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.