until the notary left the Octagon.
“We’ll play by our old rules,” he said. “Best two out of three. We’ll let the GeneDyne computer pick a topic at random from its database. If there are any challenges, do you agree that the computer should resolve them?”
“Yes,” said Levine.
Scopes flipped a coin, slapped it onto the back of his hand. “You call it.”
“Heads.”
Scopes removed the covering hand. “Tails. I start the first subject.”
De Vaca ceased singing the old Spanish song that had kept them company for the last several miles, and fell back slightly, taking a moment to breathe the desert air in deep, reverent draughts. The setting sun had tinged the desert with gold. It felt wonderful to be alive, to simply be on this horse, headed out of the Jornada and toward a new life. For the moment, it didn’t matter what that life was. There were so many things she had taken for granted, and she swore never to allow herself to make that mistake again.
She looked at Carson, riding ahead on Roscoe, angling toward the high narrow gap of Lava Gate. She wondered, almost idly, how he would fit into that new life. Immediately, she dismissed the thought as being much too complicated. Plenty of time to think about that later.
Carson turned, noticed that de Vaca was no longer beside him, and slowed. He turned back with a smile as she approached, then leaned over on impulse to stroke her cheek with the back of one hand.
She felt a sudden spray of wetness across her face. The sensation of moisture in the desert was so foreign that she automatically closed her eyes against it, turning her face away and raising her hand protectively. She wiped her face and her hand came away bloody, a small jagged shard that looked like bone stuck to one of her fingers. At the same moment she heard a loud crack roll across the landscape.
Suddenly, everything began to happen at once. She looked forward to see Carson toppling forward on his horse just as her own mount bolted at the sharp noise. She grabbed desperately at the saddle horn as something whined past her ear. Another report boomed across the desert.
They were under fire.
Roscoe was heading for the base of the mountains at a dead run. De Vaca urged her horse to follow, lashing her heels into its flanks, hugging its neck, hoping to make a smaller target. She craned her neck upward, trying to steady her vision against the lurching and pounding. Ahead, she could see Carson hunched over the saddle. Blood was running freely down Roscoe’s flank and shivering off in droplets, cascading into the sand. Another shot sounded, then another.
The horses dashed toward a cul-de-sac in the lava flow, and pulled up short. Several more shots came in rapid succession and Carson’s horse whirled to escape, eyes wild, throwing Carson out of the saddle and onto the sand. De Vaca jumped from her horse and landed next to Carson as both animals ran blindly back out into the desert. There was another report, followed by the horrible scream of a horse in pain. De Vaca turned. Roscoe’s belly had been blown open, a length of intestine spilling out between his legs like a gray streamer. The animal ran for a few hundred yards, then came to a trembling stop. There was another report, and de Vaca’s horse fell kicking to the sand. Another bullet, and a fine red spray rose from its head. The animal jerked its hind legs twice, spasmodically, then lay still.
She crawled toward Carson. He was lying in the sand, curled in on himself, knees up around his chest. Blood was turning the sand around him to a slippery red paste. She turned him gently and he cried out. Quickly, her eyes searched for the wound. His left arm was completely soaked in blood, and she carefully pulled away a piece of his torn shirt. The bullet had taken a huge piece out of his forearm, shattering the radius and peeling the muscle and flesh back, exposing the ulna. In a moment the sight was obscured again by blood, which jetted freely from the severed radial artery.
Carson rolled sideways, his body stiffening in agony.
De Vaca turned quickly, looking for something she could use as a tourniquet. She didn’t dare cross the field of fire toward the horses. In desperation, she ripped off her own shirt, rolled it tightly, and knotted it just below Carson’s elbow, twisting it until the flow subsided.
“Can you walk?” she whispered.
. Carson was speaking under his breath. She leaned closer, listening. “Jesus,” she heard him moan. “Oh, Jesus.”
“Don’t crap out on me now,” she said fiercely, tying off the tourniquet and grabbing him under the armpits. “We’ve got to take cover behind those rocks.” With a supreme effort Carson rose shakily to his feet and staggered toward the cul-de-sac, then took a few steps into the rocks and collapsed again behind a large boulder. De Vaca crawled in behind him and examined his wound, her stomach rising at the sight. At least now he wouldn’t bleed to death. She sat back and looked him over quickly. His lips looked oddly blue. There didn’t seem to be any other wounds, but with all the blood it was difficult to tell. She tried not to think what it would mean if Nye hit him a second a time with that terrible rifle.
She had to think, and think quickly. Nye must have realized that he couldn’t catch them by tracking. So he’d somehow guessed they were headed for Lava Gate, and gone ahead to cut them off. He’d destroyed their horses, and soon he’d be coming for them.
She tugged Mondragon’s dagger out of Carson’s belt. Then she dropped it in the sand in frustration. What the hell good was it against a man with an express rifle?
She peered over the rock and there was Nye, in the open now, kneeling and taking aim. Immediately a bullet whined inches from her face, striking the rocks behind her. Powdered stone stung the back of her neck in a sharp spray. The gun’s report followed an instant later, echoing and bouncing among the rock formations.
She hunched down again behind the rock, then moved along behind it, peering out from another angle. Nye had risen to his feet once again and was walking toward them. His face was hidden in the deep shadow of his hat brim and she could not make out his expression. Only a hundred yards away now. He was simply going to walk up and kill them both. And there was absolutely nothing she could do.
Carson moaned and clutched at her, trying to say something.
She moved back behind the boulder, turning away from Nye, and waited. Waited for the massive blow to the back of her head that would signify the arrival of the bullet. She could hear boots crunching toward them, and she covered her head with her hands, closing her eyes tightly, preparing herself as best she could for death.
A single word appeared on the massive screen before them:
vanity
Scopes thought a moment in silence. Then he cleared his throat. “ ‘No place affords a more striking conviction of the vanity of human hopes than a public library.’ Dr. Johnson.”
“Very good,” said Levine. “ ‘A man who is not a fool can rid himself of every folly but vanity.’ Rousseau.”
“ ‘I used to be vain, but now I’m perfect.’ W.C. Fields.”
“Wait a minute,” Levine said. “I’ve never heard that one.”
“Are you challenging me?”
Levine thought a moment. “No.”
“Then proceed.”
Levine paused. “ ‘Vanity plays lurid tricks with the memory.’ Conrad.”
Immediately, Scopes replied. “ ‘Vanity was Evolution’s most obnoxious gift.’ Darwin.”
“ ‘A vain man can never be utterly ruthless: He wants to win applause.’ Goethe.”
There was a silence.
“Have you run dry?” Levine asked.
Scopes smiled. “I am merely considering my selection. ‘Every man at his best state is altogether vanity.’ Psalm thirty-nine.”
“I didn’t know you were religious. ‘Surely every man walk-eth in a vain show.’ Same psalm.”
There was another long pause.
Scopes said, “ ‘I only know we loved in vain; I only feel—farewell! farewell!’ Byron.”
“Scraping the bottom of the barrel, I see,” Levine snorted.
“Your turn.”
There was a long silence. “ ‘A journalist is a kind of con man, preying on people’s vanity, ignorance, or
