The End

"Fortune knocks at every man's door once in a life, but in a good many cases the man is in a neighboring saloon and does not hear her. "

-Mark Twain

Chapter Twenty Four

Polk Buckhorn awoke to the sound of Evans and Dancing Bird bickering.

"You're a holy man," Evans was saying. "You have a responsibility."

Dancing Bird laughed bitterly.

"I am the least holy of men," Dancing Bird growled, "and perhaps the least responsible. Present company excepted."

The shaman jerked his head in Buck's direction; Buck made a rude gesture, but Dancing Bird pretended not to notice.

"And what happens in a hundred years when nobody remembers how to perform the ceremony?" Evans demanded.

"In a hundred years, there will be no one left alive to think it necessary," said Dancing Bird matter-of-factly. "Will the world still end if nobody believes that it's going to? I wonder."

"You wonder?" shrieked Evans.

Dancing Bird rolled his eyes.

"Enough," he snarled. "The ceremony is not merely a matter knowing the words to speak. I could not teach it to you even if I wanted to, which I don't. Let it rest."

Evans stormed away from the shaman, muttering obscenities under his breath. After a moment, he shot a glare at Buck.

"Say something to him, would you?" Evans snapped.

Buck shrugged, not bothering to look at either of them.

"Sounds to me like he's got his mind made up," he muttered. "What do I care what happens in a hundred years anyhow?"

Buck rose and began gathering his things, pointedly ignoring Evans' furious expression. It had been after sunrise by the time they'd found themselves back in the desert, and he'd slept through most of the day; his attitude suggested that he didn't intend to waste any more time relaxing.

"You can find your own way home, I take it," Buck said abruptly.

Evans gaped dumbly for a moment before finding his voice.

"I thought..." he began.

"You thought wrong," Buck stated flatly.

Evans scoffed; after a moment, however, his expression softened slightly.

"I am going to miss you, you know," Evans offered.

Buck glanced at Evans over his shoulder, and then chuckled mirthlessly.

"No you're not," Buck growled. "I don't like you, and you don't like me. No need to get all gushy and sentimental just 'cause this is goodbye."

Evans shook his head, and then decided to try a different approach.

"What are you going to do now?" Evans asked.

Buck contemplated for a moment before answering.

"Still got that price on my head," he murmured. "Probably ought to lay low for a while. Apart from that... I couldn't rightly tell you. The West ain't all the way tamed yet, anyhow. Means there's always demand for a man like me. I'll get by."

Evans seemed stunned.

"What, that's it?" he demanded. "Business as usual, after everything that's happened?"

"Sure," Buck shrugged. "Why not?"

Evans considered this momentarily, seemingly struggling to put an idea into words.

"Well," Evans mumbled. "Haven't you, I don't know... learned anything? From all of this?"

Buck glared over his shoulder at Evans.

"Yeah I have," Buck growled. "From now on I take my whole fee in advance, thank you very much."

Evans boggled momentarily, and then opted to drop the matter. Buck stuffed the last of his possessions into Sparky's saddlebags, and then mounted. He took one last look at Evans and Dancing Bird before he rode away, seemingly struggling to find the right words. After a moment, he arrived at something that he felt satisfied with.

"Gone to a lot of trouble on account of you two," he stated. "I ever see either of you again, I'm likely to shoot you."

Buck seemed to be on the verge of saying more, but changed his mind.

"So long," he said simply.

Evans stared at Buck's departing form as it shrank into the distance, trying to decide what he was feeling. His preoccupation was such that he didn't notice Dancing Bird sidling up beside him, and the sudden sound of the shaman's voice startled him.

"He was right," Dancing Bird said abruptly. "You do hate him."

Evans thought of denying it, but there didn't seem to be any point.

"It just doesn't seem right," Evans mumbled.

Dancing Bird chuckled sourly.

"None of what you've seen has changed you, either," Dancing Bird scolded him. "Did you expect him to atone for his sins? To pay the price for his crimes, and to be redeemed? That's just sad, Michael."

Evans shook his head.

"He did save the world," he muttered, "so maybe he gets a pass."

"He gets to keep being the same person that he always has been," said Dancing Bird. "I doubt that he deserves any worse."

Dancing Bird glanced at Evans once more, and then began to wander away. Evans stood and stared, watching until Polk Buckhorn had disappeared over the horizon.

Purely by coincidence, Buck rode into the sunset.

Chapter Twenty Three

A dry wind blew over the remains of New York City; the breeze carried a terrible, sweltering heat upon it, like a blast of hot air from the mouth of a furnace. The sun cast an angry red glow over the western horizon, despite its having set some hours previously.

The remaining three horsemen picked amongst the ruins listlessly, waiting for their leader to return from whatever errand had called him away. The Beast had wandered off on its own some time ago, and had searched the rubble for hours, growing increasingly frantic all the while; now he sat tense and eager, wicked grins spreading across each of his terrible faces. He'd finally found survivors.

They were a pathetic lot: wild-eyed and battle-scarred. They'd made a brief attempt to fight the Beast off, but had quickly been driven back by the creature's savage enthusiasm. He'd managed to corner them in the remains of a ruined alley, and now they huddled together pitifully, staring in terror upon their end.

The Beast grinned down at them, shivering with dreadful anticipation, his muscles already tensing, and then...

Dancing Bird watched grimly as Evans tended to Buck's bullet wound.

"Would you lay off?" Buck grumbled. "I told you, I'm fine."

"You've been shot," Evans reminded him testily.

Buck winced at Evans' clumsy attempts to administer first aid.

"I been shot nine times," Buck muttered. "Most of 'em a lot worse than this."

Evans shook his head.

"You're bleeding, for God's sake."

"Flesh wounds bleed," Buck insisted. "Seriously, I'm fine. Get off."

"I will not," Evans snapped. "Now stop fussing and let me have a look at it."

Buck begrudgingly relented; Evans stared at the wound for a moment, and then clicked his tongue disapprovingly.

"It's sheer luck that the bullet didn't sever an artery," he sighed, "but it looks like you're going to be fine."

"That's what I said," Buck grumbled.

Evans didn't seem to notice; instead, he glanced across the clearing at Dancing Bird.

"I might have some gauze in my pack, if you wouldn't mind..."

The pained expression on Dancing Bird's face stopped Evans mid-sentence; the shaman looked as if he'd swallowed something that he didn't care for the taste of. A moment later, the shadows began to swirl around the three men, thickening into utter blackness as they did so. Evan's eyes bulged.

"What's all this?" he exclaimed.

Through the sudden clamor, Evans could barely make out the sound of Dancing Bird's voice. He thought that he sensed a slightly resentful note in the man's tone.

"It takes a man of great compassion," said the shaman, "to show sympathy to a man who deserves none."

Absolute darkness enveloped Evans; a moment later, he found himself blinking against eye-stinging desert sunlight.

...the Beast stumbled at the very moment of pouncing, startled by some unseen stimulus. The terrified survivors watched as the creature's collection of eyes boggled in unison; a moment later, they found themselves mirroring the creature's reaction.

What had been gargantuan heaps of rubble to either side of the group were now solid walls. The howling of the wind had disappeared, to be replaced by the clattering of wheels on paving stones. A few late-night foot passengers wandered idly by the mouth of the alley, seemingly oblivious to the disbelieving stares of those within.

The city appeared to have rebuilt itself, seemingly in an instant.

The more present-minded members of the group glanced frantically about themselves for any sign of the Beast, but the space that the monster had occupied was now conspicuously empty. No sign of the creature remained - save the tiniest echo of a despairing wail, even now fading away at the very edge of hearing.

Chapter Twenty Two

Buck, Evans, and Dancing Bird huddled at the edge of the dark clearing, conferring amongst themselves. The horses stood trembling, their eyes locked on the Pale Man; he waited impassively as the others argued amongst themselves, occasionally making a great show of checking his wristwatch. The three humans had been arguing for almost ten minutes, and the Pale Man valued few things more than punctuality.

"You're positive that this is the only way?" Buck was asking.

"The answer to that question has not changed in the time since you last asked it of me," answered Dancing Bird, his tone deceptively patient.

"I'm sorry to interject," Evans interjected, "but that is Death, isn't it?"

The three men glanced towards the Pale Man, who responded with a half-hearted wave. Buck shivered, despite himself.

"Weird, right?" he mumbled. "Not exactly how I pictured him, I'll admit."

Evans shook his head.

"It's not that," he explained. "It's just that... well, really? Death? That's your deepest fear?"

"Something wrong with that?" Buck asked testily.

Evans shrugged.

"Not really, I suppose. It just seems so... I don't know. Unimaginative."

"Maybe you'd like to do this," hissed Buck.

Death cleared his throat; Buck glared over his shoulder momentarily, and then turned back to Dancing Bird.

"Yes, I'm positive," growled the shaman.

Evans still seemed preoccupied.

"I suppose that everyone fears death to some extent," he continued, "but it still seems rather uninspired to me."

"Shut up," suggested Buck.

"Whenever you're ready," interrupted the Pale Man.

"And you can shut up, as well," snarled Buck.

"You were the one who just wanted to get this over with," Dancing Bird stated pointedly.

"Alright, I'm going," Buck grumbled.

Buck puffed out his chest, turned, and strode as bravely as he could manage towards his opponent. After a moment his gait slowed, and he spun around.

"Aren't either of you going to wish me luck?" he demanded hotly.

"Not me," Dancing Bird answered cheerfully. "I hope he kills you, to be honest."

"Would you please just go?" snapped Evans.

Buck scowled briefly, and then closed the remainder of the distance between himself and Pale Man in a few quick strides.

"So," Buck said coolly. "How does this work, exactly?"

The Pale Man shrugged expansively.

"The choice is yours," he boomed.

Buck raised an eyebrow.

"Really?" he answered cautiously. "So, what, I could challenge you to anything? What about a 'being human' contest?"

The Pale Man considered this momentarily, his gaze level.

"You could," he answered coolly, "but I honestly wouldn't recommend it."

Buck spent a moment trying to work out whether he'd just been insulted, but finally decided to let the comment pass. He risked another glance at Evans, who made a vaguely encouraging gesture. He looked back to the Pale Man, and found the creature's eyes blazing into his own. After a moment, a slow, terrible smile spread its way across Death's face. The expression seemed out of place, and Buck boggled; after a moment, however, a horrible thought occurred to him.

