“Sorry, sir,” the clerk told him, “but they have both checked out and left.”

  “Goddamnit!” Morley swore. “When?”

  “This morning.”

  “Where’d they go?”

  “I don’t know that, sir.”

  “Damnit!”

  He stormed out of the hotel and headed straight for the livery stable. Instead of following them now, he was going to have to track them.

  As he saddled his horse feverishly, he thought about the magician. He knew that he’d put a bullet right in his heart, and the only way he could have survived was to be the Devil himself. There could be no further doubt.

  He paid his bill, using the last of his money, walked his horse out, and mounted up.

  This was now a hunt for the Devil, and he was charged with getting it done.

  THIRTY

  After half a day’s travel, Clint was convinced that they were not being followed.

  “Do you think he gave up?” Emrys asked.

  “Either that,” Clint said, “or he’s lost.”

  “I would prefer that,” Emrys said. “I do not wish to deal with him.”

  Clint looked at the magician.

  “You sound like you’re saying you don’t want to have to kill him,” he said.

  “It is not for me to kill,” Emrys said. “It is very difficult for me, and I only ever do it to survive. Killing is for warriors like you.”

  “I don’t like it either.”

  “I did not mean to imply that you do,” the magician said. “And I do not say it comes for naturally to you. It is just a larger part of your life than it is mine.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” Clint said.

  “The mare is ready,” Emrys said. “We may proceed.”

  • • •

  The tracks being left by the Magic Man’s wagon were easy to pick up and follow. Morley decided to hang back and not take a chance on being seen by Clint Adams, or felt by the Devil.

  Since the bullet he had fired had not killed the Devil, he knew he needed to find another way to kill him. So he decided that when they got to wherever they were going, Ed Morley was going to go to church.

  If anyone could tell him how to kill the Devil, it would be a priest.

  • • •

  They camped for the night, and Clint deliberately did not watch Emrys make the campfire. He took care of the horses and came to the fire when it was already blazing. He prepared the coffee, and them made some bacon and beans for them to eat.

  “I am getting used to this coffee,” Emrys said.

  “You’re just realizing how good it is.”

  “And this concoction . . . it is wonderful.”

  “It’s bacon and beans,” Clint said. “Haven’t you ever had it before?”

  “I do not believe so.”

  “What were you eating before you met up with me?”

  “I would hunt,” Emrys said, “but mostly dried meats.”

  “We can hunt tomorrow,” Clint said. “We should come across some fresh meat somewhere along the way.”

  “That would be excellent,” Emrys said. “I would enjoy seeing you shoot. Are you very accurate?”

  “I hit what I shoot at.”

  “You remind me of . . . somebody.”

  “Who?”

  “Someone from . . . my life,” Emrys said.

  “But telling me exactly who that is would reveal too much of yourself to me?”

  “I told you,” Emrys said. “The truth would only make you think me mad.”

  “Well, what if I told you I already think you’re mad,” Clint offered.

  Emrys laughed and said, “That would not surprise me.”

  “Can you do that fire thing again?” Clint asked. “I mean, springing it on you like this, when you can’t set it up beforehand.”

  Emrys held his hand over the flames, but instead of dipping his hand in and lighting his fingers, the flames suddenly leaped up and did it. The tip of his index finger glowed and burst into flame—and then he blew it out.

  “How does that not burn your finger?” Clint exclaimed. “Damn, how do you do that?”

  “Magic,” Emrys said.

  “Real magic?” Clint said, shaking his head. Until he could disprove it, how could he call the man a liar?

  “What is real magic?” Emrys asked.

  “Well, I don’t know,” Clint said, “and obviously you’re not going to tell me.”

  “Perhaps at some point, I will.”

  “So I’ll just have to keep waiting.”

  “And keep making me concoctions like this to eat,” Emrys said. “More, please.”

  Clint spooned out the rest of the bacon and beans for the magician and said, “Tomorrow I’ll see if we can get a deer.”

  • • •

  Ed Morley had left Kirby so fast he had not stocked up on supplies. He made a fire, but had nothing but beef jerky to eat. But he felt that these were the sacrifices he had to make to bring down the Devil.

  Never a religious man before, Morley was suddenly very aware of God in his life. And God would help him, he was sure of that.

  He just needed some assurance from a priest.

  • • •

  Clint decided to stand watch, and when he told Emrys he would be doing that, the magician said, “There’s no need. We will be protected.”

  “How?”

  “The same way my wagon is protected.”

  “By magic.”

  Emrys stared at him.

  “Well, if you don’t mind, I’ll just stand watch anyway.”

  “Not all night,” Emrys said. “If you are determined to do this, I will take a turn.”

  “Suit yourself,” Clint said. “I’ll wake you in four hours.”

  “I will sleep outside the wagon tonight,” Emrys said.

