Bloodstone

CHAPTER SIX

Evil will always rise, like scum to the surf ace. For an evil man will seek to impose his power on others. All the governments of history have seen evil men gain ascendancy. How then do we ensure that the rule of evil is for ever banished from this new land? We cannot. All that we can do is strive for holiness, and seek out, individually, the Will of God. And we can pray that when evil rises there will be men, aye and women, who will stand against it.

The Wisdom of the Deacon Chapter XXII

Isis stood before the broad desk and stared at the Crusader, trying to hold on to her temper. The man had small, bright eyes and a face that seemed to her to show cruelty'and arrogance. 'You have no reason to lock up our doctor,' she said.

'When the Oath Taker gets here we'll see what's right.' he said. 'We're not partial to Movers here. We don't like thieves and skulkers in Domango.'

'We are not thieves, sir. We came into town looking for work. I am a seamstress, our leader Jeremiah is a tailor, and Doctor Meredith is a physician.'

'Well, now he's a prisoner.'

'Of what is he accused?'

'Begging. Now be on your way-or I'll find a nice cell for you.' His eyes raked her figure. 'Maybe you'd like that,' he said, leering.

'I doubt that she would,' said a cold, deep voice, and Isis turned to see Jon Shannow standing in the doorway. Moving inside, he walked past her without a word and stood before the broad desk. 'I am here to report a murder,' he said.

The Crusader leaned back in his chair, linking his hands behind his head. 'A murder, you say? Where and when?'

'About three hours' ride north-east of here. A man named Hankin. Shot to death by a group of riders.'

Isis saw the change of expression on the Crusader's face. The man sat up straight. 'How do you know there was a murder?' he asked. 'Did you see it?'

'His children saw it,' said Shannow.

'And where are they now?'

'Safe,' Shannow told him.

'You saw the body?'

'No. But I believe the children.'

The man fell silent, but the fingers of his right hand began tapping nervously on the desk-top. 'All right,' he said at last, 'this'll have to wait until the captain gets back — some time this afternoon. Why not get yourself something to eat, and come back later?'

'Very well.' Shannow swung and left the office and Isis followed him.

'Wait!' she called, as he stepped off the boardwalk. 'They've got Doctor Meredith in there!'

'It would be better for you to avoid me,' said Shannow. 'There is evil here, and it will draw unto me.'

Isis was about to reply, but he walked away across the wide street towards an eating-house on the far side.

'You know that man?' asked the Crusader, moving alongside her.

'No,' she said. 'He rode by our wagons some days back, that's all.'

'Well, steer clear of him. He's trouble.'

'Yes, I will,' said Isis.

Inside the small eating-house Shannow sat with his back to the wall. There were three other diners; a thin, balding man who was reading a book, having finished his meal; a thick-set young miner with his left arm in a sling; and a slim, dark-eyed black man who was nursing a hot mug of Baker's. Dismissing the other two from his mind, Shannow concentrated on the young black man. He was wearing a coat of dark grey wool over a white shirt, and Shannow could see the enamelled butt of a revolver in a shoulder holster on his left side.

A tall black woman approached Shannow's table. 'We got good steaks, some fresh-laid eggs, and new bread from the oven this morning,' she said. 'Or else there's what's printed on the board.'

Shannow glanced up at the blackboard and the dishes and drinks scribbled in chalk. ‘I’ll have bread and cheese, and some warmed milk, if you please.'

'You want honey in the milk?' she asked him.

That would be pleasant.'

As she walked away his thoughts returned to the meeting in the office. The Crusader's reactions had been wrong. There was no surprise when Shannow mentioned the murder, and the man's twin concerns had been the whereabouts of the children and whether Shannow had seen the body. When the waitress returned with a mug of sweetened milk, Shannow thanked her, then asked in a low voice, 'There is a man in this area named Jack Dillon. How will I know him?'

'Best if you don't,' answered the woman, walking away. As she passed the table of the slim black man Shannow saw her bend her head and whisper something to him. The man nodded, then rose and walked towards Shannow's table. Reversing a chair, he sat down opposite the Jerusalem Man.

'Dillon's big and he's bald and he sports a thick beard,' said the newcomer. ‘Is that a help?'

'Where will I find him?'

'If you are looking for him, my friend, he will find you. Seeking to work for him, are you?'

'What would make you think so?'

'I know your kind,' said the black man. 'Predator.'

'If that is the case,' said Shannow, with the briefest of smiles, 'then are you not walking a perilous path by insulting me?'

The man chuckled. 'All life involves risk, friend. But I think it is minimal in this situation. For you see I am armed — and facing you.' His dark eyes were gleaming, and the fact that he held Shannow in contempt was all too obvious. 'What do you say to that?'

