"Of course, sir," said Rymer, fumbling out a list.
"What's your name?" asked Eileen.
"What's yours?"
"I asked you first," she said.
Bendigo turned and shot her a dirty glance; Eileen half expected him to kick her in the shin.
"Brother Cornelius, ma'am," said the man with a menacing smile.
"Eileen Temple," she said, extending her hand. The big man looked down at it, slightly off balance, then shook it lightly. "Quite a beautiful town you have here, Brother Cornelius."
"We know," said Cornelius.
"Would you please stop?" whispered Bendigo to her under his smile.
"You'll be staying at the hotel, just down the street," said
Cornelius. "We'll escort you there after you take your stuff into the the-a-ter."
"Marvelous, so looking forward. I'm sure it's an absolutely splendid facility," gushed Bendigo.
"You tell me," said Cornelius. "You'll be the first to use it."
He gestured roughly; the woman handed Rymer a stack of leaflets.
"These are the rules in The New City," said Cornelius. "Please give one to each of your people. Ask them to obey. Our rules are important to us."
"Of course, Brother Cornelius," said Bendigo.
"Reverend Day would like to invite you to be his guests at dinner tonight," said Cornelius, with a look at Jacob. "All of you." He gave a sharp look at Eileen; she glanced away.
"How absolutely splendid," said Rymer. "Please tell the Reverend we would be most honored to accept his invitation. What time would—"
"Eight."
"And where would—"
"We'll come get you," said Cornelius. "Have a glorious day."
He walked back into the crowd out of sight. Giddy with relief, Rymer handed out the fliers to the company. Cheerful volunteers came forward from the crowd to help the stagehands unload their cargo.
Eileen realized she had never seen so many people of so many different races harmoniously grouped together before.
Something was dreadfully wrong here.
Kanazuchi watched their exchange from rocks above and outside of the fence to the east of town. With the naked eye, he could not make out their words from this distance, but he could read expressions and gestures like printed characters. It told him this:
The white shirts moved as one body, like insects in a hive.
No one of the white shirts realized yet that anyone else had been on board the last wagon; the stupid actor in the loud green hat had nearly given him away until Eileen stepped forward.
The big man, the one who'd asked the questions, was dangerous. Because of this man's attention, Jacob would soon be in trouble; he could not allow anything to happen to the old man. When the moment came, Jacob would be needed; for what exactly, only time would reveal.
Kanazuchi recognized he could do nothing until nightfall, four or five hours away. Regular armed patrols moved below him on either side of the fence; he would observe them for a while to understand their patterns.
After the actors unloaded their cargo, he watched them drive the wagons to a stable on the southern side of town: The Grass Cutter was safe for now and he knew where to find it.
He turned and studied the tower he had seen in the vision. Watched the workers swarming around its base.
When darkness came, that was where he would begin.
Innes burst into the compartment, holding a telegram. "I've secured horses, maps, weapons, and supplies; they'll be waiting for us at the station in Prescott." He handed Doyle a copy of the manifest he'd drawn up. "Took the liberty of putting this together; if there's something else you think we need, there's still time to wire ahead for it."
The boy's military stripe coming to the fore, thought Doyle with no small satisfaction as he glanced at the list.
"More than adequate," said Doyle, handing it back.
"Repeating rifles; I assume you both know how to shoot," said Innes, looking around at Presto and Mary Williams.
They nodded. Presto resumed the story he was relaying to Doyle; Jack's behavior at the time of Rabbi Brachman's death.
"Are you sure the man can be trusted?" asked Presto. "He seems to have an alarming disregard for human life."
Doyle looked outside at the moonlit plains rushing past the window.
"Leave us a moment would you?" asked Doyle of the other men.
Innes and Presto exited the compartment; Doyle turned to Mary.
"You have a connection to Jack. Through the dream."
She nodded, her eyes not leaving his, steady and strong.
"I've done all I know how to do for him. My diagnosis ... offers no solutions. Do you have an idea about the reason for his illness?"
"Sometimes people are attacked by ... an outside force."
"What do you mean?"
She hesitated. "Evil."
"Do you believe evil exists? As a separate entity?"
"That is our teaching."
Doyle took a deep breath, stepping off into unknown territory.
"Then if you're going to try and heal him," he said to the Indian woman, "you'd better get on with it."
She looked at him solemnly, nodded once, and moved to the door.
"Anything I can do?" asked Doyle.
"No," she said and quietly left the compartment.
Buckskin waited until the light faded from the western sky before he left the shelter of the rocks. The singing from the hollow stopped before dark and the kids in the white shirts lit a big campfire as the cold came on. Before the moon rose up, Frank led his horse across the road, away from the guardhouse, where lamps were still burning, and along the perimeter of the fence.
Ten double strands of barbed wire had been slung between posts drilled twenty paces apart; sunk deep in the sand, filled with mortar, built to last. The wire was a mix of Ric Rac and Hollner Greenbriar, two strands with a serious bite; a run-in with this much of the stuff could cut an animal, or a man, to shreds. These folks knew how to build a righteous fence, he had to give them that; must be some ranch hands among the gospel thumpers. But were they raising cattle in there? This wasn't grazing country; three strands of wire was enough to do the job on any range, and no fence he'd ever seen needed to run seven feet high to contain a herd. No; this fence had been put up for keeping something out.
Every half mile inside the lines, they'd added a watchtower, a covered platform twenty-five feet high with a ladder running up to a cabin. Manned by white-shirted guards toting Winchesters; Frank had to ride back a few hundreds yards from each one to stay out of their sight.
A few miles along, coming back to the fence after skirting a tower, he saw a field of light shimmering five or six miles ahead across the sand; a good-sized town, the center of this strange settlement. If the Chinaman had been hiding in one of the actors' wagons, that was where he'd be now.
Frank sat still in the saddle, shivering in his coat, and studied the situation. The fence ran on ahead to the left out of sight; he had no reason to believe it wouldn't complete a ring all the way around the settlement. They'd most likely included another couple of gates somewhere along the loop, which meant he could try to ride past the guards there or cut his way in anywhere on the fence. How he was supposed to ride back out again with a dead Chinaman strapped to the butt of his horse was a different story.
Mexico, on the other hand, lay two easy days' ride south, and there were no fences or guards anywhere between here and there. He could shave off his moustache. Lighten his hair with some lemon juice like he'd heard about in prison.
That dark-haired gal was inside there, too. As he thought of her, the sight of Molly Fanshaw's body lying on that Tombtone street two stories below him with her sweet neck broke came back. The empty whiskey bottle in his hand ...