Epilogue

The Bird's Cage Theater had changed little in fifteen years. A recent influx of Yankee tourists had meant a boom in the saloon's business; still, despite the management's attempts to cater to a more puritanical audience, the main showroom managed to retain all the distinctive seediness of years gone by. Tonight the lounge was packed with revelers, all of them presently roaring a countdown for a new year and a new century.

Polk Buckhorn scowled at the party-goers, wishing passionately that they'd keep their voices down. He hadn't enjoyed what he'd experienced of the nineteenth century, and he wasn't holding out much hope for the following one.

The crowd fell silent with a collective gasp shortly after the count of four. In the hush, Buck could clearly hear an unmistakable metallic click from directly behind his head.

Buck winced, suddenly acutely aware of the fact that all eyes were focused on him. His whisper rang against the silence.

"Who'd I kill?" he asked.

There was a pause, and then a voice from behind him answered.

"My brother," was the short reply.

Buck nodded thoughtfully. For a moment, he seemed to be struggling with something; finally, he spoke.

"I'm sorry," he said simply.

There was no answer. Buck finished his beer in one large swig, and then shot a wink into a dark corner of the bar. The pale figure hidden in the shadows looked up from his wristwatch, his dark eyes wide.

"Ain't so bad, when it comes down to it," Buck mused. "Kinda makes me wonder what I was so afraid of."

With a quiet hiccup, Buck slumped out of his chair; he hit the floor crouching, revolver in hand. For the first time in many years, he was smiling.