Part 88 (1/2)

Strolling back to Nestor, he said. 'Let's see how you shoot.'

Nestor took a long, deep breath, and wished he had the nerve to refuse. Drawing the pistol, he eased back the hammer and sighted along the barrel. 'Hold it,' said Steiner. 'You're tilting your head and sighting with your left eye.'

'The right is not as strong,' admitted Nestor.

'Put the gun away.' Nestor eased the hammer forward and bolstered the pistol. 'All right, now point your finger at my saddle.'

'What?'

'Just point at my saddle. Do it!' Nestor reddened, but he lifted his right hand and pointed.

'Now point at the tree on your right. Good.'

'I never had much trouble pointing, Mr Steiner. It's the shooting that lets me down.'

Steiner chuckled. 'No, Nestor. It's the lack of pointing that lets you down. Now this time draw the pistol, c.o.c.k it and point it at the rock. Don't aim. Just point and fire.'

Nestor knew what would happen and wished with all his heart that he had chosen to stay home today. Obediently he drew the long-barrelled pistol and pointed at the rock, firing almost instantly, desperate to get the embarra.s.sing moment over and done with.

The rock exploded.

'Wow!' shouted Nestor. 'By d.a.m.n I did it!'

'Yes,' agreed Steiner. That's one rock that will never threaten innocent folks again.'

Steiner moved to his horse and Nestor realised the man was about to leave. 'Wait!' he called. 'Will you join me in some lunch? I got sandwiches and some honey biscuits. It ain't much, but you're welcome.'

As they ate Nestor talked of his ambition to become a Crusader, and maybe even a Jerusalem Rider one day. Steiner listened politely, no hint of mockery in his expression.

Nestor talked for longer than he ever had to one person at one time, and eventually stumbled to a halt. 'Gee, I'm sorry, Mr Steiner. I think I near bored you to death. It's just, n.o.body ever listened so good before.'

'I like ambition, son, it's a good thing. A man wants something bad enough, and he'll generally get it if he works at it, and he's unlucky enough.'

'Unlucky?' queried Nestor.

Steiner nodded. 'In most cases the dream is better than the reality. Pity the man who fulfils all his dreams, Nestor.'

'Did you do that, sir?'

'Certainly did.' Steiner's face looked suddenly solemn and Nestor switched the subject.

'You ever been a Crusader, Mr Steiner?' he asked. 'I never seen anybody shoot that good.'

'No, not a Crusader.'

'Not ... a brigand?'

Steiner laughed aloud. 'I could have been, son, but I wasn't. I was lucky. I had me a curious ambition, though. I wanted to be the man who killed the Jerusalem Man.'

Nestor's mouth dropped open. That's a terrible thing to say.'

'It is now. But back then he was just a man with a big, big name. I was working for Edric Scayse and he warned me to change that ambition. I said, ”There's no way he can beat me, Mr Scayse.” You know what he said? He told me, ”He wouldn't beat you, Clem, he'd kill you.” He was right. They broke the mould when they made Shannow. Deadliest man I ever knew.'

'You knew him? Lord, you're a lucky man, Mr Steiner.'

'Luck certainly has played a part in my life,' said Steiner. 'Now I'd best be on my way.'

'You're going to look for the Preacher?'

'I'll find him, son,' said Clem, easing himself to his feet. In that moment Nestor knew what he wanted to do; knew it with a certainty he had never before experienced.

'Could I come with you, Mr Steiner? I mean, if you wouldn't mind.'

'You've got a job here, boy, and a settled life. This could take some time.'

'I don't care. Since my folks died I've been working for my uncle. But I think I could learn more from you, Mr Steiner, than ever I could from him. And I'm sick of counting out Barta coin, and docking wages for lost hours. I'm tired of counting timber and writing out orders. Will you let me ride with you?'

'I'll be riding into town to buy supplies, Nestor. You'll need a blanket roll and a heavy coat.

A rifle would be handy.'

'Yes, sir,' said Nestor happily. 'I've got a rifle. I'll get the other gear from Mr Broome.'

'How old are you, son?'

'Seventeen, sir.'

Clem Steiner smiled. 'I can just remember what it was like to be seventeen. Let's go.'

Josiah Broome pushed out his bare feet towards the hearth, trying to concentrate on the warmth of the flames, while ignoring the constant stream of words coming from the kitchen. It was not easy: Else Broome was not a woman to be ignored. Broome stared into the fire, his thoughts gloomy. He had helped build Pilgrim's Valley back in the old days, and then had been one of the leaders when the town was rebuilt after the invasion from Atlantis. Josiah Broome had survived the a.s.sault by the scaled Lizard warriors, known as Daggers, and had tried in his own small way to make Pilgrim's Valley a decent place for the families that settled there.

He abhorred men of violence, the hard-drinking, brawling warriors who once peopled this land. And he loathed men like Jon Shannow, whose idea of justice was to slaughter any who crossed their path. Now, in these enlightened days, Jon Shannow was considered a saint, a holy man of G.o.d. Else's voice droned on, and he noticed a lilt at the end of the sentence. 'I am sorry, my dear, I didn't catch that,' he said.

Else Broome eased her vast bulk through the doorway. 'I asked if you agreed that we should invite the Apostle Saul to the barbecue?'

'Yes, dear. Whatever you think best.'

'I was only saying to the Widow Scayse the other day . . .' The words rolled on as she retreated to the kitchen and Broome blanked them from his mind.

Jon Shannow, the saint.

The Preacher had laughed at it. Broome remembered their last evening together in the small vestry behind the church.

'It is not important, Josiah,' said Jon Cade. 'What I used to be is irrelevant now. What is important is that G.o.d's word should not be corrupted. The Book speaks of love as well as judgement. And I'll not be persuaded that the Wolvers are denied that love.'