  “That’s up to you.”

  Clint made himself a fresh pot of coffee and sat by the fire with his rifle while Emrys made a bed for himself underneath the wagon.

  He still wondered how Emrys had been able to do that fire trick, but he forced himself not to look into the fire.

  Emrys was perhaps the strangest person Clint had ever met, from his name to his mannerisms. He felt like a man from another time and another place.

  He was sure that Emrys’s mannerisms and attitude were the man’s attempt to seem different. It helped with his whole act. But Clint couldn’t help wondering who he was, what his real name was, and where he came from.

  It would be odd if in a former life he had, indeed, been a drummer or a snake oil salesman. He certainly had the talent to sell himself. He could have been from the East, or that feeling Clint had that he was from another place could have meant he was from Europe somewhere—maybe Great Britain. Taking his name from Merlin might lend itself to that possibility.

  Clint had never been this curious about another person in his life before. He thought that he might actually ride with the man until he found the answers he was looking for.

  One thing was for sure, though. For someone who claimed to have real magic, he sure snored like a regular fellow.

  THIRTY-ONE

  By the second night, both Clint and Emrys were convinced that their tail was back.

  “I smelled his fire,” Clint said when they camped for the night. “This morning.”

  “I felt him,” Emrys said. “What should we do?”

  “Well,” Clint said, “I could ride back and grab him, but how do I prove he took the shot at you?”

  “So what do we do? Just allow him to follow us again?” Emrys asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And then what?”

  “Once we get to Sheridan, I think I’ll be able to spot him, and keep an eye on him.”

  “And if he tries to kill you or me again?”

  “Then we can have him arrested.”

  “Or kill him.”

  “I thought you didn’t want to kill anyone.”

  “I was thinking more of you.”

  “Right now the only thing we’re going to kill is this fire, so we can get back on the trail.”

  “Are you sure he won’t try to kill us out here?”

  “No, I’m not,” Clint said. “But I’m willing to take the risk. If he thinks he missed you back in town, he’s going to want to get closer next time.”

  “Like, perhaps, in the crowd in front of my wagon during a performance?”

  “Yes, like that. But once we spot him, we’ll be able to identify him.”

  “Once again,” he said, “I must bow to you on this matter.”

  “Good,” Clint said. “Douse the fire, and I’ll get the horses ready.”

  “As you wish.”

  • • •

  When they camped that night, Clint knew they’d make Sheridan by midday.

  During the day he had been able to bring down a deer with a single shot, which had impressed Emrys.

  “That in itself,” the magician, said, “was a kind of magic.”

  Clint butchered the deer and they took a couple of haunches with them, leaving the rest for the coyotes—or anyone else who might find it.

  Clint built a spit from branches and rotated the meat over the fire. He made some beans to go along with it. He sliced some meat off, put it on plates with the beans, and handed Emrys one.

  “This is wonderful,” Emrys said. “I don’t think you would find better meat on the king’s reserve—I mean, a king’s reserve.”

  “A king?”

  “I mean, a private reserve of some kind,” Emrys said.

  “I see.”

  They ate, cut more meat, and ate some more.

  “So tell me, Emrys,” Clint said, “have you known many kings where you come from?”

  “That was simply a slight slip of the tongue,” the other man said. “You know there is no royalty in this country.”

  “I know that,” Clint said. “I was just thinking maybe you were from another country.”

  “Indeed? Which country would that be?”

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “England? Ireland?”

  Emrys didn’t answer. He bit into his meat.

  • • •

  Morley found the butchered deer.

  He shooed some coyotes away from it, sliced off a hunk for himself, then left the rest to the coyotes, who quickly returned to their meal.

  He built a fire, held the meat over the flame with a sturdy branch, wishing he had some coffee to wash it down with.

  Clint Adams had to be the one who’d shot the deer. Just for a moment Morley wondered if he and the Devil had left the deer behind for him. Maybe it was a joke. He didn’t mind the joke, though, because the meat—though gamy—was good.

  Perhaps the Devil was laughing, but it was Morley who would have the last laugh.

  • • •

  Emrys was on the second watch, but Clint couldn’t sleep, so he rolled out of his bedroll and approached the fire.

  “Can’t you sleep?” Emrys asked.

  “No,” Clint said. “I need some more coffee.”

  He sat across the fire from Emrys and poured himself a cup.

  “Why don’t you get some more sleep?” Clint suggested.

  “I need very little,” Emrys said. “Often I simply lie awake, staring at the stars.”

  “Is that because you miss home?”

  Emrys smiled.

  “Why do I get the impression you are trying to pry something out of me about my history, Clint?”

  “Well,” Clint said, “you can’t blame a guy for trying, can you?”

  “No,” Emrys said, “actually, you cannot.”

  They sat in silence for a while, and then Emrys said, “All right.”