'A fool uttereth all his mind, but a wise man keepeth it in,' Shannow told him. 'Beware, boy, it can be fatal to make hasty judgements.'

'You calling me a fool?' The black man's hand was hovering now over the enamelled pistol-butt beneath his jacket.

'I am stating a fact,' said Shannow, 'and if you listen very closely you will hear the sound of a pistol being cocked.' The double click of the drawn-back hammer sounded from below the table. 'You seem very anxious to cause.trouble, young man,' continued Shannow. 'Could it be you have been sent to kill me?'

'No one sent me. I just despise your kind,' the man answered.

'The young are always so swift to judge. Did you know a farmer named Hankin?'

'I know him. Men like you forced him off his place. Couldn't find three people to give Oath for him.'

'He was murdered,' said Shannow. 'Shot to death, his children hunted like animals. I am waiting to see the Captain of the Crusaders; then I shall file a complaint against Jack Dillon.'

The black man leaned forward, elbows on the table. 'You really don't know anything about Dillon, do you?'

‘I know that he — and other men — shot an unarmed man in cold blood. And I will see him brought to justice.'

The black man sighed, ‘I guess I may have been wrong about you, friend. But I'm not the only one who's being foolish. I think you should just ride out now — far and fast.'

'Why would I wish to do that?'

The black man leaned in close. 'Jack Dillon is the Captain of the Crusaders. Appointed last month by the Apostle Saul himself.'

'What kind of settlement is this?' asked Shannow. 'Are there no honest men?'

The black man laughed. 'Where have you been living, friend? Who is going to speak against an anointed Crusader? There's forty of them — and Jacob Moon and his Riders. No one is going to go against them.'

Shannow fell silent, and the black man heard the welcome sound of the pistol hammer being eased forward. 'My name is Archer, Gareth Archer.' He extended his hand.

'Leave me, boy. I have much to think on.'

Archer moved away, and the waitress returned with a second mug of sweetened milk. This time she smiled. Shannow gazed out of the window at the settlement's main street. Beyond the buildings to the west he could see the mines on the distant hillsides, and beyond them the smoke from smelting houses and factories. So much dirt and darkness from the soot and smoke.

A face leapt unbidden to his mind, a slender man in late middle age, balding and sharp-featured with soft brown eyes.

'It's progress, Preacher. Ever since the planes landed and we found out what once we were, things changed. The planes carried engineers and surgeons, all sorts of skilled people. Most of them died within the year, but they passed on a lot of knowledge. We're building again. Soon we'll have good hospitals and fine schools, and factories that can manufacture machines to help us till the land and gather the harvest. Then there'll be roads and cities to those roads. It will be a paradise.'

'A paradise built on belching smoke and foul-smelling soot? I see the trees have all died around the canning plant, and there are no fish now in the Little River.'

Shannow sipped the sweetened milk, and sought a name for the face. Brown? Bream? Then it came to him: Broome. Josiah Broome. And with it came another face, strong female features surrounded by corn-blonde hair.

Beth.

The memory struck him like a knife in the heart.

'Jesus Christ! You used to be a man. Now you let scum like Shem Jackson strike you in front of a crowd. Knock you down in the dirt! God's teeth, Jon, what have you become?'

'The blow lessened him more than me. I have done with killing. Beth. I have done with the ways of violence. Can't you understand that there must be a better way for men to live?'

'What I understand is I don't want you here any more. I just don't want you!'

The sound of approaching horses jerked Shannow back to the present as four riders drew up in front of the Crusader offices. Shannow stood, left a half-silver on the table, then walked to the door.

Gareth Archer moved alongside him. 'Don't be a fool, man! Dillon is a dead shot, and those others with him are no angels.'

'If thou faint in the day of adversity, thy strength is small,' said Shannow. Stepping out, he moved from the wooden sidewalk, down the three short steps to the dusty street.

'Jack Dillon!' he called. The four men dismounted and the tallest of them, dark-bearded and powerfully-built, swung round to face him.

'Who wants me?' he replied. People who had been moving along the street stopped and watched the two men.

‘I am Jon Shannow and I name you as a murderer and a brigand.' Shannow could hear the sharp intake of breath from the crowd, and he saw the bearded man redden.

Dillon blinked and licked his lips, then he recovered some of his bluster. 'What? This is nonsense!'

Shannow walked slowly towards him, and his voice carried to all the observers. 'You shot down a farmer named Hankin, murdered him in cold blood. Then you hunted his children. How do you answer this accusation, villain?'

