The preacher, on the floor, smiled through the pain. “A preacher like that did once come through our home,” he said. “His story was as fatuous as his mission so we killed him and ate his flesh, though it was gamey. Listen, stranger. There’s a seam of substance that reaches all the way under this house. My brother, damn his soul, controls the mine. Go to Hole. Kill him, for me, for he stole my clowns for his own and robbed me of my share and tried to have me hanged. . . . I can give you money.”

“I don’t need money.”

“Then fetch me my medicine.” He coughed, and blood frothed out of his mouth. “There is a . . . leather satchel in the sacristy, hidden in the book. Bring it to me. It has the last vestige of dried petals from the Plant of Heartbeat. Not enough to revive me, but to offer comfort. . . . Yet I do not need it. I welcome pain. Take it, instead, for your payment. You have the look of a man who . . . needs it more.” He tried to laugh, puked out more blood and then, with a final heave of his chest, expelled the last of his breath and died.

The Stranger went to the sacristy. He opened the book and saw that the Funny Pages had been cut through and a small hiding place had been made and inside it was the satchel. He opened it, carefully. There was only a smidge in there. The man rode the elevator back up to the floor and went into the boy’s room. Was it his imagination, or did the boy’s breathing ease, just now, did some colour return to his face? He sat in the chair, resuming his vigil. It was only a smidge, dry leaves, close to dust. The Stranger closed the satchel carefully and went back into the kitchen, where the preacher’s body had disappeared. He dragged first the Kid and then the Conjurer outside, where the air was cleaner, and watched them recover.

“That son of a . . . !” the Conjurer said. He massaged his throat.

“He wanted to hire me,” the Stranger said. “Hire us, I suppose. To kill his brother.”

“Why would we want to do that?”

“He has a fortune.”

“Oh. Well, did you accept the job?”

“Yes,” the Stranger said. “I suppose I did.”

“All right,” the Conjurer said. He rubbed his head and blinked. “All right, then, good.”

The three men rode out of the mission later that day, on three docile horses that didn’t have names. Before they left, they set the church on fire. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

The Kid and the Conjurer still looked a little woozy. They swayed in the saddles, this way and that. But it would pass, the Stranger thought. Most things did, sooner or later.