There weren't a lot of things that Polk Buckhorn feared; as a rule, he simply wasn't invested enough in his own well-being. Despite his indignation, he was forced to admit that a lack of imagination on his part was probably a factor as well. There was one thing, though: a terrible, sneaking certainty that perpetually lurked at the back of his mind, no matter how much he'd had to drink. What kept him awake at night wasn't the idea of dying, not exactly; it was the sure knowledge that - someday - he would find himself standing off against someone who he couldn't outdraw.

Death spoke, and his voice was the sound of the last grain of sand slipping through an hourglass.

"And that is why you cannot win," rasped the Pale Man, his voice pitched for Buck's ears alone.

"We'll see about that," retorted Buck, feigning a confidence that he didn't feel.

The Pale Man's cold smile glittered; Buck's face momentarily twisted into a mockery of the creature's smug expression, and then he glanced over at Evans.

"You," he barked. "Bring me my saddlebags, would you?"

Evans started, and then hesitantly removed the bags slung over Sparky's haunch; he approached falteringly, and finally handed the saddlebags to Buck from arm's length. The professor stood, transfixed, and watched Buck fumble through his belongings; after a moment Buck produced a flask, which he emptied in a series of shuddering gulps.

A profoundly disapproving expression crawled across Evan's face; before he could comment, the Pale Man spoke again.

"Choose," he said simply.

Buck tossed the flask aside, and then pulled himself up to his full height.

"Only one thing I'm good at," he announced.

The Pale Man arched an eyebrow, and then reached into his black jacket; his hand returned a moment later gripping an oversized scythe of unlikely baroque design. He made a few deceptively minor adjustments to the instrument; when he was done, it had somehow been transformed into an ornately engraved, chrome-plated revolver. Buck resolutely turned his back to Death, who quickly followed suit, and then made a vague gesture towards Evans.

"Ten paces," he ordered. "Count them out."

Evans gaped, and Buck nodded impatiently. The professor glanced between the two combatants, and then took a deep, shuddering breath.

"One," he said, his voice trembling.

Buck took a step forward, and the rustling behind him told him that the Pale Man had done the same. For once, the familiar feel of his pistol's handle in his hand seemed to offer him no reassurance.

"Two," choked Evans.

Buck took another step. His eyes met with those of Dancing Bird, who was watching the proceedings with a polite lack of interest; Buck scowled at the shaman, his concentration momentarily broken.

"Three."

Dancing Bird's unconcerned attitude had distracted Buck, and he nearly stumbled on his next step. He swore under his breath, and then gritted his teeth fiercely.

"Four."

Buck's foot swung forward and then pivoted sharply as he whipped around, his weapon drawn.

Time seemed to Buck to have slowed to an agonizing crawl, thanks to a combination of adrenaline and whatever strange rules this place outside of reality followed. He had time to admire the perfection of the Pale Man's technique as he drew his own pistol, to watch the barrel swinging inexorably around, to see his adversary's finger tightening upon the trigger. Buck had flung himself to one side as he'd turned, and the ground seemed to be approaching at a remarkably casual pace.

The Pale Man was faster, but Buck had a head start. He could only hope that it would be enough.

To Evans, it seemed as if it had begun and ended in only a single second; the exchange was over by the time he realized that Buck hadn't merely taken a misstep, as he nearly had on the previous count. Two shots were fired in the same moment, and then Buck landed clumsily, having dived to one side as he'd fired.

The Pale Man gaped, his mouth working silently, and then collapsed in a heap. The shadows swirled about him, and he was gone.

Buck stumbled awkwardly to his feet; his pistol whipped up in a blur to point at Evans.

"Don't you dare say it," he growled.

Evans balked.

"I'm sorry?" he stammered.

Buck winced and bared his teeth.

"I know you're thinking it," he hissed. "Probably working out a 'cheating death' joke right this instant. Seriously, I will shoot you."

Evans considered this momentarily, and then seemed to bite back a comment.

"That's what I thought," Buck muttered.

Buck holstered his revolver with an air of distant satisfaction, stumbled, and then crumpled to the ground.

Chapter Twenty One

In the beginning, there was only darkness and emptiness.

The Gods were there, but they were alone - their existences spent in contemplation. Things continued in this fashion for a very long time. At last, Coyote got bored of contemplation. He tricked the other Gods, and talked them into making a world.

The Gods worked very hard to make a world - except, of course, for Spider. Now, Spider is a very lazy God; therefore, it can be no surprise that he was sleeping when Corn Mother came to enlist his aid.

"Wake up, you lazy creature," She chided him. "The world is almost finished, and you've done nothing!"

Resentful for having been awakened from a wonderful dream, Spider opened only one of his many eyes.

"Away, you nag!" he grumbled. "I have only been saving my energy for all of the marvelous things that I plan to create."

"You're in luck, if that's the case," Corn Mother beamed. "We were just about to create First Man, and I thought that you might like to help."

Now, Spider is a lazy god, but he is also crafty. He knew that he would need a marvelous excuse to avoid having to help to create First Man. Luckily, he managed to think of one quickly.

"I'm afraid that I'm much too busy to help you create First Man," he replied. "For you see, I was just getting ready to hang the Sun up in the sky."

"Oh, well, that's too bad," murmured Corn Mother. "Still, I'm sure that the Sun will be positively magnificent."

Corn Mother departed, and Spider prepared to get back to his nap; first, though, he would need to make his excuse convincing. He spun a bag of silk, and with it he attached the Sun to his back. With it in place, he began crawling up the dome of the Sky, until he had reached the top. Once he was there he spun a thread of silk, and with it he dangled the Sun from the top of the Sky. The work was very hard, and Spider was exhausted from his labors by the time that he descended from the Heavens. When he reached the Earth, Corn Mother was waiting for him.

"What a wonderful thing!" she exclaimed. "It truly is marvelous, just as you promised."

Satisfied that his excuse had worked, Spider gave a weary smile.

"I'm glad that you like it," he purred. "How is First Man coming along?"

"Oh, that old thing?" said Corn Mother. "We finished him weeks ago."

Grumbling, Spider returned to his web to sleep; Corn Mother smiled to herself, having tricked Spider into doing the most difficult job of all. But she may have made a mistake, because Spider did a shoddy job of hanging the Sun in the Sky. Even now, the thread that holds up the Sun is fraying; Spider must return to the Sky to repair it every so often, or it will break and the Sun will fall. And - since Spider is such a lazy God - it falls to us to remind him of his task...

Michael Evans found a lump growing in his throat as Dancing Bird sat, his eyes closed, solemnly reciting the litany that would wake Spider from his slumber. Watching the old man invoke the intercession of his Gods - here, so far from Western civilization and all of its trappings - it was almost possible to imagine that events such as this one were still commonplace on these moonlit plains.

The wonder and mystery of the occasion were lost on Buck, who'd spent most of the ritual fidgeting anxiously.

"Is he almost done?" Buck finally whispered to Evans.

Evans shushed Buck; Dancing Bird momentarily opened a single eye and glared at the two of them, his chant not wavering for a moment. After a few more minutes, the shaman's voice trailed away into silence. An expectant hush fell over the men; at last, Dancing Bird spoke.

"It is finished," he said matter-of-factly. "My part has been played."

Buck blinked.

"What, that's it?" he gawked. "It's as simple as that?"

Dancing Bird scoffed.

"Hardly," he said. "Your task yet remains."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Buck snarled. "I'm not much for chanting, if that's what you..."

Buck trailed off as the stars disappeared from above, followed by the moon. Within moments, a swirling darkness had enveloped the group. The campfire sputtered briefly, and then winked out of existence.

Buck leapt to his feet, swearing. The three men now seemed to be standing upon a level plain of what looked like volcanic glass. A brackish mist swirled about them, making it difficult to see more than perhaps twenty feet into the distance. Strange shapes loomed in the fog. Buck gaped.

"What did you do?" he demanded.

Dancing Bird had made a career of suffering fools, and felt that he was overdue for retirement. His gaze managed to express contempt on an astounding number of separate levels.

"Well?" he drawled. "You didn't think it was going to be as easy as that, did you?"

Evans' face mirrored Buck's confusion.

"I sort of did, actually," Evans mumbled.

Dancing Bird sighed wearily.

"Haven't you been paying attention?" he demanded. "I have done my part; now you must do yours."

"And what does that entail, exactly?" Evans asked timidly.

Dancing Bird sniffed impatiently.

"As I mentioned, the two of you are - apparently - a man of great strength, and one of great compassion. The ceremony is also a test, you see. It falls to the two of you to prove that the Earth is worthy to continue existing."

"What, really?" Evans stammered.

"So it would seem," replied Dancing Bird.

The shaman sat, and then gave a small wave.

"Good luck with that," he said, without much enthusiasm.

Buck's face was buried in his hands; when he spoke, it was from between his fingers.

"Would you please, for the love of God, just tell us what we're supposed to do?"

Dancing Bird grinned.

"Gladly," he cooed. "You, Buck, have to fight and conquer that which you most fear."

"Is that all," Buck deadpanned.

Dancing Bird nodded enthusiastically, his grin having grown somewhat more horrible. Evans' eyes bulged; Buck gave a resigned sigh, and then gestured vaguely.

"Allright," he mumbled. "Let's get it over with."

Dancing Bird gave an unsettling laugh, and the looming shadows surrounding the three seemed to resonate with the hollow sound of the shaman's laughter. The mist swirled, congealed, and began settling into a shape. At last, the smoke parted, and a man stood before the trio. He was dressed from head to toe in black. His skin was pale. His eyes were black, and not just the parts that should've been.

The man blinked, seemingly surprised to have found himself here, and then glared viciously at Buck.

"Can this wait?" rasped the Pale Man. "I'm a little busy at the moment."

Chapter Twenty

Nightfall had come and gone. The desert, so bland by day, actually managed to effect a certain ethereal splendor with only the eerie light of the moon to illuminate it. This particular evening was lent a special loveliness by a freak meteor shower; say what you might, the sight of a third of the stars falling from the sky was fairly spectacular.

In the plain below, a tiny campfire struggled feebly to push back the encroaching shadows. Three men sat in a circle around the fire, their faces ghostly in its flickering light.