'I don't answer to you!' The big man's hand swept down towards his pistol and the crowd scattered.

Dillon drew first, a bullet slashing past Shannow's cheek. His own guns boomed in reply and Dillon, struck in the chest and belly, staggered back, triggering his revolver into the dust. A second man loosed a shot at Shannow, the bullet passing high and wide. Sighting his right-hand pistol, Shannow shot the man in the chest; he fell back over a guard-rail and did not move. The other two Crusaders were standing stock-still. Dillon was on his knees, blood drenching his vest.

Shannow strode to where the dying man waited. "Who so diggeth a pit shall fall therein, and he that rolleth a stone, it will return upon him.'

'Who… are… you?' Dillon fell sideways, but his pain-filled eyes continued to stare up at his killer.

'I am retribution,' Shannow told him. Kicking away the man's pistol, he scanned the crowd. 'You have allowed evil to prosper here,' he said, 'and that is a shame upon you all.' To his left he saw Gareth Archer move into sight, leading Shannow's horse.

Keeping the two remaining Crusaders in sight, Shannow mounted.

'Ride south-east for an hour,' Archer whispered, 'then turn west by the fork in the stream.' 'She is there?'

Archer was shocked, but he nodded. 'You knew?' 'I see her in you,' said Shannow. And turning the horse, he rode slowly from the town.

Amaziga Archer was waiting for him by the stream. The black woman had changed little since Shannow had last seen her and, like himself, she seemed untouched by the passage of the decades. Her hair was still jet-black, her face unlined, her almond-shaped eyes dark and lustrous. She was wearing a grey shield shirt and a riding skirt of leather. Her horse was a grey gelding of some sixteen hands.

'Follow me,' she ordered him, then headed up over rocky ground, her mount splashing along the shallow stream. They rode in the water for almost half an hour before she turned the gelding to the right, urging him up a steep bank. Shannow followed, his mount struggling on the greasy slope.

'They will see where we emerged,' he said. 'A skilled tracker will not be fooled by our route. The stream is not swift-running and the hoof-marks will be there for some days.'

'I am aware of that, Shannow,' she said. 'Grant me a little respect. I spent the last hour before your arrival moving back and forth in the water, emerging at no fewer than seven banks. Added to that, where we are about to go no man — save one — could follow.'

Without another word she rode on, heading towards a high wall of rock. The ground was hard, and glancing down Shannow saw that they were moving along an ancient road paved with slabs of granite.

This was the road to Pisaecuris,' she told him, 'a major city of the Akkadians. They were descended from the peoples of the Atlantean empire, and flourished thousands of years ago.'

Ahead of them was a series of ruined buildings, and beyond that a circle of great stones. Amaziga Archer rode through the ruins and dismounted at the centre of the circle. Shannow stepped from the saddle.

'What now?' he asked.

'Now we go home,' she said. From a deep pocket in her skirtshe took a small golden Stone. The air shimmered with violet light and Shannow's horse reared, but he calmed him swiftly. The light faded.

Beyond the circle there was now a two-storey house built of red brick and painted timbers, with a slanted roof of black slate. Before it was a garishly painted and highly elaborate carriage; it had windows all around and rested on four thick, black wheels.

'This is home,' she said coldly, interrupting his examination of the object. 'I wish I could say you were welcome — but you are not. There is a paddock behind the house. Release the horses there. I will prepare some food.' Tossing him the reins to her grey, she walked into the house. Shannow led the horses to the rear of the building, unsaddled them and freed them in the paddock. Then he returned to the front door and tapped lightly on the wood. 'For God's sake,' she said, 'you don't need to observe the niceties here.'

Stepping inside, he saw the most remarkable room. It was fully carpeted in thick grey wool, upon which stood four padded armchairs and a couch covered with soft black leather. From the ceiling hung a curious lamp of glass, no larger than a wine goblet, from which came a light so bright it hurt his eyes to stare at it. There was a fire blazing in a stone hearth but the coals, though they glowed, did not burn. On a desk by the far wall was a curious contraption, a box, grey on three sides but with one black side facing towards a chair. Wires extended from the rear, running down to a small block set in the wall.

'What is this place?' asked Shannow.

'My study,' said Amaziga. 'You should be honoured, Shannow. You are only the third man to see it. The first was my second husband, the second was my son, Gareth.'

'You married again. That is good.'

'What would you know about it?' she snapped. 'My first husband died because of you. He was the love of my life, Shannow. I don't suppose you'd understand that, would you? And because of you and your demented faith my home was destroyed, and I lost my first son. I didn't think there was much more you could do to hurt me. Yet here you are, large as life. The new Elijah, no less, and your twisted values have become enshrined in the laws of your bizarre new world.'

