The Bullets for Jesus led the way up from the Bay City to the rolling farmland that they called home. They were glad to have gotten out off the farm for a while, they were glad that they had come to the assistance of a friend. They were convinced that they had been sent by God—and they were sure that it was the strength of their prayers as well as the strength of the Mean Brothers that had pulled Bonner back from the edge of the abyss.

Luke explained that the Lord had put Bonner on the edge of that hole as a warning and that he had to reform his ways soon.

"It was us and them big boys that pulled you back," Luke maintained stoutly.

"You might be right," said Bonner.

"So mend your ways," snapped Luke. "You hear?"

"Yes, Brother Luke."

"Bonner, don't do nothing wrong," bellowed Clara from the back of her bike. Her arm looked bad and Bonner would be glad when they got to the Bullets' camp so one of the women could set it as best she could.

"Well," yelled Luke from his machine, "as for you. You commit an abomination in the eyes of the Lord."

"Go fuck yourself," said Clara.

They motored up the valley. They passed through a few towns that Luke said had been controlled by the Rich Man. But they were deserted, the slaves gone.

"News travels," said Seth. "I would imagine that the Rich Man isn't quite as rich as he used to be."

"How the hell did you get caught?" Bonner wanted to know.

"Oh, I was just plain stupid." said Seth. "I left my locomotive in Sacramento to come down into the valley, looking for provisions. I got jumped by a whole patrol from a Snowman camp. I started running, lost my M-3 and ran smack into a bunch of the Rich Man's fuck-ups. I woulda been shot up right there but one of 'em knew who I was ... I guess that was when the Rich Man figured he'd trade you to Leather."

"What made him so sure I would come?"

"Hell, Bonner, I was sure you'd come." Seth laughed. "Drop me off in Sacramento. I'm gonna drive my steam box home."

They cruised into Sacramento and helped Seth stoke up his engine. Once he had a good head of steam up he moved. He tooted the whistle and tugged on the throttle moving into the big machine down the tracks, slowly at first then faster as he gained momentum. As the locomotive took the long curve out of the town, Bonner could see Seth bend down and start the process of transferring coal from the hopper to the roaring fire under the boiler.

Bonner figured that Seth would move maybe ten tons of coal before he steamed into Chicago.

The few days they spent with Bullets for Jesus were relaxed and nourishing. Amid a great deal of extremely colorful language, Clara's arm was set and bound tight. She and Gracie left a day or so later and Bonner was sorry to see them go. Once again, the Sisters had fought like tigers and most of them had paid the highest price for their battling of their enemies.

"You tell that woman of yours, Bonner," said Clara before she mounted up for the trip east, "that a lot of good Sisters died to avenge her getting knocked around by those piggies. In fact," said Clara with a leer, "I'll tell her myself. I'll get to Chi-town before you."

"You do that, Clara."

"Well, don't blame me if your clothes have been thrown out in the street when you get home."

"I'll take my chances," said Bonner.

"Cocky bastard."

Bonner left after Clara and Grace because he wanted to make the drive back across the Continent alone. Just him and the Mean Brothers.

He left Bullets for Jesus the next day, his car loaded down with hams and vegetables and a big flagon of wine.

"That's for medicinal purposes only," cautioned Luke. "The Bullets for Jesus don't hold with alcoholic beverages as recreation."

"I'll bear that in mind, Luke," said Bonner. He gunned the engine and the car bounced down the rough dirt road that led to the highway.

They had been traveling for a day and a night and another day. Bonner was camped by the side of the road, watching the embers of his fire die and thinking about taking a taste of the "medicine" that Luke had given him.

The Mean Brothers were stretched on their backs to either side of him looking up at the stars.

Bonner got up and strolled over to his car and rummaged around in the back of his car, looking for the big wicker-covered bottle. Instead of coming up with the flagon, he pulled his vicious little automatic pistol from his belt and, spinning around, launched a knife into the darkness.

"Goddammit!" said a voice.

The Mean Brothers were on their feet and they disappeared into the shadows only to reappear with a very unhappy-looking figure.

"Whole fucking Continent I got to wander around in and I have to run into you." Buggy held his hand to the wound on his arm where the knife had hit him.

"Evening, Buggy."

"Okay," said Buggy dropping down next to the fire. "Okay Bonner, you caught me. I know how you work. I know you killed everybody else that rode outta Chi-town with that motherfucker Roy. So kill me. But do me a favor. Gimme something to eat before you croak me. I am starving."

Bonner sliced a couple of thick pieces off one of the cured hams and gave Buggy a hunk of bread.

Buggy fell on the food and stuffed it into his mouth.

"You want some wine?"

"Uh-huh," said Buggy through a wad of ham and bread.

Bonner poured out a beaker of wine and handed it to Buggy. The tired, dirty, unlucky rider tossed it off in a single gulp.

"I'd surely appreciate it," he said, holding out his cup for more.

