The Six Messiahs - Mark Frost [145]
What was in the wagons?
Crates, long crates, piled high in every one.
He knew that shape.
But it made no sense; these were clearly civilian drivers. Couldn't be, could it? To be sure of it, he'd need a closer look.
Not that this was his business, he reminded himself, but if anything was going to complicate taking down the Chinaman, he had to make it his business.
Frank figured ten minutes before the wagons reached the intersection. He kicked into a gallop to the bottom of the bluff, then left the road and picked his way through the sand to the first outcroppings of rock formation. Strange shapes rising, a maze of twisted pink and white columns like a stand of petrified trees. He tied off his horse out of sight, took his rifle, and went looking for high ground.
The wagons were still a few minutes away, approaching along the main road from the left. As he advanced, he heard movement echoing ahead out of the rocks, then a rhythmic beating sound, followed by voices.
Singing?
Frank crept onto a large boulder and edged over to its rim, giving him a view of a small natural clearing set in the middle ol the formation.
A dozen of those same white-shirted people he'd spotted on the wagons, sitting in a circle in the clearing, clapping their hands and singing "Rock My Soul in the Bosom of Abraham."
Young faces. Smiling to beat the band. Two of them black, one Mexican, at least one Indian. Half of them women. Bandoliers around their waists, sidearms. Rifles stacked against the rocks; repeaters, serious guns.
What the hell sort of Sunday school outing was this supposed to be?
Frank jerked back away from the edge when he heard a footstep scuff the dirt behind him. He turned slowly; another one of the white shirts, a blond-headed kid, barely out of short pants, patrolling the narrow passage between the rocks below, a rifle in his hands.
A pebble rolled off the boulder and hit the ground near the boy's feet; the boy stopped and kneeled down.
Frank froze; if the kid glances up, he'll be looking right at the soles of my boots. And two seconds later he'll be wearing a footprint on his face.
The boy didn't move.
Frank held his breath. What the hell's he doing? If I was his age, I'd be sneaking a smoke, trying to talk some girl out of her petticoat. The boy crossed himself—he'd been praying—stood up, smiled to himself, and moved along, away from where Frank had tied his horse.
Frank exhaled slowly, then counted to a hundred. Singing and clapping continued from the clearing, the same song, over and over again. No one in a white shirt came looking for him. He slipped off the rock and moved silently back to his horse.
This was too weird.
A strong instinct came up inside him: If you want to head to Mexico, Frankie boy, now's the time.
The wagons had progressed along the main road, level with his position now. Frank moved to the edge of the rocks, less than fifty yards away, rested his arms in a crevice, and trained his glasses on the caravan.
On the long crates in the back of the wagons.
He examined each load carefully as they passed by; yes, each bore the same stenciled stamp on the boxes that he thought he'd find: u.s. army.
Those were Winchester rifles in those crates. Standard military issue.
Hundreds of them.
THE NEW CITY
"Praise God. Hallelujah; isn't it a glorious day?"
"Thank you, Brother Cornelius; it is indeed a glorious day," said the Reverend as he stepped out of his House for the first time that day—it was already hours past noon—and onto the planked sidewalk on Main Street. He squinted against the bright sunlight; hot, dry air blasting his lungs; worrying again where he would find the energy to fulfill this day's obligations.
If only they knew what I wanted from them, thought Reverend Day, wearily looking out at the crowded street. How many would stay? How many would turn and run?
"Tell me, Brother Cornelius, has it been a good day?"
"A glorious day, Reverend. Praise