MY HEART IN STONE

PART 10:

Mikol was angry.  

Gerta had to swallow a few times in order to get control of her voice when 

Mikol told her  there would be a change of plans for  the next few days.  

Mikol demanded routine like a sailor demanded water.  What still amazed

her to some degree was how easily he micromanaged everything down to

the last second, knew every move that was made by his staff.  He hated any-

thing that knocked him off that routine.  Thoughts of the young American 

girl and her impetuous excursion into the woods ending in the torture 

chamber had her gripping the edges of her desk in order to steady her 

nerves.  So she gripped the edge of the desk hard, her knuckles turning 

white for a few seconds while she thought rapidly of what neutral words 

she could say to Mikol, to buy time until she was able to get her own 

information about the state of Mikol’s mind.

Katryn was dead.  Gerta felt her grip relax, but now her heart was heavy.  

Katryn, one of the few sweet tempered souls that made working for Mikol 

just a shade lighter.  A fatalistic part of her thanked God that it was by an 

accident, and not at Mikol’s hand.  No one should have to die the way Mikol 

took life. But now, Mikol said, enunciating his words until they snapped 

through the phone line like breaking ice, they were going to have to find a 

replacement.  A disruption of the routine.  

Poor Katryn.  Seemed she found a way to anger and upset Mikol without 

having to pay the penalty…at least, not in a way the rest of them would 

have been glad to emulate.   Gerta responded to Mikol’s command to 

start searching with clipped tones of her own: would she be given 

permission to choose her time in returning to the castle, then?  A local 

would be much easier to find, a local who understood who their neighbor 

was and had no ambitions to recruit the outside world against him.  

Someone like Katryn.

Gerta felt her eyebrows rise when Mikol said she had full reign, to drop 

the usual schedule to fully vet the employee.  Things must be going well 

with Cort, then.  He sounded almost…generous.  Gerta had heard from 

Henri that Cort showed a resiliency they had no right to expect, a 

stubbornness that bolstered Mikol’s, and Henri’s, faith that they had 

chosen the right character to retrieve.  She couldn’t decide if that was 

something to be glad for or not.  

Logging off her computer, she sat for several long minutes, trying to 

put her thoughts into order. Katryn’s loss would not be easily assuaged.  

There were fewer and fewer young people in the old cities now, and too 

many of them inclined to view secretive operations as in need of 

airing out.  Perhaps if she began a round of businesses she knew….

Which led her to thinking about hotels, since much of the industry 

in town was geared toward tourism  Hotel meant travelers meant 

people like Rachel…

Her earlier worry about the safety of the American resurfaced, 

the urgency to warn the girl about wandering off into castle grounds

replacing her sadness over Katryn with alarm.  That had to come 

first, Gerta knew.  Rachel hadn’t said exactly where she was staying, 

but Gerta had the impression it was in the south part of the city.  

It didn’t take her long to track down a handful of hotels, most of them 

using a registry network.  The girl’s name showed up nowhere.  

Intuition snapped to a an almost forgotten name:  Volos Trebsko, 

owner of the Mini.  

(4th from right)

He always kept records by hand.  This she knew because he always 

managed to elude Mikol’s demands for information, was the only one 

whom Mikol seemed to treat with some deference.  Knew this because

he guarded that hand-written registry with his life.  Some say with 

magic.  Rumor had it that Volos was a chemist who traded in secret 

potions with Mikol; had dealt one potion that caused Mikol hesitation 

before approaching him again.  But there was no evidence of that in his 

little gift shop or elsewhere, no evidence at the castle.  Gerta had always 

thought it strange, though, that Volos was able to live under the eye of 

Grovensky and remain untouched.  

Yes, Gerta thought, locking up the blue door and turning into the street 

to head across the square. She would try there first, if for no other reason 

than to confirm whether or not Rachel had survived her curiosity.


She folded up the shirt and placed it under her pillow, her trembling 

and tears under control after some time, feeling somehow different now 

that she knew what Mikol was capable of.  Washing her face and

straightening her clothes, Rachel decided she would eat her meal in her 

room.  She didn’t think she could handle much human company after 

her field trip.  The disparity between lively chatter and night life and 

the sickening memory of dead, dead, dead bones where no one would 

ever find them was more than she could bear.  

So it was with some amount of shock and a little of resentment that 

a knock came at her door just minutes of returning.  

“Ah!”  sighed the woman when Rachel opened the door. “You are 

alive…here, I mean.  I had hoped you would be.”

