Hendrik Shatner holstered his Colt and walked away from the man he had not killed.
Brother Clegg had his horse ready. Hendrik mounted up. The Paiute had left to make their own way home. Hendrik looked at the faces of the elect, smeared with paint and smoke and blood. They were solemn, but held no regret.
The war party rode away from New Canaan, not talking among themselves, not looking back. Someone, not Hendrik, began "The Path of Joseph". Soon, all the riders were singing the hymn. The sun crawled higher into the morning sky.
THE BOOK OF MARILYN
I
Trooper Kirby Yorke, United States Road Cavalry, shot a glance at the route indicator on the dash. The red cruiser blip was dead centre of the mapscreen, green-lines scrolling past. The ve-hickle's inboard computer hooked up with Gazetteer, the constantly updated federal map and almanac. Geostationary weather and spy satellites downloaded intelligence into the electronic notice board.
The patrol had just crossed the old state line and was heading up to a ghost place that had once been called Kanab. Through the armaplas sunshade wraparound, the rocks and sand of Kanab, Utah, could as well be the sand and rocks of Boaz, New Mexico, Shawnee, Oklahoma or most anywhere in the Des.