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said Belden.
    “Sabbath,” said the Rider.
    “Sabbath?” said Belden. “It’s
Friday.”
    “Hebrew Sabbath is Friday evening
until Saturday evening,” the Rider explained.
    “No shit,” said Belden. “So, will
you be holdin’ mass or something?”
    “It is not usually permitted for a dohone to observe the Sanba adma’I ,” Kabede said.
    “A what?” The Rider and Belden said
together.
    “A Christian,” Kabede said stiffly.
    “Well, it doesn’t look like you have
much of a choice, bucko,” said Belden.
    “No,” said Kabede. “I suppose not.”
He sighed. “The Lord will have to forgive us.”
    “I’m sure He will,” said the Rider. “On
the Sabbath, Dick, we forgo all work, and emulate the world to come. A world of
peace and harmony.”
    “I don’t know how long your peace
and harmony is going to last you if that bunch that’s after you is as close as
you say,” said Belden.
    “They will not attack during Sanba adma’I ,” Kabede said, not a trace
of doubt in his voice.
    “Don’t be too sure,” said the Rider.
“If they’re animating the dead it’s not as if they’re shomrei shabbos . And their powers are outside anything you’ve ever
encountered.”
    “The soul is doubled during Sanba adma’I ,” said Kabede. “We are at
our strongest. They can’t possibly touch us.”
    “Maybe not in the Yenne Velt , but what’s to stop the
creatures?” said the Rider. He paced the cell. “I don’t think these men will be
able to stop them. Not without help.”
    “What kind of help?” Belden said. “How
do you kill them?”
    “I don’t know.” The Rider rubbed his
eyes. “I think DeKorte ordered them to walk off that cliff just as a
demonstration. Several of them have grievous wounds from their deaths. If I
knew how they were made, that would be something, but I don’t even know what
kind of magic is keeping them up.”
    “There is a tradition of animation
in the Golem ritual,” Kabede said. “Could it be something similar?”
    “I don’t know. It could very well be
some kind of kockeputzi magic. Some
blending of our traditions with Outer God practices that we might not even know
about.”
    “Outer what?”
    “Not very easy to explain,” the
Rider said.
    In a moment Davies was at the door
again, rattling it open. He had their dinner, some biscuits and gravy and a
bucket of water with a ladle. Tucked under his arm was Kabede’s green satchel.
His Oriental dagger was pushed through his belt.
    “Who’s your relief, Davies?” Belden
asked, as Davies dished out his food.
    “Corporal Armendariz.”
    “See you in the morning.”
    “Good night, Sarge,” said Davies.
    He gave Kabede his bag, and looked
questioningly at Belden when Kabede and the Rider both refused their dinner.
    “Pass it here, trooper. Take one
back to the barracks for yourself. For the trousers.”
    “Thanks, Sarge,” he said around a
mouthful of biscuit. He gave the remainder over to Belden and left the bucket
and ladle there so the prisoners could pass it back and forth to each other
through the bars.
    He closed the door and laid the big
bar in place. In a few moments a Mexican soldier appeared and after a brief,
low exchange, took Davies’ place outside.
    Belden sat by eating his biscuits
and gravy as Kabede ladled water over his hands and passed the bucket and a
small candle with a single wood match across the floor to the Rider, who did
the same.
    There was a smell of sulfur as
Kabede struck a match and lit the candle in his cell. The flickering attracted
Armendariz, whose brown, prodigiously mustached face immediately appeared in
the doorway.
    “It’s alright, Telesforo,” Belden
said. “It’s Jewish Sunday.”
    The Rider lit his own candle,
watching the flame dance and flicker on the wick.
    Trooper Armendariz arched an eyebrow
as Kabede poured the wine into a plain wooden cup and he and the Rider both
sang the Shalom Aleichem to the
ministering angels.
    Armendariz spat on the floor and
made