“Disciple?” Emrys asked. “The Devil’s disciple?”

  “That’s it!” the boy said excitedly. “He said, ‘The Devil’s disciple.’”

  “Ah-ha,” Emrys said. “I see.”

  “Will you be comin’, mister?”

  “Yes,” Emrys said, “yes, I will be coming. But first you must do something for me.”

  The boy looked past Emrys, into the darkness of the wagon.

  “Mister,” he said, “you don’t want me to go in . . . there, do you?”

  “Eh?” Emrys said. Then he reached behind him and, to the boy’s relief, closed the doors.

  “No, no,” the magician said, “no one goes in there. No, here is what I wish you to do . . .”

  FORTY

  Morley waited in front of the altar, his gun already in his hand. The elderly priest, Father Damon, was sitting in the front pew. Morley had instructed him to stay there and not move.

  The boy entered the church, and Morley shouted, “Stop there!”

  The boy stopped.

  “Is he comin’?” Morley asked.

  “He’s comin’, sir,” the boy said. “He said he’d be right here.”

  “Okay,” Morley said. “Come closer.”

  The boy started down the aisle. When he got halfway, Morley snapped, “Stop!”

  The boy stopped short, hunching his shoulders.

  “Here.” Morley threw the boy two bits. The coin flipped through the air, and the boy caught it neatly in one hand.

  “Good boy!” Morley said. “Now get out of here.”

  “What about Father Damon?”

  “The priest stays!”

  “But—”

  “Get out!”

  The boy turned and ran outside, where Emrys was waiting.

  “He won’t let Father Damon leave,” the boy told the magician.

  “That’s all right,” Emrys said. “Now go and do what I told you to do.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The boy raced off, and Emrys turned toward the church doors.

  • • •

  The boy ran to the hotel and pounded on Clint’s door.

  Clint was inside, washing his face in the basin. He grabbed a towel and dried his hands on the way to the door, then answered it with his hand in his gun.

  When he saw the boy, he said, “What can I do for you, son?”

  “Mr. Adams,” the boy said, “the magician sent me . . .”

  • • •

  As Emrys entered the church, he felt the ripples in the atmosphere. It told him what he had feared was true. The man with the gun was no longer just a man; he was a man on a mission.

  The magician saw the priest sitting in the front pew, saw the man with the gun standing in front of the altar.

  “Come on in,” the man with the gun said. “My name is Morley.”

  “Your name is of no importance,” Emrys said. “I know who you are.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, no matter, then,” Morley said. “We both know what I’m here to do.”

  “We know what you are here to try to do.”

  “I have to destroy you,” Morley said. “That is my mission.”

  “You do not know what you are doing, Morley,” Emrys said. “This is not even you.”

  “It doesn’t matter who I am,” Morley said. “It only matters what I am here to do.”

  “And you are going to do it with that gun?”

  “This gun?” Morley waved it. “This isn’t the gun I shot you with before, but it will do.”

  “It will not kill me,” Emrys said. “You know that. You have already seen that.”

  “It may not kill you,” Morley said, pointing the gun at Father Damon, “but it will kill the priest.”

  The priest had not moved since Emrys entered the church.

  “If he is even still alive,” Emrys said.

  Morley, still pointing the gun at the priest, said, “Stand up, Father Damon.”

  The priest stood.

  “Tell the magician you are alive.”

  Father Damon turned to face Emrys. His lined face was sad, his eyes pained.

  “I am . . . alive,” he said to Emrys, “if you can call this existence a life.”

  “Sit down and shut up,” Morley said.

  The priest sat down.

  “If I shoot this priest, I would be putting him out of his misery.”

  “I can see that.”

  “You should have killed me,” Father Damon said, “not Father Nathan. He was a good man.”

  “And you are not?” Emrys asked.

  “I have lived my life,” Father Damon said. “Father Nathan’s life was ahead of him. I am . . . finished.”

  “Never mind this,” Morley said. “The priest—neither of them—is the reason we are here. You are.”

  “On the contrary,” Emrys said. “I think the reason we are here is you.”

  “You, me,” Morley said with a shrug. “It is all the same.”

  Emrys moved his hands, and Morley cocked the hammer of his gun, pointed it at the priest again.

  “No magic, magician!” he snapped.

  Emrys stopped.

  “If you somehow produce a gun, I’ll kill the priest before I kill you.”

  “Once you kill the priest,” Emrys said, “you have no hold on me. No way to stop me.”

  “But I do have the priest,” Morley said. “I want you to walk to me with your hands held away from your body.”

  “Very well.”

  Emrys spread his arms, and began walking down the aisle toward the man with the gun.

  At that point Clint Adams entered the church and saw what was going on.

  “Hold it right there!” he said.

  FORTY-ONE

  “I don’t know what’s going on here,” Clint said, “but it stops now.”

  Emrys stopped halfway down the aisle.

  Morley leaned over to look past the magician at Clint.

