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Elsewhere, bathing in the shade of a monstrous Sandsteamer, the Orator's messengers gathered riders for their cause. Word from all corners of Gunsmoke came to Him; the cities were vacant, and he knew better than to let this opportunity pass. He would send envoys to May and July, entrenching themselves in the lands of the dust-dwellers. His main goal, however, was always the ship--- always and forever, the Orator kept his promises. He alone would lead the Great Exodus. He alone would summon those worthy into the Kingdom of God.

He spoke only to Father Murdoch, chipping at the man's soul with the slightest murmur. There were none besides the cleric among the crew of the steamer who'd experienced the Voice at its full potency, and there would be no other until his final mission was complete. The Messengers themselves were adorned with the royal blue robes of the Father's Kingdom, wrapped head to toe in the dyed cloth and exposing only the slightest glimmer of an eye, the sparkle of jagged teeth. They had been marked with the holy oils-- bathed in them, they stood before the sun to wash away the suns of the dust. Their scars were signs of atonement, too holy for eyes of nonbelievers to see. They did not wear the breathers, content with the protection offered to them by their modest clothing; likewise, where the riders of the dust often carried at least a dagger, they carried only their long rifles to defend the divinity of their cause.

Seven of them rode from the Sandsteamer outside of December, taking with them the newest anointed son of the order-- a young knight said to have felled the Bull with a single, devastating blow. Murdoch relayed the Orator's own words to them as best he could, even then wallowing in shame as his Earthly mind tainted the message with generalities and misremembered phrases:

"Fear not the desperate men of Eden, nor the rifles of the General's Brigade. You alone will ride to Donner Pass, north of their convoys, and watch. There is one among them-- a man by the name of Reeves --who is to be protected."

"And what of the rest?"

"Lead them into the feeding grounds. Let God decide their fate. The Orator shall advance to the vessel alone."

And so they waited at Donner Pass; the eight of them, all atop Thomases bred by the order and blessed by the highest priests. The leader of the Messengers-- an older, larger fellow by the name of Hedjuk --held his rifle at the ready, waiting for any sign of the riders sent to follow Reeves behind the convoy some twenty miles east of the abandoned way station they'd converted into a scouting outpost. The line of trucks ran perpendicular to Hedjuk's men-- indeed he found himself staring at the center of the convoy from the right side, choosing targets through the cracked lens of his monocular.

"They approach. Djen, take the Knight down the pass. Flank the trucks and secure the boy, His will be done."

"His will be done. Come, Knight! To the slaughter."

He prayed for them. Every night, Garand begged for the strength to release the warmongers and dust-dwellers from their filthy prisons. Every day, he found himself closer to the answer. He'd sent Hedjuk and his men to the convoys, and Murdoch to streets. Leaving the safety of the Sandsteamer, he sought out Mary to guard the flock, and began his journey, however long, to infinity. He would go east where they went west, north where they south, and he would meet them at their weakest and offer them humility and salvation.

He would ride to the Seed of Life Himself.