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.