Bonner poured him some and then poured some for the Mean Brothers and himself. He sat down next to Buggy.

"What's in the sack?"

Buggy gulped. "Slates. Hunnerd thousand of 'em. I guess once you kill me they'll be yours." He took a deep slug of his wine. "The funny thing is, the guy who give 'em to me thought I was you. I guess they're really yours."

"Who gave them to you?"

"The Rich Man. He seemed awful anxious to meet you." Buggy slurped down the rest of his wine, held his cup for more, and then ate the rest of his ham. He belched.

"This might sound strange, Bonner, what with you gonna kill me 'n all, but I always thought you were okay, know what I mean? I mean, a man knows where he stands with you. That's what 1 told that stupid fuck Roy. You don't mess with Bonner. It's just a shame we didn't get to be friends, know what I mean?"

Bonner nodded.

"Well," said Buggy getting to his feet, "I'm gonna ask you a favor. I'd like to borrow your shovel over there and dig myself a grave. I don't like to think of my bones out here'in the middle of nowhere getting picked at by animals and all."

"Fine," said Bonner. "There's a shovel in the car."

"Much obliged," said Buggy. He got the Mean Brother's shovel and proceeded to start digging in the soft earth. The stars had set by the time he had dug a shallow trench. His arm pained him from the knife wound and he saw no reason to go through any more pain—seeing as he had maybe ten or fifteen minutes left to live.

"See, I'll just stand on the edge of the hole like this and—wait, how you gonna do it? Knife? Gun?"

"Gun," said Bonner.

"Fine, cleaner. I'll just stand here on the edge of the grave and you can shoot me and I'll fall into it. I hope it won't be too much trouble to throw the dirt back over me. That wouldn't be too much trouble, would it?"

'Bonner shrugged. "I guess not."

"Fine."

"Another drink before you go. Buggy?" asked Bonner.

"That would be kind, Bonner, but I think that it would be wasted on me. Take the slates and buy all the boys a drink at Dorca's, on me." "Will do."

Buggy knelt down on the edge of the grave. He wasn't really that sorry to be going. This wasn't really living anyway. He sensed that Bonner had moved behind him. He heard the smooth click as a round slid into the well-oiled chamber of the Hi Standard. Then a roar filled his ears and Buggy toppled into the grave.

Bonner slid in behind the wheel and started the engine and drove away.

Buggy lay face down in his grave. "That sonova-bitch," he muttered, into the damp earth. "He said he was going to bury me and he didn't. How much effort would that have cost him?"

Then he realized he was alive. "Holy shit," said Buggy and climbed out of his grave. Next to the fire were some provisions, a bottle of water, a gun, and a heavy leather satchel.

"Holy shit," said Buggy again. "He left the slates."

Bonner zoomed down the highway, following the pure white beam of light that shot out ahead of the car. He could feel the Mean Brothers' eyes boring into the back of his head. They didn't know what the hell that was all about. How could Bonner miss at that range?

"I guess I owe you an explanation," Bonner shouted into the wind.

The Mean Brothers nodded. Yes, they thought that he did.

"Let me tell you something. That was called mercy . . ." -

The Mean Brothers looked at each other and shrugged. What the hell was he talking about?

"That was called mercy. And let me tell you something, it felt good . . ."

The Mean Brothers stared at the back of his head, more mystified than ever.

Bonner made it to Chicago late in the night of the next day. He had been nursing his engine through the last three hundred miles. He was not looking forward to what Lucky was going to have to say to him. Bonner had abused his warhorse before, but never like this. The jump across the space on the bridge—or_ rather, the less-than-perfect landing—had bent something serious on the underside of his machine. If Lucky decided that he was going to have to replace the whole drive shaft he was not going to be a very pleasant little man to be around.

Still Bonner would be glad to see him . . .

Bonner went into Dorca's to give him a ham.

"That's nice," said Dorca. "Didja find Seth?"

"Yup."

"No shit! How is he?"

"He looked okay the last time I saw him."

"Didja see the Rich Man?"

"Yup."

"Is he as rich as they say?"

"I know someone who got a hundred thousand slates off him."

Dorca whistled and waved his hand as if he had just got one of his fingers caught in a door. "Now that is rich. How did he get it?"

"Dork, you wouldn't believe me."

"No," said Dorca, "I probably wouldn't."

"You take care of the girl?"

Dorca looked grim. "Yeah. Boy, they beat the shit out of her. Didja get 'em all?"

"They're all dead," said Bonner grimly.

"That's somethin'. The Sisters took off like hell after they got a look at her."

"The Sisters were along. They got pretty well sliced."

"That Clara, she just don't have any luck with gangs." Dorca's eyes settled on a very drunk rider who had pulled a gun out of his belt and was waving it around woozily. " 'Scuse me a minute, Bonner. I'll handle it Artie ..." Dorca strolled off, his table leg in hand.

Bonner headed for the door. Business as usual at Dorca's.

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