Thirty summers. Many suitors; never a husband. Hard to accept a man who had never ridden the hunt, a no-fight man, a touch-the-pen who'd given up their Way. But the whites killed all the strong ones and whiskey took the rest. So she had learned to ride and shoot and skin, made herself a warrior in body and in mind. She went to the white school as law required, learned to read their words and understand how they lived. They baptized her—one of their many strange rituals; and they thought her people were primitives—and called her Mary Williams.
When it suited her, she would answer to that name, wear I heir clothes—these skirts, these uncomfortable binding stays—and make herself handsome with their paints, but she look a lover only when she wanted one and even then always held herself apart. She had known since she was small that he was making ready for a life of power. When the dreams started, she knew that her time had finally come. No more preparing.
An owl circled the rising moon. Grandfather had taught her about the spirit of the owclass="underline" He had such powerful medicine. More than any of the big bellies left alive in the Hunkpapa or Oglala families. What would he counsel if he were with her now?
The owl landed softly on the branch of an overhead pine, settled his wings, looked sharply down at her, and through his ageless eyes she felt the presence of her grandfather.
Go back to your bed and sleep and wait for the dream. The dream is the question and the answer. The dream will tell you what to do.
The owl blinked twice then swooped off into the night.
She remembered something else he used to tell her: Be careful what you ask the gods for.
Walks Alone walked back inside the walls of the reserve. Sleep would come for her quickly after so much time.
THE NEW CITY, ARIZONA TERRITORY
Cornelius Moncrief had a king-size headache, and prospects for improvement looked dim; there wasn't a man jack, or woman, in the West he couldn't persuade to see things his way—that was his job—but he found himself starting to wonder if the Reverend A. Glorious Day was going to come around. Shit. Nobody ever won an argument with the railroad and who was Cornelius Moncrief if not the railroad personified?
Lord knows I laid it out for him plain as day—polite, too first time through, like always, that's company policy—but this white-eyed, Bible beatin' hunchback in the black frock coat with that scraggly hair and his Holy Roller attitude don' seem to grasp the nature of my authority. What is wrong with this jasper? I'm here to dictate terms and he's rantin' and ravin' at me like I'm some sinner in the market for salvation
Give him this much, the fella must preach a mean sermon One look at that cadaverous face'd suck coins into the collection basket right out of my pockets. That mug belongs in a box with the lid nailed shut. Somethin's gone sour in this fella's pickle barrel, 'cause I know this much: I know there's nothing wrong with Cornelius Moncrief.
'Course none of the Reverend's soul-saving flapdoodle was going to put Cornelius off his feed. He'd worked some of the diciest backwaters in creation during his fifteen years on the western circuit; murder, rape, casual violence: Couldn't expect people on a frontier to behave any other way. But somebody had to enforce the will of the railroad and Cornelius was the syndicate's number one troubleshooter: labor disputes, runaway coolies, accounts in arrears, they sent him in to settle up when all other options fell short. Cornelius carried a Sharps buffalo gun in a custom valise and a mother-of-pearl-handled Colt .45 with a Buntline barrel in his belt. At six foot four, 285 pounds, with his Sharps and that hogleg Colt, he'd never run into nothing yet he couldn't handle.
But Cornelius had felt the heebie-jeebies crawling over him like bad violin music from the moment he jumped off his horse in this hick burg.
Why you call this place The New City? Cornelius wanted to ask the Reverend. Was there an "old" one? What's the "the" for? And what's with the slaphappy grins on these yahoos? He hadn't heard a single contrary word from these citizens—spades, Indians, chinks, Mexicans, whites, all mingling together, everybody so nice and friendly to him you'd think he was Gentleman Jim Corbett come to town for a heavyweight championship bout. What did these puddin' headed dirt farmers got to be so damn giddy about? Living in a rat's nest of half-assed, fly-infested shanties fifty miles from nowhere in the middle of the Arizona desert? Road goes straight through Hell Valley, then takes a turn up Skull Canyon; even the goddamn Apaches had more sense than to put down wigwams this far out in the sand. No running water, electricity. Sweet Jesus, they ain't even got a proper saloon: The New City's a "dry community," they're so pleased to tell you with their pea-brain smiles.
They built an opera house, though, right there on Main Street. Theatrical companies coining in to put on shows; if they die out here it won't be for lack of entertainment. But not another building in town off the Main Street with more than four walls and a planked floor 'cept that big black church on the edge of town.
What'd the Reverend call it? The "cathedral."
Now Cornelius had been to St. Louis and New Orleans and San Francisco, and this didn't look like any cathedral he'd ever clapped eyes on: towers, spires, black stones, not a single cross in sight, staircases twisting this way and that. Looked more like a castle in one of those short-pants fairy tales. Big enough to fit into any one of those cities, though. Going up fast, a whole hive of worker bees—and there was demolition going on underground, too; he'd heard muffled explosions round the clock since he arrived. Must be mining something in those high rocks behind the tower; quartz, maybe silver or gold. Some kind'a fresh money was bank-rolling this crazy tank town.
Cornelius was getting steamed. First they kept him cooling his heels in the Reverend's parlor half the morning without offering so much as a root beer to cut the dust. Finally, he gets a sit-down in the same room with the head rooster and he's barely said hello before the Reverend rips into a tub-thumpin' filibuster on the evils of man, how it's the foretold destiny of The New City to rise out of the desert and create a world without sin—which is why he can't allow the railroad to bring the foul taint of civilization into their Garden of Eden.
Right from the git-go, Cornelius wants to cut in: Save your breath, pal; I don't even pray to your God,'though I've sent a Chinaman off to meet Him from time to time. But try as he might, Cornelius can't find an opening to slip into his pitch 'bout how no-body in their right mind turns down the railroad. ...
Come to think of it...
A team of coolies deserted construction on the north/south Arizona spur line three months ago; pinched a ton of supplies when they skipped, too; explosives and such. Not a hundred miles from here. And he'd seen more than a few chink faces in that crowd when he arrived... this little excursion might be worth the trouble after all.
But as I sit here and listen to this padre jabber, not that I'm half-interested in what he's flapping his gums about, there's some odd thing about the Reverend's voice makes it hard to break back in to my pitch: some sound buzzing in the room, like horseflies or a bunch of bees....
What's that on the Reverend's desk?
Looks like a ... a box of pins. That's it. Pins. Open box of pins. Never seen pins look like that before. Shiny. Long. Look new. Must be new. What is it about 'em? Are they new?
"That's right, Mr. Moncrief. Shiny new pins."
"Excuse me?" said Cornelius, without taking his eyes off the box. Not that he wanted to. He felt good; warm inside, better than he'd felt since he got here ... when was it, yesterday?
"You go right on ahead and look at them. There's no problem with looking at the pins, is there, Mr. Moncrief?"