Rachel stared at her, hoping her expression didn’t reveal too much 

of her irritation and bafflement. Gerta.  Had she seen her go down 

the trail after all?

“How did you find me?”  She asked with no preamble towards greeting.

“I followed you,” Gerta replied simply.  She motioned to the door as if 

to open it further.  “May I come in?”

Rachel stepped back and let the bird-like woman whisk in.  Gerta was 

balling her hands in front of her, appearing to vibrate with tension.  

“I saw you, this morning,” Gerta said, once Rachel locked the door.  

“Don’t.  I beg of you, in the name of all that is holy, don’t go down

 there again.”

Rachel stared at her, heard her stomach growl as the fragrance of 

hot food filled the room.  It was the only thing, it seemed to have

 recovered fully from the afternoon.  

“Why?”  She asked, cagily.  

“You entered very protected lands.  If you were to run afoul of…

authorities, no one could vouch for you…and what would happen.”  

Rachel narrowed her eyes.  

“What would happen?”

“You are a visitor here!  What could not happen to someone who 

intruded where they did not belong?” Gerta seemed taken aback, 

impatient for her to acquiesce.  She flitted to the window and looked 

out through the sheer curtains.  “The police do not like dealing with…

Americans,” she added, swallowing down a bit of a lie.  The police would 

be unhappy, to be sure, but not because she was a Yank.  Being forced to 

handle something they would happily ignore was more upsetting.  

Rachel felt her stomach growl again, her muscles protesting from a 

lack of daily protein.  She sat down on her bed and continued to stare 

down Gerta.  

“What are you getting at?”

Gerta hid her face with her fists, losing some of her reserve, and then 

sat down beside Rachel.

“I am warning you, do not go there again.  Mik…Grovensky 

Construction does not handle trespassers lightly.  You somehow escaped 

their attention today, but that is not normally the case.”

“I saw no cameras, no dogs.  Nothing that would monitor…I saw no 

signs, either, saying I couldn’t take that trail.  As far as I am concerned, 

I took a little scenic detour,” Rachel retorted.  She liked Gerta, but was 

not all that willing to be warned off this way. “A road less traveled, you 

might say.  I think all of Hromada should advertise it,” she added, in a 

puckish moment of pique.  

This sent Gerta to her feet, her voice nearly shrill.

“You can’t say anything!  You’ve no idea what it is costing me to do 

this, to come here and warn you.  You will be the first in a long time 

to…”  Gerta trailed off as if biting back a flow of words she realized 

would cause even more trouble.  

Rachel stood up to meet her eye level. 

“To escape a final resting place in a little gulley? Is that what you’re 

worried about?”

Gerta seemed to deflate all at once.

“Yes,” she whispered, weakly.

“I didn’t stay on the trail for long.  That may have been why I wasn’t 

seen,” Rachel offered, feeling a bit relieved that she could refer to it 

now.  “I had no idea…I mean, I wanted to get a better picture of the castle.  

There were so many trees in the way.  And I only meant to go as far as the 

ravine.”  Should she mention the smell?  She was trying not to remember 

it. She wanted to eat, after all.

“Why?  Why would you want to go that far?”  Gerta wasn’t 

accepting her lame explanation.  “There are postcards in the gift 

shops.  There are tour busses that go to designated spots on other 

hills.  Isn’t that enough?”

“Why is there a pile of bones at the foot of the castle?”  Rachel pressed, 

tired of hedging around the subject.  “Do the authorities know about 

that?  Maybe I should…”

Gerta’s hand clamped hard over Rachel’s mouth, her brown eyes 

sparkling with hard fear.

“If you value your life as it sits now, you will say nothing!”  Gerta 

hissed, then released her.  “How many of those bones do you think 

belong to people who decided to report it?  You’ve no idea the control 

Mikol has over Hromada.”

“What of you?  What do you do?  Why do you work for someone 

who’s a murderer?”

“I…,” Gerta began, but lost her voice.  She drew a deep breath and 

decided to return to her original premise for coming.  “It would be 

best if you left Hromada without saying anything.  And don’t say 

anything anywhere else, either.  He has…ways…of finding you.  He uses…

technology…you can’t even imagine.”

“Try me,” Rachel challenged. 

“No.  You must listen to me.  Enjoy the rest of your stay.  Play the 

dumb American.  Buy your gifts and then leave.  Go to Prague, or 

Munich.  Be the happy tourist there, too.  Forget Hromada.  Mikol 

only wants to be left alone,” Gerta ordered and turned to leave, but Rachel 

grabbed her by the arm.  

