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."

Chapter Nine

In Tombstone's main square, the clock began to chime high noon. Buck jerked to attention as the first bell woke him from a catnap; after a moment he came to his senses, and his hand slowly released its grip on the butt of his revolver.

His bleary eyes scanned the surroundings, but there was still no sign of Evans. Buck cursed under his breath; his horse shifted its weight beneath him, as if sensing his anxiety. His good mood had long since spent itself, and now he was eager to be out of town. This was partly because bigger cities made him feel cagey, but the fact that he'd had to break into the Bird Cage to get his things was also a factor.

Evans finally came into sight, leading a freshly purchased horse of his own; Buck glanced meaningfully at the clock, and the Doctor flushed slightly.

"My apologies," Evans stammered. "I had to sell my luggage to afford the supplies, I'm afraid. It took me a while to get a fair price."

"Not like we could have traveled with all those trunks anyhow," Buck grunted.

Evans shrugged somewhat mournfully; Buck dismounted and began to load the provisions into their saddlebags. After a moment, Evans coughed politely.

"Is this your horse?" asked the Doctor.

Buck glanced over his shoulder, his brow raised.

"No, I stole it," Buck muttered.

Evans' jaw dropped, and Buck realized that he'd made a mistake.

"Yes, it's my horse," Buck hissed. "What, they don't have sarcasm in Maryland?"

Evans chuckled nervously, his shocked expression relaxing somewhat.

"Of course," Evans ventured. "Very funny, I'm sure."

Buck sighed and continued packing. After a moment, he realized that Evans was still standing beside him, somewhat uncomfortably close. Buck wheeled around and fixed the Doctor with a steely stare; Evans flinched slightly, and then suddenly broke into a nervous grin.

"Was there something else?" Buck coolly asked.

"I'm sorry," Evans murmured. "I was only wondering, ah... what's his name, if you don't mind my asking?"

Buck stared blankly.

"What's whose name?" Buck demanded.

Evans gave an embarrassed cough; Buck gaped for a moment, and then comprehension finally dawned on his face.

"What, the horse?" Buck demanded. "How should I know?"

Evans seemed disappointed.

"He doesn't have one, then?" he asked.

"Of course he doesn't have a name," Buck snapped. "Who the hell names a horse?"

Evans shrugged.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I just thought that cowboys always named their horses, I suppose."

Buck boggled at this for a moment before managing to find his voice.

"First of all, I am not a cowboy," Buck stated flatly. "I am not in the cattle business, do you understand? Lets be really clear on that point."

"If you say so," Evans answered uncertainly.

"Secondly, there's just..." Buck trailed off momentarily, but rallied quickly. "It's not all fun and games out here, okay? I don't know what kind of romantic ideas you've got in your head from Buffalo Bill or whatever, but it's just... it just isn't, okay?"

"I can see that," Evans muttered.

The Doctor slumped, seeming somewhat deflated, and Buck cursed.

"Oh, don't pout," Buck groaned. "Okay, alright. Fine. His name's Sparky, okay? There we go. From this day forward, he will be known as Sparky the horse, okay? Are you happy?"

"Not especially," Evans admitted dourly.

Buck seethed for a moment, obviously trying to think of an appropriate response to this; after a few seconds, however, he fell silent.

"Is something wrong?" Evans asked.

Buck didn't seem to hear the question; Evans followed the gunslinger's line of sight, and immediately realized the cause of the man's apparent distraction. About a hundred feet away, a young woman was standing in the middle of the street, staring fixedly at the two of them. She was quite lovely, her strange clothing notwithstanding, but something about her eyes was deeply disquieting. Evans had seen the look before, but he couldn't immediately recall where; after a moment, he realized that it reminded him of the way that a snake looked at its next meal.

"We need to get out of here," Buck whispered. "Right now, I think."

"Who is she?" Evans asked, his voice shaking.

"I don't feel like sticking around to find out," Buck answered.

Evans found that he agreed wholeheartedly with this assessment; the two of them began slowly mounting their horses, their eyes not leaving hers. At last, the young woman broke the silence.

