Chapter 5: Steed

            The Bloodhounds had toyed with their prey these few days, as their instincts often urged them to do.  They had neared him then receded, tiring the prey as he fled, running down his nerves and wits.  So that when he fell, he was easy prey, indeed.  Because, for all their size and bluster, Bloodhounds are more akin to jackals then they are their canine namesakes.  They are cowardly and lazy creatures.   

            This prey had been more slippery than was expected.  Twice, when they felt they had him, he slipped through their grasp.  But not this time.  This time he fell like a wounded bird, fever burning off his body making his aroma enticing, irresistible.  And in the hunger nature and the unnatural had provided them, the Bloodhounds leapt on this Rider, clustering around him and fighting one another for a chance at his still-breathing carcass.  The warm, delicious human flesh was right within their muzzles.

            And that is when the ground thundered.  The ground thundered, and a mighty, terrible trumpet rolled across the fields, rebounding to the forest.  And with these two sounds a new opponent entered the fray.

            An enormous hoof, like an iron cannonball, slammed down on the Bloodhound whose fangs were just beginning to tear into Rider’s side.  The victim of this bludgeon would never rise again, its head smashed like a ripe summer gourd.  The other dogs fell back from the prey, so easily within their grasp.  And as they did so, they caught their first glimpse of the attacker.

            This great horse, this battle-stallion stood over the fallen man with its mountainous body gleaming with sweat.  The sweat sent forth a mighty stink of wrath.  Its head was high as it shook its gleaming mane, and its teeth gleamed in a fearsome grin.  One hoof pawed the ground and the stallion lowered its head, challenging the dogs.

The Bloodhounds were still mad with bloodlust, and did not pause to think the consequences of challenging the stallion.  They rushed forward, weaving back and forth across one another’s path in an instinctual tactic that would confound many an enemy.  But not this enemy, not today.  The horse gave one more, mighty paw at the ground, digging a shallow ditch in the dirt and stone with its great hoof.  The dogs attacked, two high, one low.  The horse reared up, its sledgehammer fore-hooves wind-milling the air before they slammed down on the dog that had made a lunge for its belly.  This misfortunate creature fell with an ear-shattering yelp as its spinal column snapped like a dead branch. 

            The two other animals fell on the stallion, one sinking its considerable teeth into the horse’s flank while the other fell short, tumbled away, and then circled back, growling low.

            The horse spun, bucking hard.  The dog on its back lost its grip and went flying.  It slammed against a tree and lay where it fell.  The last Bloodhound, knowing the battle had turned against it, turned tail and began sprinting northward, its breath exploding in growling bursts.  The stallion would not let this aggressor off so easily, though, and began galloping after it.  They wove like that, through tree and over ridges.  The dog could smell the great horse growing closer, and tried weaving, veering to lose its pursuer.  But a horse has more stamina than does a dog, and little by little the dog began to weary, until it finally collapsed in the middle of a clearing.  The horse trotted into the clearing and stood over the exhausted dog.  The Bloodhound squeezed its eyes closed.  The end came quickly. 

 

            Through a haze of pain Jack looked up to see, floating somewhere in the darkness above him, a woman’s face.  It was bathed in shadow and hung about with strands of pretty blonde hair.  It said, “You forgot your horse.”

 

            Sunrise came, and confirmed the truth of the expired nightmare.  There they lay, hulking, hairy corpses, as dark in sunlight as they had been at midnight.  Lilly leaned on the fence, squinting at the mountains of fur to try and see some detail that would tell her what these things really looked like.  Their form eluded her still.

            The old farmer came and leaned on the fence post next to her.

“Gonna be a chore to put them things in the ground.”

“I’d say half the work has already been done,” Lilly replied, “Why not just burn them?”

The farmer wrinkled his nose at the idea, “No, no, heaven!  Those things’ll put up a stink something powerful, you try to burn them.  They came up from the earth, and that’s where they need to go back to.”

There was a space of silence between them.

“How is he?”

“That young man ain’t got no luck, but he’s got plenty of spirit.  Dragged hisself dead sick to my door and now he’s fixin’ to drag himself away in not much better health.”  The farmer gestured vaguely as if to say it was in God’s hands now.  “I been a good Christian.  I patched him up best I could.  But I reckon he won’t be satisfied ‘till he’s killed himself.”

Lilly looked guiltily at the farmer.  “I’ve come to ask him to do something dangerous.  That boy, Peter, thinks the man can do anything.  I guess he nearly got me convinced.”

The farmer nodded.  “That boy ain’t said two words all night.  Hard to picture him a talker.”

Lilly nodded.  “Two days ago his father died.”

“Was he sick?”

“Yes, but that’s not how he died.”

“Well you’d best have your talk with the young man soon.  He’ll be leaving with or without you soon.”

Lilly and the farmer made their way inside.

 

Eric and the boy had been staring at each other over cooling bowls of mush for quite a while by the time Lilly and Josiah walked in.  For a moment she did not recognize the rider.  She had only ever seen him cloaked in his dark coat and hat.  Now he sat in only his trousers and, ridiculously, his gloves and bandana.  Bandaging cloths had been wrapped tightly around his wounded mid-section, showing a tint of pink where the dogs had bit into him.

            “You two look about as cheerful as a couple of widows at a double funeral,” the farmer’s wife commented to the young men staring across the table at one another, “Now eat your food or you’ll both be sorry you didn’t.”

            “How’s my horse?” the rider said to Lilly without looking away from the boy.

            “He’s still giddy, I had trouble brushing him down, not to mention bedding him.  I’d say he’s got quite a taste for stomping those dogs.”

            “And his wounds?”

            “You could always look for yourself, mister,” Lilly said, testily, “I may be a stable maid, but this is not my stable and it is your horse.”

The rider pulled a napkin from his lap and dropped it on the table, then began to rise from his spot.

            “Whoa now, son,” the farmer put a restraining hand on the rider’s shoulder, “Your horse is fine.  You are not.”

The rider said nothing, but did not resist. 

            “Come have a seat, won’t you missy?  You’ve had a long night, and you must be hungry.”  The old farmer gestured to his table.  Lilly sat and glanced once again between the rider and the boy.  With the same barren look on their faces, she could almost believe one was the younger version of the other.  Peter was a slight boy with dark hair hanging in his blue eyes.  The rider was a thin man with the same dark hair.  But his eyes were very different from the boy’s.  The rider’s eyes were dark, upsettingly so.  A pinprick of light reflected from their center.

            “Has Peter told you why we came after you?” Lilly asked the rider.  The rider broke gaze with the boy for the first time, and Lilly saw Peter burry his head in his arms and weep.  Only then did Lilly realize the rider must have been holding him in a sort of mesmer.  Or perhaps it was only her imagination.

            “You’re town is in a bad way,” the rider told her, “Bad men, flush from rousing a Judge have decided they run things.  They have been killing anyone who gets in their way.  Strong prey on weak.  Yes?”

Lilly could not meet his cold gaze and her face fell.  “Peter told you, then.”

            “Peter told me nothing.  Your town was that way before I ever got there.  They’ve only now stopped caring who knows it.”

            “Can you help us?”

The rider stared at her.

            “You owe us for saving your life, if not for returning your horse.  You’re the only man who’s ever stood up to Cliff and lived, not to mention a Judge.”

The rider grunted.  “I owe you something.  I have some money on me.  Take it and buy yourself a mercenary or a hired gun.”

            “Peter seems to think you would help us if we only asked.”

            “I don’t have time for you or your problems.”

            “That boy lost his father.  Smothered in the night by his own pillow.  They didn’t bother to cover it up, either, but the sawbones judged it a heart attack just the same.  Now Cliff is living with the boy’s mother and pushing her around like she was his property.  Now if you have it in you to help this boy, and you walk away from it, there is no pit in hell deep enough for your heartless soul.”

            “’…And no height in heaven to which I am to be exulted.’”

            “What?”

The Rider looked back at the boy.  He looked hard and long.  Finally he said, “Be ready to ride by noon.  Both of you.”

 

            Lilly did not fancy the idea of mounting the great horse again.  It could easily carry all three of them, but its back was so wide, it was nearly impossible to straddle the beast.  Both she and the boy had taken to riding sidesaddle for spells on their trip down.  This was nearly as uncomfortable as straddling it.  She was amazed when the rider hopped aboard his horse with seemingly no discomfort.  Then he helped her and the boy up, and they were off. 

            The ride was uncomfortable on more than just her legs.  The boy had been alternately brooding and crying when she had first made the journey down.  However she had managed to lift his spirits and get him talking again.  Now that the rider was here, with his empty face and focused, angry attitude, the boy had lapsed back into the brooding silence from before.  Lilly felt the hurt and anger in the boy all too sharply, and she hated this dark rider for his influence.  Still, Lilly could not deny that this horse, the wild creature she had dreamed of too often, had chosen this man.  And she had seen him quietly stow a handful of gold-dollars on the farmer’s table before they left.  Then there was the fact that he was helping them in the first place.  There must be something more to him than all he showed. 

“How long did it take for you to ride down here?” the man suddenly asked.

“It took about a day and a half.”

The rider nodded, and then lapsed back into silence.  It occurred to Lilly that if she could get this man talking, it might distract the boy.  He was, after all, enamored with the man.

“I never got your name,” Lilly said.  The man did not respond immediately.  For a moment, Lilly thought he was going to ignore her, and she was getting set to get angry when he finally said, “Eric.”

Eric was, she realized, not purposefully being rude.  Something was occupying all the far corners of his mind, consuming his attention.  It was only with tremendous effort that he was hearing and responding to what she had to say.

            “Eric,” she repeated.  “Eric, how did you come by this magnificent horse?”

            “Long story.”

            “We have a long ride ahead of us.  I would really like to know.”

            “I would like to know, too,” Peter piped up for the first time.  Eric glanced back to where the boy sat painfully near the rear of the horse.

            “Alright,” Eric said, and falteringly, he started rambling a slow and thoughtful narrative.  His voice remained monotone throughout the story.  Lilly was surprised to find that his lack of inflection made it easier for her to imagine the emotions involved.

 

 

            It was spring and the black night sky hammered the earth with a waterfall of rain.  All was sound and rushing as the dark figure struggled his way blindly up the grade.  He had begun the climb yesterday, peering up from the farmland floor to the plateau top high above the clouds.  He had had a full satchel of supplies, and energy in his step.  He was not exactly happy, but tackling a challenge focused him, and he was as close as he got to happy when he was focused. 

            Since then, he had lost his satchel, his supplies, his backpack, his bedroll; all but the clothes on his back had been washed away in the everlasting downhill torrent.

            Tonight it was worse.  Tonight it was the final wash before the letup, and Rider could do nothing but climb, even though he was drenched beyond belief and weary to the bone.  He had to climb, because if he rested for a moment, the river of wash that poured down on him would send him crashing to the bottom.

 

            And with a final struggling crawl, he pulled himself over the top and collapsed on the flat ground of the northwestern plateau.  The sky thundered, rolling across the flat plateau and down into the flatlands far below.  The Scrayling girl who used to come and clean his father’s house had once told Eric on stormy nights that the great Sistra had risen from Poi Drodidi to do battle with the warrior spirit as in ancient days.   Eric did not really think she believed her own story.  But then, he didn’t really think of her as a true Scrayling.  She dressed in the clothes of the white man, and lived among them.  He was fairly sure that she had never lived among a Scrayling tribe, but was born here in the valley where her parents lived, old as they were.

            “Is this true?” he would ask, his imagination wheeling.

            “No, pappu, no,” she would smile sadly.  She was always sad around him, “But they did battle long ago.  The great warrior spirit, Gabrillu, could not defeat the great Sistra.  And the great Sistra for all his trying, could not claw his way back up to heaven past the spear-blade of Gabrillu.  Finally, Gabrillu threw his flaming spear and knocked Sistra from the sky, breaking both his wings.  Sistra fell deep into Poi Drodidi where he lays to this day.  The spear plummeted to earth, scorching a deep trench into the land, and that is how this valley that you call Stella-Terra came to be.”

            Of course, Eric had heard the real reason the valley existed.  Mr. Jerry The Schoolmaster had said that long ago a shooting star from the night sky had smashed into the ground here with an explosion like a million tons of dynamite.  This had caused the creation of the valley.  Even the name of the valley, Stella-Terra, meant ‘Star to Earth.’

 

            As Rider lay in the shallow lake of rainwater and mud on the lip of the plateau trying to catch his breath through the gurgling rain filling his mouth, lightning snaked out of the sky with a hiss and a boom and for a moment night was day.  Rider startled at the sight.  Imprinted on his eyes was the afterimage of thousands of horses, the mounds of their broad backs spread from where he lay to the distant mountains of the Hub.  For long minutes his eyes strained into the blackness, looking for some proof that this image was more than just imagination.  Lightning flashed again.  This time he saw the horses, standing at a distance.  Looming over him stood a horse larger than all the rest.  It was undoubtedly the leader of the herd, and it seemed to be judging this newcomer to determine whether he was friend of foe.  Rider was awed by the magnitude of the beast, and continued to stare into the blackness where the animal had stood.  Upon the next flash of lightning they were gone.  There was nothing but empty plain as far as he could glance in the brief instant of light.   As Rider lay shivering beneath the thin protection of his duster all throughout that cold, wet night, he wondered if the image had been a dream.  Or a vision. 

 

            Rider was surprised to awake the next day.  Surprised, because he had thought he would never fall asleep in the first place.  How could he, with rainwater gushing around him and the image of that mighty herd playing through his head?  He decided he must have drifted off near dawn when the rain had played out and the clouds had broken overhead.  He pulled himself up, straining against the mud that had already dried all around the fringe of his cloak, cementing him in place.

            He lay at the edge of a vast grassland stretching away toward the mountains in one direction and toward who-knows-what in the other.  Rider tried to remember maps he had seen, and was surprised to recall that they had all stopped short of showing where the Great Plateau ended.  The air was crisp and cool, while the warming sun shown down from its high noon position.  The sky was blue, and clear of clouds, save a few wisps to the west.  Rider pulled himself up to standing, ignoring the stiffness in all his joints, and brushing away the dirt that was caked to all his clothes. 

            The ground immediately cleared up the little question from last night.  There was ample evidence of the horses he had seen in the churned-up ground.  Off in the distance, a puff of dirt rose as a wagon galloped by, hardly more than a speck in the distance.  Rider placed his hands in the pockets of his duster, an old habit, and began to walk in the direction of the settling dust.  Where there were wagons, there were roads, and where there were roads, towns would follow.