Michael Evans and Dancing Bird had spent the better part of an hour getting reacquainted, and Buck was beginning to fidget. They'd both lapsed into the shaman's language at some point, and he was increasingly falling prey to a paranoid suspicion that they were talking about him. At last, his patience snapped.

"Look," he grumbled. "I'm sure you two have a lot of catching up to do, but shouldn't we be getting down to business?"

Evans seemed taken aback, as if he'd forgotten about Buck entirely.

"Your friend has a point," Dancing Bird commented. "You still haven't told me what you're doing here, Michael. You didn't come all this way to pay a social visit, I suspect."

Evans shook his head.

"Isn't it obvious?" he muttered.

Evans gestured vaguely towards the sky above; Dancing Bird looked obligingly upward, appraising the spectacle with a grim smile.

"Ah, yes," he remarked. "Magnificent, isn't it?"

Buck was beginning to lose patience.

"Look, could you try to focus for a second?" he growled. "This is kind of serious."

Dancing Bird seemed almost surprised, or at least he pretended to be.

"Is it?" he replied distantly.

"Well, of course it is," Evans exclaimed.

"If you say so," Dancing Bird murmured.

An expression of profound confusion made its way across Evans' face.

"Look, I'm not sure that you understand," he explained.

"Don't I?" mumbled Dancing Bird.

Evans finally began to lose his temper.

"Perhaps I've failed to impress upon you the gravity of the situation," he growled. "There is apparently a rather large wolf attempting to drink the world's oceans. The only thing stopping him, as I understand it, is the fact that they are currently boiling. This is not to mention the fact that there are - at last count - more than a dozen different gods and monsters fighting over who will get to eat the sun. It's unlikely that any of them will have the chance, as that particular celestial object is amongst those that would appear - against all scientific reasoning - to be falling out of the sky."

Dancing Bird gave the impression of having grown increasingly bored throughout Evans' diatribe.

"And what do you think that any of that has to do with me?" he asked innocently.

"Cut the crap," growled Buck. "You've gone and skipped your little ritual, haven't you?"

Dancing Bird shrugged again.

"Superstitious nonsense," he answered blandly.

Evans coughed pointedly.

"I suspect that there's quite a bit more to 'superstitious nonsense' than meets the eye," he said, "given the fact that the world would appear to be ending."

Dancing Bird's indifferent attitude disappeared, replaced in an instant by a shockingly fierce expression.

"And why shouldn't it?" he barked.

Evans stammered, somewhat taken aback.

"The hell is that supposed to mean?" scoffed Buck.

"Well?" Dancing Bird demanded. "It was bound to happen sooner or later. Now seems like as good a time as any."

Buck's brow knotted.

"Not really your decision to make, is it?" he grumbled.

"Isn't it?" Dancing Bird replied evenly.

There was an uncomfortable silence before the shaman spoke again.

"This Earth, like me, she's getting old," he murmured distantly. "Getting tired out and used up. Maybe she's ready to die, hm?"

Dancing Bird seemed lost for a moment in contemplation, and then another fierce expression stole across his face.

"There is also the question of revenge, of course," he rasped. "For the fate of my people."

Buck and Evans both gaped. After a moment, Dancing Bird's face relaxed again.

"In any case, I don't see why it ought to be any of my concern," he mumbled. "It seems foolish that an old man such as I should be the world's only hope."

Buck's jaw had begun to clench rhythmically; his hand seemed to be gripping the handle of his revolver, perhaps unconsciously. Finally, he gave Evans a furious glance.

"Talk to him, will you?" Buck pleaded.

Evans stared back at his associate, and then looked away into the shadows.

"What's there to say?" Evans muttered. "I think..."

His words were choked off mid-sentence by what sounded like a sob; when he spoke again, his voice was husky.

"I think maybe he's right," he finished.

Buck stared dumbly.

"Wait, what?" he demanded. "The hell's that supposed to mean?"

Evans sniffled loudly, obviously struggling to control himself.

"Look, you don't understand," Evans choked. "I've seen cultures die, Buck. Dozens of them, probably. Hundreds or thousands of years of history and beautiful tradition, just wiped out overnight. I've seen a lot of good and decent people squashed underfoot for the sake of advancing this thing we call civilization."

Evans shook his head slowly.

"And what good is any of it?" he demanded. "I know you, Buck. You don't like the modern world any more than I do. But people like you and me, we don't get any say in the matter. It'll just keep expanding - this mindless, devouring, impersonal thing - until it's swallowed up the whole world and turned us all into machines. Until there's nothing worthwhile or human left."

Evans shrugged.

"If that's all that the future holds," he asked morosely, "then what good is it?"

Evans fell silent, still shaking slightly. Buck stared back and forth between Evans and Dancing Bird, his mouth hanging open. At last, he spoke.

"I can't believe this," he snapped.

Buck sprang to his feet, livid with anger.

"We come all this way, and now you're gonna give up just because this old snake has a chip on his shoulder?"

Buck now had the full attention of both Evans and Dancing Bird. He'd taken his gun from its holster without realizing it, and was now waving it around in a fairly unsettling fashion.

"Look," Buck snarled. "You two ladies wanna have a talk about your feelings, that's great. Really, it's adorable. But you're gonna have to do it some other time, because right now we've got more important things to worry about."

Buck put a hand to his temple and winced; the other - with his revolver still in it - was still gesturing towards his increasingly uncomfortable companions.

"Maybe you're right," Buck muttered, "and the world's ready to die. Well I'm not, you understand?"

Buck finally seemed to notice the fact that he'd drawn his pistol; his mind cleared somewhat, and he decided to capitalize on the fact. He cocked the hammer, and took aim at Dancing Bird.

"So," Buck said flatly, "it's about time to make a decision. You gonna help us or not?"

Dancing Bird gave Buck a slightly contemptuous glare, and then sniffed.

"Of course I am," he grumbled.

Evans jolted upright.

"You are?" he choked.

Buck seemed somewhat deflated.

"Oh," he stammered. "Good..."

Evans stared uncomprehendingly at Dancing Bird.

"What made you change your mind?" he asked.

Dancing Bird cracked a very small smirk.

"I haven't changed my mind," he said blandly. "I never said that I wasn't going to help you. Just that I wasn't happy about it."

Buck's hand fell numbly to his side as both he and Evans gawked at the old man.

"The way I see it," Dancing Bird continued, "it's not as if I have much choice in the matter."

"Don't you?" Evans mumbled.

Dancing Bird rolled his eyes.

"The gods have forced my hand, it seems," he explained. "I am a man of great wisdom - at least in theory - but I could not have performed the ceremony by myself. Two others are required: a man of great strength, and a man of great compassion."

Dancing Bird glanced into the shadows at the edge of the firelight, where a small canine beast was crouching. It appeared to be grinning at him.

"How very convenient," Dancing Bird sighed, "that the two of you have managed to find me here."

The shaman pondered this thought for a moment, and then rose to a businesslike posture.

"And there you have it," he said smartly. "We might as well get started."

Chapter Nineteen

As has already been discussed, the nameless desert to the north of Carter's Refuge was not much to look at.

The really good deserts - the Sahara, for example - have a certain desolate majesty, like the surface of an alien world. Majestic, this desert wasn't. It was... well, let's not mince words. It was fairly ugly.

To compensate, perhaps out of a sense of fair play, the creator had given it perhaps the best sunsets to be found anywhere.

One was in full swing now, and the recent changes in the sun's coloration and apparent size conspired to make it an especially awe-inspiring one. It stained the sky in fantastic shades of maroon and purple and orange; it drew out undreamed-of highlights in the wispy threads of cloud that dotted the horizon. The shadows of distant mountains stood against it in sharp contrast, framing the spectacle. The whole thing was impossibly scenic, like something out of a deranged watercolorist's fever dream.

If it was to be the Earth's last sunset, then it seemed determined to be a good one.

Evans hadn't noticed it; he was too preoccupied with glaring at the back of Polk Buckhorn's head.

Neither of them had said a word since they'd left Carter's Refuge. It wasn't that Evans had nothing to say, but deciding where to start was proving to be a challenge. He was right on the verge of collecting his thoughts when Buck's voice came from the shadows ahead of him.

"You gonna keep giving me the stink-eye all night," Buck grumbled, "or are you gonna speak your mind?"

For once, Evans was not to be cowed.

"I guess you're pretty proud of yourself, hm?" he sneered.

In the darkness ahead, he could barely make out a shrug from Buck's silhouette.

"Not like I had much of a choice," Buck grumbled. "She was trying to kill me, in case you hadn't noticed."

"I sort of wish she had," Evans retorted hotly.

Sparky slowed to a stop, and Evans eased his own horse to a stop a few yards behind. A moment passed in silence.

"You mean it?" Buck mumbled pathetically.

"If what she said was true?" Evans barked. "About her father? Then yes, I think that you probably deserve to die. And she probably deserved to kill you."

Buck glared.

"Maybe you didn't notice," he said, "but the girl wasn't exactly a saint herself. Doubt I deserve to die any more than she did."

"And whose fault is that?" Evan screeched. "You're the one who made her that way, aren't you?"

Buck didn't reply, and Evans found his temper rising further.

"How could you?" he howled. "I mean, honestly. What kind of man kills a little girl's father right in front of her?"

Buck slouched ever-so-slightly in his saddle.

"Didn't have much of a choice in that either," he muttered.

"Is that right?" Evans sneered, his voice thick with sarcasm.

"As a matter of fact, it is," Buck growled. "Look, I've done some bad things, okay? That don't mean I'm..."

Buck's voice almost cracked; when he spoke again, there was iron in his tone.

"Man was drunker than I was," he growled. "I was just supposed to scare him, you see? But he goes and decides he's got something to prove. Gets up in my face, hollering and carrying on."

Buck turned in his saddle; in the darkness, Evans couldn't quite make out the look on his companion's face.

"He drew first, you understand?" Buck muttered. "Only I was faster."

"Like you were with Melody," Evans snarled.

"Oh, give it a rest."

Evans' temper had died down, but only slightly.

"You could have told her," he sulked.

Buck chuckled mirthlessly.

"You think it would've mattered?" he asked.

"It couldn't have hurt."

"What, telling her that her pa brought it on himself? Yeah, actually, I'm pretty sure it could've."

Evans scoffed.