"Polk Buckhorn?" she barked.

Buck wasn't feeling particularly brave at the moment, but he managed to puff himself up a bit.

"In the flesh," he called back as boldly as he could manage.

The woman's face went through a bizarre transformation as conflicting emotions raced across it; at last, her expression settled into an eerily sublime smile. Her right arm blurred, and Buck heard the bullet whizzing past his ear before his mind had registered the sight of the gun in her hand. His hand jerked instinctively towards his holster, but he checked it at the last moment; her aim was centered on his chest, and her precision told him that the first shot had been a warning. Even sober, he wasn't sure that he could have outdrawn her.

The woman's grin widened; this time, Evans was reminded of a shark. The woman finally spoke again; her voice seemed distant, as if she were lost in a daydream.

"Run," she suggested.

Buck hesitated for only a moment, and then spurred his horse with ferocity; Evans followed a moment later, his eyes bulging. A few more bullets whistled by as they fled; Buck had the unpleasant sense that the woman had missed on purpose. A few startled townsfolk leaped out of the way as the two men raced towards the city limits, neither daring a backward glance.

Evans and Buck finally slowed to a canter a few miles outside of town, once it had become clear that the woman was not in immediate pursuit. Evans was pale and out of breath; Buck seemed only slightly nonplussed, although he was still glancing back over his shoulder rather frequently.

"What was that about?" Evans finally gasped.

"Search me," Buck mumbled.

Evans boggled.

"She was trying to kill you," he stated unnecessarily. "You mean to tell me that you don't even know why?"

Buck shrugged vaguely.

"There's a lot of people that'd like to kill me," he answered.

Evans considered this; he was finally beginning to calm down, Buck noted with relief.

"I see," Evans said at last. "I've heard of that kind of thing: up-and-comers thinking that it will help their reputations if they can beat a famous gunslinger."

A number of responses to this immediately suggested themselves to Buck, but he managed to check himself.

"Exactly," he muttered instead.

Back in town, a number of civilians had gathered at the site of the commotion; they were rather disappointed, however. There was no sign of a fight - only a strangely dressed young woman standing in the road, smiling serenely into the distance.

Chapter Eight

The following day was very much like any other, at least in the sense that it featured Polk Buckhorn being thrown out of a tavern.

He'd sent Evans off early in the morning with a shopping list of provisions for the trip, and had then made his way directly downstairs to the bar. Halfway through a bottle of the Bird Cage's best bourbon (or at least its most expensive), it had seemed like a good idea to visit the gambling hall. Within a few hours, he'd lost nearly half of his new-found fortune; had be been in a clearer state of mind, he would probably have lost more. Instead he'd accused the dealer of cheating, and had instigated what had quickly developed into a fairly nasty brawl.

Things got a little fuzzy in Buck's memory after that. Currently, he seemed to be lying in the street outside the Bird Cage's front door; a painful lump on the back of his head explained the blackout. He struggled slowly to his feet, wincing. He was dimly aware that he deserved what he'd gotten, but he went ahead and bellowed a curse in the direction of the tavern anyway, albeit mostly because he felt that it was expected of him.

The insult came across as half-hearted, and Buck realized - to his own great surprise - that he was in high spirits. He was never more in his element than when he was making an ass of himself, and the familiarity of the situation put him in a good mood. The fact that his fortunes seemed to be looking up certainly didn't hurt, and he found that he was feeling cautiously optimistic - a rarity, given his usual outlook. Buck tested his weight on his twisted ankle and then set off in search of Evans, a self-satisfied expression on his face.

Things had calmed down inside the tavern by the time Buck came to, and before long the main hall of the Bird Cage had settled into its usual morning routine. Things were a lot less rowdy before noon, since most of the early risers were nursing headaches. There were no more than a dozen of them now, breakfasting on hair-of-the-dog while the more enterprising girls made the rounds, offering hangover cures of their own. The bartender had time to wipe down glasses, and to share jokes with the handful of patrons who'd had a good enough night to appreciate them.