 

            The sign said, “Welcome to Chickweed” and beyond it Rider could see a sprawling stretch of green surrounded by piled stone fences.  Every house had a garden and all the one-story cottages seemed to converge on the town with its two story buildings and bustling thoroughfare.  Ragged weeds sprang up from every untended portion of ground.  Rider knew something of gardening, and he suspected the fertile soil here was cursed with abundant, everlasting weeds.  Which made sense, given the name of the place.

            Even at the far edge of town, Rider could hear the showman’s voice, calling through a paper cone to make his voice heard to the crowds.  Indeed, the crowds seemed to be moving toward the town and the voice, called by curiosity or the need to follow. 

            “…and this I know, ladies and gentleman, because I personally saved the life of the Chief of the Lilliquoi with this very same potion, handed to me, as I’ve said, by a wandering stranger from the Eastland.  Sounds fantastic, I know, but bear in mind that Professor Jinglo has traveled this great West Wheel for twenty years now, and I’ve been seeking, everywhere seeking, for these very same wonders I bring to you today. 

            “So grateful was the Scrayling Chief that he imparted to me the secret of Scrayling agriculture.  That very secret that I am about to show to you.  And why do I do this, you ask?  Because as soon as I heard that secret, one name came to mind.  The town of Chickweed is known across this land for its delicious vegetables, hard-working folk, and for its weeds, am I right?”

A good-natured cheer came from the crowd.  Rider was very near the town, now, and already looking for a way to get around the massive roadblock this salesman was creating.  The gold-dollars he had carried out from his desecrated home had long-since dried up, and he was looking for work.  And, of course, for stories of the Twin Machines.  He might ask this shouting man in the square, if the opportunity arose, but he was not prepared to believe whatever the man had to say.  In Rider’s experience, if a man was trying to sell you something, he would say whatever he needed to get you to buy.  Even if it was not strictly the truth.  But Professor Jinglo probably HAD traveled greatly in his route of sales, and he may know a thing or two that would help Rider’s search.  The pusher continued to thrall his pitch.

            “Now this secret I am about to show you, absolutely without charge, is NOT some trick of Scrayling magic.  It is a simple agricultural science used, I am told, even by the mountain men.  Everyone knows that when a weed takes to fertile soil, it spreads its seed.  No matter how much or how often you pull the weed from the soil, the seed still remains.  That is why the Scraylings travel far into the desert where the sun bakes the ground and nothing grows.  They dig up this barren ground and bring back cart-loads of the dirt to their own fertile, well watered valley.  This ground has no seed in it but the seeds that the Scraylings plant and just like that, they have no weed problems ever in what the Lilliquoi call their ‘Valley of Life.’”

            “That don’t do us no good,” someone spoke up from the crowd, “We ain’t got time to ride a thousand miles to the desert just to get a bunch of dirt.”

            “Well spoken, sir,” Professor Jinglo applauded in his breathless style, “Well spoken.  And what is your name?”

            “M’Names David Allen Smelt.”

            “David!  A strong biblical name.  Small boy did great things.  Well David, sir, I can see that you are a discerning farmer from a long line of agrarians, isn’t that so?”

            “Yessir, I am.  My farm has been in the family since my great-great-grandpappy first settled here.”

            “And there is no better land for settling, I daresay!  Well, David, I have with me this very day a product that would make your great-great grandfather proud of you.  I speak of none-other than that excellent soil I just now recommended to you!  Yes, for merely a penny-per-pound I offer to you, in this great train of wagons behind me enough soil for this entire town at, I daresay, dirt-cheap prices!”

The crowd cheered and laughed at Professor Jinglo’s well-turned phrase.  But David spoke up doubtfully.

            “Professor, sir, the season’s already started.  Most of us have our garden’s tilled and our plants growing.”

            “You’re farmers, are you not?  You all know the excellent art of transplanting.  This may take the work of the entire community, but what better to bring neighbors together?  And to never worry about a weed again, I say it’s well worth the sacrifice!”

This caused the crowd to burst into cheers, and immediately they began to line up to purchase and cart off large sacks of the Professor’s desert-dirt.

            Rider was now walking under the eves of the buildings, studying the signs posted in windows and trying to gauge whether they would take on temporary work.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a young girl, perhaps eighteen or twenty, walking to the porch with her basket in hand.  She seemed taken in by all the excitement surrounding Professor Jinglo, and could see her foot would miss the step.  Two quick steps and he had caught her.

            “Oh!” she said.  Her face was a study in startlement, as if she had just been yanked from an entirely engaging dream.  It was a feeling Rider could identify with.  He gently placed her back on her feet and handed her the basket he had caught.  It was filled with glass jars of what looked like jams.

            He looked to his boots and touched his hat brim then turned to go.

“Wait,” the girl called from behind.  Rider stopped and turned slowly.  She struck a scolding pose.  “You don’t just help a body and walk away without accepting some thanks.”

            “You’re welcome.”

            “One good turn deserves another.  Excuse me for saying so, but you are just about the sorriest, most beat-up stranger I have ever seen walk into town.  What, did you spend the night rolling in mud?”

            “Yes.”  She looked a little startled at his seriousness.  “If you want to help me,” he continued, “I am looking for work.”

            “There’s always work to be done around here,” she said brightly, “What kind are you looking for?”

He shrugged.

            “Well what kind of experience do you have?”

The image of the hundreds and hundreds of wooden crosses blistering the valley of Stella Terra wheeled through his mind.

            “I’ve done some graveyard work.”

The girl made a little sick-face.  “There aren’t that many dying in Chickweed, stranger.  Old Joe Crow keeps us pretty well supplied in the funeral area, but…” she looked thoughtful for a moment, “My father could use a hand with the crops.  It wouldn’t pay much, but you’d get room and board.”

Rider pondered the wisdom of this girl taking in a stranger without considering who he was and what he was capable of.  However, since it was in his favor, he said nothing. 

            “Obliged for your offer,” and with a nod of his head, “After you.”

            “Well before I whisk you off to meet my father, I should probably get your name, don’t you figure?” she smiled.

            “I’m Eric.”

            “I am pleased to have met you, Eric.  My name is Meadow.  Now while I am sure you are eager to start your new job, Father is out in town, and I, myself need to do some shopping.  Would you like to meet me back here, or would you prefer to accompany me?  I could introduce you to the town a little.”

            “Then you can start with the hawker in the street over there,” Rider thumbed the direction.  Meadow leaned and gave a distracted glance in the direction of Professor Jinglo’s wagon, now a-bustle with buyers carting off their newly purchased dirt.

            “Oh, him?  He rode into town yesterday.  He’s been putting on quite a show, so I recon everyone and their brother have been out to watch him.  We don’t get much excitement around these parts.”

            “No?” Rider pushed his hat up, “What about the Baron’s Riflemen?  Haven’t they been through here?”

            “Walk with me as we talk,” Meadow gestured, and they began walking.  She continued her narrative, looking in shop windows as they strolled.  “No, the Riflemen have yet to come this far north.  I mean I suppose we are, in the strictest sense, subject to the Baron, but he hasn’t been here to set up one of those nasty Judges, and I don’t think he’s going to.”

            “Why?”

            “We’re very independent people here in Chickweed.  We have our own militia, you know?  And not just the men; the women are also encouraged to bear arms and fight if it comes to that.”  Meadow patted her hip where the dress bulged slightly and smiled.  “Every man and woman here would give their life rather than submit to an oppressive law.  In the end, what would the Baron gain?”  Rider smiled back briefly and continued walking with her.  She continued window-shopping and talking for a while.  Rider stayed at her side listening silently.  It was close to an hour before she looked up at him and gave a small cry of surprise.

            “I forgot how tired and filthy you were!  I’m so sorry, Eric.  Let’s get you back to Father’s farm.”

            “Will your father be home?”

She gave a considering look.  “He ought to be soon.  We can go and wait for him.  You look like you could use a sit-down.”  She gave a bright smile, “We have a splendid porch-swing!  It was so much fun as a kid.  Still is!  Come on.”  Taking his hand, Meadow pulled Rider through the crowd toward the edge of town.

 

            Meadow’s house was one of the largest Rider had seen since leaving Stella-Terra.  It had two stories and was surrounded by well-tended greenery, trimmed hedges, white fences, and had an enormous garden spreading behind it.  Rider’s eyes, however, were not for the beauty of the place, but simply for the shade of the porch.  As he reached it, he hauled himself up to the stoop and sat.  Meadow had been right.  He did need a sit down.  He looked up at her and saw her looking with a sort of pensive expectation.  He sighed.  He had often regretted his difficulty in relating to people.  He liked Meadow.  She was kind and attractive, and she had accepted him immediately without reservation for whatever his past held.  But she would not remain kind forever if he did not at least make an effort to relate.

            “It’s a fine land you have here.”  He spoke uncertainly, trying to insert enthusiasm into the words.

            “Thank you,” she brightened immediately, “I’ve done a lot of work to make it as beautiful as it is today.  Why don’t you relax and I will go tell mother we are here.  I’m sure there’s a pitcher of cold water around here somewhere.  And glasses.”

She disappeared into the house.  Waiting for her, Rider sat in thought.  The map his father had given him before the man sent him fleeing from the valley had pointed westward, toward the Wyrdelands.  But that map had been destroyed, along with his father’s guns when he was captured.

            Meadow returned along with a middle-aged woman in an apron and bonnet.

            “Mother, this is Eric.  Eric, this is my mother.”

Eric touched his hat, “Ma’am.”

            “My, but you ARE a thirsty looking man,” the woman smiled pleasantly, and offered him a glass of water.  Eric tried not to look too thirsty as he quaffed the cold drink.  He handed the empty glass back to the woman.

            “Thank you, ma’am.”

            “So Meadow tells me you’ve offered to hire on as a gardener?”

Eric nodded.  “I can’t stay for long, but I could use some money to keep going.”

            “Where is it that you are traveling to mister, er… Eric.”

            “I’m after some property that belongs to me,” then switching the subject abruptly, he turned to Meadow and said, “Tell me about the horses.”

            “The ghost horses?  You’ve heard about them?”

            “Ghost horses?”

            “Well, obviously they aren’t ghosts.  Ghosts don’t leave tracks.  But tracks are about all they leave.  Some people have lived here all their lives and not caught sight of the Ghost Herd.”

            “Oh, yes, dear, but tell him about their leader!” Meadow’s mother chimed in.

            “Of course.  They say the Ghost Herd is led by an enormous black stallion, the largest horse in the West Wheel.  Some even say its De Azrod himself!”

            “De Azrod?”

            “You’ve never heard the ballad of De Azrod?”

Rider shrugged.

            “Where did you say you were from?”

            “Flagland.”

            “Well I suppose all the big city dwellers out in Flagland don’t have time for silly folk-tales.  Anyway, this horse tends to get excited on full moons.  And he whinny’s and stamps so that his call can be heard for miles around.  That’s not just a story, though, that’s a fact.  We can hear him out there, every full moon, and everybody around these parts knows to have their horses stabled, tied, and bedded by nightfall on a full moon.  The horses all over Chickweed just go wild from hearing him.  We’ve lost dozens of them breaking free and running out to join De Azrod and his pack of Ghost Horses.”

            Rider saw the stage riding up before either of the women, so enraptured were they in the tale they spun.  When Meadow’s mother did see it, however, she nudged the girl, smiling.

            “Look who it is, dear.”

Meadow glanced up from Rider and rolled her eyes.

            “It’s not even dinnertime yet.  What is HE doing here?”

            “Love knows no clock or shadow,” mother teased.  Meadow just gave her mother a look.

The man who dismounted from the coach was young and apparently fairly wealthy by the standards of this town, Rider observed.  Stella-Terra had been, in its time, one of the wealthiest cities in the West Wheel.  Rider’s father had been no great observer of class, and Rider himself had not spent much time in his father’s house.  Still, he had seen more opulence in his childhood than this little town could hope to aspire to. 

            The man came striding up to the porch in confident steps, and leaned one arm against the post, smiling.

            “Good afternoon, Mrs. Carter, Meadow.”

            “Well hello, Mr. Trendle,” Meadow’s mother smiled, “May I offer you a glass of water?”

            “Thank you, no,” the man replied.  “I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he spared an unsure glance in Rider’s direction.  Rider returned the gaze evenly.

            “Oh no,” Mrs. Carter replied, “We were just entertaining Mr…” she paused and turned to Rider, “I am sorry, Eric, I never got your last name.”

            “I’m an orphan,” Eric replied, “You can call me Smith.”

Rider observed how Meadow’s expression softened to pity at the statement, and he found himself disliking that look.

            “Mr. Smith, then,” Mother said, smiling to smooth over the awkward moment.  “We were regaling him with local legends.”

            “Local legends, you say?” the man grinned, “I hope my name didn’t come up TOO often.”

Meadow smiled and shoved at the man playfully. 

            “You have far too high an opinion of yourself, William.”

            “Aw,” William pretended to pout, “Does this mean you would not concede to a picnic lunch with me, Meadow?”

The girl looked uncomfortable.

            “I don’t know, William, I promised Eric I would introduce him to father, perhaps find some work for him.”

            “And Mrs. Carter wouldn’t be able to do that?”

            “Now William,” mother scolded, “You know it would be rude of Meadow to plop this traveler on our porch and then run off without making introductions.  Besides, there is quite a bit of work to be done around the property.”

            “I see,” William placed a fake smile across his face.  “Very well, but you must promise me you will make it up to me someday soon, Miss Meadow.”

            “Of course, Will.”

            “Then I will see you soon,” William gave a curt bow.  As his face lowered slightly, he shot Rider a savage glance.  Rider met William’s eyes with a stony stare of his own.

            Meadow and her mother did not seem to notice the silent exchange, and William was all smiles as he bade them goodbye.

 

            As the carriage drove off, mother turned to Meadow.  “So are you going to let that boy court you?”

Meadow rolled her eyes.  “Mother!”

Mrs. Carter gave an innocent look.  “Meadow, dear, I know you don’t want to talk about such things, but its something you need to consider.  The man would like to woo you, and you know it.  You need to decide where you stand, and soon.  Before William decides for you.”

            “Mother can we please talk about this later?”

            “Oh, there’s your father now!”

Meadow sighed with some relief.  The man Rider saw walking up the path was middle-aged and his salt-and-pepper hair was trimmed short.  He wore a distinguished black mustache and his clothes were simple but well kept. 

            “Daddy!” Meadow shouted gleefully, running up and throwing her arms around the man.

            “Girls?” Meadow’s father looked a bit startled at the sudden display, but smiled and squeezed his daughter.  “You girls wouldn't believe what this huckster in town is actually selling people."

            "I know, Daddy, I was there," Meadow poked playfully at her father.

            "Dirt!" the man exclaimed anyway, throwing an exasperated hand toward his wife.  "People are carting off bags of badlands dirt to replace their soil for!"

Mrs. Carter's brow furrowed.  "But why, Walter?"

