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."