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with the gun for good measure, while he grabbed Sister by the neck and jerked her toward him. “Sit!” he screamed in an eerie whisper when Reuben didn’t move. “Or I shoot,” he explained helpfully, pressing the gun barrel into Reuben’s Adam’s apple. He sat.
    “Be naked,” Fireplug told Sister, She gaped at him. Reuben got a better grip on his cane, but at that moment Fireplug stuck his .38 in his belt, reached into a long side pocket, and pulled out a push dagger with a nine-inch blade. Reuben put his head between his knees.
    “I say take off clothes!”
    “Go to hell, you sawed-off little—Ow!”
    “What’s happening?” Reuben asked miserably.
    “He’s got the knife under her chin,” Sweeney whimpered. “She’s doing it, she’s unbuttoning her habit. Oh my God, I can’t watch.”
    “He just wants a look. He won’t do anything.” Reuben said it confidently, talking himself into it. A quick glance up made his stomach roll. The dagger had nicked her; a tiny line of blood trickled down her throat.
    “Hurry, hurry,” commanded Fireplug.
    “Keep your shirt on, you ugly bastard,” she quavered. “It took me a half hour to get into this rig.”
    “I say hurry—eeyii!” Reuben looked up to see the bandit jumping up and down on one foot, clutching his shin. “White devil, I kill you!” Springing at her, he grabbed her by her veil. It fell away in his hand and she almost pivoted out of reach, but he snatched her back before she could go two steps. He brought the knife up in her face, and Reuben froze, watching sunlight glint on the long, evil blade. The whites of her eyes glimmered as she threw a panicked, hopeless glance at him and Sweeney.
    “Do something!” Reuben yelled at the curator, who was holding his knees and rocking. Reuben couldn’t look and he couldn’t look away; a humming, grayish fog in his head censored the worst. But then—then he saw Fireplug pocket the dagger, so he could get both hands on the gaping halves of the nun’s habit and tear them apart to her waist.
    “Well, shit fire,” Reuben muttered, and leapt to his feet. Taking a mighty swing, he whacked Fireplug on the back of the head with his cane, and the robber dropped like a sack of sand. “Did I get him?” He nailed at the air a few more times, for effect. “Did I hit him?”
    A gun fired, and the whining bullet ricocheted somewhere behind them. “Get down!” cried Sister. Reuben dove, hitting the ground near Fireplug’s inert body. The nun landed next to him. He started to grab for the pistol in Fireplug’s belt, but she beat him to it. Teeth clenched, eyes squinted, Sister Mary Augustine fanned a spray of bullets out of the revolver like Wild Bill Hickok, using the bandit’s belly for cover. The tall robber advancing on them from the stagecoach dodged and fired back, then whirled and fled. Seconds later they heard the sound of horses’ hooves galloping away.
    “They’re gone,” Sweeney said wonderingly, crawling toward Reuben and the nun on his hands and knees. They were sprawled on their backs on opposite sides of Fireplug’s body, staring numbly up at the sky. Gunsmoke drifted on the air, stinging their nostrils.”Do you think he’s dead?” asked Sweeney, gesturing toward the motionless thug.
    “God, I hope so,” breathed Sister.
    Reuben sat up on one elbow and looked at her, interested.
    “For the sake of his immortal soul,” she said quickly.
    Sweeney stared at her, too.
    “Well—if he’s alive, he’ll probably just commit more sins, but if he’s dead, at least there’s a chance he hasn’t had time to damn himself for eternity. His soul might spend some time in purgatory, but then—”
    Fireplug groaned.
    “The Lord works in mysterious ways,” Reuben said thoughtfully.
    Sweeney stood up. “I’d better go and check on Mr. Willis and Mr. Blalock,” he said, and trotted off.
    Reuben had lost his eyeglasses. He could see them on the ground about four feet from Fireplug’s