Something odd happened at this point. The jangling of the piano abruptly fell silent, and within moments a hush had fallen over the room. Every head twisted in unison as all eyes turned to stare at the door. The whole procedure was standard protocol whenever, say, a gunslinger dressed in black walked into a tavern. This time, however, things were slightly off. First of all, player pianos are generally not easily intimidated. Secondly, today's black-clad gunman was still a few blocks up the street, and wouldn't walk into the tavern for fully another minute.

The crowd waited in an uncomfortable silence as the man dismounted, shared a few quick words with his posse, and then finally walked through the door and into sight. He was more or less what they'd expected, although they couldn't have said how. His boots, his trousers, his chaps, his shirt and vest, his long coat, and his wide-brimmed hat were all, of course, black - darker than black, somehow, as if whatever light made the mistake of falling on them wasn't ever coming back. He was tall; he was gaunt; he was pale. His sunken eyes were also black, and not just the parts that should have been.

The hush became a silence, and - at this point - it becomes necessary to define "silence." The closest that most people get is when they're alone in their homes at night, and that really isn't the same. If you listen, you'll notice the constant clamor of all the tiny sounds that you normally ignore: distant traffic, if you live near the city; the buzz of the refrigerator; or just the ambient hum of electricity. You can plug your ears, but you'll still hear the sound of the blood rushing through your veins. It may be very quiet, but it isn't silent.

The bar was truly, utterly silent. The bartender realized that the pale man was staring at him, and suddenly he could hear his heartbeat. It sounded like the tick of a timer running out.

The pale man began walking towards the bar. He walked with purpose, although nobody would have cared to guess what that purpose might have been. His footsteps boomed over-loud against the hush, the sound of coffin lids slamming shut. The jangling of his spurs was slightly comical in comparison, but nobody seemed to be in a laughing mood. Something about the pale man's presence made it hard to imagine that such a thing as laughter existed.

Outside of the Bird Cage, the pale man's companions waited impatiently.

"What's taking him so long?" grumbled the first, a red-haired giant of a man.

"Well, he probably..." began the second, before breaking into fits of ugly coughing.

"...Scared them all too stiff to talk," finished the third, a gaunt figure in ill-fitting clothing.

The burly redhead grunted his assent. A few more minutes passed before the pale man finally exited the building, a dissatisfied look on his face.

"Bad news?" choked the sickly man.

"No news," the pale man grumbled. "Nobody's heard anything."

"Is that even possible?" balked the thin man. "This place might be a backwater, but somebody must have heard something."

"Bullocks to something," the burly man opined. "This whole region should be in a panic."

"What do we do now, then?" whined the thin man.

There was a moment's pause as the four men considered their apparent dilemma. At last, the pale man shrugged.

"We keep looking," he rasped.

Inside, the crowd remained silent even as the sound of galloping hooves faded into the distance. The mood still hadn't gotten any lighter an hour later when a young woman burst through the door, abruptly fired two shots into the rafters, and addressed the wide-eyed crowd with no further introductions.

"I'm looking for a friend of mine," Melody announced.

Chapter Seven

Michael Evans' afternoon was turning out to be a major disappointment.

Given his profession, Evans took a fairly sober view of the colonization of the West; still, the city of Tombstone was practically legendary, and he'd actually found himself jittering with excitement as his carriage had approached the city limits. His enthusiasm had faded as soon as he'd gotten a closer look. He later learned that an ill-conceived attempt to pipe water into the city some years back had led to flooding in the mines, putting a quick end to the boom-town's rapid growth. Much of the city had been consumed in a number of fires at around the same time; as far as Evans could tell, only a cursory attempt had been made to repair the subsequent damage.

Likewise, the Bird Cage Theatre had failed utterly to live up to Evans' expectations. A saloon, gambling den, and brothel all in one, the establishment's fame was rivaled only by the notoriety of its clientele; wild tales had led him to believe that legendary gunslingers practically hung from the rafters on any given day. Seeing the place for himself, Evans wasn't sure if the stories had been exaggerated, or if they'd simply failed to keep up with the times; the Bird Cage was limping along bravely, but whatever glory days she might have had were clearly behind her.

