Merkabah Rider: The Mensch With No Name (20 page)

When
they reached the cabin again, Doc and one of the horses were gone. He left
behind a bullet lodged in between Dodgy Shunderburger’s eyes.

They
found the German cooling on the floor of the shack, face down. There was a
knife in his hand, and his pockets had been rifled through. The Rider’s gold
gilded Volcanic pistol lay neatly arranged on the dead man’s back, along with a
smooth, grey green stone a little smaller than an ostrich egg and no more
precious than soapstone. It was vaguely starfish shaped, and bore on its
surface the etching of the star and eye —the Elder Sign.

As
for the two thousand dollars, it was nowhere to be seen.

“Maybe
they buried it,” the Rider offered, feeling the comfortable curve of his pistol
in his hand.

“Sure,”
Mather said, his eyes flashing.
“Maybe.”

The
Rider went outside to check on his animal. The onager’s wound was scabbed over
and had been cleaned. He opened his saddlebags and swapped his pistol belt for
Dirty Dave’s, taking comfort in the weight of his own gun on his hip again.

The
onager shook its mane and made a nervous noise. The Rider followed its gaze to
the far edge of the clearing, where some brush wavered, but nothing emerged.

He
walked over, keeping his hand on his pistol. In the melting snow, he found
fresh, sizable tracks that he couldn’t readily identify, but appeared to be
quadractyl. Something snapped behind him, and a cold shiver went up his back.
He spun, but it was only Spates, bouncing the oddly shaped stone from the mine
in his hand.

“The
Star-Stone of Mnar,” he said idly. Then he held it out to the Rider. “Yours if
you want it. I’m not an archaeologist. Maybe it’ll come in handy.”

“Handy?”

“Come
on now,” said Spates. “I’m not a fool. I recognize a talisman when I see one—or,
however many it is you’ve got about you. We’re in the same line of work, you
and
I—
well, related fields.”

“I
thought you were a zoologist.
A naturalist.”

“More of a preternaturalist really.”

“Do
you know what this is?” the Rider asked, taking the rock in his hand and
tracing one finger through the Elder Sign etching. It was warm to the touch,
though the air was still cool.

“I
know what that is,” said Spates, pointing to the carving. “More than that,” he
shrugged, “I’m not sure.”

“What
is it?” the Rider asked, testing the man’s knowledge.

“The Elder Sign.
Or a variant thereof.
I’ve run across it now and then. I understand John Dee crafted a different
version of it, but this one’s most prevalent.
Supposed to
have protective powers.”

“Against what?”

“Demons.”

“No
demons I ever heard of,” the Rider said. And his knowledge was quite extensive,
even of non-Jewish bodyguards. Adon had seen to that. Why had he never
encountered this then? “Where did you learn of it?”

“Oh,
the usual sources, Von Junzt, al-Hazred. It’s not really in my line.”

Al-Hazred…the
Rider had heard or read that name, but among the copious volumes of occult lore
he ingested, he couldn’t put his finger on where.

“Al-Hazred?”

“The Mad Arab?
Surely you’ve heard of him…The Kitab al-Azif?
The Necronomicon?”

The
Rider was baffled that he hadn’t, though the name al-Hazred still stuck in his
mind.

“I
wonder if you’d look at something for me,” he said.

They
walked back toward the cabin, to the horses, and the Rider took the leather
scroll case off the onager’s saddle and, as an afterthought, the bound
correspondence between Adon and Sheardown.

“Well,”
said Spates, after the Rider partially unrolled it on the ground, “partly
hieroglyphs,” he said, peering at the scroll but not daring to touch it. “It’s
quite old, and this is almost certainly papyrus, but not entirely Egyptian.
Seems familiar though…”

“Can
you read them?”

“Oh,
no, no, no,” said Spates. “I recognize it, but sorry, no. Where’d you get it?”

“And
what about these?” the Rider said, setting aside the scroll and tentatively
holding out the ream of hand-printed letters.

Spates
took them and leafed through them, narrowing his eyes.

“Some
of the same stuff… Wait, I think I know where I’ve seen this before.” He
snapped his fingers. “A colleague of mine in Boston, a linguist from my
Cambridge days….I once consulted him on some inscriptions on a woodblock print
of an Atlantean tablet depicting a shoggoth.”

“A what?”

“It’s
complicated,” Spates shrugged. “Nevertheless, he was able to translate it for
me. I believe he called it Tsath-Yo. It’s the written language of the
Hyperboreans.”

The
Rider couldn’t help but smirk.
Atlantis and Hyperborea, all
in the span of seconds.

Spates
handed back the letters.

“Well,
you asked me,” he said in a huff. “For somebody who goes around with the Seal
of Solomon stamped on a gun…you’re not particularly receptive to these things
are you?”

The
Rider’s smile fell.

“I’m
sorry, professor. Atlantis and Hyperborea don’t fall within my system of
beliefs.”

“Ah?
And where does the thing from the tunnel fit into your dogma?” he exclaimed.
“Too cunning to be an animal, invisible, hah?
Not a
demon,
or your trinkets would have repelled it. Yet the
light from Sheardown’s compound, through a red glass kept it at bay.
And this.”

He
tapped the glyph on the stone.

“You
seem like an observant fellow. Did you notice the alcove at the back of the
cave? Did you see how smooth the stone was?
Made by sentient
hands to hold this.
And the creature didn’t attack until it was
dislodged. What does that tell you, my friend?”

The
Rider pursed his lips. It was exactly as he had been thinking.

“The
creature was guarding it.”

