"Put a bullet in his ear, just to be on the safe side."
"I told you: I hit what I aim at."
"You never miss?"
"Never." The man noticed that a trickle of blood had rolled down the side of Henry's head and was moving slowly toward Dante's boot. "I'd move if I were you. His blood is probably as deadly as the rest of him."
Dante quickly stood up and walked a few steps away. "Thanks. Are you a bounty hunter?"
The beautiful man shook his shaggy silver head. "No."
"The law?"
The man smiled. "There isn't any law out here."
"Let me guess. You just didn't like the way he looked?"
"You don't strike me as a fool," said the man. "Don't say foolish things."
"I'm just trying to find out who you are and why you killed the man I was talking to."
"Then you should ask."
"Consider it done."
"My name is Joshua Silvermane, and I killed that man because he didn't deserve to live."
"Silvermane," repeated Dante. "I've heard of you. Dimitrios thinks very highly of you."
"Dimitrios of the Three Burners?" asked Silvermane.
"Yes."
"He's right."
"He never mentioned your modest streak," said Dante sardonically.
Silvermane stared at him without making any reply, and suddenly the poet became very nervous. Finally the tall man spoke. "I don't trade witticisms."
"I know why I think the Black Death deserved to die," said Dante, quickly changing the subject. "Why did you think so?"
"He killed a woman who had never done him any harm, a woman who was far better than he was."
"Your lover?" asked Matilda.
"I never met her."
"Someone paid you to hunt him down and kill him," concluded Dante. "That's pretty much like bounty hunting."
"No one paid me anything."
Dante frowned. "Then I don't understand."
"She had just married a friend of mine. A very bitter and unsuccessful suitor commissioned the Black Death to pay her a visit."
"And you hunted him down for your friend?" said Dante. "I'd call that a noble thing to do." He paused. "What do you do when you're not hunting down killers for your friends?"
"I right wrongs."
"For whom?"
"Sometimes you don't worry about that. Sometimes you just see something that's wrong, and no one is doing anything about it, so you have to."
"Why you?"
"Because someone has to."
"That's not much of an answer."
"When I was seven years old," said Silvermane, his perfect face reliving the event, "I was walking down the street of a Tradertown on Majorca II with my father. There was a fight in a building we were passing, and a stray laser beam caught him in the neck. He dropped to the ground, bleeding profusely, and for an hour I begged people to help him while they just walked around him or crossed the street and ignored him. He died before anyone helped get him to a doctor, and I swore that I would never walk past someone who needed help, would never be one of the ones who looked away."
"A not-for-profit avenger!" said Virgil, amused. "How do you pay your bills?"
"Sometimes people pay me out of gratitude," said Silvermane. "I've never asked for money, and I've never felt bitter or cheated when it wasn't given—but it comes often enough to feed and clothe me, and keep me in bullets."
"Why bullets?" asked Virgil. "I haven't seen half a dozen projectile pistols in my life."
"They make a bang," said Silvermane. "People aren't used to the noise, and it sometimes freezes them into immobility for a second or two. That's usually more advantage than I need. Also, my pistols never run out of power. I know how many bullets I have left in each and in my belt, and I don't have to constantly check my power packs."
"You know," said Dante, staring at him curiously, "Sebastian Cain used bullets, too."
"Never heard of him."
"He died a long time ago," said the poet. "I think you may have a lot in common with him."
"Interesting," said Silvermane with no show of interest whatever. He turned to the bartender. "Find me a waterproof groundsheet or something else that's airtight and doesn't leak and I'll take the body off the premises."
"Coming up," said the bartender.
"Have you got a burner?" continued Silvermane.
The bartender reached beneath the bar and produced a small laser pistol.
"Good," said Silvermane. "After I get the body out of here, take that thing and fry every drop of blood you can find on the floor."
"Was something wrong with him?" asked the bartender.
"More than you can imagine. Just do it."
"Right." He disappeared into a back room, then returned a moment later with the requested groundsheet, which he carried over to Silvermane.
"Have you got a trash atomizer out back?" asked the tall man.
"Yeah," said the bartender. "Just walk around the building. You can't miss it."
"I'm going to use it," announced Silvermane, bending over and wrapping Henry Marston's body in the blanket while being careful not to touch it with his bare hands, then hefting it to his shoulder as if it weighed almost nothing. "Even dead, this fellow is too dangerous to bury."
"Be my guest," said the bartender, as Silvermane walked out the front door.
Dante turned to his companions. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
"I don't know," said Matilda, a troubled expression on her face. "We've been wrong once already."
"And the Bandit seemed a lot more tractable than this guy," added Virgil.
"But the Bandit's a fanatic," said Dante. "We couldn't know that up front."
"And this guy travels around the galaxy risking his life righting wrongs for free," Virgil pointed out. "Doesn't that seem a little fanatical to you?"
"Maybe," said Dante. "Maybe it's noble." He signed deeply. "It's almost as if Black Orpheus himself is telling me that this is the one. He uses bullets, just like Cain did . . ."
"But four other Santiagos didn't," said Matilda.
"I know," said Dante.
"Now why don't you admit the real reason you're considering him?" continued Matilda.
"And what is that?"
"The same reason I'm considering him," she replied uncomfortably. "He's the first man we've seen who might actually have a chance against the Bandit."
"What if he wins?" asked Virgil. "Are you really sure you want to replace one fanatical killer with an even more formidable one?"
"I don't know," said Dante. "I've just got this feeling."
"Take deep breaths and think pastoral thoughts," said Virgil. "It'll pass."
At that moment Silvermane re-entered the tavern and approached their table.
"The three of you are witnesses to a killing," he announced. "If you're going to report it, let me know, and I'll stick around and give my side of it. I don't intend to be a fugitive."
"Report it to who?" asked Virgil.
"I don't know," admitted Silvermane with a shrug. "I just got here half an hour ago. I don't know if they have any local law enforcement."