Merkabah Rider: The Mensch With No Name by Edward M. Erdelac Page A

his legacy and,
like Abraham, give his only son over to its study when the Sons of The Essenes came calling. In the years that followed, Adon had come to
replace his father. The Rider respected and deferred to him at all times,
trusting him with the idolizing love of a boy with no other family. When his
clerk father died, he had barely shed a tear. When he returned from the war and
learned of Adon’s utter, murderous betrayal, he had hardly been able to stand
up under the weight of grief and shame. No, Adon had to answer for that. And so
the Rider had to live.
    “You
heard him fine, Dirty Dave,” said Doc quietly at his side.
    The
bandit’s attention turned to the dentist.
    “Doc,”
said the robber, recognition flooding his blinking eyes.
    “Why
don’t you give this man a pass, Dirty ? He’s with me.”
    “I
don’t give passes, I give bullets. Say my name again and I’ll give you one,
lunger.” He turned his gun on Doc.
    “Don’t
tease me, you piece of trash,” Doc warned, iron in his voice, as if he had it
in his hand to match.
    The
back door of the car clashed open and the Rider heard heavy boot steps and more
spurs.
    “What
the hell’s goin’ on in here?” It was a squirrely voice, muffled. “How come you
ain’t grabbed none of the lanterns?”
    Dirty,
the bandit, stood where he was.
    “Lanterns. Get the goddamned lanterns yourself.”
    “Son
of a bitch!” the other man said.
    “Get
the other bag,” Dirty said to his cohort, and in a minute the second masked man
came into view, a tall, gangly fellow with a row of extinguished train lanterns
looped and clanking over one skinny arm. He went across the aisle to jerk the
other bulging loot bag from an old man’s hands.
    “You
just reach in your coat Doc, two fingers, and pass me that underarm gun.”
    “What
do you intend?”
    “I
intend to leave peaceably, but I ain’t about to turn my back on you.”
    Doc
did as he was told, producing a little nickel plated
Colt Lightning with a four inch barrel. He flipped it lightly and held it
butt-first to Dirty.
    “You
know I’ll be comin’ back for it,” Doc said as the man took it and slid it into
his coat pocket.
    “I
guess you know where it’ll be,” said the other.
    The
Rider turned his attention to the second man, who was looking out one of the
windows.
    “Let’s
go already!” he whined over his shoulder.
    Dirty
snatched the burlap bag of loot from the Rider and dropped the black case he’d
taken inside. He was about to turn away when something caught his eye and he
stopped again.
    “Hold
everything,” he said.
    He
reached down and grabbed the butt of the Rider’s Volcanic pistol and drew it out of it’s holster.
    He
whistled, holding it up to the light.
    “Look
at this here!” he exclaimed, the smile nearly showing through his mask. He held
the golden pistol with its intricate mystic engravings up for the other robber
to see.
    “Take
it and let’s go!” said the other man, who was by now at the front of the car.
    The
Rider watched the Volcanic go into the sack with the black valise, watches, and
jewelry. It was irreplaceable, the product of weeks of meticulous engraving and
precise astrological preparation. The rosette token of Nehema protected him
from demons, but the pistol was his greatest offensive tool. He felt his
stomach sink.
    Doc
seemed to see it in his eyes, and he touched the Rider reassuringly on the arm
again as Dirty turned away and went after his companion.
    The
second man went stumbling out of the car, berating Dirty as he went. For his
part, Dirty paused in the doorway and waved his pistol
at the shadowy passengers.
    “Hope
y’all like Las Vegas, folks!” he laughed, and then he sent one bullet screaming
down the center of the aisle, thunderous in the closeness. When the flash of
his gun muzzle had subsided on their corneas, he was gone, the door slamming
shut behind him.
    People
were screaming and scrambling for cover.
    The
Rider looked out the window, and