'Is that why you brought me here, lady?' he asked softly. 'So that you could blame me for all the evils of Man? Your husband was killed by an evil man. But your people died because they followed Sarento, and he was behind the Hellborn War. It was he, not I, who turned the Daniel Stones to blood and brought destruction on the Guardians. But then you know all this. So unless you want to blame me for every storm and drought, every plague and pestilence, pray tell me why you asked your son to guide me to you.'

Amaziga closed her beautiful eyes and drew in a deep breath, which she released slowly. 'Sit down, Shannow,' she said at last, her voice more mellow. ‘I’ll make some coffee, then we'll talk.' She moved to a cupboard on the far wall and removed a brightly coloured packet. Shannow watched as she tipped the contents — small dark stones — into a glass jug. She flicked a switch and the jug whirred, grinding the stones to powder. This she poured into a paper container set atop a second, larger jug. Seeing him watching her, she smiled for the first time. 'It's a drink that is popular in this world,' she told him. 'You may prefer it sweetened with milk and sugar. It will take a little time.'

'Where are we?' he asked.

'Arizona,' she said, leaving him none the wiser.

Crossing the room, she sat opposite him. 'I am sorry,' she said, 'for my angry words. And I do know that you are not wholly at fault. But equally, had you not entered my life my first husband would still be alive and so would Luke. And I cannot forget that I saw you destroy a world — perhaps two worlds. Millions upon millions of people. But Beth was right. You were not seeking to detonate the Sword of God; you did not even fully know what it was.' Hot water began bubbling into the jug and Amaziga rose and stood by it. 'I am not religious, Shannow. If there is a God, then he is capricious and wilful and I want no part of him. So I find myself disliking you on too many counts to be able to handle.'

The bubbling noises from the jug abruptly ceased and Amaziga poured the black liquid into two ornate mugs. She passed one to Shannow, who sniffed it apprehensively. When he sipped it, the taste was acrid and bitter, similar to Baker's but with more body. ‘I’ll get the sugar,' said Amaziga.

Sweetened, the drink was almost bearable. Tell me what you want of me, lady,' he said, putting aside the mug.

'You are so sure I want something?'

He nodded. 'I am not seeking another angry dispute, but I already knew that you held me in contempt.

You have made that clear on a number of occasions. So, the fact that I am here means you need me. The question is, for what purpose?'

'Perhaps it was just to save your life.'

He shook his head. 'No, lady. You despise me and all that you believe I stand for. Why would you save me?'

'All right!' she snapped. There is something.'

'Name it, and if it is possible I will attempt it.'

She rubbed her face and looked away. 'You give your promises so easily,' she said, her voice low.

'And when I do, I keep them, lady. I do not lie.'

'I know that!' she said, her voice rising. 'You are the Jerusalem Man! Oh, Christ. .'

'Just tell me what you want,' he urged her.

'I will tell you what I need from you, Shannow. You will think I am mad, but you must hear me out. You promise that?' He nodded and for a moment she said nothing, then she looked directly into his eyes. 'All right. I want you to bring Sam back from the dead.'

He stared at her in silence.

'It is not as crazy as it sounds,' Amaziga went on. Trust me on that, Shannow. The past, the present and the future all co-exist, and we can visit them. You know that already, because Pendarric's legions crossed the vault of time to invade our lands. They crossed twelve thousand years. It can be done.'

'But Sam is dead, woman!'

'Can you only think in straight lines?' she stormed. 'Supposing you were to go back into the past and prevent them killing him?'

'But I didn't. I do not understand the principles behind such journeys, but I do know that Sam Archer died — because that is what happened. If I went back and changed that, then it would already have happened and we wouldn't be having this conversation.'

Suddenly she laughed and clapped her hands. 'Bravo, Shannow. At last a little imagination! Good.

Then think on this: If I journeyed back into the past and shot your father, before he met your mother, and then returned here, would I be alone? Would you have ceased to exist?'

'One would suppose so,' he said.

'No,' she said triumphantly. 'You would still be here. That is the great discovery.'

'And how would I be here without having had a father?'

There are infinite universes existing alongside our own, perhaps in the same space. Infinite. Without number, in other words. There are thousands of Jon Shannows, perhaps millions. When we step through the ancient Gateways we cross into parallel universes. Some are identical to our own, some fractionally different. With an infinite number it means that anything the mind can conceive must exist somewhere. So somewhere Sam Archer did not die in Castlemine. You see what I am saying?'

'I hear the words, lady. Understanding is something else entirely.'