“Oh,
no, no, no,” Spates chuckled. “The stone held the creature in place.”

Mather
came out at this point, sullen, dragging Dodgy by his boot heels.

He
hefted the big German belly up over the saddle of one of the horses and tied
its hands and feet.

“Let’s
get going,” he said. “I don’t fancy spending the night up here, and I got to
get back and tell Hoodoo Brown that Doc made off with that two thousand.”

“What
about the others?” Spates said, indicating the bodies of Cady and Bullshit
Jack, which were still lying there.

Mather’s
only answer was to spit, turn up the collar of his coat, and ride off, Dodgy’s
corpse jostling on the back of the spotted horse he led behind him.

* * *
*

When they arrived in Las Vegas again, Mather said he would rather break
the news to Hoodoo
himself
, but advised the Rider to
come by his office in an hour’s time.

“Wait
a minute,” the Rider called to Mather as he turned to lead his grisly cargo off
down the street.

He
took Dirty Dave’s gun and belt from his saddlebags and tossed the rig to
Mather.

“If
you see Rudabaugh, tell him I said thanks for the loan.”

Mather
grinned.

“I’ll
do that. See you in an hour.”

He
went off in the direction of the municipal building.

Professor
Spates resolved to retire to his room at the Rincon Hotel off the plaza, and
the Rider promised to stop by and see him before he left town.

He
led the onager to the post office, stealing himself to beat his head against
the wall of the postmaster and feeling past all luck.

When
he had tied the onager to the hitch and was about to enter, a gaudily dressed
woman interposed herself between him and the door.

“You
are the bookseller?” she said, in a voice he immediately recognized.

“Yes.”

He
supposed he was easy to pick out.

“I’m
supposed to give you this.”

She
held out a parcel wrapped in twine and brown paper.

When
he took, it she sauntered off without a word or a second look.

The
Rider hastily opened the parcel, and found a letter addressed to him which
read:

B.S.,

I
regret not remaining around for formal goodbyes, but a sudden opportunity necessitated
my expeditious departure. I trust you have your fancy weapon back in hand, as
well as the purported jewel, which it turns out is worth about as much as the
life it cost Dodgy to secure it. Kate and I have decided to relinquish our
interest in the saloon to Hoodoo in exchange for a generous monetary endowment
on his part, which we intend to presently use to set ourselves up elsewhere. If
you see Webb, please give him my regards and explain my intent. He was never
much of a business partner, but I do not fault him that, not being one of much
aptitude myself.

Enclosed
you will find I think, some of the letters which you were seeking. I convinced
the postmaster to release them to my care. I also took for you a paper from the
board that I suggest you pay particular attention to.

Regards,

Your
friend,

Doc

The
Rider glanced at the thick envelope addressed to Sheardown and stopped himself
at the return address. But trusting to Doc’s judgment, he skipped with
trembling hands to the folded sheet tucked beneath the letters and caught his
breath at what he saw.

Staring
back at him was a canny sketched likeness of his own face, replete with his
yeyo curls, embossed spectacles, and hat. The picture was bordered on the top
and bottom by bold type which read:

WANTED

Manasseh
Maizel

Alias
Rider

Alias
The
Merkava Rider

By
Order
Of
Lew Wallace, Governor Of New Mexico Territory

The
Killer-Jew
Of
Varruga Tanks!

Eight
Times
A
Murderer!

For
The Wanton Slaughter
Of
Dr. Amos Sheardown,

Michael
Cashion, Bill Owen, Boston Wilkes,

Jiminy
Baines, Rodrigo Botello,

Delmar
Frederickson,
and Tom Larson

For
The Destruction
Of
The Tanks At Varruga

For
Horse Theft

For
Grand Theft
Of
Property

$500
Dead $1,000 Dollars Alive

A
general description followed, of his ‘peculiar dress’ and ‘exaggerated Semitic
features,’ as well as an addendum at the bottom which read:

An
Additional $5,000 Dollars Cash Reward Will Be Paid Out By Mr. H.T. Magwood of
Delirum Tremens, Arizona Territory For The Recovery Of An Antique Scroll Stolen
From His Property By The Accused.

Delirium Tremens, where he had defeated Hayim Cardin’s cult of
Molech worshipers earlier that year.
Delirium Tremens, which was the
same thing the faded pink postal stamp on the envelope addressed to Sheardown
here in Las Vegas read.

Who
was this Magwood then?
Another disciple of Adon’s?
Whoever he was, he was a man of influence, and he had just made things very
difficult for him in New Mexico.

The
Rider unhitched the onager and went straight to the Rincon Hotel, feeling as if
every man and woman and even gamin on the street were staring at him. He asked
for Spates at the desk, and in a few moments the professor came down, clean
shaven and in fresh clothes.

“Ah!
Have you been to see Mather and Mr. Brown then?”

“No,”
said the Rider. “I don’t think I’ll be going to see them today. If Marshal
Mather comes around looking for me, give him my regards. I have a favor to ask
of you, and some advice.”

“Of
course,” said Spates, wrinkling his brow. “I’m happy to hear both.”

The
Rider passed him the envelope containing the last letters from Adon, and handed
over the sheaf of Sheardown’s correspondence as well.

“I’d
like to ask you to impose on your friend in Boston,” he said. “I know it’s a great
deal to ask, but I would like these letters translated…with the caveat that it
be done in strictest confidentiality and as soon as possible.”

“I
see,” Spates said, going over the letters.

“I
know it’s a lot to ask. And I have no money.”

“Oh
he’ll do it for me, no worries there. But it’ll still take some time. Are you
going to remain here in Las Vegas?”