That's when the gentleman who'd been sitting quietly in the corner with his four traveling companions spoke up for the first time.
We know that road, offered the gentleman. In fact, we're headed that way ourselves, and we would be more than happy to show you the way.
Right now?
Yes, we were planning to leave tonight, the man explained. And we know a good campsite along the way should you decide to break up the ride.
What's your business in this religious place? somebody asked.
We're Bible salesmen, said the man, and sure enough one of his companions showed them a valise that was chock-full of holy books.
A caucus ensued among the posse's elders; these fellas looked legit, sharply dressed and groomed, obviously Godfearing men, and they seemed to know the territory. The verdict came back fast and unanimous: The posse would ride with them at once.
By the time the thirty-eight amateur lawmen had assembled outside, the five Bible salesmen were saddled up, ready to go. None of the vigilantes overheard their leader, the man who'd spoken up first inside, the handsome one with the slight German accent, say quietly to his companions:
"Wait for my signal."
chapter 14
FRANK WAITED UNTIL FIVE MINUTES PAST SUNRISE TO RIDE up to the gate; a man and woman wearing identical white shirts, both carrying Winchesters, stepped out of the guardhouse to meet him.
"Welcome to The New City," said the woman.
"Nice to be here," said Frank.
"Isn't it a glorious day?"
"Seen worse," said Frank.
"What is your business with us today, sir?" Both of them smiling.
"Figured on joinin' up," said Frank, grinning right back at (hem.
"Joining ... up?" asked the woman.
"Yup."
Their smiles wore down around the edges; they glanced at each other uneasily.
"Joining up," said the man.
"Yup."
"Excuse us a moment, please, sir," said the woman.
The two moved back into the guardhouse, whispering to each other; Frank could see the man through the window, working a telegraph key. Looking up, he traced the suspended wire following the road toward the distant town. He took out his field glasses and trained them east, where he'd seen the military maneuvers taking place during the night; looked like a firing range set up there, sandbags and targets.
Frank heard the telegraph key clicking; an answer coming back. He tucked the glasses away as the guards moved bac outside, all smiles again.
"You may ride on ahead, sir," the woman said to him "Please stay on the road at all times. When you reach The New City, someone will meet you with further instructions."
"Have a glorious day," said the man.
Frank tipped his hat and urged his horse forward. The gat closed behind him. The road was simple but well maintained " flat stones laid down in orderly rows, wide enough for a wagon, cutting straight through the shifting dunes. Smoke rising from chimneys in the distance. As he rode the five mile to the next gate, a black stain that came into view in the distance turned out to be a gigantic black tower. Once he realized what he was looking at, Frank stopped; he heard Molly's voice again:
Looks like you wandered into the middle of somebody's nightmare now, Frankie; don't know whose exactly—ain't yours, 'cause I'm not in it. What you gonna do?
You know me, Molly; in for a penny, in for a pound.
A vast shantytown spread out ahead of him. Surprising, from the outside he'd figured The New City would be all picket fences, shade trees, and freckle-faced kids; this looked more like one of those dirt-poor slums he'd seen squatting outside big cities in Mexico.
He moved on. Smiling faces waved him through a second gate. A pretty young girl met him on horseback at the guardhouse and escorted him to a stable just off the town's main street. Looking through an arch to a courtyard in back, Frank spotted the actors' wagons grouped against a wall.
He'd come to the right place, that much he could bank on.
A group of five smiling young people in white shirts, none of them older than eighteen, blacks and whites mixed together, eagerly greeting him as he climbed off his horse. A stable hand led the horse, and his Henry rifle in its saddle holster, away. They pressed a printed flier into his hands—"The New City Rules for Our Guests"—and asked him to surrender his sidearm.
"No weapons are allowed in The New City," said one of the shirts, pointing to Rule 14 on the sheet, which was nearly as long as his arm.
Frank saw no percentage in arguing and handed over his Colt.
"I'll keep the holster, if you don't mind," said Frank.
"We don't mind at all, sir," beamed one of them.
"Good," said Frank.
'Cause I'm probably gonna need those bullets for the gun I hid in my boot.
"Would you please take off your hat and put your hands over your head, sir?" asked another.
"Why?"
"So we can give you your shirt," said another.
Two of them opening one of the white shirts, ready to slip it over his head. Frank thought this over for a second and decided it pissed him off.
"No thanks," he said.
He handed back the list of rules and walked out of the stable. The welcoming committee trailed after him like a flock of anxious ducks.
"But everyone who wants to join us has to wear their shirt, sir...."
"It says so right here in the rules."
Frank turned onto Main Street and kept walking; the avenue and the planked sidewalks crowded with busy, smiling people, all wearing the same white shirt. More than a few Chinese faces in the mix, Frank noticed. None that answered right off to the Chinaman's description, but enough of them to encourage the idea that Chop-Chop might not be far off.
Frank stopped, struck a match off a pillar, and lit up a cheroot. The five shirts following him whispered among themselves, confused; finally one of them, a bespectacled black kid, stepped forward.
"I'm sorry, sir, there's no smoking allowed in The New—"
Frank turned and shut him up with a look.
"How much you kids want to go fishing?" asked Frank, reaching into his pocket for a handful of silver dollars. "A buck apiece, how 'bout it?"
The six stared at him and each other in shock.
"There's no money here in The New City, sir."
"We have everything we need."
"All our needs are provided for." "That figures," said Frank, putting the coins away.
"It's important for everyone to follow the rules."
"Sure it is, kid, or what you got is anarchy and that's no way to run a railroad, is it?"
They looked at him blankly until the somber, round-faced black kid, who was emerging as their leader, picked up the thread of their argument.
"Especially if a person wants to join. They told us you wanted to join."
"They did, did they?"
"You do want to join us, don't you, sir?"
"I'm thinkin' about it," said Frank, looking off up the street. A poster outside a large building ahead on the right caught his eye; bright colors, big print. He walked toward it.
"Because we have strict rules about people wanting to join us," said the black kid, continuing to tag along.
"Somehow that doesn't surprise me."
"We really need you to follow the—"
"What's your name, kid?"
"Clarence, sir," said the black kid.
"Tell you what, Clarence. Why don't you cut the crap and give it to me straight so I can make up my own mind? Who's running the show here?"
"Excuse me?"
"Who's the head honcho?"