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.