'Think of it in terms of the grains of sand in a desert. No two are exactly identical. The odds against finding twin grains would be, say, a hundred million to one. But then the number of grains is finite. It may be thirty trillion. But supposing there was no limit to the number of grains? Then a hundred million to one would be small odds. And within infinity there would be an infinite number of twins. That is a fact of life within the multiverse. I know. I have seen it.'

Shannow finished his coffee. 'So you are saying that in some world, somewhere, there is a Sam Archer waiting to be taken to Castlemine? Yes.'

'Exactly.'

'Then why do you not go back back and find him? Why is it necessary to send a messenger?'

Amaziga moved to the jug and refilled the mugs. This time Shannow sipped the brew appreciatively. She sat down and leaned back in the leather chair. ‘I did go back,' she said, 'and I found Sam and brought him home. We lived together here for almost a year.'

'He died?'

She shook her head. 'I made a mistake. I told him everything and one morning he was gone, searching for what he termed his own life. What he didn't know was that I was already pregnant with Gareth.

Perhaps that would have changed his mind. I don't know. But this time I'll get it right, Shannow. With your help.'

'Your son must be around twenty years old. How is it you have waited this long to try again?'

Amaziga sighed. 'He is eighteen. It took me.two years to find Sam again, and even in that I was lucky. I have spent the last decade in research, studying clairvoyance and mysticism. It came to me that clairvoyants cannot see the future, for it does not exist yet. What they can do is to glimpse other identical worlds — which is why some of their visions are so ludicrously wrong. They see a future that exists on another world and predict that it will happen here. But all kinds of events can change the possible futures.

Finally I found a man whose powers were incredible. He lived in a place called Sedona — one of the most beautiful lands I have ever seen, red rock buttes set in a magnificent desert. For a time I lived with him. I used my Sipstrassi Stones to duplicate his powers, and imprint them on a machine.' She stood and walked to the black-faced box on the desk by the wall. This machine. It resembles a computer, but it is very special.' Amaziga pressed a button and the screen flickered to life, becoming a face, a handsome man with red-gold hair and eyes of startling blue.

'Welcome home, Amaziga,' it said, the voice low and smooth, and infinitely human. ‘I see you found the man you were seeking.'

'Yes, Lucas. This is Jon Shannow.'

Shannow rose and approached the box. 'You trapped the man in there?' he said, horrified.

'No, not the man. He died. I was away on research and he collapsed with a heart attack. Lucas is a creation which holds all of the man's memories. But he is also something different. He is self-aware in his own right. He operates as a kind of time-scope, using both the power of Sipstrassi and the magic of the ancient Gateways. Through his talent we can view alternate worlds. Show him, Lucas.'

'What would you like to see, Mr Shannow?' asked Lucas.

He wanted to say Jerusalem, but he could not. Shannow hesitated, 'You choose,' he told the machine.

The face disappeared and Shannow found himself staring at a city on a hill, a great temple at the centre.

The sky above was deep blue, and the sun shone with unbearable brightness. A man was standing outside the temple, arms raised, and a great crowd was listening to him; he was dressed in golden armour, with a burnished helm upon his head. Sounds came from the machine, a language Shannow did not know, but the armoured man's voice was low and melodious. Lucas's voice cut in: 'The man is Solomon and he is consecrating the great temple of Jerusalem.' The scene faded, and was replaced instantly by another; this time the city was in ruins and a dark-bearded figure stood brooding over the broken stones. Again Lucas cut in: 'This is the King of the Assyrians. He has destroyed the city. Solomon was slain in a great battle. There is, as you can see, no temple. In this world he failed. Do you wish to see other variations?'

'No,' said Shannow. 'Show me the Sam Archer you wish me to find.'

The screen flickered and Shannow saw a mountainside and a collection of tents. Several people were gathering wood. One of them was the tall, broad-shouldered man he remembered so well: Sam Archer, archaeologist and Guardian. He had a rifle looped over his shoulder and was standing on a cliff-edge staring down over a plain. Upon the plain was an army.

The day following this scene,' said Lucas, 'the army sweeps into the mountains, killing everyone.'

'What War is it?'

'It is the Hellborn. They have conquered and are now sweeping away the last remnants of the defeated army.'

The screen changed once more, becoming the handsome face with the clear blue eyes. 'Do I exist in this world?' asked Shannow.

'You did, as a farmer. You were killed in the first invasion. Sam Archer did not know you.'

'Who rules the Hellborn? Sarento? Welby?'

'Neither. The Bloodstone rules.'

'Someone must control it, surely?'

'No, Shannow,' said Amaziga. 'In this world the Bloodstone lives. Sarento drew it into himself, and in doing so created a demon with awesome powers. Thousands have died since to feed the Bloodstone.'

