Duroc lay naked on the stone floor, willing his every muscle to relax. It was a trick his uncle had taught him. Sometimes, it made the fear go away. Sometimes…
4:30 AM, Western Central Time. 95 m.p.h. 'Nola Gay nudged the first Fratmobile, almost gently, and the spikes went in low. Redd veered sharply to the left and the Delta Gamma Epsilon ve-hickle lifted up off the freeway. She used her lightweight Combat Lase surgically, slicing off one of the Fratmobile's wheels. The ve-hickle spun end over end, and fell by the wayside. 'Nola Gay was three hundred yards down the road by the time the gastank blew. There were three other Delta Gamma Epsilon ve-hickles in this race, and then it would be the end of them.
The crewcut gangcult of fresh-faced fascists in letter sweaters and football helmets had been staging too many 'panty raids' on T-H-R clients' holdings between Pueblo and Trinidad. They hadn't got the message after the first few T-H-R team strikes, and now they were getting the top lady, Redd Harvest. She'd picked the assignment herself, cruising down from Denver to handle it personally.
'Nola Gay, her customized G-mek VI2, held the road like a clean dream. She took out the slowest of the remaining Fratmobiles with a popped package from her grenade launcher, and upped her speed. Often, she just raced the bandits until they cracked up, not even bothering with the roof-mounted chaingun or the 15mm autocannon.
One of the lettermen fouled up, bad. A tyre blew out at 120 m.p.h, and ragged tatters of metal and panzerboy were spread over a mile or so of the blacktop. One left.
There were explosions around her, but she swerved through them, sustaining only a little singed paintwork.
She held the wheel with her left hand, and tapped keys on the dashtop board with the fingers of her right. It was like a vidgame. Get the target centre, and then blast.
'Hey, carrot-top,' a pleasant voice came over the intercom, 'how's about we call this chicken run a tie and cruise over to a make-out motel for some party action. We've got brews, broads and bennies to spare.'
Without thinking about it, she stabbed the chain gun control, and made a pass. The entire rear section of the Fratmobile came apart.
Redd passed the wreckage, knowing there would be no survivors, and kept on speeding. She fired off her remaining ammo into the desert dark.
The chase was over, and she was coming down from it. But for now, she kept her pedal to the floor, and sped into the dark.
Some night, there would be a brick wall across the road, and that would be an end of it.
Some night, but not tonight.
Hawk-That-Settles felt emptied of his song, as if he had poured his spirit out into the sand with the ancient words. The Devil was at the door, and he didn't have the strength to wake up Jesse.
The one-eyed white girl was on her own.
'Houston, if you think I'm going to let you wake up the President with some glitches from a base we should have decommissioned in the '80s, you have got another think coming. Send a fax in the morning.'
'What's that I hear, little pigs? Not on the hair of your chinny-chin-chins? Well, I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll blow your house in…'
'This is Lola Stechkin, bringing you the Middle of the Night Bulletin, and informing you that absolutely nothing is happening around the world, thank God. Soon, it's back to the
There was someone down in the courtyard. One of the men from her dreams. Jesse carefully pulled on her clothes. It would be dawn soon.
The moon was going down.
X
From the shadows, Hawk-That-Settles saw the Devil come into the courtyard of Santa de Nogueira. He looked like a man, but Hawk saw the spirit writhing inside him.
The Devil sauntered across the open space, apparently unconcerned.
This was Jesse's test. Hawk had no part in it. Although he knew that if she failed, the Devil would surely kill him too.
Again, he was an expendable innocent bystander for the one-eyed white girl's elevation to a higher plane of being. This little Indian was getting fed up with that.
'Tonto,' said the Devil. 'I see you.'
Hawk came out of the shadows. 'My name's not Tonto.'
'No, of course not. You are Hawk-That-Settles, son of Two-Dogs-Dying, of the line of Armijah. You could be a Chief of the Navaho.'
'But I'm not.'
'No. You are not. You are just something in my way.'
'And who are you?'
The Devil smiled. 'Dr Ottokar Proctor, at your service.'
'The killer?'
'The Artist.'
They had been circling each other. The sky was getting light. The shadows were receding. Hawk could see the Devil's face more clearly now. It was quite a famous face, a television face, a newspaper face. Bland and unreadable, it concealed his horns, his forked tongue…
'Have you heard the one about Roy Rogers?'
'No.' Hawk tried to remember the Song of his Dying, but it would not come to him. He could only sing it once, and he had to do it right.
'Well, Roy is coming home from Santa Fe on the stagecoach one night—he's been away on business—and he stops off in town before heading out to his ranch…'
The Devil stood in the open, hands visible, as relaxed as a professional golfer.
''Mr Rogers, Mr Rogers,' says the town drunk, 'where are you going?'
''Well, Gabby, I'm going out to my ranch…'”
Hawk heard Jesse coming from a long way away. She was making her way cautiously down to the courtyard.
''But Mr Rogers, the Apaches rode through yesterday, and they burned your ranch down!'
''In that case, I guess I'd better go look out for my wife…'
''But Mr Rogers, when the Apaches were gone, the Wild Bunch rode through, and they whipped your wife to death.''
Hawk saw Jesse standing behind Dr Proctor.
''In that case, I'll mosey out and see to my three children…'
''But Mr Rogers, after the Wild Bunch were through, Mexican bandidos came up from below the border, and they took your three children and hanged them from the old oak tree…''
Jesse was calm, ready for the move. Hawk knew that Dr Proctor knew she was behind him.
''In that case, I'd better look after my cattle..'
''Oh Mr Rogers, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but once the bandidos headed out of here, the rustlers came through and stampeded your herd the hell out of the valley…''
It was the hour of the wolf, the quiet moment between nightset and sunrise. The desert was still.
''In that case, I'll go give Trigger his oats…'
''But Mr Rogers, when the rustlers were finished Black Bart turned up spoiling for a fight, and he shot Trigger right between the eyes, killed him deader than a skunk…''
Jesse walked into the open. Dr Proctor nodded to her, but kept on with the story.
'And Roy looks at the ground and says 'well, I guess I'll go out to the ruins of my ranch, count my missing cattle, and then bury my wife, my horse and my kids.''