            "This Shyster is telling them that the dirt has no weed seed in it.  He says if we use this dirt we will never have to worry about weeds again.  These fools forget that the whole reason weeds grow in our soil is that it is so fertile.  They are exchanging our fertile home soil for barren desert dirt!"

            "Daddy, settle down, I want you to meet someone."

Walter's eyes finally came to rest on Eric.  Rider met his gaze evenly.

            "And who's this?" Walter asked.

            "This is Eric Smith.  He just drifted into town today and he could really use some work.  I invited him to meet you.  You know how you sometimes hire seasonal help with the gardening..."  Meadow let the sentence linger in the air.  Mr. Carter gave Eric a long hard look.

            "Son, you look like someone whose been dragged through hell and back."

If Mr. Carter was looking for some kind of response, Eric did not provide it.  He simply continued to meet Walter's gaze.

            "Do you have any experience with farming, son?"

Eric nodded.  What time in his childhood he had not spent learning the ways of the gunslinger, he had spent working the farms of his brothers and their friends.  It was the only way they would tolerate his presence.

            "And do you have a problem with hard work?"

            "No, sir."

            "And what kind of pay are you looking for?"

            "Just room and board and a little extra to help me move on, Sir."

            "Well," Walter said, turning to his wife, "What do you think, Dear?"

The woman shrugged and smiled.  "Give him a chance, Walter."

The man turned back to Rider, "From her mouth to God's ear, eh boy?  Why don't you girls go run the boy a bath while I see if I can find him some cloths to replace those rags he is wearing.  Welcome to Chickweed, Eric."

Mr. Carter smiled and extended Eric a warm handshake.  Eric took it, and then realized he should probably smile back.  The outcome was not convincing.

 

            "Sir, I want to keep my old clothes with me," Eric said to Mr. Carter as he ran the sponge along his dirt-caked body.  The older man regarded the pile of cloth the boy had peeled off his body before getting in the tub.

            "These rags?  Don't you want new clothes?"

            "Yessir, new clothes would be fine.  I just don't want you tossing my old ones."

Walter shrugged.  "Have it your way, son.  I'll have the girls wash and press them, at the very least."

            "Yes sir.  Thank you sir."

            "Call me Walter, Eric.  If we are going to be working together, I don't want to feel like a slave driver."

            "Thank you, Walter."

            "These clothes have some special meaning to you, Eric?"

            "They were my father's."

            "You said you were an orphan."

            "Yes si... Walter.  My father and mother are both dead.  Those clothes are the last thing I have to remind me of them."

The older man nodded.  It was all he needed to hear.

 

            Walter left Eric alone to tend to his bathing.  Eric had been alone on the trail for what seemed like ages.  During that entire time some rotted tooth of desire had gnawed at the back of his mind for human company.  Now that he had had a taste of it, he was grateful to be alone again.  This was one of the inconsistencies in his life that he tolerated without really understanding. 

            It was nice, he thought, to have a warm bath.  On the trail he had been confined to do his bathing in the occasional stream.  It had been a long winter.

            When he had left the valley of Stella-Terra, it had been after several years of living in the burnt out shells of buildings, scrounging off whatever had escaped the razing.  He had managed to recover quite a wealth of golden eagles, and this had served him during his travels from small town to small town to buy rooming, food, supplies, and very occasionally, information.  More recently he had been living off the generosity of good-natured cowboys in their small camps as they made the final leg of their journey to the large costal cities of Flagland.  He had had to do very little work in that time, and he wondered how he would take to it.  He had spent most of his childhood working for his brothers or other farmers in Stella-Terra, and had never much cared for it.  His mind tended to stray during the tasks, and his work was slow and clumsy.

            Something about this farmer made him determined to do the work right.  And he realized with something like embarrassment that it was probably Walter's daughter, Meadow, that motivated him to do his best. 

            No, Rider thought, I must keep from distraction.  I made my father a promise, and I need to keep it.  I will find the Twin Machines.

 

            When the water grew chilly, Rider took leave of his bath and dried himself.  Pulling back the curtain of the bath area, Rider saw that Walter had left some simple work clothes for him.  He put these on, belting his waste tightly as the clothes sagged over his boots, and rolling up the sleeves that hung nearly to his fingertips.  Walter was a big man.

            The bath was in the shed, and Rider knew this was where he would be staying.  The cot his clothes were on was his for however long he stayed here.  He saw no reason to stay here, though, and wandered out the door.  Mrs. Carter was sweeping the porch when Rider approached, and smiled at him.

            "Eric.  You look handsome now that you're cleaned up.  I see you shaved, too."

Rider smiled and nodded.

            "Well I have a little surprise for you.  Come on inside."

Rider followed Mrs. Carter into the house where she led him off to the side room, a sitting room Rider decided.  There she gestured grandly to several neatly folded piles of cloth on the window-seat. 

            "Walter told me all about what your clothes mean to you.  Meadow went to take dinner with William, but before she left, she and I spent our time on your clothes.  I hope you like them."

Rider touched his shirt hesitantly.  It had been washed to a shining white, then pressed and starched.  He held it up to the light.  The rips and tears had all been sewn with subtle stitching.  The ebroidered symbol of the Muskethom, the Flubley had been re-stitched.  Rider placed the shirt down with reverence.  He went over his other clothes.  His pants had been patched and pressed.  His hat had been steamed, blocked, and the nickel emblems polished to a gleam.  Even his trail coat had been cleaned, oiled and stitched as best as stitching could repair it.  When he turned back to Mrs. Carter his eyes were bright.  Rider had not cried since the day Stella Terra fell, but he was as close as he ever had been now.

            "Thank you," he whispered.  The mother in Mrs. Carter compelled her forward.  She caught Rider in her arms and hugged him tightly.

            "Everyone deserves a little kindness in life," she spoke.  Rider could not find words.

 

            Rider lived a life of constant hunger.  Mrs. Carter fed him almost apologetically with a steak sandwich and canned string beans.

            "I'm sorry I don't have anything fresher, Eric.  Its early in the season and we haven't done much planting.  This is all left over from last year."

Rider ate quickly, clearing the dishes and washing them in the basin without a word.  Finally he turned to Mrs. Carter and said, "Thank you," for the second time.  There was no doubt that he meant it.

            "Walter is waiting for you in the garden out back.  You and him are going to break ground today.  I hope you're up for it." 

Eric nodded and left.  Around back, he found Mr. Carter already running his plow through the soil of the ground.

            "Oh, there you are," the man called out.  "I thought Martha would pamper you all day in there," the man chuckled.  Rider found himself smiling without forcing it.  He honestly liked this man and his family.  For the second time that day, thoughts of laying aside his wandering ways flitted through his mind.  Walter continued talking.  "We were lucky to get rainfall early this year.  It really softened up the ground for the plowing and helped out with the spring thaw.  Why don't you take over the plow?  This mule goes by the name of Tanner.  He can get a little stubborn on the turns, but if you keep at him, he'll do what you want.  I'm going to get started hoeing the rows and seeding."

            Rider and Walter worked on the garden until dusk.  Rider found running the plow awkward at first, but eventually got into the pace of it.  Walter would frequently lean on his hoe and coach Rider along patiently in a way that was almost fatherly.  Rider nearly slipped and called Walter 'Mr. Stephen' once that evening.

 

            Mrs. Carter had dinner ready by the time Rider and Walter came in from the field.

            "How's the garden, boys?" the woman asked cheerily.  Mr. Carter tussled Rider's hair affectionately, "The boy does good work.  Little slow on the uptake, but he's a good listener, and follows everything I say to the letter.  You ever been schooled son?"

            "Yes."

            "What's for dinner, Martha?" Mr. Carter pecked his wife on the cheek.  She received it ritualistically and began reciting the dinner off monotonously.

            "We have beef stew, biscuits, asparagus, sweet potato pie, and dumplings."

            "Dumplings?" Mr. Carter said in mock outrage, "You made dumplings and no chicken?  Don't you got no class, woman?"

Martha shot her husband a dangerous glance and then smiled, "Better watch out, mister, or you will be going to bed with no supper."

            "Well she's got us there, hasn't she, boy?" Walter slapped Eric on the arm.  Eric smiled and looked at his shoes.

            "No sir," Mr. Carter continued, "Doesn't pay to bite the hand that feeds you.  Well let's get washed up."

            "Yes, please do, boys.  And just because you've worked hard doesn't give you an excuse to drag dirt through my nice clean house."

The dinner was delicious, and while Rider still did very little talking, he found himself completely at ease in the presence of the couple as they talked and laughed over the events of the day.  Mr. Carter began talking about the foolish townspeople and their soil-trade.  Mrs. Carter seemed more interested in bringing up Meadow and William.

            "Do you think that boy is right for our girl, Walter?"

            "William seems to be doing alright for himself.  He's young and he already owns his own saloon and has a seat on the town council."

            "I still feel like you should talk to him.  See what his intentions are toward our daughter."

            "Now Martha, don't nag me.  Of course I will talk to the boy, but let me do it on my own judgment.  Okay?"

Martha glanced at Rider and then back at her husband.  "Of course, dear.  Lets talk about it more later."

Mr. Carter nodded without looking up from his meal.  Rider had already finished and was sitting politely at the end of the table waiting for the end of the meal to be announced.  When Mrs. Carter went to clean up, and Rider moved to help her, Mr. Carter place a hand on his arm and shook his head.

            "You've done enough work today, son.  Let Martha have her kitchen.  You should probably get to bed now.  We're going to be up at sunrise if we want to get the back fifth plotted.  And there are some fences to repair.  Besides, the neighbors are going to be hauling that fool desert dirt into their lots.  I offered them some help."

Rider looked at Walter in surprise, "You said you thought that was foolish."

            "It is foolish.  And I've told them that, too.  Doesn't give me an excuse to be a bad neighbor.  Now you sleep tight, tonight, Eric."

On his way to the shed, Eric passed Meadow leaving William's carriage laughing and waving goodbye to the young man.  As she turned her back, Rider caught the smug look William threw his direction.

 

            The moon was high and showing half-face through the shifting clouds when Rider's eyes opened in the dark of the shed.  He had told himself to wake up at this time, and his inner clock worked infallibly as always.  Rising silently he slipped out of his work clothes and into his old, familiar clothes.  He crept quietly to the door and listened.  The night was silent outside save for a rustle of wind across the stiff weeds at the back of the shed.  Rider opened the door slowly and then shut it just as slowly.  Placing his hands in his pockets, he walked toward the edge of town.

            As he expected, Professor Jinglo's wagons were parked on the trail at the west end of town.  A man of the Professor's persuasion might find himself compelled to leave town quickly, and Rider knew he would have arranged for such an eventuality.

            Rider surveyed the wagon's quizzically.  There were three of them.  One was windowless and sported a gaudily painted sign proclaiming Professor Jinglo's Wonders of the West loudly on the side.  Another was longer than the other two with pink paint trimming the windows and a lantern hung at the corner.  Rider supposed this must be for the Professor's assistant.  The last wagon was in the best repair and was painted in gold trim.  This, Rider decided, was none other than the Professor's own personal wagon.

            A dark, hulking figure rounded the edge of the wagon, catching Rider's eye for the first time.  This man was enormous, topping seven feet easily, and broad as a bear.  It was the first Mountain Man Rider had ever seen, but he'd heard enough stories of them to know what he must be.  Rider sunk slowly back into the weeds beside the road and watched as the giant looked around for a bit, let out a loud belch, and lit a pipe the size of a trumpet.  Finally, the Mountain Man wandered back around the other side of the wagon, and Rider snuck out, creeping toward the Professor's coach.

            Rider knew at this point that the Mountain Man must be on night watch.  He chided himself for not realizing that the Professor would have someone on watch.  Something needed to be done about the giant, Rider knew, before he could have his chat with the Professor.  He had heard the Mountain Men were generally good-natured trappers, but could rip trees out by their roots and rend rocks with their bare hands if they were ever angered.  Rider had always figured such stories to be decided exaggerations, but having actually seen the giant, Rider could no longer be sure.  He certainly would not like to test the man. 

            Rider rolled under the wagon, and snaked his way toward where the Mountain Man stood on the other side.  The man was puffing out great clouds of smoke and humming some ancient ditty.  Rider watched him, his mind working furiously.  Any ordinary man Rider could have pulled his legs out from under him and knuckled him in the solar plexus, setting him gasping silently for air.  As the man lay in pain on the ground, Rider could easily knock him unconscious.

            But this man above him was as vulnerable as a brick wall or a large pine tree.  Still, Rider thought, he is just a man.  A monstrous man, but a man just the same.  He has all the weaknesses of a man.  Rider braced himself against the wheels of the wagon and kicked with all his might at the back of the man's leg where his knee-joint was.  The man's leg should have given out, sending him collapsing to the ground.  The plan should have worked.  It was like kicking a mountain.  Rider felt a jar all the way up his back and the enormous man, unmoved, looked down and grunted.

            Rider felt the enormous fists closing around his legs, engulfing them.  He felt the world spin as he was swung out from under the ground and then lifted into the air.  The giant let go and Rider felt himself launch out into space.  He looked down and saw he was sailing over the long-wagon.  Then the ground was coming up toward him.

            Rider hit the ground and rolled as hard as he could, dulling the blow.  As he spun to his feet, he already felt the ground around him pounding as the giant came running toward him, grunting.  His white teeth showed in a savage smile through his massive beard.  Rider's hand found a rock, and he threw it with the strength of his whole body toward the giant's solar plexis.  The rock made a dull thud against the man's chest and bounced back.  The giant slowed not at all.  Rider dove and tumbled out of the way of the charge as the giant rushed past him like a mighty wind.  The Mountain Man slid to a halt and brought his boulder-sized fists down toward where Rider had landed.  Eric jumped back just barely avoiding the blow.  He grabbed a handful of the man's beard, tugging savagely.

            "OW!" the giant howled and swatted Rider away.  Rider did not land so gracefully this time, his breath fully knocked away.  He gasped and struggled to his feet just in time to avoid another of the crushing blows. 

            Rider's hand jumped to his waist.  He began running and fumbling with his belt.  His hands were as weak and clumsy as ever, but he found the clasp and managed to pull his belt off.  Turning and running in another direction, he realized the giant was quicker than he looked.  The Mountain Man had nearly been on him when he danced around to the man's back.  Leaping high, Rider looped the belt around the man's neck.  The giant grunted and clawed at the leather strap.  Rider had already pulled himself up high on the man's back and dug his thumb into the man's neck.

            The man's neck was hard with muscle, and Rider thought this man of muscle and tough skin must be nearly bulletproof.  Still, Rider pushed with all his might digging his thumb deeply into the vein in the man's neck.  The Mountain Man's eyes bulged slightly and he worked his jaw as he gasped.  Slowly, like a toppling tree, the giant fell to his knees, then to his face.