"So instead you tell her you're not sorry for what happened? Very nice."

Buck sighed, and then lit a cigarette; Evans hadn't been aware that the man smoked. The glow from the ember cast an eerie light upon the deep lines of his face, as if he'd captured the light of the sunset. Buck took a deep drag, and then grunted a brief comment.

"I'm not," he said.

Evans shook his head.

"Not what?"

"Sorry."

Buck stared off into the distance.

"Wasn't my fault," he explained.

A moment passed as Evans absorbed this, and then he began to explain - in detail - exactly what he thought of this. Very little of what he had to say was especially coherent, and none of it would be worth printing. After a few minutes, he finally started to run out of energy; at last, he fell silent.

"You about done?" Buck grumbled.

Evans turned his back by way of an answer. Buck laughed again; it sounded as if laughter was something he'd only heard about secondhand, and he'd only just now decided to give it a try.

"Alright, then," he muttered. "You've had your say. So. Let me tell you a story."

He took another drag, taking no apparent satisfaction from the act.

"That's your job, right? Professor?" he mused. "Listening to people's stories? Well, I've got a doozie for you."

Buck stared for a moment at the pathetic dregs of his cigarette and then flicked the remains aside, his face falling once again into darkness as he did so.

"Drinking runs in the family," he stated flatly. "And believe me, I'm a sweetheart compared to my old man. So when I was a kid, I got good at finding places to hide. The loft up in the barn - that was my favorite. Last place he would've thought to look for me, y'see. Knew I hated it up there."

There was a long pause, and then Buck falteringly continued.

"This'll probably surprise you, a big tough guy like me... but I hated spiders when I was a kid. Couldn't stand 'em. And there were all kinds of them up in the rafters of the barn, you see? Big ugly ones, scared the life out of me. Guess I figured a little scare was better than a black eye or a broken nose, though."

Evans crossed his arms; Buck cleared his throat.

"I remember one summer... I was probably seven or eight, and old Pa Buckhorn'd been hitting the bottle. So I go climbing up the ladder to the loft, right? Only it's breeding season for the little bastards, and their webs are all full of those little balls of eggs. I tell you what, I about flipped. Just the thought of God-knows-how-many little baby spiders crawling all over the barn made my skin crawl, believe me. So here I am, about ready to smash 'em with the first thing I can lay my hands on."

Buck trailed off momentarily, and then rallied.

"So just when I've found something - a broom, I think - I hear my dad yelling from inside the house. And something stops me, right? Like... I don't know. I guess it seemed like it wouldn't have been sporting, you know? Killing 'em all before they even got a chance to live? Hell, I don't know. Point is, something stopped me. Couldn't rightly tell you what."

"So a couple of weeks later they all hatch. Little baby spiders everywhere, right? Only somehow it don't seem so bad, what with them being so tiny. And it's like... I don't know. Not like they was my pets, or whatever. But there was something, like... because I let them live, it was kind of like they belonged to me."

Evans' brow furrowed slightly. At some point his professional instincts had kicked in, and he'd gotten caught up in the narrative despite himself. Buck seemed momentarily lost in thought.

"There was more to it than that, I think," he muttered. "The fact that I let 'em live... well, it felt good. Like I'd done something noble, I guess. So. Picture little Polk Buckhorn tiptoeing around the barn, making sure not to step on any spiders."

Buck snorted derisively; when he continued, his voice had a chilly edge.

"You know what they eat?" he asked suddenly.

Evans started.

"Um," he mumbled. "Insects, don't they?"

Buck nodded.

"Sure," he agreed, "once they get big enough. When they're just hatched, though? Most bugs are too big for 'em to catch when they're that little. But they gotta get by, right? So how do they do it?"

Buck paused again, as if waiting for a response; when none came, he finished his thought.

"They eat each other," he said flatly. "Their own little brothers and sisters. Wrap each other up and suck each others' guts out."

Evans' skin crawled. Buck turned away.

"Something I realized a long time ago," Buck grumbled. "The world's an ugly place, you know that? I figure you can either eat, or you can be eaten."

The two men sat in silence for a few minutes as Evans stared at the back of Buck's head, trying to construct a response. At last, one dawned on him.

"You have a number of very, very serious problems," Evans said coldly,"for which you should very seriously consider seeking professional help. Do you know that?"

Buck muttered something under his breath, and then spoke up.

"Think that's gonna have to wait," he grumbled.

"I mean it," Evans insisted.

"Yeah, so do I," Buck said, his voice rising. "Look, I might be crazy -"

"That's the point that I was trying to make, yes."

"But I think I might've just found your friend," Buck finished.

Buck pointed a finger towards the shadows - just at the edge of vision - where an old man was waiting patiently for the conversation to wrap itself up. Evans' jaw dropped, and the old man gave a half-hearted wave.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything," Dancing Bird apologized. "Hello, Michael. It's been a while."

Chapter Eighteen

To Evans, it seemed as if hours had passed as Buck and Melody had stood staring at one another. The town was silent except for the howling of the wind; a playful zephyr teased a tumbleweed across the road, mostly to spite Buck. At last, Melody spoke.

"Been waiting a long time for this," she stated flatly.

Buck sniffed, not letting his guard down.

"Yeah, about that," he grunted. "Like to tell me what all this is about?"

Melody snorted derisively.

"You care?" she spat.

Buck contemplated this momentarily, his eyes still glued to hers.

"Not especially," he admitted. "But you'd like to tell me anyway, wouldn't you?"

Melody gave a dismissive shrug, but the tone of her reply confirmed Buck's suspicions.

"I don't suppose that you remember much of June of 1870?" she called.

"Not really," conceded Buck.

Melody chuckled sourly.

"Doesn't surprise me," she murmured. "You spent most of the summer working for a railroad tycoon, scaring farmers off their land. Ring any bells?"

Buck shrugged noncommittally, and Melody pressed on.

"One of those farmers was a man named George Chamberlain," she continued. "You paid him a visit on the seventh of June. Told him things would get ugly if he didn't clear out."

Buck shrugged again.

"And?" he demanded.

"And things got ugly," she hissed. "You killed him. Gunned him down right in front of his seven-year-old daughter."

Buck slumped slightly, to Melody's great surprise.

"Oh," he muttered.

Melody's eyes widened, and then a savage grin spread across her face.

"So you do remember," she cooed.

Evans' eyes boggled.

"You did what?" he screeched.

Melody risked taking her eyes off of Buck's just long enough to shoot a glare in Evans' direction.

"You stay out of this," she hissed.

Evans gaped at Buck, his mouth working soundlessly. During the brief moment when Melody's eyes were averted, Evans could swear that he'd seen a flicker of something - possibly sorrow - sneaking its way across the gunman's visage. By the time Melody had turned her attention back to him, Buck's face had contorted into a vicious sneer.

"Gonna be straight with you," Buck growled. "A man like me - using a gun's the only thing he's good at. You're good at something, there's gonna be people such as want to pay you to do it. Guess that makes me a killer; got no illusions about that, and I don't make no apologies for it."

Buck sniffed, and then continued in what might have been a placating tone.

"That don't make me responsible for what happened to your pa," he murmured. "Me, I just pull the trigger; if I hadn't taken the job, somebody else would've, and your pappy'd be dead just the same. Now, the guy willing to pay to have another man killed - that's the real bad guy, if you ask me. You got a problem with what happened, maybe you oughta take it up with him."

Melody scoffed.

"Oh, I have," she snarled, her voice dripping with venom. "I took it up with his friends, his family, everyone who ever so much as shook his hand. Then I took it up with him."

She grinned again, with shocking intensity.

"Been saving you for last," she finished.

A dreadful silence once again settled between the two. This time it was Buck who broke it.

"This might surprise you," he snarled, "but you're not the first person that ever came after me looking for revenge. Gonna tell you the same thing I tell 'em all."

Buck sniffed contemptuously, and then continued.

"If you're looking for an apology, then sister, you're in for a big disappointment. I knew what it was gonna mean when I chose this life, and I'd be lying if I told you I was sorry. But if it makes it any better... well, you should know it was nothing personal."

Melody stared for a moment, and then gave a short, derisive laugh.

"That's supposed to make it better?" she demanded. "You killed my father in cold blood; just a business transaction, right?"

Melody shook her head.

"I used to hate you for that," she grunted. "The fact that killing him didn't even mean anything to you."

Buck's glare wavered slightly.

"Used to, did you?" he ventured.

Melody chuckled again.

"Don't get me wrong," she sneered. "You're not exactly my favorite person. It's just that... well. To tell you the truth, you're just so damn pathetic that hating you seems like a waste of time. No, I pity you."

If Melody felt anything resembling pity, it was nowhere to be found in her expression; her eyes burned into Buck's, shaming him despite himself.

"I used to think this was about setting things right," she laughed. "Can you imagine? As if your life could ever be worth half of what my father's was."

Melody's eyes clouded slightly, and her voice grew distant.

"I'm like you, Polk Buckhorn; got you to thank for that. Just like you, I got no illusions. The world ain't fair, and killing you won't make it so."

She seemed to collect her thoughts in an instant, and her eyes hardened once again.

"Killing you won't bring him back; I know that. Nope, I buried my pa a long time ago. I'm just looking for a little bit of closure; just tying up a loose end."

Her smile had returned, again with a little too much exposed tooth.

"I will admit to a little bit of conceit," she chuckled. "I'd like to think that the world will be a better place without you in it, if only by a little bit."

Buck's face, which had grown increasingly rigid throughout the last few moments, now seemed to be made of stone. His hand rested on the butt of his revolver with a deceptively casual indifference.

"You about done?" growled Buck.

"Not quite," Melody grinned.

Two guns flew from their holsters. Only one shot was fired.

Chapter Seventeen

In an uncharacteristic display of emotion, the Pale Man was grinning. He was nothing if not methodical, and he loved nothing more than when a plan came together.

The four horsemen had ridden hard throughout the night, accompanied at last by the Beast. The thing had shaken off its apparent listlessness the moment that the Pale Man had spoken its true name; now it was coiled and eager, drunk with a sense of purpose. The Pale Man glanced towards the creature, and his grin widened as he took in the looks on the thing's motley collection of faces.

Each member of the dark assembly wore a similar expression: grim satisfaction, with a side of dreadful anticipation. They'd been waiting a long time for this, the lot of them.

