Chapter Nineteen

As has already been discussed, the nameless desert to the north of Carter's Refuge was not much to look at.

The really good deserts - the Sahara, for example - have a certain desolate majesty, like the surface of an alien world. Majestic, this desert wasn't. It was... well, let's not mince words. It was fairly ugly.

To compensate, perhaps out of a sense of fair play, the creator had given it perhaps the best sunsets to be found anywhere.

One was in full swing now, and the recent changes in the sun's coloration and apparent size conspired to make it an especially awe-inspiring one. It stained the sky in fantastic shades of maroon and purple and orange; it drew out undreamed-of highlights in the wispy threads of cloud that dotted the horizon. The shadows of distant mountains stood against it in sharp contrast, framing the spectacle. The whole thing was impossibly scenic, like something out of a deranged watercolorist's fever dream.

If it was to be the Earth's last sunset, then it seemed determined to be a good one.

Evans hadn't noticed it; he was too preoccupied with glaring at the back of Polk Buckhorn's head.

Neither of them had said a word since they'd left Carter's Refuge. It wasn't that Evans had nothing to say, but deciding where to start was proving to be a challenge. He was right on the verge of collecting his thoughts when Buck's voice came from the shadows ahead of him.

"You gonna keep giving me the stink-eye all night," Buck grumbled, "or are you gonna speak your mind?"

For once, Evans was not to be cowed.

"I guess you're pretty proud of yourself, hm?" he sneered.

In the darkness ahead, he could barely make out a shrug from Buck's silhouette.

"Not like I had much of a choice," Buck grumbled. "She was trying to kill me, in case you hadn't noticed."

"I sort of wish she had," Evans retorted hotly.

Sparky slowed to a stop, and Evans eased his own horse to a stop a few yards behind. A moment passed in silence.

"You mean it?" Buck mumbled pathetically.

"If what she said was true?" Evans barked. "About her father? Then yes, I think that you probably deserve to die. And she probably deserved to kill you."

Buck glared.

"Maybe you didn't notice," he said, "but the girl wasn't exactly a saint herself. Doubt I deserve to die any more than she did."

"And whose fault is that?" Evan screeched. "You're the one who made her that way, aren't you?"

Buck didn't reply, and Evans found his temper rising further.

"How could you?" he howled. "I mean, honestly. What kind of man kills a little girl's father right in front of her?"

Buck slouched ever-so-slightly in his saddle.

"Didn't have much of a choice in that either," he muttered.

"Is that right?" Evans sneered, his voice thick with sarcasm.

"As a matter of fact, it is," Buck growled. "Look, I've done some bad things, okay? That don't mean I'm..."

Buck's voice almost cracked; when he spoke again, there was iron in his tone.

"Man was drunker than I was," he growled. "I was just supposed to scare him, you see? But he goes and decides he's got something to prove. Gets up in my face, hollering and carrying on."

Buck turned in his saddle; in the darkness, Evans couldn't quite make out the look on his companion's face.

"He drew first, you understand?" Buck muttered. "Only I was faster."

"Like you were with Melody," Evans snarled.

"Oh, give it a rest."

Evans' temper had died down, but only slightly.

"You could have told her," he sulked.

Buck chuckled mirthlessly.

"You think it would've mattered?" he asked.

"It couldn't have hurt."

"What, telling her that her pa brought it on himself? Yeah, actually, I'm pretty sure it could've."

Evans scoffed.

"So instead you tell her you're not sorry for what happened? Very nice."

Buck sighed, and then lit a cigarette; Evans hadn't been aware that the man smoked. The glow from the ember cast an eerie light upon the deep lines of his face, as if he'd captured the light of the sunset. Buck took a deep drag, and then grunted a brief comment.

"I'm not," he said.

Evans shook his head.

"Not what?"

"Sorry."

Buck stared off into the distance.

"Wasn't my fault," he explained.

A moment passed as Evans absorbed this, and then he began to explain - in detail - exactly what he thought of this. Very little of what he had to say was especially coherent, and none of it would be worth printing. After a few minutes, he finally started to run out of energy; at last, he fell silent.

"You about done?" Buck grumbled.

