Riders In The Sky Part 56

"Daddy," Joey calls, waving his hat, spurring his mount. "Daddy, hi, it's me!"

The Riders, moving faster.

Beatrice sees a shadow standing by the Last Stop door, lifts a hand in a tremulous wave, tries a smile, and fails.

Good-bye, my dear, Sir John says. Take care of him for me.

"John," she whispers. "John, we're going to die."

Good-bye, my dear. Stop fussing. I'm sure you'll do just fine.

The shadow fades; the shadow's gone; Beatrice holds a shieldlike piece of wood in her hands, hefts it once, and shakes her head.

We're going to die, she thinks, and I'll never get to answer his question.

The Riders ... charging.

From each corner of his vision, Casey can see the others bracing themselves. Turning sideways or spreading legs or bouncing on their toes.

One chance.

All they'll get is one chance.

He knows which one is his.

Riding the great black, stubbled cheeks, stubbled chin, Indian-bead vest blown open by his wind; long hair in braids that bounce against his chest; flat green eyes.

He rubs a thumb across the cross and takes a backward step. Turning his left shoulder to the hors.e.m.e.n. Gauging speed and distance, holding his weapon like a club.

"Hi, Daddy!"

Scarlet lightning strikes the Last Stop on his right, and it mushrooms into flames that hiss and steam in the rain, cast shadows of their own as well as shadows of the Riders; add color to the air, and most of it is red.

Heat and cold in equal measure, despite the storm, despite the sea.

He wants to see everything at once, to help if he can, to guide, but as the Riders fan out side to side, he can only see the great black, bearing down on him, hooves kicking emerald sparks.

He swallows and takes a breath.

Beatrice calls, "Two minutes."

He nods and takes a breath.

And for that moment between the ticks of a clock, he sees as if he were looking at the fragments of a broken mirror: Jude and the girls racing screaming from the store, hands filled with shining things that glow in the firelight, that glitter and dazzle in the firelight as they're thrown at the Riders in a hail-and-shower of gla.s.s and stone; Cora racing behind him, and up to join Reed, who is looking straight at Susan and daring her to come on, come on, it's me, you remember? It's me, come on, come on; Beatrice running toward the girls, waving her club, screaming something at the Rider dressed in green, who looks down from her mount and laughs; John and Lisse, side by side, Joey taking out his six-guns; a wave tumbling over the road, leaving bedrock behind; scarlet lightning; a white horse slipping on the slick tarmac, legs frantic to find purchase; emerald sparks; a horse bucking and rearing at the gla.s.s and stone that bounce off its head and face; and the fire taken and bloated by the storm, reaching toward them, roaring.

while the church bell tolls * * * *

Casey blinks and shakes his head, deafens himself to the shouts and screams of men and horses and children, concentrating on the Rider who ignores them as well. Smiling at him. Grinning at him. Quickly; here and gone.

h.e.l.lo, Reverend Chisholm, hear you killed a man the other night.

He waits.

The other rides.

He waits, and holds his breath, and when the black storms up to take him and trample him to the ground, he yells and swings and jumps backward, lands a blow on the Rider's leg that makes the Rider groan aloud, and yank the reins, and turn around.

Not a ghost, Casey thinks; at least he's not a ghost.

The black charges again, and again Casey swings and steps away, missing this time, and slipping to one knee. Paying no attention to the pain when the Rider turns again.

Grinning.

Here and gone.

The crackling sound of gunfire.

Someone screaming; someone singing.

A quick desperate look- Reed and Cora clubbing white horse and Rider, Moonbow and Starshine dodging the hooves of the green Rider's horse, Beatrice swinging her club, and it's all gone again as- Casey winces at the fire-pain he feels growing in his knee, sees the great black upon him and swings wildly, desperately, catching it across the chest with the flat of his makeshift club. The black stumbles and nearly throws the Rider, rear legs slipping, spreading, casting fire, casting sparks, until it settles and prances in agitated place, and the Rider looks at him, and at the sky, leans over, and says, "Too late," and smiles and rides away.

Here.

And gone.

Casey starts to run; it's the only thing he can think to do. Tossing the club aside, he prays for speed and sprints. Watching the Rider, watching the horse, slow and arrogant in their leaving. Tail snapping, mane bouncing, steam and sparks, flat green eyes.

When the Rider turns and sees him, he lifts his head and laughs, turns away and lifts his hat, a scornful mocking good-bye.