They'd taken a vote the night before, and had settled on Manhattan as their first destination; it was a long way to travel, but they'd made good time so far. In actual fact, they rode no faster than any other four horsemen might; nevertheless, the miles melted away in a blur, as if the land itself were in a hurry to get out of their way.

The Pale Man's grin widened as the travelers skidded to a stop, having finally reached their destination: the heart of the new world's culture, and of its pride.

He had a look at his surroundings, and his smile disappeared instantly. The Burly Man began swearing passionately; someone else let out a low whistle.

"Um," the Sickly Man muttered.

"Wow," agreed the Thin Man.

Whatever calamity had struck this place, it had been thorough; no two bricks seemed to have been left atop one another. There were no signs of life apart from a handful of ravens picking amongst the ruins, their calls ringing over-loud against the quiet rustling of a dry wind. The sun loomed - red and angry - behind a thick veil of ash.

The city appeared to have been quite utterly leveled.

"It would appear," the Thin Man said slowly, "that somebody went and started the party without us."

The Pale Man stared about himself furiously, provoking a nervous cough from the Sickly Man.

"Well, this just cuts it," the Pale Man grumbled.

A terrible howling noise broke out against the silence - a sound the likes of which had previously existed only in nightmares. It was like nails on a chalkboard to the power of screeching clarinets, and even the Pale Man felt a shiver running down the length of his spine as he searched for the source of it.

As it turned out, it was the sound of the Beast weeping.

At he same moment - hundreds of miles away - Polk Buckhorn flinched involuntarily.

For poetry's sake, it would've been nice if he'd somehow sensed that something somewhere was terribly wrong; the truth, however - as it usually is - was quite a bit more mundane. The awful tingling sensation in the back of his neck was the same one that he always got when someone was pointing a gun at his back.

"You're gonna want to turn around real slowly," Melody suggested.

Time seemed to slow down as Buck took in his surroundings, really registering them for the first time as they suddenly seemed to take on a layer of awful significance. He'd spent the night back in the town of Carter's Refuge: the same small town where he'd both stolen Sparky and earned the price on his head. In the month since he'd been here last, it had gone from a typical Western settlement to an even more typical ghost town.

Now he found himself standing - with his hands above his head - at one end of the world's most typical Western main street. At the other end, he now knew, stood the woman who was apparently his nemesis. Two things occurred to him at this point: that he was wearing black, and that high noon appeared to be approaching.

Buck sighed, and then turned around slowly, his hands above his head.

Melody stood, grinning expansively, with her revolver pressed to Evans' temple. Buck started, and then gave a half-hearted wave.

"Hey there," Buck offered.

"Hi," Evans grumbled resentfully back.

Melody's grin widened, and she shoved Evans away from herself; he fell away without resistance, collapsing in the dirt at the edge of the street.

"I'd threaten to shoot him," she explained, "except that I doubt you'd care."

Buck shrugged.

"Well, he does owe me money," Buck muttered.

Melody chuckled, and then holstered her pistol; her hand remained upon the grip of the revolver, her fingers twitching eagerly. She nodded encouragingly at Buck; he sighed, and then reached slowly towards his own hip.

"Let's get this over with," he grumbled.

Chapter Sixteen

Michael Evans awoke to the smell of bacon.

The campsite that he'd chosen had little to recommend it aside from the fact that it had been the smoothest patch of ground in a landscape that seemed otherwise to be entirely composed of jagged little mounds of yellow stone. The morning sun was already bearing down with cruel intensity, and the thin cloth of his bedroll did nothing to make the earth beneath his back any more comfortable. Still, with that smell in his nose, it was almost possible to imagine that he'd somehow found his way home.

Since leaving Tombstone more than three weeks before, he'd had almost nothing to eat aside from stale trail rations; he'd finally begun almost to take them for granted, and only now did he realize how dearly he'd missed the comforts of civilization. For a moment, he actually considered thanking Buck for the gesture; after a moment, the fundamental inconsistency in this train of thought finally forced itself upon his still-groggy mind.

Evans sprang bolt-upright, cursing vehemently.

The sudden motion on his part shocked Melody Chamberlain, and she very nearly dropped her skillet into the fire as her hand jerked instinctively towards her hip; after a moment, she relaxed again.

"Didn't realize you'd woken up," she chuckled. "You really shouldn't startle me like that."

Evans boggled.

"What are you doing here?" he blurted.

Melody shrugged.

"You and your friend seem to have split up," she replied.

She shrugged, and then poked at the bacon.

"It would appear," she mused dryly, "that I have been following the wrong set of tracks."

Despite himself, Evans found that he was staring at the contents of the skillet. There appeared to be eggs and potatoes in there, as well. After a moment, a bizarre idea dawned on him.

"Are you making me breakfast?" he demanded incredulously.

Melody grinned.

"I'm making myself breakfast," she announced. "But I do have enough for two, as it happens."

Evans nearly asked Melody why she was feeling so generous, but - in an uncharacteristic moment of clarity - realized that it was probably a better idea not to rock the boat. A few minutes passed in silence; Melody devoted her attention to cooking, and Evans to watching her cook.

He jumped involuntarily as Melody came to attention with a start, as if struck by some sudden realization.

"It occurs to me," she announced, "that we have yet to be formally introduced."

She stuck a hand in Evans' direction; he hesitated for a moment before taking it, as if he was being offered an angry rattlesnake.

"Melody Chamberlain," the girl beamed.

"Doctor Michael Evans, of Maryland," Evans replied uncertainly.

The girl stared dumbly for a moment, and then she collapsed into fits of laughter.

"A doctor? Really?" she gasped. "You're a doctor?"

Evans found himself blushing.

"Is that so hard to believe?" he grumbled sullenly.

She waved a hand, fighting to regain her composure.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" she chuckled.

Her chuckling died down, and she wiped a few stray tears from the corners of her eyes.

"I didn't mean to offend you," she explained. "It's just that... well. You keep strange company, Doctor Michael Evans of Maryland."

Evans stared for a moment, and then let out a dry laugh of his own.

"I suppose that I do, at that," he admitted.

The girl stared into his eyes, and he found himself nearly blushing for an entirely different set of reasons.

"So," she murmured. "how exactly does a man like you end up traveling with a man like Polk Buckhorn?"

Evans considered this for a moment, and found himself at a loss for any satisfactory answer.

"Mostly bad luck, I think," he said.

Melody lowered her eyes and smiled warmly, and Evans found himself grinning as well. Something had occurred to him at some point during this exchange, which was that he couldn't imagine why he would have assumed that anyone who might want to kill Polk Buckhorn would necessarily have to be a bad person. He was still considering this thought when Melody handed him a plate covered in a heaping pile of breakfast. It looked delicious.

"Eat up," she insisted.

Evans did exactly that, and was not disappointed. He'd devoured half of what was on his plate before realizing that he'd been attacking his food with an embarrassing and uncivilized degree of fervor. Meaning to apologize, he looked up at Melody. It only took one glance to put any thought of eating out of his mind entirely.

The girl hadn't touched her own food; instead, she'd been staring at him. The look in her eyes reminded Evans of the first time that he'd seen her, and he very nearly returned his breakfast.

Evans had met his first wife back when he'd lived in New York City. At once point early in their engagement, she'd invited him to a private after-hours tour of the Central Park Zoo, where her brother had been an employee of some sort. The experience had been one of the most memorable throughout his relationship with the woman in question, and he found himself suddenly and inexplicably reminded of it now.

The animals on display had been ragged, pitiful things - taken from their native environments, broken, tamed. He'd found himself drawing unpleasant parallels to his own field of study, and by the end of the night had been in a morose and torpid mood.

For all of their efforts, however, the people who ran the place had failed to domesticate one of the beasts in particular. He'd felt its presence before he'd even seen it, as if its power had been something tangible.

He'd never seen an African lion before, and it had never occurred to him that the descriptions that he'd heard might not have done them justice. Instantly, he'd known why the lion was called the "king of the beasts." Man had long since established his dominion over nature, but this monster clearly hadn't gotten the message. Its attitude had plainly suggested that it owned everything that its eyes touched, and he wouldn't have cared to debate the issue.

The mere physical presence of the creature had been intimidating on a level that Evans had never thought possible. He'd watched it for he wasn't sure how long as it had paced about its pen, staring back at him just as relentlessly. There had been a fundamental difference between its attitude and that of the other beasts, and it had only taken Evans a moment to realize where the difference lay. The being had known full well that it was a captive, and its restlessness had suggested that it'd had a clear opinion on the point.

When the lion had looked into his eyes, Evans had been left with no doubt as to what his fate would have been, had the bars separating them been removed for but a moment.

He experienced a similar revelation when his eyes met Melody Chamberlain's.

Melody's face quickly shifted into her best impression of a vapid smile, but the doctor's horrified expression told her at once that she'd acted too late. She chuckled sourly, and the sound seemed to curdle Evans' blood.

"Enjoying our breakfast?" she inquired, her voice thick with mock sweetness.

Evans swallowed hard.

"What's the point of all this?" he whispered.

Melody shrugged.

"I've dealt with your type before," she coolly explained. "You damned spineless know-it-all types who think you know about the world because you've read about it in the Times."

She spat contemptuously, and Evans shriveled somewhat despite himself.

"Don't worry," she cooed. "You're weak, and I know it. I lean too hard on a man like you, you just go to pieces. No way do I get anything out of you that way."

Evans choked down a lump in his throat, and then ventured what seemed like the obvious question.

"And what are you hoping to get, exactly?" he squeaked.

"Don't be cute," she snapped. "I want Buckhorn, and you're going to give him to me."

Realization finally dawned on Evans. The girl thought that he knew where Buck had gone; that was the only reason that he was still alive, he suspected. The realization that his life depended on allowing Melody to continue believing this was not far behind.

For her part, Melody seemed to have spent the majority of her venom, and she once again attempted a pleasant tone.

"Look, I'm well aware of the sort of life you've led," she soothed. "I'm sure that you've never been in a situation like this before, so I'll tell you exactly how things are going to be."

She grinned, and the smile was deceptively genuine.

"I'll let you live," she drawled, "if you tell me what I want to know."

