by Mark Frost
"No, goddammit," said Lionel, cocking his Winchester as he'd seen the others do. "Stop treating me as if I'm some sort of inconvenience. It's my father who's in here somewhere, and I've a better right than anyone to be—"
A bullet whistled, knocking off his hat; Innes yanked Lionel to the ground, and the four scrambled to cover behind the guardhouse as another shot kicked off the gate.
"I do apologize," said Doyle to Lionel, who was nervously fingering the hole in his hat.
Halfway down Main Street, Jack and Walks Alone stopped in front of a large adobe house; the fire burning too intensely to risk taking the horses in any farther. They grabbed their rifles, turned the horses around, and spanked them back in the direction of the gate.
At the far end of the street through a thick haze of smoke and dust, they could see a column of people in white shirts moving toward the black church, where a large crowd moved slowly and steadily through its doors.
"There," said Jack, pointing toward the church. "That's where we're supposed to go, isn't it?"
Walks Alone nodded. They moved.
A patrol of white shirts came out of an alley; Jack calmly pulled his pistol and fired four times. As they stepped over the bodies, another figure stumbled toward them out of the darkness. Walks Alone raised the shotgun in her hand to fire, but Jack pushed the barrel aside.
A woman. Wearing a white low-cut gown with an Empire waist, a paste tiara fastened to her thick black hair. Face blackened with soot, dress shredded, arms raised in desperation.
"Help me, please," she said.
Jack stared at her. "Oh, my God."
The woman's eyes hit Jack and grew wide. "Oh, my God."
Walks Alone saw recognition fighting Jack's eyes as well. He moved right to the woman and she fell into his arms, holding on for dear life.
"It's you. It's really you, it's really you." Eileen opened her eyes, saw the Indian woman covered with blood over Jack's shoulder, and gasped.
"You're all right?" asked Jack.
She nodded, tears falling onto his shoulder.
"Where's Frank?" she asked, irrationally deciding they all must know each other.
"Who's Frank?" he asked.
"He went to look for Jacob."
"Jacob is here?" said Walks Alone.
"You know Jacob?" asked Eileen.
"He is here, then," said Jack.
"Yes, he's with your brother," said Eileen. "He killed Bendigo."
"Jacob did?" asked Jack.
"No; your brother." "So my brother's here."
"Yes."
"Who's Bendigo?" asked Walks Alone, growing more confused.
"Who's she?" asked Eileen.
"A friend. Where's Jacob now?"
"I don't know; we came in with the Japanese man...."
"Japanese man?" asked Walks Alone.
"This Japanese man?" asked Jack, pulling out the flier.
"That's him," said Eileen.
"Where is he?" asked Jack.
"I don't know; maybe with Frank."
"Who's Frank?" asked Walks Alone.
"Wait," said Jack, to both of them. "Slow down. Back up."
Jack pulled them into the shadows of the alley; Eileen took a deep breath and tried her best to explain.
At the guardhouse, shots peppered the logs around the four men. Their return fire had failed to flush out the sniper; Doyle looked through his spyglass and spotted a muzzle flash in the darkness of a shack to the northeast, a hundred yards away across open sand.
"We can't stay here," said Doyle.
"I'll have a go," said Presto.
The men looked at each other.
"Bit of the old tiger hunt," he said blithely. "Nothing to it."
"You're one of the dreamers," said Doyle. "You've some part to play in all this. Can't risk losing you off the board."
Presto reluctantly deferred. Doyle looked at his brother.
"Me, then," said Innes.
Doyle nodded. Innes edged to the side of the logs, looked left, and saw Jack's and Walks Alone's horses galloping toward him.
"Diversionary fire would be much appreciated," said Innes.
On Doyle's signal, the other three men rose up and emptied their guns toward the sniper. Innes dashed out from behind the guardhouse in front of the advancing horses. They reared as he approached; he grabbed one by the reins and used the horse as cover to take him to the nearest structure, a row of shanties north of the main street. By the time the sniper could spot him, the horse had run off again and Innes was in place; the shots cracked harmlessly through the wood over his head.