            Rider hauled himself off the enormous hulk of a man.  A minute more and Rider could have killed the man.  It was a fact, and it flitted across Rider's mind as such thoughts always did.  He turned and headed to the Professor's wagon.  Hopefully this meeting would not be long.

 

            He was standing at the edge of the pit with the Five.  The climb had been harrowing, monumental.  Cold had ripped them away to the raw core, and breathing was impossible.  John Glow deeply resented the woman, especially.  She had been born to a wealthy family, and when the bank had taken all her wealth to pay off a gambling debt, Morra had become bitter, poisonous.  But she had never lost the arrogance of the wealthy, and even on this terrible trek, she had insisted that the men carry her in a harness, treating them as little more than pack animals.  But even as he resented her, John remembered lusting for her terribly.  And to his own shame, he reduced himself to serving her in hopes of winning her affections.

            The trek was over, and not even the icy beauty of Morra could distract John from the ugly blackness of the eternal pit.  The white haired man, the one who scarred him almost as much as the ancient and cackley Scrayling, smiled a terrible smile and gestured grandly with his pale and boney hand.

            "Gentleman, Lady Morra.  Into the pit we go."

And then the blackness was rushing up upon him. 

            The man who was now known as Professor Jinglo shot up from his dream as a hand clamped down over his mouth, stifling the scream that threatened to erupt from his throat.  It was the same dream.  It was always the same dream.  For the last 60 years it had haunted him every moment he closed his eyes.

            Now with his eyes open he discovered a different kind of fright.  There was some dark intruder hunched over him, staring at him with shiny, black eyes.  He knew those eyes.  In the back of his mind, something clicked.  He grunted under the intruder's hand.  The intruder laid a finger against his lips, and removed the hand from Jinglo's mouth.

            "Jack?  Is it you, Jack?"

            "My name," the intruder hissed, "Is Eric Rider."

A dawning comprehension fell over Professor Jinglo.

            "Yes.  Of the way of the gun.  But you're dead!  All of you are dead!"

The intruder made no reply.  So many things were wrong about this, the Professor decided.  It was as if he was still dreaming.

            "How did you get in here?  Sven would have..."

            "Your Mountain Man is sleeping on the job," the dark man cut him off, standing straight now, so that he towered over Jinglo.  "I need to talk with you.  I will not stay long."

The sleep was clearing from Jinglo's mind, now.  He briefly considered the derringer tucked under his pillow, then dismissed the idea.  The man before him was a gunslinger born and trained.  But, the Professor smiled, I'm a showman.  If there is one thing I know, it's the art of distraction.

            "So you're a Rider, eh?  You would be, what, Jack's grandson?"

            "Jack Rider was my father."

Professor Jinglo whistled low.  "But you look so young!  If poor Jack were still around today, he would be, what?  In his eighties at the very least.  You must have been born late in his life.  Jack was a smooth old dog, eh?" the Professor passed a sly wink toward the young man.

            "I didn't come to talk family."

            "No, no, of course you didn't.  But where are my manners?  Can I offer you a drink?  I have some of the finest whiskeys and gins in the land in my personal cupboard here."

If the intruder heard the offer, he ignored it.

            "What do you know about the Twin Machines?"

            "A man of business, I see.  I can respect that, Mr. Rider.  Heavens, but you are the spitting image of your father!  A bit darker in the features, though.  Your father mingled his seed, no doubt," the Professor smiled.

            "The Twin Machines," the boy growled.  Professor Jinglo began to realize the young man's focus.  It was clear he would not be derailed.  Jinglo held up his hands in a surrendering gesture.

            "Of course, sir, of course.  Forgive an older man for being scatter-brained.  You speak, no doubt, of the famous creations of the late Fredrick Steed.  They were last within your father's possession if I recall correctly, yes?"

            "My father never spoke to me of them until shortly before his death.  He gave me a map with directions to where they are now.  I never got a good look at it before it was destroyed."

The Professor shook his head affecting a sorrowful look.  "The poor misfortunes of men.  A tragic story, indeed.  Well, son, I'd say your fortunes have changed," the Professor offered the boy a warm smile.  Rider leaned closer to him.

            "You know where I can find them?"

            "Sadly, no.  But I believe I know where you can find the information about where they now lay.  You've heard reference, no doubt, to the great Southern city of Quillin at the heart of Landfall, no doubt?"

            "No."

            "Well, young Rider, the bustling town of Quillin serves a number of fine dishes, including a delicious catfish and many fanciful chicken dishes.  But more famous than their food is the great library at the heart of the town.  I have personally journeyed there on several occasions, and I can say from my experience that there is no greater center of knowledge in all the world.  In addition to the many ancient texts they have collected from the old world, the librarians at Quillin have collected and catalogued over five thousand Scrayling legends from recent times back to the foundations of the earth.  But far more interesting to your particular situation are their texts on modern history."  The young man was staring intently at the Professor, and Jinglo knew he had drawn the man into his narrative.  He allowed the pause to linger.  He had been inching his hand back toward his pillow during his speech.  He only needed to buy a little more time and he would have the gun within his grasp.

            "What about the history books?" the boy whispered.

            "Well, son, from the foundation of the Republic up until about fifty years ago, all government documents were copied and the duplicates were sent to Quillin to be stored in the vaults of the library there."  Jinglo saw that Rider was realizing the implications of this, and pressed the point, "This means that every matter of state, every law, every government proceeding, even the personal diaries of several officials are all stored in the library at Quillin.  Whatever your father did with the Twin Machines will inevitably be found in the record vaults of the Quillin library."

            "And how would I get to the Quillin library?"

            "Its very simple, son.  In fact, I keep a map of the east coast in my writing desk over there.  Why don't you fetch it and I will show you the route directly."

The boy turned without hesitation and began to open the top drawer of the writing desk.  Jinglo now had a tight grip on the derringer.  He swung the small gun out toward the back of the boy's head.  Without looking up from the desk, the boy's hand shot out and grabbed Jinglo's wrist.  Moving quicker than the Professor could follow, the young man brought his knee up to meet the older man's wrist.  There was a sickening snap and the small gun clattered to the floor.

            Pain.  Jinglo screamed and collapsed off his bed, curling up on the floor and holding his broken wrist close to his chest.  Tortured curses flew from his mouth as every heartbeat brought on fresh new dimensions of pain.  In the haze of his anguish he was vaguely aware of the hateful boy from that filthy, cursed valley leaning down over him.

            "Thank you," the boy said waving a handful of the Professors maps.  Then he was gone.  Even in his pain the Professor could not help but notice.  It sounded like the young man was truly grateful.

 

            The footfalls awoke Rider before Walter opened the door.  Rider didn't open his eyes until Walter nudged him, though.  He was tired.  A life of wandering had allowed him to set his own hours, and now that he was required to rise in the morning, the bruises from the night before ached in a way that strongly suggested he should ignore the nudging and sink back to sleep.

            Discipline was ever the teaching of the gunslingers.  Mr. Steven used to say, "You have to make it a habit to check your weapons.  Never let it slip for any reason.  I guarantee every one of you will wake up one day and think 'I unloaded the chambers last night.  I remember doing it.  There's no need to check.'  If you let the habit go, even just one time, you will lose it entirely.  Then you'll wake one day to find your own gun pointed in your face, or some farmer kid poking his nose down the barrel.  And then that gun just became your worst nightmare."

            Rider rose after one prompting and began to dress himself automatically.  For his part, Walter chuckled. 

            "You're keeping farmer time now, boy.  Best get used to these early starts."

 

            The horses needed tending and grooming and feeding.  Later, Walter said, Meadow would take them out to run a bit.  Rider thought he would like to be there when she did, but kept this idea to himself.  It was this thought he turned over and over in his head as the morning work progressed.  After the horses, they tended the hens, feeding them and watering them and collecting their eggs.  Walter thought they could probably get the rest of the plowing done before breakfast.  Before it got hot.  By breakfast time, Rider had an appetite.  He discovered he was looking forward to Mrs. Carter's cooking, and also to seeing Meadow. 

            Meadow was there, cooking alongside her mother.  As Rider walked in behind Mr. Carter, Meadow threw him an odd look but said nothing.  The kitchen was filled with smells that made Rider's gut churn in anticipation.  Mr. Carter took a big whiff and sighed happily. 

            "Smells like eggs and sausage!"

Mrs. Carter laughed, "And bacon and flapjacks, too.  With butter right from the churn.  But you boys won't be seeing none of that until you've washed yourselves up."

            Rider had the sense that they carried on this little conversation mostly for his benefit.  He didn't mind, though.  It was clear they were trying to make him feel like he belonged.  Though Rider was certian he would never really feel that way, it was a comfort to see them try. 

            Breakfast was as good as advertised.  Mr. Carter spent the bulk of the time talking about that morning's work. 

            "Sounds like you boys got most of the work done already," Mrs. Carter smiled, "What are you going to do this afternoon?"

            "Well after this I was thinking about taking Eric into town with me.  We need to pick up some supplies.  Then we will probably be working with the Dorsons to put their new soil in the ground until dark."

The Carter's had come to accept Eric's general silence.  He was a quiet man.  He ate in silence, reacting to, but not participating in the conversation.  The greed and vigor with which he ate the food was enough to tell Mrs. Carter and Meadow that their efforts in the kitchen were well appreciated.

            "So, Meadow, darlin', how was your outing with William yesterday?"

The girl smiled shyly.

            "Now don't press the girl," Mrs. Carter chided Walter. 

            "Mother," Meadow sighed, "You were asking me all about it while we were cooking breakfast."

            "Well," Walter heaved, pretending indignation, "I do not know if I can stand that kind of hypocrisy.  And in my own house!"  He winked at Meadow.  "So how was your evening out?  Mother gets to know, so should I."

            "It went fine, Daddy.  William was a perfect gentleman.  We had a picnic in his gardens and then took a walk around his estate, and then we rode in his carriage for a bit, then he brought me home."

            "And what did the two of you talk about?"

            "He talked a great deal about the town economics and how he may be buying out some store or other.  He asked about you, Eric."

Eric nodded and continued his eating.  Meadow shrugged and continued talking, "I know it all sounds dull, but he really is clever.  He had me laughing most of the evening at the silliest things."

            "The boy has quite a wit about him.  And he's very successful," Mr. Carter agreed through a mouth of pancakes.  "Do you have feelings for him?"

            "Daddy!" Meadow exclaimed glancing uncomfortably in Eric's direction.  Walter did not seem to care, and continued to gaze at her, his brow arched meaningfully.  Meadow stirred her egg's creamy yellow yolk.

            "I don't know, Daddy.  I would like to get to know him better."

            "He's lived in Chickweed his entire life and so have you.  How much better do you have to know a man?"

            "Better.  That's all," and the flashing in Meadow's eyes made it clear that was all she would say on the matter.  Mr. Carter rose and said, "Well, I guess I had better get the wagon hitched to go into town.  I'll need you when you're ready, Eric."

Rider began to rise immediately to join the man, then felt a hand on his own.  Meadow was looking up at him as she touched his hand.  He sat back down to finish his food.

            "Oh, Walter," Mrs. Carter called, "There are a few things I need from town, too."

            "Come on out to the wagon and tell me," Walter called back, and Martha hurried after her husband.

            "I saw you sneak out last night," Meadow hissed at Rider as soon as Mrs. Carter left the room.  Rider looked back at her, but said nothing.  "I thought you were just going to leave us in the middle of the night.  Why did you go out, anyway?"

            "I had an appointment to keep," Rider replied.

            "Not good enough, Eric."

Rider gave her a long look, then answered, "I had a talk with Professor Jinglo.  It turns out he knew my father."

Meadow seemed to consider this for a moment.  Then she rose and began clearing the dishes.

            "You know, I think I will come with you to town today.  Daddy never gets the things mom needs right."

 

            The ride into town was a quiet one.  Rider found himself observing the other side to the happy family.  He himself knew very little of what a family was.  His father had always been distant, almost god-like.  He never knew who his mother was.  And his brothers?  They ignored him.  Or they put him to work.  No instruction, but if he did not get it right the consequences would be harsh.  Sometimes... a lot of times, they treated him with open hostility. 

            In the few and distant times Rider spent with his father, he saw regret.  His father, he assumed, regretted that Eric had been born.  Born out of wedlock.  Born a bastard.  Born to put shame on the hallowed Rider name and the long line of gunslingers, of Muskethom who had served lords and kings in the old world.

            It was not until shortly before his father died that he told Eric the truth.  Jack Rider regretted that he had found himself unable to be a father to his son.  For all the good he had done in his 60 years of office, Jack had discovered that he was truly a coward.

 

            If Rider had known what a true family was, he would have known that a good family, a HEALTHY family, has times when the strike out against each other.  When blind emotions take hold of the heart and they pour their poison on the ones they love, because the poison will wash away, but the love will go on.  And because the Lord himself knows there is no one else they could strike out at.

            And they rode into town quietly.

           

            Walter sat in silent contemplation, perhaps thinking on his daughter's gentleman friend, perhaps thinking about something the wife said.  Maybe he was cogitating on the work that remained in the day.  Whatever thoughts passed through his head, he kept them to himself.

            Meadow watched Eric.  She watched him in the sly way that women learn to watch the world around them.  Paying attention without looking like you are paying attention, where the vision in the corner of your eye is your greatest friend, and every reflection becomes a window to the world.  Eric was watching the world around him, too.  He had been watching since the moment the two of them bumped into each other.  At the time she found it precious.  At the time she thought it was child-like wonder of a man unused to towns.

            Now, as she watched his eyes dart around, she saw a patern.  Left, right, up, down, check your corners, stop and listen.  Left, right, up, down, check your corners,  stop and listen.  Look at the people, memorize their faces.  Look at the shadows, look at the tall grass, what do you see?  What don't you see? 

            This was not a child viewing the world with wonder or delight.  This was a predator, memorizing new territory, looking at its prey for weaknesses.

 

            Still a portion of her head, the part that was still attracted to this mysterious young man from a far away place, tried to justify him.  A man needs to know where he stands, she thought.  Father always keeps a level head, always knows the answer to a problem.  Men, real men, are always prepared.  That's all this is.  Preparation, for anything, for everything.  But really, she had to know for sure.

 

            They could barely see the bustle of the main street between the buildings and already the market voice of Professor Jinglo was floating to them over the breeze, crisp and clear and a little horse. 

            "Yes Folks, there is no doubt why they call Professor Jinglo a man of a thousand wonders!  Please, now, I beg of you some patience, as I have recently suffered a slight injury that has slowed me down.  But nothing could stop the great Professor Jinglo, no sir, not even those hoodlums that attacked me last night as I walked out to my wagon.

