The Six Messiahs - Mark Frost [181]
"Does this make any sense to you?" asked Presto.
"They don't look like lawmen," said Innes.
"They're not. They're volunteers," said Doyle, studying a bloodstained piece of paper he had plucked from inside one victim's coat. "A posse; I believe that's what you'd call them. Looking for this man."
Doyle held out the flier, Presto lit a match, and they saw a crude pen and ink sketch of a diabolical-looking Asian man above a brief, lurid description of his alleged crimes.
" 'Chop-Chop the decapitating Chinaman,' " read Innes. " 'Wanted for ten terrible murders throughout the Arizona Territory. Suspected in countless other dastardly crimes.' "
"Busy little bugger, isn't he?" said Presto.
" 'The most dangerous man alive,' " read Doyle, darkly amused. "At least they resisted the impulse to hyperbolize. And a five-thousand-dollar reward. That explains the volunteers."
"Good God, could one man have done all this?" asked Presto, looking out at the slaughter around them.
"Not by himself. These men were caught in a crossfire," said Doyle, pointing to two sides of the clearing. "From here and there, behind the rocks. Four men, at least."
"With repeating rifles," said Innes, from behind the rocks. "Shells all over the place."
"And they all still have their heads," said Presto. "Hardly this Chop-Chop's traditional modus operandi..."
The flier was snatched out of his hands; Jack had walked up behind them and now held the paper, staring at the picture intently.
"What is it, Jack?" asked Doyle softly.
"He knows," said Walks Alone.
"Knows what?"
"That man is in the dream," she said, pointing to the flier. "One of the Six."
Jack looked up at her, agreement shining in his eyes.
"Then we can conclude these men were tracking him toward The New City when they were attacked," said Doyle.
Jack handed back the flier and ran purposefully toward the horses.
"Let's go," said Doyle.
"We should provide them a proper burial first," said Presto, looking around at the vultures gathering again at the perimeter.
"The desert will take care of it," said Walks Alone, moving back to the opening in the rocks.
"Bad form, don't you agree?" asked Presto of the Doyles.
"Yes," said Doyle, starting after her.
"Haven't you seen this fellow in the dream yourself?" asked Innes.
"Suppose I have, now that I think on it," said Presto in his peculiarly indifferent way, staring at the drawing. "Not much of a likeness, finally."
"Hope the bloke's half as good with that sword they say he's carrying as you are with your rapier," said Innes, running after Doyle.
"Let's hope he's on our side," said Presto quietly. He crossed himself, intoned a silent prayer for the dead, and left the scene of the massacre.
Jack was already on his horse by the time the group returned, and he galloped off to the west with Walks Alone close behind him before the others mounted. No one said a word as they scrambled to keep up with them; the secret delight Doyle felt at the signs of Jack's recovery was tempered by thoughts of what might be waiting for them in The New City.
The shirts made for a peculiar audience, thought Eileen. But why should that be different from anything else about them? Their attentiveness to the claptrap, Ruritanian melodrama bordered on reverent. Applause broke from a field of white in uniform bursts as unexpectedly as thunder. All their responses—laughter, sighs, gasps—came in a chorus, like one mind with the same thought expressing itself with a thousand voices.
Rymer had seemed irrationally pleased by the Players' lackluster rehearsal that day and he could not stop raving about The New City Theater. Was it only her imagination or was the man behaving even loonier than usual? For all his excitement, you would have thought the late Edwin-fucking-Booth was going to be in the audience that night.
She had to agree with him on one point: To her eye the theater's backstage facilities looked functional and well de signed, if a bit rudimentary, but the auditorium itself was a stunner, plush and fancy as any she'd seen in New York