And the Voices liked this man even more than they'd liked Frederick.
"You know, it's so interesting, I believe we have a first," said the Reverend to Frederick, still gazing at Dante.
"What is that, sir?" asked Frederick.
"This one doesn't even need to be Baptized," said Reverend Day, reaching out and lightly stroking Dante's fuzzy cheek.
"We agreed you were not to work your 'sacraments' on any of my men," said Frederick tensely. "That was our arrangement."
"Don't work yourself into a state, Frederick," said Reverend Day, his eyes caressing Dante. "When the boy's already been so touched by grace it would only be gilding the lily."
Their train pulled into Flagstaff, Arizona, ten minutes ahead of schedule; when Doyle, Innes, Presto, and Lionel hurried onto the platform, they found two officials of the Santa Fe line waiting to escort them three tracks over to their chartered express; an engine and tender pulling a single passenger car, bound for Prescott.
Walks Alone held on to Jack's arm, lagging behind the others. They were the last to step down from the train. She had not left his compartment once since Doyle and Innes had burst in on them the night before. None of the others exchanged a word with either of them, and even now, transferring to the other train, neither of them met anyone else's eye.
Blistering heat from the noonday sun. Jack looked pale and depleted, hardly enough strength to put one foot in front of the other, all his energy directed inward. She appeared to be equally exhausted and her focus centered solely on moving luck to the second train.
If she followed the procedure she described to me, then she's invited his illness into her body, thought Doyle as he watched her. If that was true, he shuddered to think what she was fighting against now. He noticed she still carried the stick topped by the eagle feather in her hand.
What if she's failed? What if they're both incapacitated? What do I do then? I can't slay another man's dragons.
"Not the most advantageous time for romance, wouldn't you say?" whispered Presto to Doyle.
"Good God, man, what makes you say that?"
"She was in his compartment all night. At one point I thought I heard a ... cry of amour."
"You did hear a cry. Amour had nothing to do with it," said Doyle.
Love, maybe, but not passion. And the indescribable way in which he had seen that power being employed was not something he felt willing to share with anyone.
Innes broke in to hand Doyle another wire confirming all the supplies he had requisitioned would be waiting when they arrived in Prescott. After supervising the storing of their luggage, Innes climbed on last in time to see Jack and Walks Alone disappear into one of the car's closed compartments.
"Hasn't pulled any more strawberry shortcakes out of his ribs today, has she?" he asked Doyle quietly.
"Let's hope the one was sufficient," whispered Doyle, raising his finger to his lips again.
Five minutes later their train was steaming its way south.
Two hours to Prescott.
"I don't like the idea of you going there alone," said Eileen.
"I tend to agree, my dear, but it didn't sound like an invitation I could reasonably turn down," said Jacob.
"You're not well; you should be resting."
"Now you're sounding like my late wife: Jacob, come to bed, you'll ruin your eyes reading in that light."
"You probably didn't listen to her, either."
Jacob stopped by the door in the lobby and took her by the | hand.
"I always listened. So far I've outlived her six years."
"Don't go," she said quietly.
"This is what I've come for. I should make such an effort only to turn back at the threshold?"
"Then let me come with you."
"But my dearest Eileen, you weren't invited."
"I'm sure the Reverend won't mind."
"No. I mean, by the dream."
She looked into his eyes, saw the joy and determination shining through; no trace of fear. A tear formed in her own eye.
"Please. Don't die," she whispered.
He smiled, gently kissed her hand, turned, and pushed out ] onto the street through the swinging doors.
Just like a cowboy, he thought, as he straightened up and headed toward the House of Hope.
Eileen dried her tears, not wanting the actors gathering in the lobby to see her in such a state. They were already moving toward the theater, a scheduled rehearsal only a few minutes off.
A man stood up across the lobby and strode toward her, taking off his hat. Wearing a fringed yellow leather jacket, boots, chaps on his pants; he looked like an actor in a wester melodrama. At least he wasn't wearing a white shirt. But five? worried youngsters in white shirts immediately followed the man over to her.
"Ma'am, might I have a word with you?"
A tall one. And handsome wasn't the word for it. And go Lord, what a voice, like a low note on a cello. She instantly revised her first impression; she'd been spending far too much time in the company of actors. The way he moved, the way he carried himself; this man was a real cowboy.
She pulled out a cigarette, her favorite stalling technique; he had a match struck off his thumbnail before she could pull one from her purse.
"What about?"
"Would you mind stepping outside a moment?" he said, with an explanatory shrug in the direction of the five white shirts.
"Gladly."
He held the door for her as she exited, then turned to block the shirts when they tried to follow.
"You kids stay put," he said.
"But we're supposed to see you to your room...."
"Here's a buck," he said, flipping them a coin. "Go buy Mime lollipops."
"But, sir—"
"Clarence, if I catch you trailing after me one more time, I will personally kick your rear ends into the middle of next
July."
Frank shut the swinging door firmly in their faces, put on his hat, and fell into step beside Eileen on the sidewalk.
"You're name's Eileen, isn't it, miss?"
"Yes."
"Mine's Frank."
"Frank, I have a feeling you're not interested in my autograph."
"No, ma'am. Could I ask how long you planned on staying in this booby hatch?"
"The play's scheduled to run for a week; why?"
"To put it plain, we're sitting on top of a powder keg and it's about to blow."
They were drawing stares—two tall, attractive, nonconforming strangers—from white shirts passing on the street.
"Keep smiling at 'em," whispered Frank.
"Makes you wonder what they're so damn happy about," she said, smiling and nodding pleasantly. "They've kept us under lock and key since the moment we arrived. Not that that's such a bad idea with actors. How long have you been here?"
"About an hour."
"Do you have any idea what the hell is going on?"
"They're stealing rifles from the U.S. Army, for starters."
"Rifles? For these people?"
"And every last one of 'em's a few shovels short of a funeral."
A stout middle-aged black woman approached and planted herself in their way, holding out a copy of the printed regulations. "Excuse me, friends," she said with a deranged grimace, "but it is against the rules for visitors to walk around The New City without an escort."
"Thank you, ma'am; the Reverend told us it was okay," said Frank, smiling right back at her.
"We just spoke with him," said Eileen, grinning like an idiot. "He sends his love."
The woman stopped in her tracks, poleaxed; they stepped, around her and continued on.
"No smoking, either," the woman called after them, less confidently.