Rev. Catlin: “Can They Be Called True Christians?”
A Vote Taken at Nazarene Hall to Resolve this Issue
Would Seem to Prove Yes:
Yeas win over Nays, 47 to 13.
WEEDING COTILLION
Science Confirms It: Red Weed Keeps Our Lands Arable!
All Those Wishing to Contribute to our Moat’s Feed and Care
Are Therefore Directed to Assemble and Donate.
Cotillion Begins at Sun-down, with Prayers
(Rev. Catlin, Presiding);
Medicos in Attendance to Treat Wounds;
Food, Drink and Dancing to Follow.
FINE ARACHNORSES, NEW-BROKE
An Assortment of these Inestimable Creatures, Locally Bred,
Are Now Available for Purchase at Luffy’s Stables:
Since All Survived the Season, they are Tough & Active —
Good Spinners, Faster Than Horses, Very Cheap.
In Interest of Public Safety, Mister Luffy Cautions that
only Seasoned Riders Need Apply,
and “Remember to Feed them Much Sugar, Often, or Face Mutiny.”
(Those Unhappy with their Mounts should Note that the
U.S. Army is now Paying Top Dollar
for Arachnorses and Riders with Night Travel & Climbing Experience, to be part of new Spider Cavalry Units.)
Telegram transcript, sent from the desk of Frank Geyer to George Thiel, Yuma City, Arizona:
GREAT NEWS STOP MIXTURE OF ASBURY’S SCALE MEASUREMENTS AND AUTOMATIC VIEWING HAS FINALLY LOCATED OUR FRIENDS STOP INTELLIGENCE CONFIRMS MAP COORDINATES STOP NO REPLY NECESSARY STOP MEET NEW MEXICO PREPARED TO RIDE STOP
Ed Morrow was drawing water when the riders appeared: a mixed posse of former Pinks, plus some of Washford’s remaining men — not Carver, of course, who’d taken his honourable discharge and elected to go with Berta and Eulie when Hex City migrated once more. But Morrow thought he recognized most of them, even if he couldn’t necessarily put names to faces.
“Want me to cover ’em?” Yancey asked, stepping up beside him, soft as a cat in those beaded hide slippers Yiska had parting-gifted her with. Her hair’d begun to grow back white ’round the scar left from Reverend Rook’s last wound-strike to her scalp, creating a lightning bolt effect that made her seem all entirely too piratical-rakish for such a tiny slip of a thing, and she stood with her coat-flaps twitched back and both guns exposed, hand just beginning to hover ’bout the one on her right hip — a pose which, once struck, minded him so strongly of Chess Morrow fair felt it rise in his throat, like a lump.
“No,” he said, “don’t think that’ll be necessary. Look who’s in front.”
The rest stood back, keeping a “polite” distance just far enough to render all parties equally safe from weapons fire, as once-Agent Frank Geyer and a smaller, greyer man Morrow could only assume must be the fabled George Thiel came cantering down. Geyer looked older himself, fresh marks of war still lingering from top to toe, an ache Morrow could well identify with. Thiel, slightly more distanced as he’d been from that crazy final rout, seemed more intact, yet far less easy to read.
“Mister Morrow,” he began, without preamble, “don’t believe we’ve ever been introduced, though Frank here speaks highly of you — you and Missus Kloves, both.” A nod, in Yancey’s general direction: “Ma’am.”