There was only one gunslinger of any renown in attendance, and the man was turning out to be the biggest disappointment so far.

"Are you Polk Buckhorn?" Evans asked, his voice more than a little incredulous.

Buck winced, and then squinted blearily up at Evans' hazy shape.

"Depends who's asking," Buck unenthusiastically grumbled.

"Forgive me," said Evans. "Doctor Michael Evans, of Maryland."

"It's an honor," he added, a bit uncertainly.

Buck giggled under his breath at this last statement, but Evans pressed bravely on.

"I have work for a man of your profession, if you'd be interested."

Buck considered this, the thoughts turning over clumsily in his mind. He hadn't actually come to Tombstone looking for employment, but there was the question of how he was going to pay his rapidly growing tab.

"What kind of work?" he ventured warily.

Helping himself to a seat, Evans leaned forward conspiratorially.

"I'm looking for someone," he confided. "An old acquaintance."

"Hire a detective," Buck suggested.

"Oh, I know where to find him," Evans assured him. "The question is getting there. You see, he lives out in the deep desert, and I'll need a guide. And a bodyguard."

Buck grunted; Evans began to sweat.

"If money's an issue, I can assure you that I'm in a position to compensate you most handsomely," Evans stammered.

Buck's attitude became slightly less dismissive, but he remained on guard.

"How handsomely?" he asked.

Evans swallowed hard. He'd sold most of what he owned to finance this trip, and the return had been far more than what he'd expected. This didn't seem like the time to hold out.

"Ten thousand dollars," he finally answered, his voice wavering.

Buck nearly choked; somehow, he managed to keep his composure. Trying not to appear overeager, he pretended to mull the offer over for a moment before responding.

"We might be able to work something out," he murmured.

Evans sagged with visible relief; Buck offered what he hoped was a disarming smile.

"I have a room upstairs," Buck drawled, "if you'd like to work out the particulars someplace more private."

Being away from the dismal scene in the main hall seemed to ease some of Evans' tensions, and he began rambling, telling the story of his background and journey thus far. He stared out the window as he did so; Buck was taking the opportunity to creep slowly towards Evans' turned back, testing the weight of his revolver's butt in his hand as he did so.

"You have the money on you?" he interrupted, as innocently as he could manage.

"Oh, yes," Evans assured him.

Buck's hand darted behind his back as Evans turned to address him; the doctor didn't seem to notice.

"Will that be enough, then?" Evans asked innocently.

Buck's eyes bulged, despite his best attempt to keep his poker face.

"Well, I don't know..." Buck mumbled.

"I could go higher, if it comes down to it," Evans pleaded. "I'd need to return to Maryland to get the rest, but it could be done. Say another five hundred per day?"

"Deal!" Buck shouted instantly, despite himself.

Evans beamed, and Buck found it necessary to sit down.

"You know the area well, I'm sure?" Evans asked.

"Like the back of my hand," Buck lied smoothly.

"Wonderful," Evans crooned. "I really can't thank you enough, Mr. Buckhorn."

Buck suppressed a wicked chuckle.

"Call me Buck," he offered.

It hadn't occurred to Evans that he'd given Polk Buckhorn no incentive to get him to his destination in anything resembling a timely fashion. It had occurred to Buck, and he was preoccupied with making calculations in his head.

Still smiling absently, Evans turned to look out the window once again. A coyote appeared to have found its way into town, and was sitting idly at the edge of the yard opposite the window. Despite his elation, Evans couldn't shake the uncanny impression that the creature was grinning at him.

Act Two

"The torment of precautions often exceeds the dangers to be avoided. It is sometimes better to abandon one's self to destiny."

-Napoleon Bonaparte



"A life without adventure is likely to be unsatisfying, but a life in which adventure is allowed to take whatever form it will is sure to be short."

-Bertrand Russell