With the sniper firing at Innes, Doyle jumped out and grabbed the bridles of the horses, gathered them in, and tied them with the others behind the guardhouse. Presto spotted Edison's suitcase strapped to Jack's saddle and pulled it down.
Innes rushed silently through the back of die shanty, negotiating a series of empty buildings until he was directly behind the sniper's position. He picked up a rock, cocked his pistol, and closed in on the shack's rear door.
Through the glass, Doyle saw movement in the shack window and took off at a dead run toward the building.
Innes tossed the rock onto the roof of a lean-to on the right and kicked open the back door, ready to fire; the shack was empty. He heard a hammer cock to his left and dove to the ground; the first bullet cut through the meat of his upper left arm, the second kicked into the ground beside his head. His return shot went through the window wide, missing the sniper, a man in black outside the building. The sniper raised the rifle to finish him when three shots exploded in a burst and knocked the man out of sight.
Innes lay still, cocking the pistol, hands shaking violently. "Get him? Did you get him?"
Silence. Innes lowered the gun when Arthur appeared in the window, holding his smoking rifle.
"Got him," said Doyle, looking down at the man in black clothes.
"Is that the one?" asked Innes, feeling both faint and talkative. "Is that the one that got away? Out there, I mean. You know; the one they saw."
"He'll do for it. Not too bad, is it, old boy?"
"Not too bad," said Innes, gingerly touching his wounded arm. "Clean through, I think."
Doyle kicked down a wall of the shack to get to his brother and improvised a field wrap from a strip of his shirt to staunch the bleeding.
"Handy having a doctor along," said Innes, watching him work. "I should be good for an action medal now. Service ribbon, at the least."
"Victoria Cross, if I have anything to say about it. From the old girl herself."
"Younger brothers are good for something, after all," said Innes.
Doyle finished applying the bandage and patted him on the back, afraid that if he tried to speak he'd burst into tears. He helped Innes to his feet as the other two men ran up to join them; he noticed that Lionel carried the crate that contained the Book of Zohar.
"We must find Jack," said Doyle. "And then I think we'd better be getting you along to that church."
They returned to the horses and Doyle grabbed the medical kit from his saddlebag. Armed to the teeth, the four men I walked down the middle of Main Street. The buildings to their left had already collapsed as the heart of the fire laid waste to ' the southern half of town. Red cinder and ash drifted toward them. The wind was shifting to the north; Doyle estimated it wouldn't be long before the other side of town ignited and began to burn.
As they neared the largest building left standing on their right, a solid adobe hacienda, Jack called out and waved them into the shelter of an alley.
"Someone here to see you, Doyle," said Jack.
Eileen stepped out of the shadows.
"Hello, Arthur," she said.
Doyle stared at her, stunned to his core, a thousand fragmented memories rushing into his mind at the trigger of her voice, riding a dozen colliding powerful emotions.
"Hello," he said.
She looked sheepish, relieved, bashful, ashamed, frightened, happy—in other words,
the same violently oscillating range of feeling she had always managed to simultaneously convey during their brief and unforgettable romance.
"Someone you know?" whispered Innes, with the intuitive insinuation only a brother could manage.
Doyle nodded slightly, waving him away, unable to speak.
"You got my letter, I guess," she said when they were alone. The letter in which she'd said good-bye when she left England ten years before; the letter that had snapped his young heart in two.
"Yes," was all he could manage.
"How have you been?" she asked, then before he could answer: "What a stupid question, I know perfectly well how you've been; you're famous, for God's sake, probably fabulously wealthy, and married—"
"Yes."
"—I remember reading somewhere, with a lovely wife and three gorgeous children. And how have I been? Well, look at me."
"You look... beautiful."
She smiled ruefully and pulled the paste tiara off her head. "Awfully nice of you to say, Arthur."
"I mean it."