  “All right . . . what?”

  “I have decided to tell you something.” He held up one finger. “One thing.”

  “Do I get to pick what it is?”

  “No!”

  “Fine. Go ahead.”

  “I am not from your country.”

  “What a shock,” Clint said. “What country are you from?”

  “I said one thing,” Emrys said. “Perhaps, tomorrow, I will tell you one more.”

  “At that rate,” Clint said, “I should have your whole history in about ten years.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  When they drove into Sheridan, Emrys was impressed.

  “This is a very . . . fruitful town,” he said. “I can feel it. I think perhaps I will perform here for more than one day.”

  “Good,” Clint said. “And I’m sure they have a mayor we can check in with. Let’s go to the livery first.”

  The livery was large enough to house not only the horses, but the wagon as well.

  “You some kinda showman?” the holster asked.

  “That’s right,” Emrys said. “Some kind of showman.”

  “What’s in the wagon?”

  “My show,” the magician said. “It would not be wise for you to try to enter the wagon. Do you understand?”

  The man, obviously an employee and not the owner, said, “Well, sure.”

  “Take good care of these horses,” Clint said.

  “I will.” The man, in his thirties and as homely as sin, spit some tobacco juice into the dirt and took the horses to their stalls.

  “Hotel now?” Emrys asked.

  “Right.”

  He smiled.

  “I think I am getting the hang of this.”

  • • •

  They got a room each, and then Clint took Emrys for a walk around town. He’d been there before, but not for a while. Sheridan had grown by leaps and bounds, and two strangers walking down the street was not as odd as it might have been in a smaller town.

  “There is City Hall,” Emrys said, pointing across the street.

  “And there’s a steak house right next to it,” Clint said.

  “Which one shall we go to first?” Emrys asked.

  At that point both their stomachs growled and they headed for the steak house.

  • • •

  After they’d finished an excellent meal, it was still early enough to catch the mayor in his office. They entered the building, went to the second floor, found the mayor’s office, and presented themselves to his assistant.

  “And what kind of show is this?” the lovely young woman asked. She wore glasses, and a gray suit that could not hide her curves. She had auburn hair and pretty blue eyes.

  “A magic show,” Clint said.

  She looked at Clint.

  “You are a magician?” she asked.

  “No,” Clint said, “my friend is the magician.”

  She looked at Emrys, his derby hat, then looked back at Clint.

  “You’ll need a permit to perform.”

  “That’s why we’re here to see the mayor.”

  “The mayor doesn’t give out the permits,” she said.

  “Then who does?” Clint asked.

  “The permit office.”

  “And where is that?” Clint asked.

  “Downstairs.”

  “Thank you.”

  He and Emrys turned to leave the room.

  “There’s a fee,” she called out.

  Clint looked at her over his shoulder.

  “I think we’ll be able to handle it.”

  • • •

  They went downstairs and found the permit office. The clerk, a young man in his twenties, had them fill out the form, then he stamped it.

  “And the permit?” Clint asked.

  “Oh, I can’t give you that until you have a location.”

  “And where would you suggest?” Clint asked.

  “There are lots of areas in town good for putting on a show,” the clerk said. “Uh, depending on how big your show is.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, “we’ll take a walk around town, find a location, and come back.”

  “It’s almost five,” the clerk said. “I have to close at five.”

  “Then we’ll come back first thing in the morning,” Clint said. “What time?”

  “I get in at eight.”

  “We’ll see you then.”

  “Um,” the clerk said as they started to leave.

  “Yes?” Clint asked.

  “Which one of you is the magician?”

  Clint pointed to Emrys and said, “He is.”

  • • •

  Out on the street, Emrys said, “That was exhausting.”

  “Yes, it was,” Clint said, “but I guess that’s the way things are done in big towns.”

  “Shall we look for a site, then?” Emrys asked.

  “Yes,” Clint said. “And along the way maybe we should stop in at the sheriff’s office.”

  “To tell him about the other man?”

  “To tell him about me,” Clint said. “I just like to check in with the law in towns like this, let them now I’ll be around for a while.”

  “That’s what comes from being a legend, then?”

  “That’s what comes from having a reputation,” Clint said. “The kind that makes people want to shoot at you.”

  “That must be very difficult for you.”

  “Well,” Clint said as they walked, “usually it’s somebody looking for a reputation, but lately . . .”

  “Lately it has become more . . . personal?”

  Clint looked at him.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Logic,” Emrys said.

  “Not magic?”

  “Maybe,” the Magic Man said, “just a good guess.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Ed Morley rode into Sheridan slowly, his eyes taking in both sides of the street. He was looking for Clint Adams or the Devil, but when he saw the church at the end of one of the side streets, he changed direction.

  He reined in his horse in front of the church and dismounted. It was a Catholic church, which didn’t matter to him one way or the other.