“I can’t do that,” Rachel said, her thoughts skittering wildly, a desire 

to divulge her true reasons warring with the precious amount of caution 

that remained.  “I have…a purpose here.”  There.  She opened the door, 

again.

“What purpose could you have with a man who deals with trespassers 

that way?”  asked Gerta in amazement.  

Rachel faltered, unable to think of a good story now, but seconds 

later a light flitted across Gerta’s face.

“Your wedding?  Then your fiancé should know he cannot go near 

Neviditelny Kamen either.  Stay away, both of you.  Mikol does not 

deal in such a thing.  It would be better to be married in…in…a bus 

station.”  Gerta’s focus sharpened.  “Where is your fiancé, by the way?  

Not once have I seen him.  Is he making you set plans on your own?”  

She asked, her tone becoming a bit kinder.  “Did he leave you…

unexpectedly?”

Rachel opened her mouth, a few sounds squeaked out, and she 

gave up.  She wanted very badly to yell out that her fiancé was already 

inside Kamen.  Should she?

“You might say that, yes,” Rachel finally replied with a touch of 

bitterness.  “We were parted not too long ago.”

“And yet you are here making plans?  Now you have a definite 

reason not to stay,” Gerta reaffirmed, and made a move to the door.  

“Go back home and find another man, a nice man who will not leave 

you behind. Forget Kamen, forget Hromada, forget you ever saw bones.  

No one will be the wiser.”

“See, that’s just it,” Rachel blurted, unable to keep the words in 

any longer.  Gerta made it clear: she was taking a chance by coming 

to her and warning her off.  If Mikol found that out, Gerta would take 

her place in the gulley.  Now it was her turn to take a chance, a risk.  

“He didn’t part from me of his own choice.  I’m quite certain that 

if he’d been given a choice, he’d have killed whoever it was that tried 

to take me away from him.”

Aw, hell.

Gerta stood frozen with her hand on the doorknob, a strange 

expression reforming the features of her face.

“Believe me, Gerta, when I tell you,” Rachel continued as the 

Czech’s face turned gray with apprehension.  “If I could tell him 

to stay away from Kamen…if I could MAKE him stay away, 

I would.  But it’s too late, it’s much too late,” she breathed, a 

fresh rain of tears welling up.  

“He’s already there.”

"So, you like the castle?"

It was Mikol, stepping smoothly up into Cort's room in the early

afternoon.

Cort watched the man cross the room, watched the way he walked,

how he handled himself.  He couldn't help it. He kept getting a clear

mental picture of the man wearing a gun belt and facing him at the

other end of a street.  It was just...something...about the man.

Cort shrugged. "I've nothing to compare it to, but it seemed...nice...

as far as castles go." He smiled slightly wryly. "I guess I'm used to

 plainer structures."

"I would imagine," Mikol rejoined pleasantly enough. "But tell me

 about your mission. We don't get to see it in your movie, you know."

"Where...in my life...where in that DOES the movie start?"

"Ah, right! You've never actually seen it for yourself, now have

you?"

"Is...is...there some way...I can?"

"I'll see what I can arrange.  But as far as your character, um,

you are concerned, it begins when you are tossed rather

unceremoniously through the double doors of the saloon."

Cort nodded.  That's what he'd figured. "The mission?  A very simple

place.  Small sanctuary, 6 rows of pews on either side of the aisle. 

White stucco, inside and out.  Small bell tower.  One bell.  Plain

windows except for one behind the altar."

"What was that of...that one window? The stained glass one."

"Jesus praying in the garden."  Cort closed his eyes. He could see

it plainly, see how the after-noon sun, shining through its reds and

blues and yellows cast its light over the white walls, turning it all

bright with dancing colors.  He'd lain in the dirt, his hands bound

behind him, Ratsy's foot on his chest as he'd watched it...melt. 

One lower part of it still clung to its frame.  Foy threw a rock

through that and the last bit of colored glass shattered.

"What else?"

"We had a stone wall, also white-washed, that ran around the

compound, a simple schoolroom on one side, a play area for the

kids."

"And you, where did you live?"

"A small room, attached to the other side of the church.  Just a

bed, a chest, not much more."

"Not quite a castle, eh?"

"Worked for me.  Just fine.  I liked it there."

"What was it like...watching it burn?"

"Hell.  It was like...hell."