Casey runs; it's the only thing he can do.

And when the wave curls out of the darkness, the great black shies and turns aside, turns in a nervous circle while the water crashes on the road, turns spray to rain, and shakes the roadway.

Casey runs, and reaches out, grabs the Rider's leg and, startled, the Rider kicks out and kicks him aside. Glares and snaps, and puts his spurs to the great black's sides.

The horse leaps and gallops.

Casey leaps and snares the stirrup, runs helplessly a few feet before he reaches up and grabs the Rider's waist. And as soon as he realizes he won't be able to drag him off, he uses the horseman as counterweight, and swings up behind him on the saddle.

The Rider laughs, and gallops on.

scarlet fire Casey looks up.

emerald sparks The second wave is high, much higher than the first, and he thinks, I have to jump, until the Rider laughs again, and Casey wraps both arms around him, checks the wave, and holds him close until it falls.

8.

Beatrice on the ground, blood in her eye, right arm broken, sees the wave and the Rider and Casey on the great black's back.

"No," she says softly, and, "No," again when the road is clear, the water ebbs ... and Casey's gone.

For what? she thinks as she struggles to her hands and knees, cries out and holds her injured arm against her chest; dear Lord, for what?

"You okay, Lady Beatrice?" Moonbow asks as she kneels beside her. "Hey, you're hurt. Momma, she's hurt, Lady Beatrice's hurt real bad."

Beatrice brushes away, the offer of a helping hand. Her head's too heavy and she lets it hang; her arm throbs and stabs, her legs can barely hold her.

She feels Moonbow poking at her good wrist, can't slap the hand away without falling on her face, and leans back, sits back, lifts her head to the wind and rain, and allows the child to take her hand.

And then she knows.

She looks, and Moonbow nods. And grins. And says, "I think we won."

Beatrice smiles, weak and pained, but when Moonbow leaves to fetch her mother, she sags, and says, "For what?"

"For him," Lisse tells her, kneeling down, taking her hand.

Beatrice shakes her head, and Lisse smiles and holds out a fist, gestures until Beatrice turns her hand around. Then Lisse covers the hand with hers, and when she pulls it away, Casey's small cross and chain lies in Beatrice's palm.

"Oh, dear," is all she can say, and gasps a little pain when Lisse helps her to her feet.

"You know," she says, "this is the time when the sun's supposed to shine. Battle over, victory ours. I want the sun, Miss Montgomery. I'm sick of all this rain, I truly want the sun."

Lisse doesn't answer, and after a moment she knows why.

The fire has died down, but it hasn't died, and in the light of its flames she can see Reed sitting in the parking lot, Cora's head in his lap as she squirms and twists, lifts a leg, and drops it; she can see John Bannock lying facedown on the road across the way, a toy gun lying beside him; she can see the way Lisse limps away, a hand pressed against her hip, that lovely auburn hair dark and hanging in the rain; she can see Jude and the children huddled in the store's doorway; and in the middle of the road, near the fall of pale white light, a long and old white Continental, its tires flat, no ornament at all.

Dear G.o.d, she thinks; dear Lord.

Thunder, and white lightning.

She can't stand; she starts to fall.

An arm slips around her waist to catch her, and a deep voice says, "It's Casper. My middle name is Casper."

EPILOGUE.

1.

M.

oonbow loves living at the beach. It's only been a few weeks, but she knows she's never going to leave here; this is her home now, and she'll clobber anybody who tries to take it away.

Their house is the one that Reverend Chisholm used to live in, and Momma makes it more like a real home every day. New furniture, new beds, new everything in the kitchen; pictures on the wall, carpets on the floor. When spring comes they're going to paint it, and they're going to take down that awful hedge with all those awful stabbing thorns.

She sits on the porch now, in a rocking chair she's claimed just for herself, wrapped in a warm coat, swinging her legs, watching the road.

Starshine paces up and down the shoulder, too nervous to sit.

They're waiting for Momma.

That morning, Momma promised them a final Christmas present, even though Christmas has already gone. But first, she told them, she had to go into town and get a few things for dinner. Laughing at the protests. Playfully swatting their behinds when they got too close.

Moonbow can hardly stand it.

But she won't give Star the satisfaction of doing some pacing too.

"Hey," her sister calls, and waves, and Moonbow is up and off the porch before she remembers why she stayed there, and the two of them do the pacing, and stare down the road.