Book Of Tongues (Hexslinger 1)

But a calm voice from further to one side was already warning — “That will be quite enough of that, gentlemen.”

The crowd swung ’round as one, Rook following, as a figure almost as tall as Rook’s half-stooped to step out through a backlit tent flap. Straightening up, this resolved into what couldn’t fail to be Sheriff Mesach Love himself: a far younger man than his reputation suggested — one-and-thirty at most, forming an almost-exact mid-point between Rook and Chess — and a touch gangly, his classic preacher’s broad-brimmed hat jammed down over a mop of brown hair tied back in two uneven, little-girl pigtails.

“We’ve been waitin’ on you quite the spell, Mister Rook,” Love said, lifting haughty zealot’s eyes to address what must look to everyone else as nothing more than empty air.

“Fine choice of words,” Rook answered — and let himself blink back into being all at once, a blown-out candle flame blooming high in reverse. Chess’s tormentors all took an unconscious step back at the sight, while Chess looked up and grinned, revealing the extent of the damage.

“Well, hell,” he remarked, to the general company. “Now you’re really gonna see some fun.”

Rook stared. “What the Christ’d they do to you, Chess?”

“Nothin’ I didn’t expect. Now help me up.”

He did, automatically — yet still found himself horrified, and downright furious. Chess’s face was all bruises, nose mashed flat and eyes blacked like a ’coon’s, the left one puffed ’til just a thin green slit peered out. And the more Rook saw, the more his rage began to whip sand up around them in a tightening funnel, without him even thinking to quote the Bible beforehand.

“Aw, shit-fire!” The same tree-trunk fucker as before yelled out, throwing his hands up to guard his eyes and roaring at how fast his knuckles got skinned bone-deep, for his trouble — only to freeze silent, when Love turned those prayer-burnt eyes his way.

“You hush up on that profanity, Meester,” Love snapped. “There’s womenfolk present.”

“Sorry, Sheriff.”

Rook took this opportunity to rein himself in, and huffed out a laugh. “Got them well-trained, I see. Which means I guess I must have you to thank for — all this.” A nod here at Chess, now wavering slightly by his side, angrily wiping away blood.

Love shook his head. “Mister Pargeter’s the one’s at fault here. You sent him in scoutin’, he killed five of my men.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it.”

He threw this last over to Chess, as a compliment. But Love simply nodded.

“Yes — that being his calling, or so I hear. And you . . .” Love gave Rook an appraising look, as though he aspired to rifle his soul’s pages. “You once proceeded from the Wesleyan tradition, Reverend, like myself. Which means you know that though depravity is total and grace resistible, atonement is intended for all.”

“For all that wants it, yes. Must admit, though, I hadn’t thought you were chasin’ me down to debate finer points of theology.”

“You’re the one came to me, Mister Rook,” Love pointed out.

Like you knew I would, obviously, Rook realized. For oh, this was a clever young man stood in front of him indeed, with all his War-time honours no doubt well-merited. Yet Lucifer-arrogant all the same; this stand-off alone proved that, with the two of them squared off in the middle of the street like veritable duellos, so Love’s cohort and congregationalists (the latter even now starting to peep their heads out shyly, prairie-dog style) could admire his fortitude in the face of impending wizardish mayhem.

“True enough,” Rook allowed. “What’s your sermon’s subject, then, Sheriff Love? Assuming you think I merit one.”

From the crowd’s back ranks: “He don’t!”

“Don’t deserve nothin’ but a short rope and a long drop, for all he’s done!”

“Naw, do his kept boy first, for them Anniston twins, an’ Meester’s cousin. An’ make Rook watch!”

Love ignored these hecklers, keeping his gaze on Rook. “On the proposition a man’s best-known by the company he keeps, perhaps. And since yours is that of a she-he thing who flaunts his unnatural proclivities as a martial banner . . .”

Chess spat once more, bloodying the toe of Love’s boot. “She-he? You give me back my guns, Bible-thumper, we’ll see who wears the damn skirts — ”

Rook didn’t bother looking ’round. “Hush up now, Chess, the Sheriff’s preachin’. Been a long time since I confabbed with a fellow Scripture student, and I mean to enjoy it.”

“You’re going down Satan’s path,” Love said. “That much is clear.”

“Uh huh. By robbin’ trains and boosting Railway payloads, or by letting Private Pargeter ride my dick?”

Far too blunt for comfort, given circumstances. Rook saw Love purple right to his ear-tips, then avoid looking over to where a statuesque blonde woman with a beauty mark set just off-centre on her high, smooth forehead was suddenly all caught up fussing over her swaddled baby, which already had a hint of Love’s nose, along with the very beginnings of his wayward hair.

“I’ll thank you to stay civil, if we’re going to settle this dispute like gentlemen,” Love said, at last, savagely quiet.