Free The Last Pilgrims by Michael Bunker Page A

dog,” he said. “If you
intend to cut my throat, you’ll have to do better than that. You
sneak like a sasquatch.”
    “I know that you have eyes in the back of
your head, Sir Ghost. I would never try such a thing. Most likely,
if I was inclined to kill you, I’d shoot you from a great
distance,” Gareth replied, laughing.
    “I’m no knight, friend,” Phillip retorted,
“so stop with that ‘sir’ talk. I’ll take your insolence only so
much. Ghost is one thing, ‘sir’ is another.”
    “Yes, sir!”
    He shook his head, and then held up his hand
for silence, focusing his ears on a sound from the brush. “Ah…
young Raymond Stone went to water a bush. So, why are you still up
Gareth? Can’t sleep under the stars? I’ll admit, it can be
difficult to find rest with both God and your conscience looking
down on you.”
    “God sees through barn roofs just as well as
castles. There is no hiding from Him. But, in case you were
wondering, I’ve been sleeping just fine during this fortnight with
you, Phillip. I’m becoming more at home out here as the days
pass.”
    “Good to hear. Good to hear.” Phillip pulled
out his battle knife and sliced off a piece of the sausage, handing
it to Gareth, who accepted it gratefully.
    “I know that you didn’t want me to come with
you,” Gareth said, seriously. “I hope I haven’t slowed you
down.”
    “Not too much. We’ve been unable to track
the Aztlanis this way anyway. We’ll wait now for any word from the
other militias, or from the Vallensian searchers to the north.” His
head moved slowly and deliberately like radar, as he “watched” with
his ears. “Tomorrow, if the Lord wills, we will meet up with an old
friend of mine. He’s been at New Rome, and we’re hopeful he’ll have
some news for us.”
    “You… have a friend who’s been at New Rome?
Wow. That’s an interesting twist.”
    “Yeah, I figured that since you are an
Aztlani spy and assassin, you’d enjoy a visit from New Rome.”
    Gareth dropped his head, and responded
seriously, “Phillip, I came along to help you find your wife and
daughters. I know we joke around a lot, but I want to find them
just as much as any of your men do. I want them to be safe with
you. I pray that we find them soon.”
    “I know, Gareth. I don’t doubt you, though I
know that many do.”
    “I am your friend, Ghost.”
    Phillip looked upward. The sky was clear,
and the stars were uncountable in their number, and unfathomable in
their beauty. “In our line of work, you’ll understand that we don’t
trust words very much. These men began riding together for their
own reasons—out of their hatred for Aztlan, or because they refused
to worship according to the dictates of New Rome. Some of them are
here because their families were killed, or because they merely
wanted freedom and saw the militia as the best way of obtaining it.
Some came because they were orphans and they had no family. Now,
they ride together because they are a family—a clan.
    “Like family, they are united in the
fundamental opinions of life and living. Yet, unlike a traditional
family, they have bled and died together. Out here, the word
‘friend’ means something. In fact, it is from the Hasinai Indian
word for ‘friend’ or ‘ally’ that we have the name Texas, which is
our home. You might recall that, in the Book of John, Jesus said to
his disciples, ‘Henceforth I call you not servants; for the servant
knoweth not what his lord doeth: but I have called you friends.’ ” With that, Phillip went silent for a moment,
listening and watching, before he continued.
    “You know, monarchs rule by right of
blood—each son ruling in the place of his dead father—even if they
despised one another in life and even if they had different
beliefs. Thus, in a system of divine and royal right of heirs, the
concept of ‘blood’ can be distorted and confusing. Out here, things
are much simpler. We are kin by providence, and not by