'Can it be killed?'

'No,' said Lucas. 'It is impervious to shot or shell, and can create a field around it of immense force. The Sword of God could have destroyed it, but in this world there is no missile waiting.'

The Bloodstone is not your problem, Shannow,' put in Amaziga. 'All I want is for you to rescue Sam and bring him back. Will you do it?'

'I have a problem,' he said.

'Yes, with your memory. I can help you with that. But only when you get back.'

'Why wait?'

She hesitated before answering. 'I will tell you the truth, and ask you to accept it. You would not be the same man if I returned your memory to you. And the man you will become — though more acceptable to me — would have less chance of success. Will you take that on trust?'

Shannow sat silently, his pale gaze locked to her dark eyes. 'You need Shannow the killer.'

'Yes,' she whispered.

He nodded. 'It lessens us both.'

'I know,' she answered, her eyes downcast.

The main street of Purity was bustling with people as Nestor and Clem rode in; miners, their weekend pay burning holes in their pockets, were heading for the taverns and gambling-houses, while the locals moved along packed sidewalks to restaurants and eating-houses. Shops and stores were still open, although dusk was long since past, and three lamplighters were moving along the street carrying ladders and tapers. Behind them, in double lines, the huge oil-lamps gave off a yellow glow that made the mud of the main street shine as if it was streaked with gold.

Nestor had never been to Purity, though he had heard that the silver mines had brought great prosperity to the community. The air stank of smoke and sulphur, and music was playing all along the street, discordant and brash as many melodies vied for the ear.

'Let's get a drink,' shouted Clem. 'My throat feels like I'm carrying half the desert caked around it.'

Nestor nodded in reply and they drew up outside a large tavern with ornate stained-glass windows.

Some twenty horses were hitched to the rail and Nestor had difficulty finding a place to leave their mounts. Clem ducked under the rail and strode into the tavern. Inside there were gaming tables, and a long bar served by five barmen. A band was playing brass instruments, a pianist accompanying them.

Above the gaming hall a gallery ran around the room and Nestor saw gaudily-dressed women moving along it, arm-in-arm with miners or local men. The boy frowned. Such behaviour was immoral, and it surprised him that any Deacon township would tolerate such displays.

Clem eased his way to the bar and ordered two beers. Nestor did not like the taste of beer, but said nothing as the glass was pushed towards him.

The noise within the tavern was deafening, and Nestor drank in uncomfortable silence. What pleasure, he wondered, could men draw from such places? He wandered across to a card table, where men were pushing Barta notes into the centre of the table. He shook his head. Why work all week and then throw your money away in a single night? It was incomprehensible.

Nestor turned away — and collided with a burly man carrying a pint of beer. The liquid splashed down the man's shirt and the glass fell from his grasp to shatter on the sawdust-strewn floor.

'You clumsy bastard!' the man shouted.

'I'm sorry. Let me buy you another.' A fist hit Nestor square in the face, hurling him back over a card table, which toppled, spilling Barta notes to the floor. Nestor rolled and tried to come upright but, dizzy, he stumbled back to his knees. A booted foot cracked into his side and he rolled away from the blow, but came up against a table-leg. The man reached down and dragged him up by the lapels of his jacket.

'That will be enough,' Nestor heard Clem Steiner say.

The man glanced round. 'It will be enough when I say it is. Not before,' retorted his attacker.

'Let him go or I'll kill you,' said Clem.

The music had ceased when Nestor had been struck, but now the silence was almost unbearable. Slowly the man let him go, then pushed him away. He turned towards Clem, his hand hovering over the holstered gun at his hip. 'You'll kill me, dung-breath? You know who I am?'

'I know you're a lard-belly with all the speed of a sick turtle,' said Clem, with an easy smile. 'So before you make an attempt to pull that pistol, I should call on what friends you have to stand beside you.'

The man swore and made a grab for the gun, but even as his hand closed on the butt he found himself staring down the barrel of Clem's nickel-plated revolver. Clem walked forward until the barrel rested on the man's forehead. 'How did anyone as slow as you live to get so ugly?' he asked. As he finished speaking, he stepped forward and brought his knee up hard into the other's groin. With a groan the man slumped forward and Clem's pistol landed a sickening blow to the back of his neck. He hit the floor face first and did not move.

'Friendly place,' said Clem, holstering the pistol. 'You finished fooling around, Nestor?'

The boy nodded glumly. Then let's find somewhere to eat,'' said Clem, clapping the younger man on the shoulder.

Nestor stumbled forward, still dizzy, and Clem caught him. 'By God, boy, you are a trouble to be around.'