            "Now... you, sir, I see you wish to address the stage.  No need to shout, please, speak your mind."

            "Professor, are you sayin' somebody from OUR town jumped you?"

            "Sir, I have no doubt in my mind that whoever these misguided folks were, they were strangers, guests among you much like myself, although no doubt less well intentioned.  But please, have no concern for my well-being.  Your doctor did a fine job of setting my wrist, and my protective friend, a native of the high mountains near the Hub itself will be accompanying me wherever I go from here out.

            "Now speaking of strangers among us, I have here a certain elixir, the special formula for which I have pried from the stone tongues of the immigrant Eastmen!  In their land, they call this fluid Tsia Cheeka, which means for them 'The Fountain of Truth.'  Their legends say that if an honest man spills a drop of his blood into this fluid that the blood will turn to pure gold!  But if a deceitful or vile man spills his blood into this fluid, it will turn to heavy and ugly lead!"

            "Quackery!" a voice cried in outrage, "Trying to sell these fine folks witchcraft and alchemy!  You seriously expect us to fall for such lies?"

            "Kind Sir, let me set your worries at ease!  This is simply an exercise in stage magic.  I mean no blasphemy.  Lord knows I am a religious man, myself!  But please, indulge me in a small flight of fancy before I commence with showing you our actual line of products.  Do I have a volunteer?"

 

            By this time the was in town, and Walter was quickly discovering he would have to park it and do his shopping on foot, so thick was the crowd.  The three of them dismounted, and above the roar of the crowd, Walter pointed in the direction of the General Store.  Eric nodded and began walking with them.

            "You three!" the Professor cried, and all eyes suddenly turned to look at the three newcomers.  "Yes, you two fine gentlemen and the young lady.  Please join me on the platform.  It will only take a moment of your time."

            Eric remained planted where he stood.  The father and daughter, looking wide eyed and helpless, like a rats cornered by a serpent, began advancing toward the stage.  Professor Jinglo gestured to Rider.

            "You too, son, don't be shy!"

            "I ain't here to play your games, Shyster," Rider called up to the Professor, now taking the hands of Walter and Meadow.

            "Why is that, young man?  Do you have something to hide?  Afraid your blood will be nothing but lead?"

Rider stood and scowled.  Last night Rider had been in his field when he beat the Professor.  The two of them had been alone, one against one.  Now the Professor had Rider trapped in HIS arena.  The field of public scrutiny was not something Rider had ever learned to live with, much less control.  But the fine and silky-tongued Professor was master of the crowd, and now he had the two people Rider had promised to work for under his control. 

            "Go, go, go, go..." The crowd began to shout and tug at Rider, pushing him bodily toward the stage.  For a moment he envisioned himself flying through the crowd, killing, killing.  He squeezed his eyes shut, because this was always the answer his mind offered him.  "When two men are opposed, one must stand, one must fall."  It was his teacher, Mr. Stephen, speaking.  Always violence.  Always get them before they get you.  And now he was on stage and staring into the wild, yellow eyes and beak-like nose of the great Professor himself.

 

            Meadow and Walter, so formerly full of life, looked like the deadwood carvings that Rider had seen frequently outside of General Stores and Tobacco shops.  They stood there, stiff, lifeless, smiling a wooden, hollow smile while the Professor raved.

            "Now what is your name, sir?"

            "Walter.  Walter Carter."

            "Fine, fine.  And what is it you do, Walter?"

            "Well, I raise crops and a few animals."

            "A Farmer!   A man of the land.  Do you folks know Mr. Carter here?"

A number of cheers erupted from the crowd and Walter's salt-and-pepper stubble crinkled into a smile as he waved to his friends in the crowd.  He had never been on display before.  It somehow made him feel like both more and less of a man.

            "Tell me of the Carter line, Walter."

            "Well the Carter's came over on the boats, like everyone else.  They set up in Landfall, but when the land tax started in '07, my great, great granddaddy moved his family out here to help settle on the plateau.  My granddaddy was a Scrayling fighter during the Great Scrayling war.  But we've had the land I am on now for three generations now."

            "A fine and honest testimony, right folks?"

General approval rippled through the crowd.  Rider watched the Professor's every movement poised to strike.  Jinglo glanced over at him and passed him a bold grin and a wink.

            "Shall we put his words to the test?"

The crowd shouted and hooted. 

            "Now, kind sir, I am going to offer you this knife.  It's quite sharp, I assure you.  Just a drop of blood is all we need."

Jinglo held out the knife, blade first, with his left hand.  Rider saw that the great Professor was not shy about showing the splint wrapped tightly around his right hand.  Eric saw the look in Walter's eyes, and in Meadow's eyes, too.  They each knew what was in store.  Cutting yourself is not an easy thing to do.  The question they each faced was, what was harder, hurting yourself, or disappointing the masses?

There was a grunt, a tiny 'splish' and then a plunk.  As the milky-red blood spread and dissipated through the clear liquid in the long, glass cylinder that stood on the platform before Professor Jinglo, a single glint of gold flashed in the faces of the awe-struck crowd as a gold coin drifted to the bottom of the vile.

            "His words are golden!" the Professor shouted, and the crowed oo-ed there awe.

            "Now, shall we question the man's daughter?"

Approval.

            "Young woman, you have lived in Chickweed your entire life, is that right?"

            "I took a trip to Handson once, but yes, I've lived here since I was born."

            "So it is fair to assume that most of the people here are your friends and neighbors, folks who know you well?"

Meadow nodded shyly.

            "Then what we hope to do is ask you a question that only you know the answer to.  I need to ask you, what is your deepest wish, your most gnawing desire?  What is the thing you dream about at nights and ponder in your waking thoughts?  Tell us, young Meadow."

The girl didn't answer for a long time.  Her head was bowed, her slim face hidden in the veil of her long, brown hair.  When she raised her head, her eyes were distant.

            "I've always wanted to see the Ghost Herd.  I want to come face to face with De Azrod."  She stuttered and fumbled as she said it, but as soon as she got it out, a smile came to her face.  Rider looked from the smile on her face to the grin on Jinglo's face.  He strongly wanted to break Jinglo's face.

            "Well, young lady, you've said it and you can't retract it.  Now you know what we will do next!"

Out came the knife, this time hilt first.  Rider, was startled at the quickness with which she took it and nicked her own hand, spilling the blood into the clear vile.  Once again, a golden coin plinked to the bottom of the glass.  Once again the crowd applauded.  This was a fine mid-morning entertainment, sure.  Rider felt the Professor slip next to him.

            "And lastly, we test this young man right here.”

The Professor advanced on Rider, holding the vile and grinning through his devil’s beard.  Rider had known this was coming.  He had been trying to close off the emptiness his mind sought in the presence of so many witnesses.  To think.  This man, this Jinglo, would now exact his revenge for pain Rider had dealt him last night.  In front of the multitude, Jinglo would either force Rider to admit to his shame or he would rile the crowds against Rider, calling him a liar and a scoundrel.

            And just like that, the answer came to Rider.  It came in a moment of clarity unlike any Rider was accustomed to.

            “I’ll do it if you do it, Jinglo.”

            “I beg your pardon?”

Rider was grinning now.  He was forcing his lips back, showing his teeth.  Meadow looked at him in something like fear, and Rider knew his grin looked unnatural.  Threatening.  “Let’s do it, Professor.  You tell your story, I’ll tell mine.  I know it will hold these folk’s attention.”

The Professor laughed.  It almost sounded convincing.

“Every day I stand up here and tell the crowd of my journeys throughout the West Wheel.  What have you told anyone?  Young lady, what has this man told you?”

“Don’t you drag her into this.  This is between you and me.  I bet a few of these folks have wondered if all your fanciful stories are true.  Now you can give them proof.”

Someone in the crowd shouted, “Yeah!  Show us!”

Now the Professor was forcing a smile.  “I believe I informed you folks that the truth serum trick was just a bit of stage magic.  Nothing more than prestidigitation.  I see a few of you have taken it too seriously.  Including this young volunteer I pressed into an admittedly awkward position.  I’m sure you have much to hide, young man, and it wasn’t fair of me to ask you to speak so freely of your secrets.  Please, step down from the stage, and no harm has been done.”

Eric, Meadow, and Walter walked down from the stage.  Meadow and Walter were staring at the ground blankly, and Eric knew he had shocked them.  Things would be hard now.  Just like Jinglo wanted. 

Rider cast a frown over his shoulder in the Professor’s direction.  Jinglo looked positively jubilant as the crowd all eyed Rider suspiciously.  The Professor threw Rider a wink.  Eric knew the man had gotten what he wanted.

 

“Meadow, why don’t you go do some looking around town?  Eric and I have some things to talk about.”  Walter muttered to his daughter.  Meadow frowned.

“Don’t try to protect me, Daddy.  I want to know what all that was about, too.”

“Just go, darling.”  Walter’s voice had an edge that brooked no arguments.  Meadow spun and strutted off angrily.  The moment she was out of sight, Walter grabbed Eric roughly by the shoulder and pushed his head down over the wagon.  Leaning in closely, Walter hissed, “What the HELL was all that about, Eric?  You think that just because I took you in that everyone in town pays strangers no nevermind?  Hell, you dress like a gunman, but I overlooked that because you don’t got no guns on you.  That I’ve seen, leastwise.  Now you go making everyone think your some kind of badman or something!  I’d almost believe that myself, ‘cept badmen got more brains than to go raising everyone’s suspicions.”

Rider met Walter’s gaze and said nothing.

“You best start talking, boy, or I’ll ride you out of town myself.  That crowd back there’s like to lynch you, and I ain’t getting caught up in anything like THAT.” 

Rider continued to stare for a moment.  Then he glanced down a dusty street that led past the buildings, past the tents, out toward the mountains of Poi Drodidi.  He wanted badly to be on the trail by himself again.  As lonesome and hard as the trail was, he had always met those hardships better than he had dealt with other people.

“Let’s walk.” Rider said.

 

            It was a risk and Watler knew it.  The young man had seemed so harmless, so weak when he had shown up on the farmer’s doorstep.  Now, in every step he took and every word he said, Walter saw something dangerous.  This young man he had trusted almost immediately could be leading him off someplace quiet to kill him.  Walter shook the thought from his mind.  He was getting as bad as the towners with their instant suspicion of strangers.  Besides, this stick of a young man couldn’t hurt him, he told himself.  He looked like a brisk wind would knock him over or sweep him away. 

            Walter watched the boy’s face.  His narrow face was all drawn up in hard lines, like a man twice his age.  The boy was quiet, and Walter knew that.  He thought about the stage and the showboating Professor.  Of course the kid didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to spill his guts in front of a crowd.  How could he be so hard on the kid?  The poor son-of-a-gun looked like he was working up the courage to ask a girl courting for the first time. 

            They had walked for a ways before the kid turned to the older man, wind sweeping the hair back from his eyes.

            “My last name isn’t Smith.  It’s Rider.”  And then he stopped.  He didn’t pause, he just stopped talking and let that hang there.  Rider.  Walter could have heard that name on any other day and think nothing of it.  But this kid was giving it to him as if it was the explanation to his entire life.  Rider.  As in Jack Rider.  The defiant last President of the West who held out against the forces of the Duke for all those years.  Walter nodded.

            “You’re from the valley.”

Rider nodded.

            “You must have been just a child.”

The boy said nothing.  How old could he be?  Perhaps a bit older than his daughter?  As old as thirty?  The wandering life ages men quickly.

            Walter sighed and leaned against an ancient hickory post some errant farmer had stuck way out here ages ago. 

            “You’d be right quick with a cutter, I suppose.”

            “No.  I can’t even hold a gun.”

Walter looked at him in mild surprise.

            “Stories always say men from the valley were trained from the cradle to shoot.”

Rider nodded.  “That’s right.  But a gun is useless to me.”

Walter looked at the boy’s hands, always gloved, like the hands of a killer, and now he began to see how they shook.  It was a slight tremor, but it sat there in the hands and they never remained still for a moment.

            And Walter started remembering all sorts of things.  How weak the boy’s hand felt when they shook for the first time; how he leaned on the plow rather than gripping it.  How had he missed it?  The kid was lame in the hands.  What a disgrace he must have been to his family, so proud of their ancient history of fighting to protect kings and kingdoms.

            Walter thought about how Stella Terra had rotted under the eyes of the Riflemen all those years.  They must have felt like heroes, every man, woman, and child.  He wondered if the kid knew how the outside world had forgotten them, how they had become complacent, even happy about the Baron, and the security he offered them against nature and savages like the Scraylings?  This child, and all his dead family must have cursed the name of the Baron to the sky.  Did he know how others said the name of the Baron as a prayer and a blessing?

            The older man placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

            “I’m sorry, son.  I’m sorry.”

The boy, so defiant on stage, looked at the ground and said nothing.

 

            Meadow loved her father.  But like any daughter, she was prone to the occasional disobedience.  And she was mad.  She was mad at Eric because she desperately wanted to know who he was.  Who he REALLY was.  And she was mad at her father for treating her like such a child.  She was a grown woman, and she was as entitled as he was to adult affairs.  She played such arguments through her head as she walked along the rough wooden porches of the town shops.  She should sneak out and tell him she had spent the night at William’s house.  That would serve him right.  Then she thought of something else.

            It was easier than she thought it would be, following the two men as they walked.  The fences grew thick with weeds, and she hardly had to duck to keep from being seen.  Besides, both her father and Eric seemed preoccupied as they walked away from town.  Neither said much until they were nearly out of town.  Finally Eric turned to her father and told him his name was Rider.  It was a name she had heard before, but she wasn’t quite sure where.  Some famous person or other.  The rest of the conversation was short, and it didn’t make much sense to her.  Her father seemed to know exactly what he was talking about, but it was a mystery to her.  By the time they headed back to town, she was madder than ever.  Why was it she never knew what was going on?

            “Now what is a pretty blossom like yourself doing in the weeds?” a voice said from behind her.  She spun and gave a little screech.  William smiled down at her from atop his white mare. 

            “You scared the dickens out of me, Will!” she half yelled, half laughed.

            “People are only startled when they’re doing things they aren’t supposed to.”

Meadow tried in her nervousness to look coy.  “Now that is simply untrue, Mr. Trendle.”

            “Meadow, darling, you don’t need to pretend.  It’s clear what you were doing.  The question I have is, why would a beloved daughter eavesdrop on her father and the help?”

Meadow could not help but pout a bit.  “Father doesn’t think I’m grown up enough to participate in his little ‘talks’ with Eric.”

William offered Meadow his hand.  She reluctantly took it and mounted the mare behind William.

            “So your father is having secret talks with the help and leaving his daughter out of it?”

            “It’s not really like that, Will.  Eric got a little upset when Professor Jinglo took him up on stage.  Daddy was just calming him down is all.”