"Hurt to see it destroyed?"

Cort glared at the man.  What sort of question was that? 

"What do you think?"

Mikol smiled.  "And your...people.  What of them?"

Cort's jaw trembled a bit, remembering.  "No way to defend

ourselves.  None of us. Just simple farmers,  craftsmen. No one

had a gun. Nothing.  And Foy...." He stopped, his throat tight.

"Foy...what?"

"He killed one of the little boys."

"Why would he do that?"

"Because he could."  Cort would never be able to get the sight of

it out of his mind.  The boy had broken away from the other

children, running toward where Cort lay in the dirt.  Foy had

ordered him to stop, but the boy kept running.  So Foy shot him. 

After that, the burning of the church didn't seem to matter. All

 Cort could look at was the little crumpled body.

"And...?"

"They dragged me to my feet, threw me on a horse.  And we went

to Redemption. You know the rest."

"The ride...what was that ride like?"

"Three days.  They fed me...once.  Every time we'd stop, they'd

 drag me around, beat me up a lot.  Almost nothing to drink." 

He tipped his head, looking at the ceiling.  "At night I just lay

on the dirt, hands and feet tied.  Didn't get much sleep."

"Did you know where you were going?"

"Oh, yeah.  Ratsy and Foy joked about it all the time.  How the

crows were gonna eat my bones after Herod killed me.  Yes, I knew

 where I was going."

"I just thought of something. Foy. He was the first you faced in

Redemption."

"Yeah?"

"The boy, did you think of the boy...then?"

Cort pressed his lips together, his teeth clamped on his tongue.

Damn the man! How would he know that?

"Ah, you did."  Mikol smiled again, leaning back in his chair.

"I can see it in your eyes. Tell me."

"Nothing much to tell," Cort mumbled, looking toward the window,

not wanting to give Mikol direct access any longer to his eyes. 

"It was just there. That same pleasure at killing. He didn't figure

I'd draw, thought he was about to kill me...and he liked it. Saw

that liking in his eyes when he shot the boy. It helped, I guess. 

Helped me do what I...did."

Mikol watched Cort's face. That was one thing he liked about

the man. He knew why he did what he did. So many men were

just thoughtless automatons in their actions...like Foy or Ratsy.

He had the utmost distaste for the unexamined life. And Cort,

well, he not only knew why he did things, he accepted the

responsibility for his actions. "I was the only one who pulled

the trigger," he'd told Ellen afterwards there on the steps.

"You were looking at your hands so intently," he began again,

"after the fight with Foy. What did you see?"

Cort sighed. "Father Michael's blood. I'd spent years trying

to get the priest's blood off my hands. When Herod left me at

the mission, I sat there so long holding Father Michael that his

blood dried on my hands. Took me a long time to wash it off." 

He remembered the clay basin of water he'd soaked them in,

just standing there, staring down as the water slowly began to

turn red. He'd thought of Pilate and his basin of water.

As he recalled that, a sudden flash of something, a bolt jagged

 its way through his brain and he could see hands, other hands,

in a basin of bloody water, the thumb of one hand rubbing caked

blood off the other. Bits of things were floating in the basin and

he was aware of firelight nearby. The hands, they looked just

like his hands, only he knew they were not his.

"What?" Mikol asked quickly, seeing the strange look on

Cort's face.

"Something. Nothing. I don't know," Cort muttered, putting a

hand briefly over his eyes, then rubbing at them hard. He

breathed deeply, in and out, for several moments. Why did

the memory of those hands pull at him so?  He looked back at

Mikol almost blankly. "What were we talking about?"

"Are you feeling all right?"

"Headache. Comes and goes. Can't seem to shake it

completely."

Mikol knew that was still a lingering effect from the warp.

"Would you like to rest?"

"I'd like to go outside. I...," he looked almost pleadingly at

Mikol, "I've spent most of my life outside." His eyes wandered

again to the window. "I miss it."

Mikol pursed his lips, studying Cort. The man had lost some of

that tanned vitality he'd had in his movie, was thinner, a bit more

 pale. "You will recall you gave me your word?"

"I do."

"You will honor that?"

Cort nodded.

"In that case, I think perhaps you and I might take a walk.

Would you like that?"

"On that high walkway?"

"I thought outside the castle."

"Outside? You will let...?" He had not expected that.

"Yes...with me."

Cort felt a stirring of excitement, a thing he'd not felt since he

could remember. "Now?"