Evans, much to his own surprise, had stumbled upon a plan. It was crazy; it was risky. It was far too audacious to have any chance of success, as far as he was concerned. And yet - as far as he could tell - it was the only option that he had at his disposal.

"A friend of mine lives not far from here," Evans answered evenly, "maybe two days to the north."

He swallowed hard, and then delivered the punchline.

"Buck was going to meet me there," he finished.

Melody grinned.

"What are you waiting for?" she sneered. "Get your things packed, and lets get going."

Act Three

"The real hero is always a hero by mistake; he dreams of being an honest coward like everybody else."

Umberto Eco, from Travels in Hyperreality

Chapter Fifteen

It was nighttime in the desert, and the insects sang a gentle chorus in the moonlight. The drab little wrens slept. The lizards scuttled between the scrubs and the saguaro, making the most of their reprieve from the heat of the day. The stars beamed down from above; there seemed to be fewer of them lately, but the remainder were no less stunning for the fact.

The monster had returned to the place where he had first appeared in the mortal world, hoping that he might have missed something. After a very thorough inspection, he had concluded quite definitively that there was no more to this place than met the eye.

To add to his list of complaints, he was now filled with an unshakable sense that someone, somewhere, was having a lot of fun without him.

For the second time during his stay in the desert, he heard the sound of hoof beats; after a few moments, he realized that they were drawing steadily nearer. The beast raised one weary head, and lifted his eyes just in time to see a number of men on horseback drawing to a stop before him.

There was a moment of silence, and then one of the men spoke.

"Found him," the burly man boomed with satisfaction.

"Well, it's about time," whined the thin man.

The creature began to rise to its feet, and then collapsed with a despairing grumble. The assembly frowned collectively.

"What's he doing?" choked the sick man.

"It looks like he's... moping," the burly man ventured.

The creature raised its eyes as the leader of the four horsemen approached. He was a pale man, and he rode a pale horse.

"We've been looking all over for you," he rasped.

Chapter Fourteen

The sun shone upon the city of Tombstone.

It shone upon the charred husks of buildings, upon hastily-erected barricades. It peered down into the town's new collection of craters.

It shone on Polk Buckhorn where he stood in the main street, his mouth working silently as he stared uncomprehendingly at the devastation.

In the matter of weeks since he'd left Tombstone, the place had become a ghost town. This would've been bad enough if it had been merely an expression, and if literal ghosts hadn't been wandering the streets.

Bad days were nothing new to Buck. For as long as he could remember, his life had been more or less an unending parade of them. Today was something entirely new, and he didn't feel equipped to deal with it.

A tingle up his spine told him that one of the beings had approached him from behind. For a moment Buck was paralyzed, mentally contrasting the horrors of the unknown versus the no less considerable horrors of the known; having finally arrived at a decision, he finally spun around, his eyes wild.

The being was a man, or had been in life. He was now unsettlingly transparent, and was surrounded by an alarming nimbus of pale blue luminescence. He appeared to have been stabbed to death, as evidenced by the fact that the offending dagger was still lodged just below his collarbone. Buck gaped in horror; after a moment the specter finally spoke, its voice seeming to echo across the ages.

"Hi," chirped the ghost.

"Guh," replied Buck.

"I wonder if I could have a moment of your time?" wheedled the creature.

Buck managed a vaguely affirmative noise, and the wraith smiled warmly.

"You're too kind," it cooed. "I'm with CUE, you see."

Buck shook his head, and the ghost frowned.

"Citizens for Undead Equality," it offered.

Buck's jaw slackened, and the ghost shrugged.

"Well, it's all here, anyway."

The being pressed a leaflet into Buck's unresisting hands.

"Really, it's just a question of basic constitutional rights," the thing explained patiently. "I'm a citizen, aren't I? Born and died right here in the USA. So where's it say you have to be alive to vote? That's what I want to know."

"Um," Buck offered.

"Exactly!" enthused the creature. "It's like I'm always saying - just because you're six feet under, people think they can walk all over you."

The ghost chuckled, obviously pleased with itself. A moment later, it finally appeared to notice Buck's apparent distress; the thing arched a spectral eyebrow and leaned in for a closer look, much to Buck's dismay.

"You alright, pal?" asked the phantom. "You look terrible."

A thought had been jumping around in Buck's mind for quite some time, but he'd been having some difficulty in articulating it. At last, he managed.

"What the hell is going on?" he groaned pathetically.

The creature didn't immediately seem to understand the question; comprehension dawned a moment later, and the ghost laughed.

"What, all this?" it hooted. "Good lord, where've you been lately?"

Buck made a vague gesture, and the creature's attitude became somewhat more sympathetic.

"Man, this has got to be a shock for you," it consoled. "I don't know what rock you've been hiding under, but the last few weeks have been pretty busy here in civilization."

Buck stared dumbly around the city, and the ghost continued.

"Lot of folks got taken in the draft, of course. We're going to war, you hear about that?"

"Who with?" Buck ventured.

"Who else?" the creature shrugged. "Babylon. And about time, I say."

"Um," replied Buck.

"And then, of course, a couple of days back..." the creature indicated itself with a grin. "Hey presto, and look who's back from the grave. Couldn't tell you why, but you sure don't hear me compaining."

Buck attempted an accomodating chuckle; the result was fairly horrible, but the ghost seemed to be too caught up in his own narrative to notice.

"Me, I've been with the movement since my first day out of the grave," the thing said proudly. "We've been gaining a lot of speed, too; no shortage of recruits lately what with all the new blood in town, so to speak."

The being smiled proudly at the spectral horde wandering the streets, and a few waved gamely back. Buck swallowed hard.

"What happened?" he managed to ask.

The creature shrugged dismissively.

"What didn't?" it shrugged. "Plagues, famines, beasts with the heads of men."

The creature leaned in closer, eliciting another shudder from Buck.

"Frost giants," the wraith whispered conspiratorially.

"I have to go," Buck suddenly blurted.

The ghost arched its eyebrow again.

"Beg your pardon?"

Buck began backing away from the creature, his eyes boggling.

"Evans," he muttered. "I need to find Evans."

Buck turned and began stumbling back towards the city limits; Sparky had adamantly refused to come any farther. The ghost watched him go with a frown.

"Are you sure you wouldn't like to make a donation?" it called after him.

There was no reply, and the creature gave a disapproving grumble.

"What's the world coming to," he muttered, "when people can't be bothered to take an interest?"

The sun continued to shine. A careful observer - preferably watching through a very well-shielded lens - might have noticed it growing almost imperceptibly larger over the course of the conversation.

Chapter Thirteen

For almost an hour Buck and Evans spurred their horses furiously, putting as much distance between themselves and Dead Man's Hand as possible. At last their horses began to slow, panting desperately; Buck reined Sparky in and whipped around in his saddle, revolver drawn. There was no sign of pursuit, but that didn't seem to relax him at all.

He was starting to come down from his binge, and the glare of the desert sun was already well on its way to causing what promised to be an awful headache. The sound of Evans' voice grated on his ears.

"Am I terribly mistaken," the doctor was asking, "or was that the same girl that's been following us?"

Buck grunted an irritable affirmative. Evans raised an eyebrow.

"I take it we didn't lose her after all, then?"

"How very perceptive of you," Buck grumbled. "Must have gotten ahead of us somehow."

Evans nodded sagely.

"She headed us off at the pass, you mean?"

Buck winced.

"You could say that," he muttered.

"You two had a nice talk, I take it?"

"Something like that."

Buck was ready to drop the subject, but Evans persisted.

"Did you manage to find out why she's after us, at least?"

Buck produced a flask from one of his saddlebags and took a long pull before answering.

"After me," he grunted shortly. "She's a bounty hunter, apparently."

"A bounty hunter," Evans deadpanned.

Buck nodded distantly, and Evans fell silent. Buck tucked his flask into a pocket, and then took a moment to collect himself. A few more seconds passed before Evans' sudden silence began to strike him as odd; he turned in his saddle to look, and found his companion's face deeply flushed. Evans spent a few seconds measuring his words, obviously trying to keep his composure, before speaking.

"Why, pray tell," Evans rasped, "is there a bounty hunter chasing you, Buck?"

Buck swore under his breath, and Evan's eyes began bulging.

"You're a wanted man?" Evans screeched.

"Not exactly wanted, if you catch my drift," Buck ventured.

"Ye gods," Evans howled, "you mean to tell me that all this time I've been traveling with a fugitive from justice?"

Evans' yelling seemed to drive nails into Buck's temples.

"You don't need to act so surprised," he muttered.

"What did you do?" Evans demanded.

"I've done a lot of things, okay?" Buck mumbled, his patience fraying. "It's just a question of what they've got on me, really."

"That's fantastic," wailed Evans. "And how many felonies am I an accomplice to at this point?"

"Would you please relax and let me think for one second?" Buck shouted.

Evans stammered for a moment, and then fell silent; when he spoke again, his voice was icy.

"I'm beginning to think that this entire arrangement was a grave mistake on my part."

Buck whipped off his hat and spun to face Evans full-on, his temper finally reaching its limit.

"Well, maybe you're not the only one, okay?" he snarled.

Evans gaped, stunned, as Buck's eyes blazed into his.

"This whole trip you've been unbearable. Do you know that?" Buck growled. "Nothing but whining and nagging, every minute of every day. Well, I'm sick of it, do you hear me?"

Evans made to speak, but Buck cut him off with a curt gesture.

"Don't get me wrong," said Buck. "I could literally pay off the price on my head with what you're paying me in one day. And yet I am still beginning to doubt - very seriously - whether babysitting you is worth the hassle."

Evans' furious expression disappeared, and was replaced at once by one of sheer panic.

"If it's about the money..." he began.

"It's not about the money," Buck stated flatly.

"You have to understand," Evans pleaded. "I can double - no, triple - your salary, if I must. But it's absolutely imperative that I reach my destination, and as soon as possible, by absolutely any means necessary."

Buck chewed on this statement for a moment. An awful suspicion was beginning to dawn on him, and he found himself choosing his words very carefully.

"About that," he said at last.

"What about it?" Evans asked, swallowing hard.

Evans' sudden nervousness did nothing to ease Buck's suspicions, and he groaned inwardly.

"Here's the thing," Buck murmured. "I'm not the kind of man who gets too finicky about the kinds of jobs he takes, you understand? You say you want to be escorted to such and such a place, that's good enough for me. I figure you're paying me well enough not to be too interested in why you're in such a hurry to get to the middle of nowhere, right?"