  “Adams,” Morley said. “Nice of you to join us. You might notice I have my gun pointed at this priest.”

  “I did notice that.”

  “Then if I was you, I’d take my gun out and drop it to the floor.”

  Clint hesitated. He rarely, if ever, gave up his gun if he could help it. He wondered if he could draw and fire around Emrys and hit Morley before he could shoot the priest. If it had been only his life he was playing with, he would have tried it.

  “I know what you’re thinkin’,” Morley said, “and you’ll never make it. My finger is already on the trigger.”

  “Shoot him,” the priest called out. “Don’t worry about me. I don’t matter.”

  “Shut up!” Morley told the priest. “Come on, Adams, make up your mind.”

  Damnit. He was going to have to depend on Emrys having some trick up his sleeve. The magician was not wearing his robe, just jeans and a shirt. Clint couldn’t see anywhere he might have a gun hidden on him, but he’d seen the man produce things out of thin air before.

  “Well?”

  Clint removed his gun from his holster with two fingers and dropped it to the floor.

  “Very good,” Morley said. “If all I wanted to do was kill you, Adams, I’d shoot you now where you stand, but you’re not my number one target.”

  “Why’d you kill the other priest?” Clint asked.

  “It was necessary,” Morley said. “After I finished talkin’ to him, he knew why I was here.”

  “And why would you kill this older priest?” Emrys asked.

  Morley shrugged and said, “Oh, because I can.”

  “Because you’re evil, Morley,” Emrys said.

  “I’m evil?” Morley asked. “You are the one working for the Devil. I’m here doing God’s work.”

  “God’s work?” Clint asked. “Killing priests?”

  “Killing disciples of the Devil!” Morley said.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Clint asked.

  “How else can you explain the things he does?” Morley asked. “Makin’ things float and disappear. That’s the Devil’s work.”

  “He’s a magician, Morley,” Clint said. “There are explanations for the things he does.”

  “Explanations for magic?” Morley asked.

  “They’re tricks,” Clint said. “Tell him, Emrys.”

  “The Gunsmith thinks you do cheap tricks, magician. Or should I say, wizard?”

  “You may call me whatever you like,” Emrys said. He still had his arms straight out from his sides, much like the figure on the crucifix behind Morley.

  “Tell him, Emrys,” Clint said. “Tell him how it is you do your tricks.”

  “He doesn’t know, does he?” Morley asked Emrys. “The Gunsmith doesn’t know the truth.”

  “What truth?” Clint asked. “What’s he talking about?”

  “I told you,” Morley said. “He works for the Devil.”

  “Jesus,” Clint said, “you’re crazy, Morley. I should have tracked you on the trail and put you down days ago.”

  Morley laughed.

  “You might have succeeded days ago,” he said, “but not now.”

  “Why not now?” Clint asked.

  “Because,” Emrys said, “now he is more than just a man.”

  “And you’re sounding crazy, too,” Clint said. “The both of you. Why don’t you just let me take the priest out of here and you two can settle things between you?”

  “Now, now,” Morley said, “I wouldn’t want you and the priest to miss everything.”

  Clint wondered if he should make a grab for his gun off the floor. It might have been a mistake to drop it, after all.

  “Okay,” Morley said, “now that that’s all settled, magician, you can just keep walkin’ toward me—and keep your hands out.”

  FORTY-TWO

  Emrys started moving forward again.

  Clint wondered what the magician had in mind. He had come to the church alone. But he had also sent the young boy to fetch him. He must have had something he wanted Clint to do.

  The priest sat stiffly and would be of no help at all. Clint had the distinct feeling that the man actually wanted to die.

  As Emrys continued to move toward Morley, he was squarely between Clint and the gunman.

  Morley kept his gun pointed at the priest as he watched Emrys approach.

  Clint wondered if Morley’s plan was simply to wait until Emrys was very close, and then shoot the magician at point-blank range. There was no way Emrys would be able to survive that.

  He was waiting for Emrys to do . . . something!

  “This is a big mistake, Morley,” Emrys finally said.

  “I hear you’re callin’ yourself Emrys,” Morley said. “Does Adams know the meaning of that?”

  “He knows it’s my name,” Emrys said. “That is all.”

  “But it’s not your only name,” Morley said.

  “It does not matter.”

  “You mean you don’t wish to be called Merlin?”

  “No more than you wish to be called . . . Modred.”

  Merlin?

  Modred?

  What the hell were they talking about? Those were names from the stories of King Arthur. Were they both completely deranged, thinking they were characters from the Knights of the Round Table?

  Clint decided to keep quiet and listen. At some point it might become time for him to snatch up his gun.

  “I suppose the names we’re using will do,” Morley said. “Keep coming, Emrys.”

  Emrys had almost reached Morley. This was going to come to an end one way or another.

  Suddenly, Clint became aware that someone was speaking. He listened, realized that it was the priest. He was praying.