            “I see.  Your friend Eric doesn’t seem too grounded to me, Meadow.  Flying off the handle like that.  You really can’t trust those trail bums.”

            “No, I think Eric is alright, Will.  Sure he’s quiet and keeps to himself, but I think he’s sweet.”

William turned in the saddle and looked angrily at Meadow.

            “Now you see here MISS Carter!  You can’t afford to follow your little fancies about someone who might slit your family’s throats in the night!  This isn’t some schoolgirl daydream!  I’m telling you, that man cannot be trusted!”

Meadow looked at William uncertainly for a moment.

            “Let me off here, William.”

            “We’re not at the porch yet.”

            “Let me off, William.”

William offered a stiff smile and hauled back on the reigns.  The horse slowed, then stopped in the middle of a large mud puddle that still remained from the earlier storms.

            “As you wish Miss Carter.  Watch your step.”

            “You’re a jackass, William.  A jackass and a fool.  You have everything in this town, and you’re throwing your jealousy after a man who has nothing.  Don’t bother calling on me again until you learn to grow up.”

And so saying, Meadow swung off the horse with a splish, now ankle-deep in muddy water.  The white mare and the would-be prince of town rode off.

 

            The next several days, Rider worked from sunup until sundown.  Most of that time was spent at neighboring farms, helping the men fill their gardens with desert-dirt.  The other men working seemed neighborly and good spirited to one another, but they avoided Rider rigorously.  Rider made up his mind that this was a good thing.  He would leave this town soon enough, and there was no sense making friends. 

            Another development Rider found was that William stopped coming to visit with Meadow.  Rider took notice of this, and then pushed it from his mind.  The observation refused to settle, though, tickling at the back of his head while he worked.  Working had become harder since his childhood.  He had been very resourceful in finding ways of using his hands to their limited potential, but farm layer involved a lot of hand work, and more and more it was all he could do to hold onto something long enough to lift it in his arms against the trembling.                         

            Walter was too busy to mind Rider’s eternal struggle with his unyielding hands.  So were the rest of the town.  They were putting in twice the work as any other Spring planting, and slowly, slowly it was beginning to show.  The desert dirt was crusty and dry until mixed with horse manure and irrigated.  Once the water hit the dirt, though, it soaked it up like a hungry calf given to suckle.  Green shoots showed up within days and those skeptics who had doubted Professor Jinglo began to change their tune.  All but Walter. 

            “It was my great-grandfather’s land, and I’ll be damned if I am going to sew it with this Scrayling powder,” Walter said of that issue one night at dinner, “Besides, Jinglo lied.  You seen those red weed-sprouts that have come up from that dirt?  That’s some kind of desert weed.  Soaks up the water faster’n the green plants, and the roots are tough and grow deep.  In the end, its gonna cause more problems than the old weeds.”

 

            An old hound had begun tagging along on Rider’s heels.  He resented the animal almost instantly.  It was grey and mangy, and crawling with vermin.  Wheezing the way it was, Rider kept deceiving himself into believing that he could lose the creature by quickening his pace.  The dog would not be so easily deterred, however, and continued following Rider, standing close to him panting when he was doing work, and lopping along behind him when he ran errands. 

            The advantage of the dog was that it gave him something to think about while he was weeding or picking strawberries, now in full bloom.  He would pluck at the tough red weeds or the soft red berries and think of the many ways he could kill the dog.  This did not bring on the guilt he usually felt at such thoughts.  The dog was maddening, and by killing it he would put it out of its suffering.  

            Today the old, gray mutt was tagging behind him as he walked into town to deliver an account settlement to the bank for Walter.  Rider had decided to walk rather than taking a horse.  He was in no hurry to get to town.  There were too many people in the town, and they were all too wary of him.  Besides, Professor Jinglo would be there, giving some speech or other, and Rider’s tolerance of the man was just about worn through. 

            However, when Rider got there, town was quieter than usual.  It was too much to hope that the Professor had packed up his snake oil and moved on, but apparently the farmers were too busy harvesting their strawberries, asparagus, and raspberries to listen to him today, and so the showman had taken the day off.

            Rider turned and headed in the direction of the bank, the panting gasps of the hound behind him.  Then he saw it coming at him from the alleyway between the general store and the bank.  His head was turned away, but the shadow flashed across his boots and the footfalls were clear. 

            The hand grabbed at his shirt and yanked him into the narrow street separating the establishments.  Rider had to restrain himself from fighting.  It took only a glance to tell what this was about.

            William heaved Rider off the ground and slammed his back into the side of the building, then shoved him down to the ground.  He gave a vicious kick to Rider’s ribs, and then dug his boot into Rider’s gut, leaning down over the gasping man on the ground.

            “Listen, friend,” William purred smoothly, “Why don’t you do everyone a favor and get out of Chickweed?  I seen you eyeing my girl since the day you walked in, and I can’t say I cotton to that sort of behavior.  A man ought to know his place, don’t you agree?”

            Rider tried to ignore the pain in his belly and wait it out until this maniac became tired of his own words.  His eyes wandered up to the sad, sagging face of the hound looking mournfully down at him from baggy eyes.  He idly wondered if the dog was entertained at this.

            “Are you listening to me, you little rat?” William hissed, and shoved Rider hard with his heel.  He tugged Rider up to his feet.  “I asked you a question, dung-face!”

William savagely hauled back and punched Rider in the face.  Rider tumbled back to the ground, and waited for his vision to come back and the lights to stop dancing behind his eyes.  He gritted his teeth.  It was clear William would not let up until he received some sort of satisfaction.  He wanted Eric cowering at his feet begging for mercy.  He wanted to see a look of fear in Eric’s face. 

            Maybe it was pride, Rider thought, or maybe it was simple honesty, but he could not give this man what he wanted.  Williams boot came up, poised for a second to smash into Rider’s ribs.  Rider’s hands shot out, grabbing the boot and twisting.  William spun and landed hard on his shoulder.  When he looked up, Rider was standing in the entrance to the alley glaring at him.  The glare lasted for seconds, but it would stick in William’s head for much longer.

           

            Chickweed was different.  For two months now the ebb and flow of people in the town had slackened as planting and then harvest of the strawberries and asparagus had drawn the farming community away from the square.  Now there was a brief respite before raspberries and blueberries came into season and then the big surge when all the plants would begin to sprout and need regular, daily harvests. 

            Professor Jinglo was back on his wagon, like a Sunday preacher at his pulpit.  He had quit mostly during the planting, but now he was taking advantage of the crowd he had. The man was pitching to a dead-eyed crowd, lacking the luster and reactive nature Rider had seen when he first entered Chickweed.  They just listened now.  Rider’s eyes watered just watching them stare.  And he thought, what is wrong with these people?

            Jinglo wasn’t even trying to sell anything today.  He was just talking, and the talk didn’t seem to make much sense.

            “My father always said, and you know its true, that everything has a destiny.  Destiny!  Each road leads to a destination.  That’s where we get the word destiny.  We are all headed down the road to death.  Someday, in the great by-and-by, hallelujah, amen!  But what do we do before we get there?  How do we make our lives a memorial to our deaths? 

            “Now as I speak to you, I know that each and every one of you has a hand in the soil.  You work the fields as your fathers did, even have dirt running in your veins, so help me!  But what do you accomplish in your long and weary lives?  You work the ground and get buried in it.  The ground swallows you up, bit by bit, until you are no more!  Then you leave it to your sons and daughters to work themselves into the ground afterward.”

            A man, Rider vaguely recognized him as a canned goods merchant from the corner, barreled into Rider.  He would have knocked Eric flat had Eric not seen him coming wearing that same blurry-eyed stare as the rest of the crowd and pulled to the side.  “Why don’t you watch where you’re standing, boy!” the burly merchant growled with a wild rage, then turned stormily and stomped off.

            “There is a MADNESS coming,” Jinglo was proclaiming, “And when that madness comes, will you stand back idle, your hands in the soil, and do nothing?  Are you not a people who BELIEVE, and teach your CHILDREN to stand up?  To act instead of cower?”

A woman at the edge of the crowd toppled over and lay as if dead.  No one moved to help her; they simply stared ahead as Jinglo continued to speak.  No great student of human nature, Eric wondered again, what is wrong with these people?  He had had enough of town for one day.  Turning, he headed for what his mind had already started to think of as ‘home.’

           

            Meadow was out trimming the hedges when Rider returned.  She also had changed in the months he had been here.  She had seemed such a bright, friendly girl when he had first met her.  But for weeks she had been moody and distant.  Rider spared little time to puzzle into this transformation.  It could be that this was her true nature, and what she had seemed like when they first met was simply a polite act.  Or it could be that something had happened to make her act like this.  It could be William.

            She glanced up and gave him a little smile as he walked through the front gate.  He nodded.  He almost walked into the house, but her eyes hovered on him a moment, and he took this to mean she wanted to say something more.  He stopped, placed a hand on his hip, and squinted in her direction against the evening sun.  She looked down, looked back up, shrugged, then said in a voice barely above a whisper, “There’s a full moon tonight.”

Rider nodded.

“Reckon you’d better tie the horses down before sunset.  They’re all liable to up and join the ghost herd if you don’t.”

“I reckon so.”

For a brief instant, Meadow glanced back up at his face, and her gaze lingered there, growing concerned.

“What happened to you?”

Rider touched his face where William had hit him.  It was tender and swollen.  He had forgotten about his face because the pain in his ribs had been pounding with his heartbeat and burning when he breathed.  He shrugged.

“An accident.”

Meadow dropped the trimmers, lifted her skirt and hurried up to him.

“Well for heaven’s sake, come inside and let me tend to that.”  She began walking toward the house, then turned and added, “You accident,” with a playful smile.  Rider could not help but smile back.

Mother and Father were out at a neighbor’s farm, so the house was empty besides the two of them.  Meadow did not fail to notice Rider’s slight wince as he sat down, and it did not take her long to unbutton his shirt and discover the heavy bruises that blossomed out on his side.  She winced at seeing it and gave him a heavy frown.

“An accident, huh?”

Rider did not answer the accusation, and she bit her lip as she applied ointment to his blemished skin.  After half-a-minute of quiet had passed between them, Meadow spoke.

“So what was it like, growing up without a family?”

Rider considered the question.  It wasn’t exactly accurate.  He had had family; they were all simply disjointed and largely uninvolved with him.  Mr. Stephen had been more of a father to him than his own flesh-and-blood father.  His schoolmates more brothers to him than his real brothers.  And had he had a sister?  He thought perhaps he did, but was unsure.  He wondered if this would be considered odd, to not know all your siblings.  Surely it would seem odd to a girl like Meadow.  He thought all these things and merely shrugged.

            “What was it like growing up WITH a family?” he asked.

Meadow laughed in a nervous sort of way.  “Well you’ve spent time with us, it’s always been mostly like this.  Mom and I have our little fights, and for a time Daddy drank whenever things got hard and didn’t spend as much time with us.  He has given that up, praise God.  But we are always here for one another, and it would feel wrong if one of us went missing.  That’s what I think family is.”

Rider nodded.  He thought he understood what she was saying.  He had never really felt that way towards anyone, except perhaps his teacher Mr. Stephen.  He never really had found out what happened to Mr. Stephen.  He had never found his body among the dead of Stella Terra.  He had come upon the bodies of Stephen’s wife and children tied up to chairs all lined up like a theatre crowd.  They had been seated before the gallows, and all of them had been shot through the heart.  Rider had considered this yet another gruesome mystery, perhaps the Dust Devil’s idea of a funny joke.  Rider had not laughed as he buried their stiff bodies in the cornfields.  Nor had he cried.  All the tears had run out of him long ago.

“I am going to wrap some dressing around your chest, here.  Looks like you might have hurt some of the ribs, so we’re going to keep them tight, okay?  It might hurt a little.”

Rider kept his stoic silence as she painfully wrapped cloth around his bruised ribs.  When she was finished, she gave a small smile.

            “And now you have to do something for me,” she said.  Rider raised his eyebrows in question.

            “Tell me the truth about your past.”

Rider sighed.  Why did she even want to know?  What about him was so important to her that she needed to know where he came from or what he did before?

            “I come from Stella Terra, what used to be the capital city of the West Wheel.  I grew up there during the last sixteen years of the siege.  I was son of Jack Rider, the last president of the West Wheel.  I ran away when the Riflemen attacked and slaughtered the city.  I was captured and branded with my family emblem on the palms of my hands so that I could never hold a gun again.  Then they released me back into the valley to wander among the dead.  I spent several years there, burying the bodies of my friends and family and scrounging through the wreckage.  When I couldn’t stand it any longer, I left, and since then I have been trying to honor my father’s dying wish for me to find the Twin Machines.  They used to be my father’s and now they are lost in time, in a long-ago trade.”

            Rattling it all off exhausted Rider.  He was tired of the whole story.  Tired of being defined by one single tragedy and the wanderings that followed. 

            Meadow only stared at him, wide eyed. 

            “I… I’m sorry.”

Rider suddenly felt very angry at her.  What was she apologizing for, anyway?  In fact, why did she bring it up at all?

            He stood up abruptly and started buttoning his shirt.  “Thanks.”  Rider bit the word off sharply and began walking toward the door.

            “Eric, wait,” Meadow called after him.  Rider ignored her and kept walking.  He went to the stable and brushed down the horses, then tied them down and secured the gates.  Then he went and lay on his cot in the shed, staring blankly at the ceiling.  He decided he might as well collect what pay he had coming to him and leave tomorrow.  He was sick to death of this town.

            He ignored the call to dinner that night.  He could not, however, ignore the sound of the carriage pulling up to a stop in front of the house.  He suspected before he even looked that it was William, come to charm Meadow back into his graces.

            There was a crack in the corner of the shed where Rider could get a very good view of the Carter’s front porch without moving from his cot.  He watched William mount the step, a bunch of tulips in his hand.  In his head one thought connected to another and he found himself whispering, “Her favorite flower’s are field daisies.”  The sound of his own voice startled him.  He was not a man given to talking to himself.  Meadow had told him, as they were both out weeding the fencerow one day that she used to spend whole days out in the fields as a little girl gathering daisies.  She still loved them best.

            Rider rose from his cot, slipping on his boots and dark duster, and donning his hat with the nickel emblems.  He moved to the door and opened it inches.  Any further and it would begin squealing and creaking.  He brushed through the narrow crack and moved along the fencerow along behind the woodpile.  William was knocking on the door.

            “Oh, William!  Haven’t seen much of you around lately.”

            “Well, you know Mrs. Carter, its been busy lately.  I am wondering if Meadow would care to join me for an evening ride and perhaps a late supper.”