An elderly man approached them. 'Son, take a little advice and leave Purity. Sachs won't forget that beating. He'll be looking for you.'

'Where's the best eating-house in town?' countered Clem.

The Little Marie. Two blocks down towards the south. On the right.'

'Well, when he wakes up, you tell him where I've gone. And tell him to bring his own shovel. I'll bury him where he lands.'

Clem steered Nestor out of the tavern and half-lifted him to the saddle. 'Cling on there, boy,' he said. The pain'll pass.'

'Yes, sir,' mumbled Nestor. Clem mounted and led Nestor north. 'Ain't we going the wrong way, sir?'

Clem just chuckled. Several blocks further along the street they came to a small restaurant with a painted sign proclaiming, 'The Unity Restaurant'. This will do,' said Clem. 'How are you feeling?'

'Like a horse walked over me.'

'You'll survive. Let's eat.'

The restaurant boasted just five tables, only one of which was occupied. The diner was a tall man, wearing the grey shield shirt of a Crusader. Clem hung his hat on a rack by the door and walked to a table. A slender waitress with honey-blonde hair approached him. 'We got steak. We got chicken. We got ham. Make your choice.'

‘I can see the reason for the restaurant's popularity,' said Clem. 'I hope the food is warmer than the welcome.'

'You won't find out till you make a choice,' she said, without a change of expression. 'We got steak. We got chicken. We got ham.'

‘I’ll have steak and eggs. So will he. Medium rare.'

'Er, I prefer mine well done,' said Nestor.

'He's young, but he'll learn,' put in Clem. 'Make it two, medium rare.'

'We got local wine. We got beer. We got Baker's. Make your choice.'

'How good is the wine?' She raised one eyebrow. 'Forget I asked. We'll take the beer.'

As she walked away Nestor leaned forward. 'What kind of a town is this?' he asked Clem. 'Did you see what they were doing in that tavern? Gambling, and consorting with. . with. .' the young man stumbled to a halt.

Clem chuckled. 'You mean the women? Ah, Nestor, you've got a lot to learn, boy.'

'But it's against the Deacon's laws.'

There are some things you can't legislate against,' said Clem, his smile fading. 'Most men need the company of a woman from time to time. In a mining community, where men outnumber women maybe twenty to one, there's not enough to go round. That sort of situation leads to trouble, Nestor. A good whore can help keep the peace.'

'Your friend is a wise man,' said the Crusader, easing back his chair and wandering over to their table.

He was tall and stoop-shouldered, with a drooping moustache. 'Welcome to Purity, boys,' he said. 'I'm Seth Wheeler, local Captain of Crusaders.'

Those are the first pleasant words we've heard,' said Clem, offering his hand.

Wheeler shook it and pulled up a chair. 'Just visiting?' he asked.

'Passing through,' said Clem, before Nestor could speak.

Wheeler nodded. 'Don't judge us too harshly, young man,' he told Nestor. 'Your friend is right. Once the silver mines opened up we got every kind of villain here, and some four thousand miners. Hard men. At first we tried to uphold the laws regarding gambling and the like. But it went on just the same. Tricksters and conmen fleece the workers. That led to killings. So we opened up the gambling-houses and we tried to keep them fair. It ain't perfect, but we do our best to keep the peace. It ain't easy.'

'But what about the law?' said Nestor.

Wheeler gave a weary smile. 'I could make a law that says a man can only breathe on a Sunday. You think it would be obeyed? The only laws men will follow are those that they either agree with, or can be enforced by men like me. I can make the miners and the rogues stay away from the decent folk here. I can do that. But Unity needs silver, and this is the richest strike ever. So we got special dispensation from the Apostle Saul to operate our. . places.’ It was obvious that Wheeler didn't like the situation, and he struck Clem as a decent man. 'So where you heading?' he asked Nestor.

'We're looking for someone,' replied the youngster.

'Anyone in particular?'

'Yes, sir. The Preacher from Pilgrim's Valley.'

'Jon Cade? I heard he was killed after his church was burnt down.'

'You knew him?' asked Clem.

'Never seen him, but word spread that he was friendly to Wolvers — even had them in his church. No wonder it got blazed. He's alive then, you reckon?'

'Yes, sir, we think so,' said Nestor. 'He killed some of the raiders, but he was wounded bad.'

'Well, he's not been here, son. I can assure you of that. Still, give me a description and I'll see it's circulated.'

'He's around six feet two, dark hair — a little grey at the temples. And he was wearing a black coat and a white shirt, black trousers and shoes. He's sort of thin in the face, with deep-set eyes, and he don't smile much. I'd say he was around 35, maybe a little older.'

