The Six Messiahs

The editor wrote that local attention was growing in the direction of a recently found religious settlement a hundred miles to the northwest. Called itself The New City, built on private property; its founders had bought over fifty square miles of surrounding undeveloped land. Clearly they had a lot of money to throw around; speculation about The New City's wealth centered on the possible striking of some fabulous silver lode.

Every one of the paper's repeated attempts to research a story on the place had been politely but firmly rebuffed; folks wanted to hang on to their privacy out there for some reason. That attitude didn't raise a sea of red flags in this sparsely populated corner of the world; a lot of people came west in search of that same commodity.

One of the reporters the Republican sent out that way had found the The New City so much to his liking he decided to stay on. They hadn't heard a single word from the man after a telegram announced his resignation—in which he described the place only as a 'kind of Utopia'—but that didn't surprise folks at the paper much: He was a bachelor fellow from Indiana, an odd duck who'd never quite fit in.

Neither were Utopian social experiments that great a rarity in the development of the American character, noted Doyle. Over a hundred had sprung up all over the country since the Civil War, the most noteworthy being the Oneida Community of Perfectionists in upstate New York; known for the fine silverware they produced but even more for their bold rejection of marital monogamy. At the opposite end of the sexual spectrum were Mother Ann Lee's Shakers of the Millennial Church, strict celibate abstainers who had set up shop in more than thirty different locations from Massachusetts to Ohio. How they planned to perpetuate themselves without benefit of biological reproduction didn't seem to worry them since Mother Lee had prophesied the end of civilization within their lifetimes; chastity ensured them that theirs would be the only souls allowed through the Gates of Heaven. Why the Shakers then devoted themselves to building such sturdy, built-to-last crafts and furniture when there wouldn't be anyone left to appreciate them was a question they never got around to asking.

Arizona's attitude toward The New City could best be described as 'live and let live,' wrote the editor. A number of Mormon settlements had established themselves in that same northwest quarter of the territory over the last few years, and they kept to themselves as their creed dictated without raising any eyebrows; why, the entire state of Utah had sprung up around the Mormons and the fortunes they'd made in their ranching and mining enterprises. Far be it from the politicians of Arizona to turn their back on such rich potential revenue out of small- minded religious prejudice.

So: Economically self-sustaining and socially self-governing, what business was it of anybody's if these people of The New City wanted to live according to their own beliefs, whatever they might be? (No one seemed to know a thing about that.) And if any financial benefits trickled down to the surrounding area in which they chose to establish their community, as they so obviously had to the non-Mormons of Utah, so much the better. Absolutely consistent with the American guarantee of religious freedom, that was the Republican's editorial position on the subject.

Hustling to a local bookstore and returning with a detailed map of the Arizona Territory, Innes charted The New City's location as described by the editor directly in the heart of the eastern Mojave Desert.

So far so good. The issue of what they should do in response was definitively settled by one last nugget from the Republican. Rumor had it the citizens of The New City were building a tabernacle to rival the one the Mormons had recently completed in Salt Lake City. No one at the paper had actually laid eyes on the place, but it was going up fast and was supposedly being fashioned from black stones drawn from quarries in northern Mexico.

The black church.

After leaving the telegraph office, Doyle returned to the Palmer House and delivered a promissory note of $2,500 to Major Rolando Pepperman, guaranteeing Doyle's participation in the remainder of his tour after a two- week delay. Needed, he told the Major, for the resolution of unspecified personal difficulties. Confined to his bed, hung over and glum, Pepperman accepted Doyle's offer without question, fully expecting never to see the man again, and with a resigned feeling of relief. The Major had already made up his mind; if they would have him, he was going back to the circus.

Because no connection to The New City had been established, the editor of the Republican did not mention in his telegram the story dominating their local headlines, that of the decapitating fugitive Chinaman, Chop-Chop—he'd coined the nickname personally; one of his finer editorial hours.

If he had, Doyle, Jack, Innes, Presto, Stern, and Walks Alone would have made their way to the Chicago train station and purchased their one-way tickets to Phoenix with even greater urgency.

The night before, while visiting the dream again, Walks Alone had been able to distinguish one of the faces of the other three figures that had joined them underground:

An Asian man, who held in his hands a flaming sword.

By the time Dante Scruggs knitted his savaged wits back into something close to working order, he realized he was riding a train. A private compartment, daylight outside the windows, moving through open countryside; farms, fields of wheat. Three other men sitting with him, dressed in suits, vaguely recognizable: He'd seen them all in Frederick's offices the night before.

The men who'd hurt him.

They watched Dante closely as he came around, with interest but without emotion or friendliness. The three looked different from one another but seemed the same in behavior, gesture, each of them pulled taut as a bowstring, containing a violence that threatened to spill over at the slightest provocation. Dante understood what that feeling was all about.

'What time is it?' asked Dante.

The three men stared at him; finally one of them pointed to the watch pocket of his vest.

Looking down at himself, Dante realized he was similarly dressed, like a traveling businessman. Dante put a hand into his own vest pocket, pulled out a watch, and opened it.

Two-fifteen.

He replaced the watch. Felt a dull throbbing on the inside of his left arm, then, remembering the brand they'd inflicted on him there, decided not to touch the area or draw their attention to it. Who knew what else they might do to him?

Why couldn't he remember anything after the searing pain of those moments? Their hands holding him down; Frederick's lace looming over his, speaking softly, hypnotically. He had obviously blacked out but more than twelve hours had passed since then. Had they given him some kind of drug that erased everything else from his mind?

He wanted to ask a hundred questions, but fear kept him quiet. Something else rose up unexpectedly: a feeling of kinship with these men. Dante had seen the marks on their arms; obviously they'd all experienced what he'd gone through last night—the suffering and terror of that nightmarish initiation. It united them in a way that meant more than friendship; he didn't need friends, never had.

Fellowship, that was something else again.

What had Frederick said to him?

An army. These were soldiers, as he had been once and was now again.

Fighting men. The idea grew on him.

What had he hated about the regular army, anyway? The small talk, petty complaints, and laziness of the average volunteer, their stupidity and lack of discipline. Any behavior that distracted from what he saw as their primary business: killing.

That didn't seem to be a problem with these men. Dante felt himself relax. Maybe Frederick was right. Maybe he did fit right in.

The door opened; the two men nearest to it got up and went outside, as Frederick entered and took a seat directly across from Dante. At the sight of Frederick's handsome smiling face, Dante tensed up again, his heart raced, his palms went moist.

'How are you feeling?' asked Frederick warmly.

'Okay,' said Dante. 'Real good.'

'Any discomfort?'

Dante shook his head.

'Any ... second thoughts?'