Free The Last Pilgrims by Michael Bunker

bring them back
here safely with the soldiers.”
    The Duke, obviously excited at the turn of
events, came around the desk. When he was excited, he looked even
more like a cartoon villain—dark and swarthy, with the look of the
weasel to him. Cocaloco , English thought, as he adopted his
most subservient look for the Duke.
    “We may not need to bring them here, then,
English. We will send a letter under the white flag to Phillip
himself. Zhooo will tell him that when our army arrives in San
Angelo, that he is to surrender himself and all of his militia. If
he does not do so, his wife and daughters will be tried as heretics
and burned at the stake.” The Duke paused for a moment, looking his
secretary in the eye.
    “I am not bluffing. We will do it.”
    “I assumed that much.” English swallowed
with difficulty. “Is that your wish, Your Grace?”
    “It is my wish.”
    “I will send the letter, Your Grace.”
    “One more thing, English.”
    “Yes, Your Grace?”
    “The assassin zhoo sent to kill the post
rider,” he paused, looking out the window, “he is dead, I
assume?”
    “We must assume so, Your Grace. Most likely
killed by the terrorist Phillip himself,” English lied.
    “Have zhoo told this man’s family?” the Duke
asked.
    “I was planning to draft a letter to his
father today, Your Grace.”

Chapter 5 - Phillip
     
     
    The Ghost Militia didn’t build fires at
night. There were no cozy campfire scenes with the hypnotic,
dancing, orange-yellow glow of diffused firelight emphasizing the
faces of weather-hardened cowboys. Phillip’s militiamen were both
hunters and hunted, and most of them had lived their entire lives
in this manner—outside, exposed to the elements, usually in close
proximity to a horse. They knew that an open fire at night could
get you killed.
    At night, as in the day, Phillip’s men
disappeared into the surrounding hills and brush. They didn’t have
to be told what to do. Except for his current guests, each man had
been in the unit for so long, that they moved as a single entity.
When it was time to sleep, the men melted into the environment as
creatures natural and indigenous to it. Each man would quietly eat
his supper of sausage, jerky, or pemmican, with hardtack or maybe a
dried tortilla. Tonight, perhaps a few of the men had spread a bit
of sugared lard on their bread—those blessed enough to have any
lard left from the trip to the ranch.
    He chewed slowly and deliberately on a piece
of dried sausage as his eyes, fully adjusted to the darkness,
scanned the area and the horizon. What little moonlight there was
gave a blue-black tinge to the juniper and low mesquite brushes
that dotted the hills.
    On nights like this one, you relied mostly
on your ears. His guards knew the idiosyncrasies and peccadilloes
of both horse and man. Each man standing guard had a baseline of
expected sounds; they knew which man snored, and how loudly; which
horses whinnied, how often, and why. From this cacophony of natural
sounds and silence, the guard was able to determine if anything was
amiss or deviating from the norm. Experience became a sixth
sense.
    Sometimes two or three men might break the
routine, bunch up for a short while and talk in hushed whispers.
But this, too, was part of the overall pattern. The need for
interaction and camaraderie was understandable and even welcome.
They were still human. Still, if they did congregate to talk, they
were expected to operate as additional watchers. In their
gatherings, they talked in low tones, with eyes and ears open,
alternating between talking, listening, and scanning the area.
During these powwows, no two men ever talked over one another,
argued, or raised their voices. Within this warrior unit, even
fellowship was military in its discipline and bearing.
    He heard Gareth’s heavy and untrained
footsteps, as he approached. Phillip didn’t bother to turn around,
remaining crouched down low on the sandstone ledge.
    “Greetings, assassin