Mikol smiled, his hand resting just a moment above his breast

pocket. With the touch of a single button he could render Cort

 totally immobile. He was inclined to think the man meant it

when he gave his word, but he was not one to take chances. 

"Yes...now." He pushed back his chair and led Cort down the

series of curving stone steps that led, eventually, to the

courtyard of the castle.

Pausing, he said, "One moment," and used his commlink to

contact Henri, advising him of what he was doing. Since Cort

was standing right beside him, he did not want to perform the

tasks necessary to cause the gate to open, so he had Henri do it

remotely.  The heavy doorway swung slowly on its hinges,

revealing a wooden bridge immediately beyond that led to a

sort of outer entrance area for Kamen. Once past this, Mikol

turned down a barely-noticeable path, heading away from any

possible view of Hromada. 

 
Cort didn't care where they were going. He was just glad

to feel earth beneath his boots again. They walked in silence

for some time down the steeply sloping trail, up another long,

forested hill, down again into a wider, flatter valley.

"Lids," Mikol pronounced, gesturing toward a series of strange

natural towers.

Cort stared at them, using his hand to shield his eyes from the

sun. Mikol was right. The odd formations did have lids on

them. "How...?" he began.

"Sandstone," Mikol explained. "The hills here are almost

entirely sandstone but there is often a layer of iron or

conglomerate stone atop it." He turned toward Cort. "So

when the softer sandstone weathers...wears away from water

or wind...the lids of harder material get left atop it."

"Are these...yours?"

Mikol nodded. "Yes, they're on my land."

Cort walked up to the nearest one, looking up its concave

column to the wider lid at the top. "Ever try to climb one?"

"Some years ago," Mikol chuckled, "but the sandstone tends

to give way. It's not safe."

Cort found himself wishing he could be on top of one of them,

just to be there, sitting alone. Using his fingers, he dug at a

section of the column and a huge chunk of sandstone fell off

into his hands. "I see what you mean," he said regretfully.

"Looks like fun, though."

Turning in a full circle, he saw only trees and brush everywhere.

"Anybody else live around here?"

"I own the forest for several square miles in this direction,"

Mikol answered, not mentioning the town nestled in the valley

 on the other side of the castle. Not yet.

"Want a beer?" Mikol asked, opening the flap of a small

shoulder pouch he'd been carrying. He pulled out two

bottles and nodded his head toward a patch of grass under

a large beech tree. "Let's sit a bit."

"Fine by me," Cort replied, flopping down into the grasses

and taking the cold bottle in his hand. "You think of

everything, don't you?"

"One tries," Mikol grinned, lifting his bottle in a suggestion

of a salute to Cort.

In silence they downed their beer, then Cort lay back, folding

his arms under his head, watching the clouds scud past through

the dancing beech leaves. "You realize," Mikol began again,

"you contradicted yourself three times."

"When?" Cort asked, keeping his gaze upward. Mikol obviously

had his shovel in hand again and was ready to dig some more

into his brain.

"First, when Ellen says she saved your life, after you reply that

she's probably just stretched it out a bit, you say that you might've

even gone to heaven if she'd let you die."

"You know the movie well," Cort said, letting his lids close.

"Quite well."

"I said that because I wasn't sure if...if Id actually be able not to

fight. If I'd died in the saloon, then there would be no question

about it. I'd have no choice to make, no chance to shoot anyone.

It'd all be over."

"Yes, but you seemed to think at that point you'd go to heaven."

"I said 'might', you know. I guess I still...hoped."

"That's my point, Cort. In your talk with Ellen in that first

rain, you told her that it didn't matter what you did now,

that you were already damned. You said you knew that. Why

the difference?"

Cort started watching the clouds again. "It is easier to forgive the

sins of others than our own," he murmured almost under his

breath.

 
"When Ellen was so upset after she killed a man, you told her

that there was always forgiveness if you ask for it. You didn't

apply that to yourself?"

Cort pulled his arms out from beneath his head, folding them

over his face. "I didn't."

"Why not, Cort. Why didn't you?"

"What I offered God...in return for taking His priest from

Him...it never seemed...good enough."

"Didn't you offer Him everything you were?"

"I wasn't that...much."

"Perhaps we seldom ever really...know...what we are worth?"

Cort moved his arms again so that now they lay in the grass,

circled around his head, which he turned toward Mikol. "Who

ARE you and why do you want to know these things?"

Mikol cocked his head. "Let's just say it is a...hobby...of

mine."