"If I'd stayed with you, I'd most likely own a real one of these by now. Really know how to back a winner, don't I. . .No, I've been all right, it's been a fine life. I'm just not at the top of my game at the moment...."
She burst into tears. Doyle put a comforting hand on her shoulder, then allowed her to hug him briefly before she pulled herself together. "Give me a moment, would you, dear?"
She walked off a short way without meeting his eyes.
The thousand things he had longed to say to her. All the experiences they'd never shared. He still wanted her, he knew that much. And it was impossible; not here, not now. And unless he wanted to destroy the life he'd worked so hard to build, not ever.
Jack had gathered Presto and Walks Alone at the edge of the street. He moved to where Doyle was standing. "We need to move on."
Doyle nodded wearily. Jack looked over at Innes, favoring his wounded arm. "Innes all right?"
"He'll survive."
"Will you?" said Jack, with a sly glance back at Eileen.
Doyle took him in. "That remains to be seen."
"Arthur, you're under no further obligation. Already far beyond the call. We'll carry on from here."
"But Jack—"
Sparks raised a gentle hand to still him. "We were the only ones actually invited to this party, remember?"
"What will you do if you find him? Alexander."
"I don't honestly know."
Through the net of his turbulent feelings, Doyle realized that standing in front of him was a man bearing an exact resemblance to his old friend Jack; light in his eyes again, life animating his gestures, a curl of amusement lifting the corners of his mouth.
How extraordinary to find him here, now, in this moment. Just when I might lose him again.
"My God, it's you," said Doyle, blinking in amazement.
"None other. Ever so faithfully yours, old friend," said Jack.
He laid a hand on Doyle's shoulder; Doyle covered Jack's hand with his and gripped tightly; the rest, a great deal, passed wordlessly between them. Doyle nodded in gratitude, wiping away the single tear that rolled down his cheek. Jack pulled away, snapped a jaunty salute, and with Presto and Walks Alone flanking him, started down Main Street toward the black church.
The bells in the church tower stopped ringing; the howling of the fire filled the silence.
"I'm coming with you," said Lionel, trotting after them, still carrying the Book of Zohar.
"We should follow behind," called Doyle to Jack. "Lay down some covering fire...."
"Up to you, old man," shouted Jack over his shoulder. "I can't stop you."
"So," said Innes, who'd been slowly working up to speaking with Eileen. "Where do you know my brother from?"
Eileen, sitting on the steps of the House of Hope, resting her head in her hands, looked up through bleary eyes and gave the young man a once-over. "Church group."
"Shared the same pew, did you?" said Innes, with a knowing smile.
She smiled back; cheeky one, wasn't he?
"My dance card's a little crowded at the moment, junior," she said. "But thanks for asking."
"Sorry?" said Innes, thoroughly perplexed. For the first time, it occurred to him that there might be some women in this world who were out of his league.
Doyle walked back to them, holding a pair of rifles.
"Do you still know how to shoot?" he asked Eileen.
"I haven't forgotten much of anything."
"Good," said Doyle, handing her a rifle. "Then follow me."
As the city collapsed, so too did the white shirts' organized pursuit of the two intruders; Frank and Kanazuchi raced ahead of the fire through the southern side of town, shadowing the escorted group of children. They passed the workers' quarters where Kanazuchi had spent die night and drew within sight of the cathedral; the wide gap separating it from the shanties had acted as a firebreak, so neither the church nor any of its surrounding structures was in any immediate danger.
As the children marched over the open ground to the church, Frank and Kanazuchi realized they had no chance to attack and kill their escorts without endangering the children. They hung back at the supply shacks and watched as the children folded into the white shirts outside the cathedral, moving obediently along with the crowd through the entrance. With most of the town's population, including the armed militia, now secured inside, the doors to the cathedral slammed shut behind them.
"Wrong time for the Sunday sermon," said Frank.
The bells in the tower stopped ringing. As the echoes faded, they heard only the windborne moaning of the fire.
Kanazuchi gestured and led Frank closer, to a tool shed on the edge of the work area. As they ducked inside, an assembly of guards wearing black trotted toward the church from a number of different directions and fell into a defensive formation across its entire facade.
