Solomon Creed. Simon Toyne

that drab and unremarkable life I would. But you cannot undo what is done, and a bell once rung cannot be un-rung.

      The story of how I found my fortune and used it to build a church and the town I called Redemption is a brutal and tragic one, yet there is divinity in it also. For God steered my enterprise, as he does all things, and led me to my treasure. Not with a map or compass, but with a Bible and a cross.

      The Bible came to me first. It was delivered into my possession by the hand of a dying priest, a Father Damon O’Brien, who had fled his native country under a cloud of persecution. I made his acquaintance in Bannack, Montana, where he had been drawn, as had I, by the promise of gold, only to discover that it had all but run out. He was already close to death when our paths crossed. I was down on luck and short on money and I took the bed next to his at a discount as no one else would have it, too fearful were they of the mad priest’s ravings and his violent terror of shadows that he could see but no one else could. He believed they were after stealing his Bible away, which he later told me in confidence would lead the bearer to a treasure that must finance the construction of a great church and town in the western desert.

      The foundation is here – he would say, clutching the large, battered book to his chest like it was his own child. Here is the seed that must be planted, for He is the true way and the light.

      The owner of the flophouse was too superstitious to turn the priest out on to the street, so he slipped me some extra coin to take care of the old man, keep him in drink and, most importantly, keep him quiet. Being close to destitute, I took the money and mopped the priest’s sweats and brought him bread and coffee and whiskey and listened to him mutter about the visions he had seen and the riches that would flow from the ground and the great church he would build and how the Bible would act as his compass to lead him there.

      And when his time came, he told me with wide staring eyes that he could hear the dark angel’s wings beating close by his bed, and he pressed that Bible into my hands and made me swear solemnly upon it that I would continue his mission and carry the book onward.

      Carry His word into the wasteland, he said. Carry His word and also carry Him. For He will protect you and lead you to riches beyond your imagining.

      He also told me he had money hidden in a bag sewn into the lining of his coat, a little gold to seal the deal and help me on my way. I took his money and swore I would do as he asked and he signed the Bible over to me like he was signing his own death warrant, then fell into a sleep from which he never woke.

      To my eternal shame those promises I made to the dying priest were founded more on baser thoughts of the riches he spoke of than the higher ones of founding a church. For I believed he had lost his mind long before he let go of his life and all I heard in the clink of his gold was the sound of release from my own poverty.

      I used it to fund my passage west and I read that Bible, from Genesis to Revelation, in railroad diner cars, then mail coaches and finally in the back of covered wagons all the way to the very edge of civilization in the southernmost parts of the Arizona territories. I expected it might contain a map or some written direction telling where to search for the fortune the priest had promised, but all I found was further evidence of his cracked mind, passages of scripture marked by his hand and other scrawlings that hinted at desert and fire and treasure, but gave no specific indication as to where any such riches might be found.

      During my lengthy travels and study of the book, and to keep it safe from thieving hands, I used it as my pillow when I slept. Soon the priest’s visions started leaking into my dreams. I saw the church in the desert, shining white like he had described, and the Bible lying open inside the doorway and a pale figure of Christ on a burned cross, hanging above the altar.

      The church I had to somehow build.

       9

      – Mrs Coronado?

      Holly Coronado stared down at her husband’s coffin, a couple of handfuls of dry sand and stones scattered across the pine lid.

      – There’s a fire blowing this way, Mrs Coronado, and I been called away to help.

      When the stones had first fallen on to the boards the sound of the larger pebbles had seemed hollow to her. They had made her think, for a flickering moment, that maybe the coffin was actually empty and all this some kind of elaborate historical re-enactment they had forgotten to tell her about.

       – I’m supposed to stick around until after everyone’s gone.

      The coffin had not been her idea. Neither had the venue.

       – I’m supposed to fill in the grave, Mrs Coronado. Only they need me back in town … because of the fire.

      She had only gone along with everything because she was numb from grief, or shock, or both, and knew that Jim would have loved the idea of being buried up here next to all the grim-faced pioneers and salty outlaws no one outside Redemption had ever heard of.

       – I’m going to have to come back and finish up later, OK?

      Jim had loved this town, all its history and legends. All the earnest foundations upon which it had been built.

      – Maybe you should come back with me, Mrs Coronado. I can drop you back home, if you like.

      He had told her about the strange little town in the desert the very first time she’d met him at that freshman mixer at the University of Chicago Law School. She remembered the light that had come into his eyes when he talked about where he was from. She was from a nondescript suburb of St Louis so a town in the desert in the shadow of red mountains seemed romantic and exciting to her – and so had he.

      – Mrs Coronado? You OK, Mrs Coronado?

      She turned and studied the earnest, sinewy young man in dusty green overalls. He held a battered starter cap in his hands and was wringing the life out of it in a mixture of awkwardness and respect, his short, honey-coloured hair flopping forward over skin the same colour.

      ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

      ‘Billy. Billy Walker.’

      ‘Do you have a shovel, Billy?’

      A line creased his forehead below the mark his cap had made. ‘Excuse me?’

      ‘A shovel, do you have one?’

      He shook his head as it dawned on him where this was headed. ‘You don’t need to … I mean, I’ll come straight back and finish up here after.’

      ‘When? When will you come back?’

      He looked away down the valley to where a moving wall of smoke was creeping across a large chunk of the desert. ‘Soon as the fire’s under control, I guess.’

      ‘What if you’re dead?’ The crease deepened in his forehead. ‘What if the whole town burns up and you along with it – who will come back and bury my husband then? You suppose I should just leave him here for the animals?’

      ‘No, ma’am. Guess not.’

      ‘People make all sorts of plans, Billy. All sorts of promises that don’t get kept. I planned on being married to the man in that box until we were old and grey. But I also promised I would get up out of bed this morning and comb my hair and fix my face and come up here to give my husband a decent burial. So that’s what I’m fixing to do. And a shovel would sure help me keep that particular promise.’

      Billy stared down at the twisted cap in his hands, opened his mouth to say something then closed it again, turned around and loped away down the hill to where his truck was parked in the shade of the large cottonwood in the centre of the graveyard. Tools bristled from a barrel in the back and a solid, ugly bulldog sat behind the wheel, ears pricked forward. It was watching