Cort looked at the sky again. "I tried. Year after year I

tried to feel...forgiven."

"By God or by yourself?"

Damn, but the man knew how to ask a question! He'd give

him that! "I guess I was never quite...sure...I was real. I'd

sit there and hear the confessions of farmers who had

impure thoughts about the grocer's daughter or of some

wife who was confessing she'd been angry with her husband

when he didn't come home until two in the morning. Things

like that. And I'd look at my own hands while they talked

and I could still see Father Michael's blood on my skin."

"Was it always like that? The entire time you ran the

mission?"

"Not always, no. When I was teaching the little kids. It was

ok then. Or late in the night. I'd go into the church and light

a single candle and talk to God. Sometimes I felt like He was

listening, you know. Sometimes I felt...close. It was...good. I

liked it. Sometimes I felt like we were... friends."

"Were you trying to be good enough to be forgiven?"

"I guess so." He sighed heavily. "I know it doesn't work

like that. I'd never make any of my people feel like it did.

Just me. Just for me. I couldn't get past...me."

"Then, as Herod said, he destroyed it, the mission, your

years of work, for no reason. Just to make you angry."

"That was his reason. He wanted to make me angry enough

to fight him."

"Ellen asked you if you even wanted to fight back."

"I did, sure I did. But I'd lived so long with...peace. And then

Foy and Ratsy came there, and brought all their meaninglessness

with them, destroying for the pleasure of destruction. And they

killed the boy. They didn't have to do that. Foy had five sons of

his own. You'd think he wouldn't be able to do a thing like that

because of them. But he could. And, yes, I hated him for doing

that. I saw the life draining out of that boy and I lay there,

watching, and swore I'd never do that to anybody, ever again,

no matter what."

"And so you...tried."

"I tried."

"That may explain it, then."

"What?"

"Before you shot Foy...that was when you said you might've gone

to heaven. It was after that you said you knew you were damned."

"It made a difference, yes. Before I shot him, I still had some hope

I might not be able to do that any more. After...well, then I knew."

"You struggled so hard, trying not to shoot Foy. It was different

with Spotted Horse. With him you were...prepared. I guess

that's the word. You took off your coat, rolled up your sleeves,

undid your top button. You...prepared. You knew, didn't you,

you knew this time there was no question about shooting or

not shooting?"

"I knew I would shoot, yes. By then it made no difference.

I couldn't get more damned than I was. I went out in the

street that time intending to kill him."

Mikol grinned. "I like that scene. He was very hard to kill,

eh?"

Cort shook his head back and forth on the grass. "I felt

kicked in the gut when he got back up. Completely forgot

for a second I only had the one bullet. John...Herod...was

enjoying it immensely. I guess he thought I'd get myself out

of it somehow."

"You call him John. I noticed that. Not Herod. You call

him John."

"He was, for a long time, like a father to me. We spent

years together, often just the two of us. I was still very

young, 14, when I started to ride with him."

"What about the Kid? Was he his real son?"

"I think so, but that was later, after Nogales. His mother was

some farmer's daughter from what I heard. He never seemed

to think the Kid was good enough to be his son. Saw the farmer

in him more than he saw himself, I guess."

"You grew up on a farm. Didn't he see you as a farmer,

too?"

"Guess not. He thought I was...different.  Maybe smarter, I

don't know. He liked to teach me things, read to me a lot,

wanted me to know stuff. Wanted me to be like him.  Seemed

to matter to him if I was."

"He said that he'd wanted to face you down from the first

moment he saw you. What were you doing that made him

feel like that?"

Cort sighed again. "My grandmother, she'd been killed by a

rattler in the barn. When Herod rode past our farm I was

sitting atop a hill out on the plains...shooting heads off rattlesnakes."

"Distant snakes?"

"Very distant."

"Ah, I see. So you were like his foster son, and you he liked, but

you he wanted to kill. Then the Kid was his real son, and him

he didn't like, but him he didn't want to kill."

"Something like that."

"But he did kill him."

"He was John Herod. It's who he was."

"And you, Cort, who are you?"

Cort sat up, tossing his head to shake loose some clinging dry

grass. "I'm a man who's just trying to find his way."

"Do you think you will? Do you think it's possible?"

"I don't know." He got to his feet. "We going to head back

now?"  He looked toward the trail they had followed, knew

he could find his way back to the castle without guidance.

Why wasn't there something else, something...more...for him

to find his way back to? Why did he simply ache all over so

much?

ON TO PART 11

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