Timpanogos by D. J. Butler

way.   “Folks around here
seem to expect that you’ll be armed, but it might be best not to show up on the
doorstep with an actual full hand.”
    “I got knives,” the midget grunted.   “Besides, the whole point of us two
going is won’t nobody know who we are, anyway.”
    It all seemed safe enough.   Safe as anything could be, in this land of crazed fanatical
assassins and constant gunfighting.   “Understood.”   Absalom
decided not to mention the little four-shot gun he had tucked into his
waistband.   He took some comfort
from its presence, even if there was no chance of him using it, and didn’t want
the others to take it away from him.   “Of course, I did meet John Lee, in Chief Pocatello’s stockade.”
    Sam Clemens tapped at his own temple with the butt of his
cigar.   “The encounter has not
escaped me, Mr. Fearnley-Standish,” he said gruffly.   “The logic is that Lee is unlikely himself to be at this particular
farm.   His minions are likely to
able to recognize President Young, the Ambassador, Rockwell, and the rest of
us—”
    “But not me.   Quite.”   Absalom
straightened his coat and adjusted his hat to a jauntier angle.  
    “This is a good friend of mine,” Brigham Young said.   “A very good friend.   He’s a good man, and he’ll take in
strangers in need.   Just make sure
that there aren’t any Danites lurking around the place, and then one of you can
come get the rest of us.”
    “And if there are Danites,” Clemens added, “run like the
devil.   Discreetly as you can, of
course.”
    Absalom nodded.   “Shall we go, Mr. Coltrane?”
    “Thank you,” Young said, and then Absalom and the dwarf
turned their horses up the side of an irrigation ditch dividing two fields and
headed for the lights.
    “So you are Mr. Poe’s associate,” Absalom said.
    “I’m the barker,” Coltrane grunted.   “Poe is the show.”
    “Barker?” Absalom asked.   “Is a…?   Do you
mean that you’re a madman ?”
    “I’m the guy that works the midway,” Coltrane explained
without explaining.   “I’m also the
roustabout.”
    “Understood,” Absalom lied, and then they trotted into the
farmyard.
    The yard was hard-packed dirt surrounded by a tidy house, a
stable, a chicken coop, and a shed and corral that Absalom guessed, from its
smell, must be home to a herd of goats.   The buildings looked sturdy but simple, and the light from the window
was the yellow light of oil or kerosene or wood-fire, not the blue of
electricks.   The farm might have
been a hundred years old, except that Absalom knew that a hundred years earlier
the valley had been occupied by Indians who lived in holes in the ground and
ate pine nuts and lizards.
    “Maybe it’s best if you knock,” Coltrane suggested.
    “Yes, agreed.”   Absalom handed his reins to the dwarf, dropped to the ground and
approached the door.   In the
shadows of the yard he checked his small pistol and was reassured to feel it in
place.
    He rapped hard on the door and listened as feet crossed
floorboards.   The man who opened
the door and filled its frame was solid in the shoulders and belly, like a
boxer.   His head was completely
bald, and he had a curly beard under his jaw and chin.   He looked like any yeoman farmer from
Dorset or Kent.
    “Good evening,” Absalom said.
    The man stepped across the threshold and grabbed Absalom by
the hand.   His grip wasn’t an
ordinary handshake, but something odd, with his thumb squeezing insistently
down over Absalom’s first knuckle.   “Brother Boaz,” the man said urgently, and he stared into Absalom’s
eyes.
    “Er, no,” Absalom smiled.   “My name is Fearnley-Standish.   My friend and I are traveling through the valley, and
looking for a place to stay.   We
hoped we might share your fire tonight.”
    “Invite your friend inside, Heber,” Absalom heard a voice
from inside the farmhouse.
    The man called Heber trembled, his head quivering slightly,
almost