Jack Yeovil - Route 666

The horseman wore a long duster, which was chalky with desert dirt. His face was deeply lined under his battered old hat, but she couldn't tell how old he was. He looked as if he'd been riding out here since the days of Billy the Kid and Jesse James.

Her Daddy claimed they were kin to Billy Bonney, Billy the Kid, but she'd looked the Kid up in a datanet file and found out his real name was probably Antrim or McCarty. Bruno also mentioned Anne Bonney, the female pirate, as an ancestor. It was a wonder he didn't rope Bonnie Parker and Bonnie Prince Charlie into the family tree.

"Don't see many critters like you out on the trail," the horseman said, grinning. "More's the pity."

Herman Katz had shuffled away. Jazzbeaux didn't feel like a shower any more. She also didn't quite know what had just passed between Herman and her. She thought they were both a little wiser and a little more scared.

"Do I know you?" she asked the horseman.

"Could be you will know me," he said. "Most everybody meets me one time or another. It's what comes with being a saddle tramp. I haven't been out this way in a while."

"You remind me of someone."

"I've got one of those faces, I guess," he said.

"John Wayne, maybe?"

"I don't know the feller. He's from these parts?"

She shrugged. "I don't think so."

He was hunched over on his horse, bent a strange way as if he had taken some bad wounds a long time ago and left them untreated. She was reminded of a lightning-struck tree that grows strong but crooked.

"You should cover up more, girl," he said, wryly. "In the desert day, you forget how cold it gets at night. You're begging for sunstroke or frostbite."

"This is not my normal get-up."

Wandering around in Barbie's Date Rape Outfit was beginning to get monotonous. Somehow, the desert got a lot less deserted if you wanted to sunbathe in the nude.

"I reckoned not, Jesse."

"Jesse?" Nobody had ever called her that before.

"It's one of your names, ain't it? You must have a lot of names, as if you were trying them all on for a proper fit. Like a hat or something."

"Jesse?" she said out loud, thinking about it. Just now, she wasn't really keen on being Jessamyn, and Jesse sounded like a shrivelled version of that.

"Who are you?" she asked. "Who are you really?"

The horseman grinned.

"I've got me a lot of names too. I've been around a while. I figure to move on now."

"No," she said, "who are you?"

The horseman's grin sparkled.

"You got the question right, Jesse. Maybe next time we meet you'll be ready for the answer."

Lazily, without seeming to take an order, the horse moved off. Jazzbeaux stood and watched the horseman ride off into the sand, away from town.

She used the glasses. The picture was exactly the same, only there were scarlet, bloody tracks where the horse's hooves had pressed.

There was a sign up by the roadside, YOU ARE NOW ENTERING SPANISH FORK – A NICE, QUIET, LITTLE TOWN – PLEASE LEAVE IT AS YOU FIND IT. Once the sign was passed, there was a sort of shift and the landscape changed. Brown-orange gave way to green. Large, picturesque houses stood on generous plots of grassy land. Signs on front lawns said keep off the grass,BEWARE OF THE KILLER DOG, ARMED RESPONSE and TRESPASSERS WILL BE INDENTURED.

Yorke slowed and looked over at the Quince.

"Gas stop?"

"If there's a place."

It wasn't hard to find. Just inside the city limits was another sign, CHOLLIE'S GAS AND AUTO REPAIR, THIS WAY, with an arrow pointing to an old square building. Spanish Fork was obviously a big place for signs. Chollie's scanned like a cross between a livery stable, a junkyard and a dirigible hangar.

"This must be the place," Yorke said. Quincannon grunted and tapped keys on the dash.

Yorke turned the cruiser into Chollie's yard and the convoy followed. There wasn't room enough for all the motorwagons on the forecourt, so they spilled over up and down the street.

It was early in the afternoon and quiet, so nobody minded much.

"Do we know anything about Spanish Fork, Quince?"

Quincannon was scrolling through Gazetteer. "Town used to be called New Canaan, a long time back. That rings a nasty historical bell. A bird named Colpeper more or less runs the place now. He calls himself a judge, just like Roy Bean. We don't have anything actually against him on the charge roll, though I doubt if any of these neighbourhood despots would pass muster if we mounted a full inspection. Of course, this is no longer the United States of America, so it's a moot point whether Colpeper is obliged to follow any of our laws on condoning drug traffic or immoral activities."

Elder Seth was outside, knuckles rapping like bird-beaks. It was a good thing the cruiser's screens were reinforced armaplas. Quincannon down-rolled the window and the Elder's face dipped into view. His eyes were black pinpoints in the shadow of his hat.

"Why are we stopping?"

"We need a tank top-up, Elder. Your motorwagons could do with a going over, too."

The Elder thought about it.

"We only have another 50 miles to go to Salt Lake City."

"Fifty is just the same as 50,000 in this country if your auto don't run. Better safe than vulture meat."

The Elder considered a moment.

"What is this place?"

"Spanish Fork, Elder," the Quince said. "As a Josephite, you might better remember it as New Canaan."

Elder Seth's mouth curved into an approximate smile. He walked away without saying anything. Yorke had the odd impression his half-complaint had been for show. There was a quality about the Elder just now that suggested he was home and knew exactly what he was doing.

"He remembers," Quincannon said.

"Remembers what?"

"You'll see. I'll just bet this town has a sign up about it. I never did see such a place for signs."

Nearby, a sign read: FOR YOUR OWN PROTECTION, DO NOT ATTEMPT TO ROB CHOLLIE'S. Underneath the slogan was an airbrushed painting of two crossed pump-action shotguns and a neat row of symbols. Inside barred prohibition circles were startled cartoon thieves with stripy jerseys, domino masks and swag bags. Yorke got the impression the cheery little designs were grave markers.

Many of the resettlers were stretching their legs and kicking tires. More than one radiator was boiling over. Since the business with Sister Maureen, there was less smiling and hymn-singing. Their armour of faith was getting dented out here on the road, but a stubborn backbone of contrariwise determination was being shown.

Brother Wiggs caught sight of a stand of porno magazines and his face bloodied up, as if he were boiling to do some serious preaching and condemning. There was something weird about the Josephites when you looked at them close: Yorke would swear that two days ago, Wiggs had a regular face, with lumps and moles and marks. It seemed to be smoothing into a handsome mask. Maybe the Lord was clearing up the complexions of the chosen.

Tyree and Burnside rolled up and checked the place out. Tyree slipped her cashplastic into a vending machine and pulled out a can of Mountain Dew, which she opened with a thumb press, tested with her pen-end analyser and drank at a draught.

A scrawny kid with coke-bottle-bottom goggles ambled out of the armoured post by the gas-pumps. He wore oil-stained overalls with CHO LIE'S written on them. One of the Ls had peeled off.

"Fill 'er up," Quincannon told him, "and check the oil. What kind of mechanics you got in this town?"

"The best, sir. Chollie don't come cheap, but he don't come shoddy neither."

Another sign read: MOST OF OUR CUSTOMERS ARE STILL LIVING.

"You accept US Cav discount vouchers?"