            “I am afraid we have already eaten, William.  Eric didn’t join us this evening, so we have extra if you want to join us?”

            “No, and thank you for the offer, Mrs. Carter.  May I speak to Meadow please?”

            “Of course.”

There was a long pause.

            “Hello, Mr. Trendle.”  Meadows voice was cold.

            “Meadow, darling, I am here to apologize to you.  I’ve been a jackass recently, and I am truly sorry.  I’ve been so preoccupied with all the recent work, and of course there’s the shipment we will be making soon.  I guess I just got caught up in the excitement and forgot my manners.”

Another pause.

            “Well, William, I’m not the one you said rude things about, so I really don’t think you should be apologizing to me.”

            “Its funny you should mention that.  I just met Eric in town today and we ironed out our differences.”

            “Oh?  Was this before or after he had his accident?”  Meadow sounded overly casual.

            “Accident?” William sounded sincere.

            “Yes, he came back from town today looking half-beaten.”

            “That’s unfortunate.  Did he say how it happened?”

            “He said it was an accident.  He really didn’t tell me more.”

            “I am sorry to hear that.  Please, Meadow, take these flowers and consider taking a ride with me.  We can watch along the ridge for the ghost herd.”

            “Well… alright, Will.  For a little while.  But don’t think you have bought your way back into my good graces just yet.”

            “The thought never crossed my mind.”

            “Just let me get my shawl.  It will be chilly out on the ridge.”

Rider stooped and grabbed a pebble, holding it between shaky fingers.  He wished he had a slingshot right now, for all the good it would do him.  He would not be able to hold it steady if he had one, let alone pulling it taut. 

            He made his way around the back of the house until he had a clear line of sight to the horses hitched to the carriage.  Then he hauled back and threw the pebble hard at the horse’s flank.  The beast bucked, the other horse started and the carriage pitched around.  Rider did not wait to see William run to steady his animals, but hurried around the other side of the house, using the distraction he had made to bolt around the carriage and climb up crouching on the boot at the far side.

            It never crossed Rider’s mind that spying on William and Meadow was wrong.  It had never even crossed his mind to warn Meadow of William’s treachery.  He never really even thought about it at all.  He simply acted.

 

            The ride was rough and loud, and with his ear pressed to the side of the carriage, Rider only had the roughest of ideas what was going on above.  His ribs ached terribly as he clung to the cabin, and he began wondering if he should have picked the roof, or simply jogged behind them.

            He did not know exactly what he expected William to do.  He only knew the man could not be trusted.  He felt sure that if something happened, he would know it.  No amount of noise from the carriage-ride would keep that from him.

           

            Meadow began thinking that going on the carriage-ride with William was a mistake almost as soon as they left the farm.  William wasn’t very talkative tonight, but he kept slipping her hungry sideways glances, and every bump in the road had him slipping a little closer to her on the seat.

            Meadow could not deny her attraction to the man.  He was handsome, witty, confidant, and one of the wealthiest men in Chickweed.  Having him close to her felt exciting.  But it also felt dangerous, which was part of the excitement.  She supposed this might have been part of the reason she was attracted to Eric.  He also felt dangerous.  But the difference between Eric and William is that Meadow did not know what Eric wanted.  She knew exactly what William wanted, and what William wanted, William got.  His ability to take what he wanted had initially been one of the attractive things about him.  However as she got to know him she realized that was the ONLY thing about him.  It was always about his needs, his desires.  Never did he seem to care what other people around him might need from him.  She kept hoping she was wrong about him.  That there was something more to him than his pursuit of selfish desires.  She was beginning to believe that was wishful thinking.

            They pulled up along the ridge, and for a moment, Meadow thought there was an enormous fire on the horizon, like a dozen cities burning.  She squinted and stared, because the brilliant orange light did not flicker or move like a fire.  Then she gave a little gasp.  Her hand grasped William’s elbow.

            “Look on the horizon, Will!  It’s the moon!  I haven’t seen it this bright since harvest time.”

William gave a little chuckle, “Yes, dear, it’s something to see, alright.  Why don’t we take a walk up to the ridge and watch it rise?  If the Ghost Herd comes through here tonight, we’ll have a great view of them.”

            William climbed down and offered her his hand.  Meadow took it and they walked arm-in-arm up to the ridge. 

            The moon rose rapidly over the prairie, its orange hue spreading a kind of fire across the plains.  Meadow adjusted her dress beneath her and sat down Indian-style on the ridge.  She let out a quick gasp of air as she sat, flinging her head backward and taking in the night sky.

            There was very little cloud cover, but the bright light of the moon, becoming less orange and more silver as it moved up, up away from the horizon, blotted out all but the brightest of stars.

            William slipped in beside her, running his hand along her shoulder blades and then tracing his fingers down to her waste in a way that made her tingle.  She squirmed a bit uncomfortably.

            “Will, please don’t touch me.”

            “What are you afraid of, Meadow?”

            “William, I didn’t come out here to go necking with you, or anything else you might have in mind.  I’m here to watch for the Ghost Herd.  And if you want to keep seeing me, you’ll do what I ask.”

His breath was hot on her neck as his fingers played through her hair.

            “And why shouldn’t you simply do what I ask?” he spoke low, throatily.

            “William!  I…” her words were cut off as his hot mouth pressed against hers.  Meadow felt stunned and confused, not knowing what to do, for a moment she simply let him explore her lips with his mouth and tongue, before pushing him away.  She had to shove hard. 

            “William!” she cried.  His hand found hers and squeezed it painfully, grinding the knuckles together, before she could bring it up.

            “The more you fight it, my dear, the more I want it.”  And he shoved her to the ground, hard.

            A horrible certainty settled upon Meadow.  She tried to kick out, but his legs were pressed down on hers.  He would have his way.  Afterwards, as she lie spent and sobbing on the ground, he would calmly light a pipe or roll a cigarette, why not?  And as he did so, calmly explain to her that it would be her word against his.  That he could make her sound very, very bad, and bring shame upon her family.  Beyond that, and at this point he would grin, he could easily force her family off the land if he so chose.  Nothing was beyond the power of money.

            William’s forearm shoved up under her chin, forcing her head back upon the ground as his other hand probed her blouse, then ripped at it, hard, tearing it down the middle.  Would he blame that on her as well?  She screamed.  William laughed, knowing what she knew also.  That no one would hear her out here.

            His face dove for her bosom… and never made it.  For a moment he seemed simply to lie upon her.  Then his whole weight lifted off her.

            Meadow scrambled away, her fingers catching the edge of her shawl; she stumbled to her feet and wrapped it tightly around her exposed chest.  For a moment she simply wanted to run and run and run, never looking back.  Then she saw him by moonlight.  The slight, dark figure of Eric standing over the slumped hulk of William lying on the ground.  Eric was looking at her with a sort of hurt and timidity she had never seen from him before.

            “Are you okay?” he asked.  She shook her head.  How could she ever be okay?  They stood there like that, for a terrible, awkward moment.  Meadow was gasping, absolutely exposed, utterly unsure of what to do.  Eric had saved her, but he could never say the words she needed to hear, never embrace her to comfort her.  He simply did not know how.  And in that terrible moment a rumbling spread across the plain, a galloping sea of pale horses, illuminated in dream-like glow beneath the moonlight, spreading a curtain of dust behind them. 

            Meadow threw herself into Eric’s arms, not knowing or caring how he got there.  He had saved her, and she needed so desperately to be held.  She squeezed hard, forgetting about his injured ribs.  He barely winced.  Together they watched the gallant, massive silhouette of the Master Stallion climb to the top of the distant ridge, watching over his precious ghost herd in fatherly delight.  The horse Meadow called De Azrod trumpeted over the plain. 

            From somewhere in the town there was a bang.  Then another, louder bang, and a distant cry.  Then from out of town a horse flew with a sort of manic glee.  Then another horse followed the first, and another after that, until it was a herd.  The two horses hitched to the carriage began to shift unsteadily, then rear.  Rider pulled away from Meadow and grabbed at their halters, steadying them with sighs and whispers that sounded to Meadow almost like the horse language the Dan used to train their mounts.  The horses settled, though their eyes remained wild and lustful. 

            “We should go back,” Eric spoke, “Something is wrong.”

            “Everything is wrong, Eric!”

            “Let me take you back to your family, Meadow.  It’s where you belong.”

The girl nodded and climbed into the wagon.

            “What… what about Will.”

            “He’s dead.”

Meadow’s eyes grew wide, and a slight sob escaped her throat.  Without a word she turned and ran.  Rider watched her go, making sure she was headed toward the safety of the town.  When she was gone from sight, he hauled William’s dead body up and dropped it in the back of the wagon.  Then he slapped one of the coach-horses on the rear.  The horse needed no further excuse.  It reared and bolted, dragging its mate and the wagon along with it.  The vehicle disappeared in the direction of the ghost herd. 

            Rider pulled a knife from his boot and began dutifully carving a notch in his gun belt.

 

            “There is no lesson,” Mr. Stephen told the rows and rows of teenagers standing in front of him, “That can prepare you for the task of killing a man.”

The teenage boys, perhaps a few months away from a death that none of them knew was coming, had a hard look in their face of soldiers about to enter their first battlefield.  It was a look no youth should ever have to wear, and one that all too many have.  Today was another test, perhaps one of the hardest they would face before the Dust Devil twists into their valley and they all wear that look for the last time.

            “Once you have killed a man, you can never undo the deed.  You have played God, deciding who is to die and who is to live, and it is dangerous ground to tread on.  There are, of course, ways take a man down, even shoot a man, without killing him.  But if you choose the life of the gunslinger, you must accept the inevitability that there will come a day where you must cross that line and become a killer.  A murderer.  Cain.  It is a decision you will need to make in an instant, without hesitation.  So get all the guilt and pain and hating yourself out of your mind now, because when that moment comes, if you do NOT kill, then you or someone else will probably die.

            “I said I could not train you to be a killer.  Sorry, I mean to BE a killer, to enter that state of mind.  It’s true.  But what I can do is teach you how to make that decision.  So when the moment comes, you will not hesitate, you will do what needs to be done.  But you should know that once you do it, you will no longer be a man.  You will be a murderer.  A killer.  And the life of a killer is a lonesome one.  Women will fear you, and men will hate you.  Civilization abhors dealers of death.”

 

            Meadow knew she was crying.  That much was obvious.  But what she was feeling was impossible to pin down, much less describe.  She wasn’t even sure she wanted to know.  In her mind, no matter how much she fled, she ran into Eric.  Eric, the wandering stranger.  Eric in sinister silence.  Eric, the orphan.  Eric, the victim.  Eric, the savior.  Eric.  Murderer.

            Never had she realized how hemmed in she was with men, attacking things, because that was the only way they knew to handle them.  Force being their solution to all problems, all issues, and all feelings.  The worst part was, some part of her felt glad that Eric had done it.  Some part of her took a savage satisfaction that her childhood friend and would-be rapist was dead.  And she was not even certain that the punishment was worse than the crime.     

            Blindly, she fled her thoughts and feelings a furious stew.  She wanted nothing more than to see and be held by her father.  Later it would occur to her that her father may have done the same thing Eric had done when he learned what William had done.

            There was a blur in the corner of her vision, and by the time she looked up, she had already collided with the narrow chest of a man standing at the edge of town, smoking a cigarette.  She stumbled and fell.  Looking up, the girl sat in shambles, her feelings naked to the world, her eyes red, her cheeks wet, her hair unruly and windblown.  The man looked down at her with an air of confidence and no surprise whatever.  It was the narrow, bearded face of Professor Jinglo.

            “Why, my dear, whatever is the matter?”

It all seemed like a dream.  And in a dream, does it matter who you talk to or what you say?

            “He… he’s dead.”

The Professor calmly blew smoke from beneath his beard.

            “Who’s dead?”

            “William is dead.  Eric killed him.”

Jinglo nodded.  He was still completely calm, but his eyes showed a barely restrained interest.  Seeing the look, Meadow believed for one horrifying moment that she would be forced twice in one night.

            The Professor seemed to notice her flinching away.  He flicked his cigarette aside and took a few steps backward to a safe distance.

            “Calm yourself, young miss.  You’ve seen a horrible thing tonight, but I am just an old man.  Tell me, though, how much do you really know of our young Mr. Rider?”

            “It… isn’t like it sounds.  I don’t even know if he killed William on purpose.  William… tried to take advantage of me.”

            “Oh but it IS like it seems Ms. Carter.  Do you know where Rider is from?”

            “He… he came from Stella-Terra.”

            “Yes, dear, Stella-Terra, the valley of the Muskethom, the bloodline from the old Eastern shores, once the assassins of shifty politicians and enforcers for despots.  Murder runs in their blood, Ms. Carter.  Your Eric was trained from the breech to be a murderer.  It is all he knows.  All he can ever do.”

Meadow began sobbing as Jinglo delivered this cold condemnation.  She shook as she whispered, “No.”

            “Oh, but it’s true.  Ask him, if you don’t believe me.  The first thing he does as he meets a person is to judge how best to kill them.  It is all the boy can do to keep from killing everyone on sight.  He has killed before and he will do so again.  Think, when you and your father took the test of truth, how Rider refused to take it.  Became violent.  He did not wish to be stripped of his lies and be shown for what he really was,”  Jinglo snorted in disgust, “It’s a wonder the boy can live with himself.  I shouldn’t wonder that he has trouble sleeping at night.  Wanders out into the night looking for victims.”

            And Meadow did remember.  She remembered Eric’s wandering at night.  His reluctance to discuss it, or anything else.  How he had said he visited Jinglo, and even now Jinglo nursed a broken hand. 

            “But,” Jinglo sighed with an indifferent air, “This is all to much for a poor overwrought girl to handle, I suspect.  Please.  Do an old man the kindness of allowing him to take you safely home.”

            Trembling, Meadow took his hand and he took her home.

 

            The night had been full of wild and unpleasant occurrences.  Rider did not much like the state of mind Meadow had left him in, but try as he might, he could not see a way things could have turned out differently.  However, he could not let himself be bothered by that now. 

            The horses in town were gone.  And not just a few of them.  Slipping in and out of the shadows across town, Rider was soon able to confirm what he already suspected.  Stables were empty, their doors swinging wide.  Hitching posts had been pulled free and the beams had been removed from many fences.  It was a sizable task someone had accomplished to loose nearly all the horses in the town.  And on the one night they were all sure to flee.  This was no mere coincidence.  Rider could not think who would profit from setting free all the horses.  Without them the town was crippled.  Plowing, hauling, travel, and all manner of farm work would now be close to impossible.  This would destroy them.

            It was a woman who screamed first.  Mrs. Murtle if you wanted specifics.  Rider had seen her before in town, shopping, standing in the crowd, stealing furtive kisses from Mr. Crown in the back corners of the town where they were certain their adulterous trysts were sure to go unnoticed.  It was most likely one of these very encounters that had her out so late. 