'This wound he took,' said Wheeler softly. 'Was it in the temple. . here?' he added, tapping the right side of his head.

'Yes, sir, I believe so. Someone seen him riding out, said he was bleeding from the head.'

'How would you know that if you haven't seen him?' put in Clem.

'Oh, I've seen a man who answers that description. What else can you tell me about him?'

'He's a quiet man,' said Nestor, 'and he doesn't like violence.'

'You don't say? Well, for a man who doesn't like it he's mighty partial to it. He shot our Oath Taker to death. Right there in the church. I have to admit that Crane — the dead man — was an odious little runt, but that ain't hardly the point. He was also involved in an earlier gun-battle when Crane and some other men attacked a group of Wanderers. Several men — and a woman — were killed. I think the wound must have scrambled your Preacher's brains, son. You wouldn't believe who he's claiming to be.'

'Who?' asked Nestor.

'The Jerusalem Man.'

Nestor's mouth dropped open, and he swung a quick glance to Clem. The older man's face was expressionless. Wheeler leaned back in his chair. 'Don't seem to have surprised you none, friend?'

Clem shrugged. 'Head wounds can be very tricky,' he said. 'I take it you didn't catch him?'

'Nope. To be honest, I hope we don't. That's a very sick man. And he was provoked. I'll tell you this, though, he can surely handle a pistol. That's a surprising gift for a Preacher who don't like violence.'

'He's a surprising man,' said Clem.

Jacob Moon was thinking of other, more weighty matters as the mortally wounded man crawled painfully across the yard, trying to reach the fallen pistol. He was considering his prospects. The Apostle Saul had treated him fairly, giving him back his youth and supplying a plentiful share of wealth and women. But his day was passing.

Saul might think he could take the Deacon's place, but Moon knew it wouldn't happen. For all his bluster and his willingness to kill for power, there was a weakness in Saul. Others had not, apparently, noticed it.

But then they were blinded by the brilliance of the Deacon, and failed to see the flaws in the man who stood beside him. Let's face it, thought Moon, Saul casts a mighty thin shadow.

The wounded man groaned. He was close to the pistol now; Moon waited until his hand closed over the butt, then shot him twice in the back. The last shot had severed the spine just above the hip, and the man's legs were useless. Moon's victim, the pistol in his hand, was trying to roll over in order to aim at his assailant. He couldn't. The legs were dead weight now.

Moon moved to the right. 'Over here, Kovac,' he said. Try this side.'

Gamely the injured Bull Kovac pushed against the ground," his powerful arms finally twisting him far enough to be able to see the tall assassin. With trembling fingers Bull eased back the hammer of his pistol.

Moon drew and fired, the bullet entering Kovac's head just above the bridge of the nose.

'By God, he was game,' said one of the two Jerusalem Riders accompanying Moon.

'Game doesn't get it done,' said Moon. 'You boys get back to Pilgrim's Valley and report the attack on Kovac's farm. You can say that I'm out hunting the killers. If you need me, I'll be in Domango. And Jed,'

he called as the riders turned their mounts.

'Yes, sir, Jacob?'

'I haven't the time to deal with the storekeeper. You handle it.'

'When?'

'In two days,' Moon told him. 'The night before the Oath Taking.'

As the men rode away Moon stepped across the corpse and strolled into the house. The log walls were well-crafted and neatly fitted, the dirt floor hard-packed and well-swept. Bull Kovac had traced a series of motifs into it, making it more homely. There were no pictures on the wall, and all the furniture was hand-made. Moon pulled up a chair and sat down. A jug of Baker's was still sitting on the old iron stove, gently steaming. Reaching out he filled a mug, his mind returning to the problem of Saul.

The Apostle was right. Land was the key to wealth. But why share it? Most of what they had gathered was already in Moon's name. With Saul dead I will be doubly rich, he thought.

A small black and white cat moved out of the shadows and rubbed against Moon's leg. It jumped to his lap and began to purr. Moon stroked its head and the animal gratefully curled up, its purrs increasing.

When to kill him was the question now.

Stroking the cat, Moon found his inner tension subsiding, and he remembered a line from the Old Testament. Something about, for every thing there is a season, a time to plant, a time to reap, a time to live, a time to die. That sounded right.

It wasn't the season on Saul just yet. .

First there was the Jerusalem Man. Then the woman, Beth McAdam.

Moon finished his mug of Baker's and stood, the cat dropping to all fours on the floor. As he strode from the building, the cat followed, and stood in the doorway meowing.

Moon turned and fired in one flowing motion. Then reloading his pistol, he mounted his horse and set off for Domango.