Evans nodded uncertainly; Buck looked hard at him, and then continued.

"It occurs to me," said Buck, "that I'd like to know exactly why it's so damned important that you find this friend of yours in such a big hurry."

An awkward silence followed, during which the doctor's expression became increasingly sheepish. Buck's face only hardened, and Evans was suddenly uncomfortably aware of the degree to which the oppressive heat was making him sweat.

"What," he mumbled, "right now?"

"Now would be good," Buck urged him.

Evans coughed uncomfortably.

"It's just that it's going to sound crazy," Evans moaned.

"Try me," Buck growled.

Evans spent a moment trying to find the right words, and then apparently gave up.

"I have to find my friend because the world's going to end if I don't."

Buck relaxed visibly. At least now he knew where he stood.

"Go on," he said encouragingly.

Evans slumped with relief, obviously glad to be letting this secret off his chest.

"Look, I know how it sounds, but..." Evans trailed off. "Well, I know how it sounds. I'm a scientist, after all. If I were anyone else, I'd probably think that I was crazy, too."

Evans shook his head distantly, and then rallied bravely.

"When I was doing my doctoral research," he blurted, "I spent some time with a particular mesa people - the Ajiashathat. Fascinating tribe. The thing about them was that they were utterly convinced that their rituals propped up the world, do you see? That rain only fell because they prayed for rain. That the sun only rose because they asked him nicely enough, year after year."

Evans stared vaguely towards to horizon, lost in thought.

"Their shaman was a scoundrel. A man named Shinawenashkitat - Dancing Bird," he clarified. "He'd been the peoples' only shaman for as long as most of them could remember, and I don't think that he believed a word of it. I doubt that I've ever learned as much from any one man."

Evans turned to look back at Buck, and instantly got the sense that he was losing his audience.

"The world's been going to hell lately, Buck," Evans whispered. "Maybe you haven't noticed it, but I have."

Buck shrugged, but Evans pressed on.

"It all started about eight months ago," he insisted. "I didn't piece it together right away, but after a while it started nagging at me. I looked into my records, and sure enough, there it was."

Evans sighed deeply.

"Every hundred years, the spiritual leader of the Ajiashathat performs a ceremony that's supposed to prevent the sun from falling out of the sky - to prevent the end of the world. The latest ceremony should've been performed about eight months ago."

Evans slumped in his saddle, as if suddenly wearied. Buck arched an eyebrow.

"So the world's ending," Buck drawled, "and you think it's because this guy hasn't done the ritual, or whatever."

"That's about the size of it," Evans muttered.

Buck considered this momentarily.

"You're right," Buck said with sudden intensity.

Evans sat bolt upright in his saddle.

"Am I?" he said hopefully.

"Oh, yeah," Buck said passionately. "That does sound crazy."

A deflated expression passed over Evans' face, followed shortly thereafter by one of resignation. Buck stared deep into the doctor's eyes; his suspicion had become nearly a certainty, and he spoke slowly.

"This money that you have back in Maryland," Buck gloomily droned. "The five hundred dollars a day you were gonna pay me. It doesn't exist, does it?"

Evans shrugged.

"I'll come up with it," he mumbled. "Somehow."

Buck nodded smartly, sighed, and then arranged himself in his saddle.

"Sounds like you've got a lot on your plate, doc," he announced briskly, "what with saving the world and all. Good luck with that."

Evans chuckled sadly as Buck cracked his reins. A minute or so later, after the sound of Sparky's retreating hoof beats had faded into the distance, the doctor steeled himself, took his bearings, and began riding, alone, into the north.

Chapter Twelve

The afternoon had reached its hottest point, which meant that it was time for the daily brawl in the town of Dead Man's Hand. The main street was a confused jumble of hooting ruffians, all of them apparently more interested in damaging property than each other; a couple of the men had brought guns to the fight, but they didn't seem to be shooting at anything in particular.

A pair of bedraggled drifters stood silently at the edge of town, waiting for the chaos to die down. At last, the fight veered off down a side street; Buck snorted contemptuously, and then nudged his exhausted companion.

"Boy, this must be exciting for you," Buck said, grinning evilly. "You got to see real cowboys."

Evans didn't reply; Buck turned to find the doctor staring ahead, a distracted look on his face.

"What a fascinating town," Evans murmured.

Buck took another look at Dead Man's Hand. It looked like a dump, as far as he was concerned.

"Is it?" he asked.

"Oh, yes," Evans enthused. "See the ruins of the cathedral up there on the hill? It looks as if this place was constructed as a Spanish mission. Awful places, you know. The Spanish would enslave the locals, give them hasty baptisms, and then force them to work on the plantations - all in the name of advancing Christianity, no less."

"Terrible," Buck muttered uncertainly.

"The natives must have taken over at some point," Evans continued, obviously lost in thought. "Apaches; the superstructures of some of their hogans are still partially intact - over there, see? They must have been driven out so that the place could be transformed into a garrison, probably during the Mexican-American War; see there, the building they're using for storage? That was a barracks once, if I'm not very mistaken. And then..."

Evans trailed off, and the dreamlike expression faded from his face.

"And then it was abandoned and taken over by squatters," he finished, "who let the place fall apart."

Buck took another glance at the town, and was forced to admit that the present-day occupants didn't seem to be too deeply concerned with property value. The folks here were mostly out of work cowboys, outcasts from Tombstone and Tucson who'd gotten the worse end of an ugly little war to take the southwest back from Yankee businessmen and immigrant laborers. While they'd been busy with that whole business, the invention of barbed wire had quite neatly rendered their profession obselete; the settlers here at Dead Man's Hand were of the type who'd lived on the edge of the law to begin with, and who'd had little difficulty with the transition into full-time careers in crime.

Buck had briefly considered revealing to Evans the fact that Dead Man's Hand was essentially a glorified bandits' camp, but any possible entertainment value to be had there didn't seem worth the hassle.

"Tell you what," Buck drawled. "Why don't you go ahead and restock our supplies? I'm gonna head over to the tavern, see if I can get us some directions."

Evans snapped out of his daze and shot Buck a skeptical glance.

"You're going to go to the tavern and drink yourself into insensibility, you mean," he growled.

Buck shrugged.

"That too," he admitted blandly.

"Do you really think that's a good idea, given the circumstances?" Evans hissed.

Buck stared blankly for a moment, and then his jaw dropped.

"What, the girl?" he balked.

Evans nodded slowly, and Buck slapped his forehead.

"Did I really not tell you?" groaned Buck. "We lost her."

"Is that right?" Evans replied levelly. "When was this, exactly?"

"Couple of days ago," Buck answered, now restraining laughter. "Did I seriously not tell you?"

Evans stared impassively for a moment, and then finally threw his hands into the air.

"You know what?" he snapped. "Go. Go to the tavern."

Buck saluted smartly, and then made his way directly to the saloon. The place had a kind of charming antiquity, coupled with a level of squalor that made him feel right at home; most of the townsfolk were still rumbling out back, so he had the place more or less to himself. A dozen or so minutes and as many refills later, he was finally starting to feel like himself again.

Buck's table jostled, nearly spilling his drink in the process, as Melody Chamberlain helped herself to the seat opposite him. He nearly shouted a reproach, and thought better of it upon noticing the revolver aimed at his chest.

"You're gonna want to keep your hands where I can see them," Melody pleasantly suggested.

Buck grunted and reached for the bottle in front of him, but the girl was faster; after a long swig, she settled back comfortably into her seat, grinning widely, still aiming directly at Buck's heart.

"You know," she said, "for some reason, I really thought it was gonna be harder than this. I'm a little disappointed, to tell you the truth."

Buck nodded hopefully at the bottle in her hand.

"Can I have that back?" he mumbled.

"No," Melody snarled, waving her gun threateningly. "Try to pay attention, will you?"

Buck sulked, and Melody laughed unpleasantly.

"You really are pathetic," she purred. "Honestly, I think that's the only reason it took you this long to find your way onto a wanted poster. I figure nobody thought you were worth the trouble."

Buck tried to glare at the girl, but couldn't figure out which one of her to focus on.

"Carter's Refuge was the last straw, from what I gather," she added conversationally. "Gunning down a sheriff in front of a room full of witnesses? Not exactly your finest hour, I have to say. And just when I thought you couldn't possibly get any sloppier."

Buck grunted noncommitally; finally, he began to piece together some of what the girl had said.

"You know a lot about me," he mumbled. "This personal?"

"Does it matter?" she countered.

Buck shrugged, still staring mournfully at his empty glass.

"It's five hundred, by the way," Melody suddenly remarked.

Buck's face failed to register comprehension, and she chose to clarify.

"Your bounty," she elaborated, chuckling. "You're only worth five hundred dollars. Hardly worth my time, really."

Buck's eyes widened momentarily, and then he slumped into his chair, mumbling viciously. Melody's grin continued to widen.

"So that's that, hm?" she chortled. "You're gonna let me take you alive?"

She shook her head disdainfully, and then cocked the hammer of her pistol.

"You really are a disappointment," she murmured.

By way of a response, Buck brought a knee up under the table; it tipped upright, blocking the girl's view as he dashed for the exit. A hail of bullets ripped through the table, and he felt a sting as one of them grazed his leg; cursing, he dived behind the nearest booth.

Three shots, he said to himself.

He risked a glance just in time to see the bartender reaching for a shotgun; the girl whipped around and fired, and the man collapsed.

Four, Buck thought.

Buck rose to a crouch and squeezed a few bullets off as the girl leaped behind the cover of the bar, but his blurred vision made aiming difficult, and both shots flew wide. The girl's aim was steadier, and another pair of bullets whizzed just over his head as he dropped prone.

Six, Buck noted with satisfaction.

Buck's ears strained in the sudden silence; after a moment, he heard the distinctive metallic click of a revolver's cylinder popping into the reloading position. He leaped to his feet, but the girl was crouched out of sight; Buck cursed venomously, and then emptied his remaning four chambers into the row of bottles behind the bar. The girl gave a yelp of surprise as broken glass and liquor rained down on her, and Buck heard the sound of bullets clattering to the floor; after a moment's hesition, he turned and ran from the bar. Evans was running up the street with both horses in tow, apparently drawn by the sound of the commotion.