Frank counted nearly fifty of them.
The men in black lifted and slid thick wooden bars through brackets on the cathedral doors. Frank and Kanazuchi looked at each other, asking the same question: Why are they locking the doors on this side?
Cornelius Moncrief stepped around the side of the church. A squad of men in black rolled the Gatling guns on their caissons into position, facing out, protecting the cathedral doors; one at the front, one at either side entrance. Another team pulled the fourth gun around to the back.
Cornelius glanced at his watch, gave another order, and three-man teams who appeared to know what they were doing took their places at each of the gun positions.
"All this for us?" asked Frank. "I mean, we're good, but—"
"Not for us," said Kanazuchi.
"Maybe they saw something. Maybe the army's coming for its guns."
Frank saw an alarming idea enter Kanazuchi's mind.
"This way," he said.
They backtracked from the work area near the cathedral entrance and followed the men pulling the last machine gun to the rear. Frank and Kanazuchi settled in behind one of the high mounds of rocks and debris above the path and watched the men in black pass beneath them, stop and set up the gun twenty feet from the rear doors of the church. Frank turned to look at the sheer wall of rock rising in back of the mounds.
"Nobody's gonna attack from this side," he said, puzzled.
Moments later half of the black-clad guards they'd seen out front ran in and formed a line to either side of the Gatling across the rear of the building. Each man carried a repeating Winchester and an extra ammunition belt; they knelt in firing positions, loaded and cocked their guns. Then the team manning the machine gun wheeled the muzzle around and aimed it directly at the rear doors.
"Want to tell me what the hell you think's going on here, Hammer?"
"They are going to kill them."
"Who?"
"The people in the church."
Frank paused. "That's just plain crazy."
Kanazuchi looked at him and nodded.
"And I suppose you think we ought to stop 'em."
"Yes."
"That's what I thought. Shit."
Frank looked off toward the south, past the reddened horizon.
"Mexico," he said quietly.
"What did you say?"
"I said what part of the river are we in now?"
Kanazuchi smiled slightly. "Most treacherous part."
"Suppose you got an idea 'bout how we're gonna do this."
"Hai."
Frank lit a cigar. "You want to tell me or you gonna make me guess?"
He told him.
Reverend Day didn't loosen his fierce grip on Dante's arm the whole way across between Main Street and the church; about halfway there, Dante realized the Reverend was holding on to him so tight because he needed help to walk. Smoke and heat choked the air, making breathing difficult at best. The Reverend hadn't said a word for a while; his face looked gray in the red light and his breath smelled worse than some of the jars in Dante's suitcases.
After leaving the theater, they had gone to the House of Hope, and Dante stood by as the Reverend rummaged through his desk, reading some papers real intently like he was trying to remember something; outside the office lay the bodies of four dead guards he hadn't even looked at. Then they'd gone down and out through a secret passage in the wall and started walking here. The Reverend had been getting weaker with every step. Dante felt scared; he didn't even want to think about anything bad happening to Reverend Day.
Ahead to the left, the last of a crowd of white shirts pressed inside the church; Dante even saw some little kids in the mix. The Reverend looked at the church, looked at his watch, seemed satisfied, then steered them to the right until they found two steel plates set in the dirt. Fumbling out a ring of keys, the Reverend dropped them on the ground.
"If you would be kind enough ... to do the honors," said the Reverend, weary and strained.
"Sure."
Dante picked up the keys, the Reverend fished out the right one for him, and Dante undid the padlock. He lifted the heavy plates off their hinges, revealing a steep staircase descending belowground. The Reverend took his arm again and Dante helped him down the steps. Handing him some matches, the Reverend directed Dante to light a lantern hung on a bracket beside the black stone door at the base of the stairs. It reminded Dante of a bank vault he'd seen once. With the aid of the lantern, the Reverend used another key to unlock the door; he pushed it lightly with one hand and it swung silently open.