            Rider saw her coming up her lane as he cut across her property, making his way back toward the Carter’s farm.  Rider dropped down in the weeds and watched her as she rounded the lane, practically tripping over the fence-posts that had been chopped in half and pulled free to loose the herd of perhaps ten horses that had so recently been residents of the farm.  Looking up, the full realization of what had happened dawned on her and she screamed.  As lanterns flared to life within the house, Rider groaned.  He might have to call this patch of weeds his bed for the night.  There would be considerable commotion on the Murtle farm shortly. 

            Rather than sitting and letting the dew gather on him, Rider opted to slink slowly back along the property line.  He could walk the ridge around town and come into the Carter’s farm that way.  It would take an hour or so, but it was the best way to avoid notice.

            As he walked back along the ridge, Rider could see lanterns begin lighting up from farmhouse to farmhouse, spreading like a fire across the town.  Rider thought yet again that perhaps he should just keep walking, leaving this town far behind him.  The thought brought forward an image of Meadow’s face, hurt, shocked, confused, and scared when she learned that the man who had assaulted her was now dead.  Rider cursed under his breath.

            “He deserved it!  Why can’t you see he deserved it?”  Rider clenched his trembling fists and breathed several deep breaths.  “What else could I have done?”

 

            There was something wrong at the farm.  The lights were on in the house, but none of the Carters were outside inspecting the damaged stable and the loss of their horse.  Rider hoped Meadow had made it home, but was not so bold as to venture into the house to check.  He would go lie on his cot, he decided, and wait until morning.  There would be trouble enough then.

            Rider saw the fresh scruffs of footprints outside the shack’s door, and heard the creaking inside.  And all these signs clicked in his head the moment after he turned the latch on the door.  He froze his hand, did not pull the door open, but it was already too late.  He dove as the door burst open.  The town sheriff stood there with a shot-gun aimed neatly down at the dust-bound boy.  A large deputy stepped around him, and another.

            “Looks like you been busy tonight, boy.”  The sheriff said, his calm words barely concealing the anger boiling under its surface.  “What with setting all the horses free, I don’t hardly see how you had time to murder someone, but you’ve shown yourself to be a mighty talented man.”

Rider could see the Carters emerging from their house, peeking around the lattice of the porch, trying to hide from his sight.  He tried to tell from the shadows on their faces what they were thinking.  He could not.  He had murdered a man, true.  Whatever other offenses they tacked on unjustly did not greatly affect the outcome.  The penalty was hanging.  Which, Rider thought, was the same penalty given for rape.  He had snapped the man’s neck and saved them the rope.  You’re welcome.

            “Horace,” the sheriff turned to the burlier of the two deputies, “slap the irons on him.  Don’t be gentle.”

            Rider saw it coming, and groaned inwardly even as he tried to roll out of the way.  Horace’s boot connected with his already injured side.  Rider began coughing up vomit as the big man’s boot landed hard on his back, pinning him to the ground.  He felt his arms being wrenched behind his back.  He relaxed and let the man pull.  Otherwise he might have a pair of broken arms on top of all his other injuries.  As it was, the man nearly twisted his arms clean out of his sockets.  Then it was over and Horace yanked him up to his feet.  The sheriff was leaning against the shack looking at Rider with disgust.

            “You just ain’t got not sense, kid,” he snarled, “I don’t know what you wanted, setting free all the horses here, or killing one of our richest citizens, but what you GOT was a whole town that ain’t gonna wait for a judge or trial to string you up.  And if you think me or even Horace here will be enough to stop them, you’ll soon find out how wrong you are.”

            Rider could not see the pained and sour look on his face, but it never really occurred to him to argue or speak words in his defense.  He let himself be bound and shoved; pushed and prodded for the interminable walk into town.

            “I’d have hauled you in on my horse,” the sheriff commented at one point, “but its plumb gone missing.”

 

            The jail cell was, all things considered, actually more comfortable than the shack he’d been staying in.  This comfort was diminished considerably by the iron cuffs and chains they had left on his arms, and the angry shouts that began sounding outside more and more frequently, occasionally accompanied by crashes and sprinkles of glass shards coming through the high barred window.  Rider shut this all out, rolling on his side to avoid any sharp glass that might otherwise rain on his face.  He would not sleep, he knew, but at least he could think.

            Not that there was much to think about.  Escape, was, of course, the most practical thing to consider.  Rider had no plans, and doubted any would form.  Still, he really didn’t feel afraid.  Somehow the idea of his imminent execution seemed far off.  Something else was bothering him.  He had almost drifted to sleep when he realized what it was.

 

            She said it often, and it always bothered him when she did.  He never really understood what she meant by it, and there seemed to be no pattern as to when or why she would slip it in.  Eric would come home, moping and frustrated at his brothers. 

“I hate them.  I just want to shoot THEM sometimes.”

The Scrayling girl, who had finished her cleaning and was  now serving him some cornbread, would frown at him and say, “Don’t eat the fruit of the desert, Pappu.”

Or he would be working on a math lesson, growing more and more frustrated until he flung his slate against the wall, watching in savage satisfaction as it shattered into pieces. 

“Boy!  Do not eat the fruit of the desert!”

But it wasn’t just when he was angry.  She would say it on the occasions he was acting silly, or climbing the banisters in his father’s mansion.  What did it mean?  There is no fruit in the desert.  Is there?

 

            There was a gray light seeping in through the window.  Rider gazed at the ceiling and listened to the noises outside.  He had slept a very little last night, and now that the morning light was showing, the noise outside his window had elevated and spread from a protest to a riot.  It ranged throughout the streets and seemed less focused on him.  No rest for an angry town.  He was stiff and soar, but he dragged himself up awkwardly and peeked out the window.  Furious people roamed the streets like blind men, bumping into one another and shouting wordless curses.  Children and men alike, flinging rocks through windows and pushing over horseless wagons.  He did not care to see much of this madness and flopped back down on his mattress.  He was hungry and thirsty, but no one had bothered to leave him any food or water.  Best, he thought, to preserve his strength.  At this rate, they would forego hanging him and simply burn down the jail with him in it. 

            No one came in the jailhouse that day.  Rider thought the Sheriff and his deputies probably had their hands full calming the rioters.  Daylight faded into night-time and some of the noise and madness seemed to bleed itself out.  Rider was, by this time, very thirsty.  Despite this, in the near quiet that came a few hours after dark, and Rider was able to doze.

 

            When the voices started outside, Rider came awake instantly. 

            “I told you, I’m sorry!  You saw this town.  It’s tearing itself apart!” that was Walter Carter talking.  Rider recognized the voice instantly.

            “Mister Carter, I know you got problems, but my men are starving.  You promised us provisions two months ago, and you’ve always come through before.  Certainly you have something?”  This voice was deep and spoke with an accent Rider was not able to place.  Careful not to make noise, he pulled himself up and peeked over the edge of his cell-window.  It was no good, he could not see the speakers from this angle.

            “I am deeply sorry.  My father supported your father’s men, and I have done my best to support yours.  At least a dozen farms here have joined me to help you.  But everything has gone wrong this season.  Our horses are gone and our crops are coming in late and weak.  You’re going to have to try the farms in the valley.”

            “Thems all loyal to the Baron, and you know it.  My men had to fight off two of them Bloodhounds a few month’s back.  They ripped through half my force before we was able to put them down.  We can’t go through that again.”

Rider could hear Walter’s audible sigh.

            “Okay.  I can give you something.  It’s not much, but if you ration it, it may get you to Landfall.  But you will have to find your supplies somewhere else next season,” the sigh came again, “We may NEVER recover what we’ve lost this year.”

            “Mister Carter, you is a good man.  I know the Lord will bless your sacrifice.”

            “I wish I could believe that.”

Footsteps fell and Rider could tell the two were walking off, northward, away from town.  He closed his eyes and tried to think.  But all he could think about were the Pylons.

 

            There is no fruit in a desert.  Eric had never actually seen the desert, but he had heard enough about it.  They called it the desert because it was barren and waterless and life could not thrive there.  It grew cactus and scrub brush and redweed, it sheltered scorpions and rattlesnakes and hare, but it did not produce fruit.  It never produced fruit.  It was a desert.  And still she said it again and again; do not eat the fruit of the desert.  Do not eat something that doesn’t exist.

 

            In his mind he envisioned the bearded face of Professor Jinglo leering down at him through his cell bars.  He looked up and saw it wasn’t just a vision.  Jinglo seemed pleased to finally be noticed.  Rider struggled to sit up.

            “It’s the redweed, isn’t it?”

            “I beg your pardon, son?” The Professor smiled.  Not so much a question as a game.

            “You know what I’m talking about,” Rider snarled, “You said the desert dirt was an old Scrayling farming trick.  It’s an old trick alright, but they don’t use it to farm.  ‘Do not eat the fruit of the desert,’ right?”

The Professor’s smile grew wider.  “You’re really a bright lad, Eric.  It’s amazing you know these things with such a sheltered childhood.”

            “The redweed is a desert plant.  It sucks water from other plants and keeps it in its roots, right?  It replaces the water with poison.”

            “It’s a little late for you to be figuring all this out, son.”

            “Why?”

            “This town is a supply route for the Buffalo Soldiers.  They’ve been a thorn in the Baron’s side for almost sixty years now.  The Baron was put in a unique position.  Because this town is too small to expend the use of a battalion of Riflemen this far north, but at the same time, so long as this town existed, the Buffalo Soldiers would continue their raids on the Baron’s supply lines for the Riflemen.  And so the task fell to me to rid him of this problem.  I must say, I did not expect to meet the last of the Muskethom while I was here.”

            Rider lay back and closed his eyes.

            “What will the redweed do to them?”

            “The poison of the redweed is in its roots.  It gets into the soil, it gets into the other plants, and then it gets into people’s mind and stays there, growing like a fever.  These people have been going mad for some time now, but its starting to accelerate, it won’t be long before they are all foaming at the mouth and trying to eat one another alive.  You’re fortunate you have such a good view of the insanity.”

            “You won’t get away, Jinglo.  Walter Carter never took your desert dirt.  None of us ate the poison.  He’ll find you and he’ll stop you.”

            “If you wish to think that, be my guest young Rider.  But at least one Carter ate the poison, and I think your hero will be a little concerned with his daughter’s insanity to worry about me.”

Rider’s stomach felt sick, and he rolled over in his bunk, not wishing to hear anymore.  Jinglo continued.  “I just came to say my farewell.  I think my work here is well done.  The Baron will be pleased.  There’s no need to linger about.  I find these affairs distasteful.”  Rider heard his stool scoot back, heard him walk easily to the door, and heard the door shut behind him.

            The moment he left, Rider pulled his shackle’s down his back, around his bottom and up around his legs, straining and grunting until his hands were in front of him.  He stood and paced the floor in front of his bars.  One floorboard squeaked very slightly as he stepped.  He fell to his knees, looking for the tip of the loose floorboard.  Outside the noises of riot came like a tide.  It had been rising steadily as the day broke, and now it was nearing a fever pitch.  Rider thrust down with his knee, the floorboard squeaked harshly and the corner sprang up a bit more on the release.  Rider hooked a link of the chain around the exposed corner and pulled.  The floorboard came up bit-by-bit, then slipped off the link.  Rider did this again.  This time he was able to fit his fingers under the board.  He pulled with his whole body.  The board came loose and broke off, leaving a small hole that looked down at the ground under the jailhouse.  Rider pulled frantically at the next board, prying it up, and then the next one.  Soon he had a hole he could slip through, and did so without hesitation.

            In the shadows under the jailhouse, Rider watched boots stumbling by.  One woman lay in the street where she had fallen.  Boots walked over her, stepping on her, as often as they walked around.  They were no longer breaking things.  They had run out of things to break.  In the distance he could see a flickering light, and knew it hailed the next stage in destruction. 

            He slithered to the front of the jailhouse, waited for a moment, then rolled out from under the foundation, ran up the stairs and through the door as quickly as he could.  Closing the doors gently, he began to search slowly and methodically for the keys.  It was not a difficult search; they hung from a nail next to the Sheriffs desk.  He was opening his irons when she came through the door.

 

            Meadow had her father’s rifle quivering in her hands.  She was wide-eyed, and seemed scared.  Rider dropped his hands and the irons clanked heavy to the floor and lay there. 

            “Eric,” she said.  Or perhaps it was a question.  It didn’t matter.  She was pulling the hammer back with her left hand, and the rifle swung up toward the ceiling.  Rider knew he should move at that moment, disarm her, or simply flee.  But he didn’t and the moment passed, and now she was pointing a cocked rifle at him, her right finger squeezing on the trigger. 

            Rider thought he should talk to her.  He should, at least, try.  He could not talk to her when she was sane, as he stood there working silently beside her, stealing glances at her because the part of him that was a young man wished she would look back.  Now there was nothing left to lose.

            “Meadow.  Please put the rifle down.”

            “Why should I do that, murderer?  You want me to be powerless again?  So you men can rule and run me?”

            “Meadow, you ate someone else’s crops.  You’ve got a poison inside you.”

            “And you’ve got a poison inside you, Eric Rider.  It kills everything you touch with those weak hands of yours.”

            “Have you seen the way the town is tearing itself apart?”

            “Bad men doing bad things.  I’ve got the power now.”

And then she shot him.

 

            This is the part Rider does not remember.  He would later see the bullet had grazed his skull.  He does not recall Meadow, flat on her back from the recoil of the rifle and weeping herself into hyperventilation.  He does not recall wandering out into the street and falling to his knees as a battle raged on around him, father against son, brother against brother, and neighbor against neighbor.  He never saw the jailhouse erupt into flame as the burning building next to it blew fire to its side.

            He has no memory of the deep rumbling in the ground that grew and grew until it was thunder or an earthquake that never ended.  And the rushing bodies of horses coursing like a river endlessly past him, crashing through walls and crushing the town and its people beneath their hooves.  The Ghost Herd had finally come to reclaim their land from the brief incursion of man onto those high plains. 

 

            When Rider came to consciousness, he was staring up at the muzzle of the great black horse.  The creature, he realized much later, must have dragged him here.

 

            Rider halted his narrative.  The Lilly and Peter remained quiet a moment.  Then Peter erupted.

            “And…?”

            “And nothing.  When I went back to the town, this horse followed me.  There was very little left of Chickweed, but I was able to find a box of gold coins just like the ones Professor Jinglo pulled out of his truth water.  The horses must have crushed the rest.”

Lilly gripped his shoulder.  “Does every town you visit end up destroyed?”

Rider had never really thought about it.  “Mostly.”

            “That doesn’t fill me with hope, Eric.”