man to hear nakedly, not without ending up like these poor bastards down below. You natter and nag in my ear like a badly chosen wife. What does it say about man, do you think, that we have such an easy rapport with your murderous kind? Nothing good. What does it say about you?
It did not respond. It was sulking, he thought; he’d offended it. They had a remarkable capacity for sulking. Their pride was easily stung. Sometimes Creedmoor imagined the dreadful and unearthly Lodge of the Guns as a windowless Old Folks Home where bitter old men sat in the dark and sucked their gums and moaned endlessly about forgotten wrongs, meaningless slights, ancient pointless feuds and grudges.
His master sulked and throbbed darkly until the little hiding place behind the red rock grew uncomfortable and close. There was a stink of sulfur. It was almost audible, like the place swarmed with wasps. And besides, the shuffling party on the dust road below was moving along, out of sight. He took a last bitter drag on his cigarette, put his hat back on his head, patted the pockets of his long gray coat, and stepped out into the glare of the red hills.
“Good day to you, sir. Now, now, put that rifle down! I’m no bandit; would a bandit walk out like this, alone, in the midday sun, no gun in his hand? Well, on further consideration, I guess a bandit would try to stop you here, at this narrow ravine, among these occluding rocks, and so I applaud your caution. These are bad times. I suppose the evidence on both sides of the question is finely balanced. I must throw myself on your mercy, on your trust in human nature. I don’t believe a man such as yourself will shoot me. I’ll wait here while you make your mind up.”
The walking wounded shuffled like nervous cattle. A long rope bound them all together by the ankle. The rope was looped loosely round their leader’s arm, in which the rifle sat.
He was a short man, balding, in dusty whites. His weathered face was full of suspicion. He held his rifle badly.
The rifle was a cheaply made thing. Nothing significant inhabited it.
Three black birds went overhead in the silence. Three ugly black crows in a ragged flock, framed in the sky for a long hot moment. They passed behind the red rock.
—Do crows hunt, do you think? In packs, like men or dogs? They have a predatory aspect, would you not say? Would you acknowledge them as brothers, my friend?
—Keep an eye on this man, Creedmoor. Be ready to kill if he blinks.
One of the madmen broke the silence with crying. Great snotty echoing sobs into his tangled hobo beard. The leader of the troupe of fools lowered his rifle and turned back to the sobbing man, said gently, “Quiet, William. This man means us no harm.” He turned again to the stranger before him and shrugged. “What do you want, mister? We are on medical business. These are wounded and shell-shocked men and women, from Homburg and Monkton. I’m bringing them to the House Dolorous for healing. We are an ambulance, you see? The walking wounded. We are neutral, and harmless. We have no money.”
“Who does? Who does, I ask you, these days?”
“That’s a fine gun at your side, mister, for a poor man.”
“This?” Creedmoor moved his hand slowly to his side. He took the Gun, not by its dark grip, but by the leather of the holster. With the other hand, he unbuckled his belt. He stooped to toss the twisting thing in the dirt. The silver and gold of the Gun’s inlays and the polished darkwood of its grip gleamed in the sun.
Creedmoor kicked it aside into the rocks. Marmion’s voice screamed in his brain, scratched at his skull. He gritted his teeth and ignored it. In the glare and the flies, he hoped no one would notice.
—We must all bear some indignity for the cause. Shut up, will you? Shut up.
The fools’ leader softened. He put down his rifle, leaning it against a rock. “Quiet, William,” he repeated, and the fool stopped his sobbing, looking expectantly at the stranger.
—Bright empty eyes like a bird. Will you look at him. Will you look at what’s been done.
—How dare you.
—Will you stop your whining, please?
Creedmoor extended his open hands and smiled. “That weapon’s a mere precaution, sir. There are bandits in these hills, though I’m not one, and perhaps