  Morley heard him, too, and frowned.

  “Stop that!”

  Father Damon kept on.

  “I said stop that praying!” Morley snapped.

  “You’re going to kill him,” Clint said. “Why not let him make peace with God?”

  “I am God’s instrument here!” Morley said. “If he wants to pray, he should pray to me.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “you’re a little full of yourself, aren’t you?”

  Father Damon’s droning got louder. It was actually starting to bother Clint, too.

  “That is close enough,” Morley said to Emrys. He was as close as he was going to get while still being beyond arm’s reach.

  Morley took the barrel of the gun from the priest and pointed it at Emrys’s forehead.

  “This will be a good test,” Morley said. “I shot you once before and you survived.”

  “And if I survive again this time?”

  “Then I will find another way to kill you.”

  “And how would that be?”

  “I will use the priest.”

  “To kill me?”

  “Priest,” Morley said, “tell my friend what your specialty used to be when you were younger.”

  Father Damon licked his dry, cracked lips and said, “Exorcism.”

  “Exorcism?” Clint said. “What the hell—”

  “That’s enough!” Morley said. “First we will try it my way.”

  His finger tightened on the trigger. At that point Clint saw the fingers of Emrys’s hands move. Just the fingers, in a “come here” motion.

  From behind the altar, the six-foot crucifix suddenly leaped off the wall—it didn’t fall off, it leaped.

  Morley heard it and moved just in time to keep from being struck by it.

  “Ha!” he said to Emrys, but by the time he realized his mistake, it was too late.

  Clint dove down to the floor, came up with his gun, and fired.

  FORTY-THREE

  Sheriff Baker came out of the church, found Clint and Emrys standing by the wall.

  “Okay,” Baker said, “the priest supports your story. I have some men carrying the body out now.”

  He stepped aside. Two men came walking out, carrying Morley’s body.

  “Where’s the priest?” Clint asked.

  “Inside.”

  “How is he?”

  “That’s hard to say,” Baker replied. “He hasn’t moved.”

  “I want to talk to him,” Emrys said.

  “Sure,” Baker said.

  Emrys went inside.

  “Was this the man—” Baker started.

  “Yes,” Clint said, “this was the man.”

  “Then it looks like your problems are solved.”

  “My problems are never solved, Sheriff,” Clint said. “They’re only postponed.”

  “Well . . . don’t leave town until I tell you. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Clint said. He turned and went into the church. Emrys was sitting in the front pew with Father Damon. Emrys was leaning into the priest, who was still sitting motionless and erect.

  Clint walked down the center aisle. When Emrys heard him, he leaned away from the priest.

  “Father Damon, are you okay?” Clint asked.

  “I am . . .” he said. But it didn’t sound like he meant, “I am fine.” It sounded like he was simply saying, “I am.”

  “What was all that business about exorcism?” Clint asked.

  “That was many years ago, in Mexico,” Father Damon said.

  “Am I right about what exorcism means?” Clint asked.

  “Cleansing people of the Devil’s possession,” Emrys said. “If that is what you think.”

  “That’s it,” Clint said. “So Morley thought you were possessed by the Devil?”

  “Or Morley himself was possessed,” Father Damon said.

  “He was?” Clint asked. “Or he thought he was?”

  Father Damon looked at Clint and asked, “What is the difference?”

  • • •

  The next day Clint and Emrys were eating lunch in another café in Sheridan. Clint had finally convinced Emrys to order something other than steak. They were both eating beef stew when Sheriff Baker walked in.

  “I’ve spoken to the judge,” the lawman said, sitting with them. “You fellas are free to go or stay, as you please.”

  “I pick go,” Clint said.

  “No more performances?” Baker asked.

  “No,” Emrys said. “It is time for me to leave, find . . . smaller venues.”

  “Smaller?” Baker asked.

  “Yes,” Emrys said. “Too much attention here.”

  “Ah,” Baker said. “Well, can’t say I’ll be sorry to see the two of you go,” The lawman stood up. “I don’t need any more excitement in my town.”

  He touched his hat and left the café.

  “If you don’t want any more attention,” Clint asked Emrys, “why would you continue to travel around, doing magic?”

  “Because it is what I do,” the magician said.

  “So are you a magician, or a wizard, like Morley said?”

  “What is the difference?”

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “He seemed to think there was one. Aren’t they the same thing?”

  “Basically.”

  “And what was that business with the names?” Clint asked. He had looked them up again in his copy of Le Morte d’Arthur. “Merlin? Modred?”

  “You know where those names are from,” Emrys said.

  “From fiction,” Clint said.

  “Or history.”

  “Emrys . . . I can’t ride with you anymore.”

  “I know.”

  “Unless you’re ready to tell me more.”

  “I am afraid I can’t do that,” Emrys said. “I think you may have already seen too much.”

  “That is,” Clint added, “if I can figure out what it is I saw.”