"What's going on?" he shouted.

"We need to go," Buck snapped. "Right now."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Evans growled.

Buck glanced behind himself frantically, and then his eyes settled upon the lone horse tied in front of the saloon; a second later its rope had been cut, and a firm smack to its haunch sent the beast scrambling. Buck leapt onto Sparky's back with surprising agility, and the two men set off galloping at full speed.

Melody burst through the saloon's front door a moment later, her weapon trained on Buck's departing form; the contrast between the dusky interior of the bar and the sunlight now shining directly into her eyes fouled her aim, and she gave up with a scowl. With a quick glance, she recognized her own horse charging away in the opposite direction; after a moment, she holstered her pistol and stuck her hands into her pockets. She stood for a moment in silence, considering the situation, and then another wicked grin spread its way across her face.

"Perhaps not such a disappointment after all," she cooed to herself.

Chapter Eleven

Michael Evans stumbled over a loose stone and tore the skin from his palm catching himself; he rose slowly, cursing with uncharacteristic venom. His vocabulary had expanded substantially in his time spent with Polk Buckhorn, and he'd had no shortage of opportunities to make good on the fact.

A few million years before, this had been a level plain; whatever hand had formed the region had apparently tired of the monotony, and tectonic upheaval had split the sandstone like a jackhammer splits a slab of concrete. Evans thought that the result looked less like a range of hills, and more like the aftermath of an earthquake.

They'd had to travel on foot for most of the way through, leading the horses; Evans was feeling the effects of having spent the better part of two weeks on horseback. He felt as if he'd been hit by a train, and the soreness was making him slow, clumsy, and more than a little bit irritable. He'd spent quite a bit of time lately glaring at the back of Buck's head; this fact was at least partly to blame for his latest tumble, which made it easier to assign the blame.

"Are you sure that you know what you're doing?" Evans demanded suddenly.

Buck slowed to a stop before turning to look at his companion, and Evans couldn't help but feel a brief burst of pity. Buck had a dimly hunted expression, but for the most part he just looked exhausted.

"Ask me that one more time," Buck mumbled. "Seriously, I dare you."

Buck mopped the sweat from his brow, and then began frantically scanning the path behind them.

"She's still following us?" sighed Evans.

Buck squinted for another moment, and then his face fell.

"Yeah," Buck grumbled, "and that's the thing, isn't it? Not catching up, not falling behind. Just... following."

Buck shook his head, and then reached into a saddlebag for his canteen; the reek as the cap came off told Evans that it wasn't filled with water, and he arched an eyebrow.

"What does that mean?" he demanded.

"Search me," Buck shrugged. "Means there's no point hurrying, anyhow."

Evans shook his head hazily.

"Oh, you're wrong about that," he rasped. "I really do need to get to where I'm going, and as quickly as possible."

"I'll get you there soon enough," Buck said vaguely.

Evans seethed, ignoring the hard look from his guide.

"I don't think that you understand," Evans asserted. "If we can't shake her, then this whole detour has been a waste of time. We need to get back on track, and immediately; I can't afford any more delays."

Buck shrugged.

"Well, then I guess we'd better get going, hadn't we?" he grunted.

Buck grabbed Sparky's reins and started up off the path; it took him a moment to realize that Evans wasn't following, and he whirled around in a fury.

"Is there a problem?" Buck raged.

"Ah," Evans stammered. "Well, yes, apparently."

Evans nodded towards his left, and Buck's eyes followed.

"Oh, hell," he spat.

He was sure that he would have noticed the men approaching if he'd been less busy arguing - or if he'd been sober, he was forced to admit. As it stood, things weren't looking particularly promising; the two ambushers had managed to take positions on the rocks overhead, and their rifles appeared to be loaded and ready. A third man stepped out from behind the corner at the top of the pass, waving a revolver and barking commands.

"What did he say?" Buck whispered tersely.

Evans spent a moment boggling, and then his face turned red.

"I don't know what he said," Evans howled, "because I don't speak Spanish!"

Buck winced and raised his hands above his head; Evans stood stock still and fuming, apparenly oblivious to the obvious threats being shouted at him.

"How far south did you lead us, exactly?" Evans shrieked.

Buck stared blankly for a moment, and then nodded to indicate the increasingly anxious gunmen.

"Do you think we could discuss this later, maybe?" Buck suggested blandly. "We're sort of being robbed by bandits at the moment, in case you hadn't noticed."

"No we're not!" Evans screamed. "We are being robbed by banditos, as a matter of fact!"

"I really don't think that the distinction is relevant at this point," noted Buck.

Evans began to express his opinions concerning what was and wasn't relevant, but broke off into raving midsentence, still apparently oblivious to the fact that all three guns were by now aimed directly at him. The fact did not go unnoticed by Polk Buckhorn. Evans fell suddenly silent as a cacophony of deafening noise erupted about him; as the echoes of it died out, he realized that all three desperadoes were now lying slumped on the ground, terribly still. He stared back at Buck; the man was rather casually reloading his revolver, a rather self-satisfied look on his face.

"Not a bad little diversion, I must say," Buck called approvingly. "A bit risky, though. Wouldn't have thought you had it in you."

Evans took another glance at the fallen gunmen, and then back at his guide. His mouth worked soundlessly for a moment before he settled on the right words.

"We need to get going," he coldly stated. "To the north, if you don't mind."

"If you say so," Buck distantly agreed.

"Oh, I do," Evans insisted. "And when we get to where we're going, I think that you and I need to have a long talk."

Chapter Ten

Some time had passed since the monster had discovered depression, and he'd finally found his way around to anger.

This would have been seriously bad news for the desert's native inhabitants, except that the beast was too clumsy to catch most of them. He'd finally settled for threatening a scorpion; a painful welt on one of his paws served as a reminder of that experiment. Now he was doing the only thing that he could think of, which was to sulk.

He'd spent a few days wandering aimlessly, and the place where he'd finally settled was certainly the perfect environment for someone hoping to indulge in some self-pity. It still wasn't a desert in the "endless plain of sand" sense, but it was a lot closer. The broken, yellowish stone that made up the landscape was practically bare, populated by little more than the occasional clump of tiny cacti. Living things were few, and most of them crawled on their bellies. The sun beat down with an intensity that seemed to suggest that the land had done something to deserve it.

The heat was beginning to give the beast a whole collection of headaches, which effectively soured his disposition further. The throbbing was only made worse by a rhythmic noise in the distance; after a moment of thrashing about in irritation, he fell abruptly into stillness and silence. The sound, he quite suddenly realized, was that of hooves on stone.

A montage of gruesome images flashed through the creature's simple mind, and he felt his muscles tensing in anticipation; after a moment he relaxed again, scowls on his faces.

What, he wondered bitterly, is the point?

The beast rolled over onto his side, whimpering slightly, as the sound of horses faded into the distance. The two riders, unaware of their good fortune, continued to bicker amongst themselves.

It had been over a week since Buck and Evans had left Tombstone; they'd had plenty of time to get to know one another in the meantime, and they'd arrived at the discovery that they didn't particularly like each other.

"Are you sure that you know where you're going?" Evans was asking.

Buck turned in his saddle and glared at his companion.

"Yes, I'm sure," he snarled. "For the last time: I am absolutely, positively sure."

Evans glanced around himself again.

"It's just that I could swear that we passed that cactus before," he noted. "Twice, actually."

"It's a cactus," Buck retorted hotly. "They all look the same."

Evans nodded slowly.

"So you've said," he answered. "It's just that - well, our destination is east by northeast of Tombstone. We've mostly been going south, if I'm not mistaken."

"My, aren't you clever," snarled Buck.

"Well?" Evans pressed.

"It's a shortcut," Buck mumbled.

"Ah," Evans skeptically replied. "Of course it is."

Sparky neighed as Buck reigned him to an abrupt stop; Evans shot past, and then rounded to pull alongside his guide.

"Look, there's no need to get into a temper about it," Evans snapped. "Just admit it; we're lost, aren't we?"

"We're not lost," Buck coldly insisted.

Evans rolled his eyes as Buck crossed his arms petulantly and scowled at nothing in particular.

"There's no shame in asking for directions, you know," Evans noted, attempting a reasonable tone.

Buck stared back at him for a moment, and then broke into a humorless laugh.

"Directions? Really?" he barked. "Alright, professor. Who're we gonna ask?"

Buck gestured dramatically at the barren landscape, and Evans blushed slightly. Buck scoffed, and then turned to look behind them.

"Maybe we could ask her, hm?" he murmured.

Evans followed Buck's line of sight, not sure what he was supposed to be looking at. After a moment, he spotted a tiny cloud of dust on the horizon; comprehension finally dawned, and his jaw dropped.

"God's teeth!" exclaimed Evans. "Is that - "

"My admirer from Tombstone?" Buck grumbled. "Yeah, that's her."

Evans stared for a moment in horrified disbelief - first at the sign of pursuit, and then at Buck.

"How long has she been following us?" he demanded.

"Since we left Tombstone," Buck growled. "How long do you think?"

Evans glanced back and forth again, his mouth working soundlessly. Finally, he managed to speak again.

"Well, do something, will you?" he shrieked. "Can't we... shake her, or whatever?"

"I've been trying," Buck snapped. "That's why we've been going south, in case you're curious."

"Well, I did ask," Evans replied sullenly.

Buck didn't seem to notice the comment. His eyes were still fixed on the distance, as if he were trying to look through the stone.

"I was hoping she'd have a harder time tracking us over all this rock," he muttered. "Doesn't seem to be working."

Evans considered this momentarily, and then jerked suddenly to attention.

"Well, shouldn't we be going, then?" he demanded.

"Capital idea."

The two spurred their horses and set off at a gallop; glancing at his compatriot, Evans noticed, with a kind of dim horror, that Buck was grinning.

"Don't tell me that you enjoy this kind of thing!" Evans howled. "We're being hunted, man! What, is this a game to you?"

Buck chucked slightly.

"Not at all," he assured Evans. "It's just that - well, the look on your face is pretty priceless, okay?"

Evans considered this momentarily.

"I think I'm starting to hate you a little bit," Evans informed him.

Buck's grin widened.

"Right back at you, pal," he drawled. "Better hold on tight; I'm taking us into the hills."