Evans turned his back by way of an answer. Buck laughed again; it sounded as if laughter was something he'd only heard about secondhand, and he'd only just now decided to give it a try.

"Alright, then," he muttered. "You've had your say. So. Let me tell you a story."

He took another drag, taking no apparent satisfaction from the act.

"That's your job, right? Professor?" he mused. "Listening to people's stories? Well, I've got a doozie for you."

Buck stared for a moment at the pathetic dregs of his cigarette and then flicked the remains aside, his face falling once again into darkness as he did so.

"Drinking runs in the family," he stated flatly. "And believe me, I'm a sweetheart compared to my old man. So when I was a kid, I got good at finding places to hide. The loft up in the barn - that was my favorite. Last place he would've thought to look for me, y'see. Knew I hated it up there."

There was a long pause, and then Buck falteringly continued.

"This'll probably surprise you, a big tough guy like me... but I hated spiders when I was a kid. Couldn't stand 'em. And there were all kinds of them up in the rafters of the barn, you see? Big ugly ones, scared the life out of me. Guess I figured a little scare was better than a black eye or a broken nose, though."

Evans crossed his arms; Buck cleared his throat.

"I remember one summer... I was probably seven or eight, and old Pa Buckhorn'd been hitting the bottle. So I go climbing up the ladder to the loft, right? Only it's breeding season for the little bastards, and their webs are all full of those little balls of eggs. I tell you what, I about flipped. Just the thought of God-knows-how-many little baby spiders crawling all over the barn made my skin crawl, believe me. So here I am, about ready to smash 'em with the first thing I can lay my hands on."

Buck trailed off momentarily, and then rallied.

"So just when I've found something - a broom, I think - I hear my dad yelling from inside the house. And something stops me, right? Like... I don't know. I guess it seemed like it wouldn't have been sporting, you know? Killing 'em all before they even got a chance to live? Hell, I don't know. Point is, something stopped me. Couldn't rightly tell you what."

"So a couple of weeks later they all hatch. Little baby spiders everywhere, right? Only somehow it don't seem so bad, what with them being so tiny. And it's like... I don't know. Not like they was my pets, or whatever. But there was something, like... because I let them live, it was kind of like they belonged to me."

Evans' brow furrowed slightly. At some point his professional instincts had kicked in, and he'd gotten caught up in the narrative despite himself. Buck seemed momentarily lost in thought.

"There was more to it than that, I think," he muttered. "The fact that I let 'em live... well, it felt good. Like I'd done something noble, I guess. So. Picture little Polk Buckhorn tiptoeing around the barn, making sure not to step on any spiders."

Buck snorted derisively; when he continued, his voice had a chilly edge.

"You know what they eat?" he asked suddenly.

Evans started.

"Um," he mumbled. "Insects, don't they?"

Buck nodded.

"Sure," he agreed, "once they get big enough. When they're just hatched, though? Most bugs are too big for 'em to catch when they're that little. But they gotta get by, right? So how do they do it?"

Buck paused again, as if waiting for a response; when none came, he finished his thought.

"They eat each other," he said flatly. "Their own little brothers and sisters. Wrap each other up and suck each others' guts out."

Evans' skin crawled. Buck turned away.

"Something I realized a long time ago," Buck grumbled. "The world's an ugly place, you know that? I figure you can either eat, or you can be eaten."

The two men sat in silence for a few minutes as Evans stared at the back of Buck's head, trying to construct a response. At last, one dawned on him.

"You have a number of very, very serious problems," Evans said coldly,"for which you should very seriously consider seeking professional help. Do you know that?"

Buck muttered something under his breath, and then spoke up.

"Think that's gonna have to wait," he grumbled.

"I mean it," Evans insisted.

"Yeah, so do I," Buck said, his voice rising. "Look, I might be crazy -"

"That's the point that I was trying to make, yes."

"But I think I might've just found your friend," Buck finished.

Buck pointed a finger towards the shadows - just at the edge of vision - where an old man was waiting patiently for the conversation to wrap itself up. Evans' jaw dropped, and the old man gave a half-hearted wave.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything," Dancing Bird apologized. "Hello, Michael. It's been a while."