Chapter Seventeen

In an uncharacteristic display of emotion, the Pale Man was grinning. He was nothing if not methodical, and he loved nothing more than when a plan came together.

The four horsemen had ridden hard throughout the night, accompanied at last by the Beast. The thing had shaken off its apparent listlessness the moment that the Pale Man had spoken its true name; now it was coiled and eager, drunk with a sense of purpose. The Pale Man glanced towards the creature, and his grin widened as he took in the looks on the thing's motley collection of faces.

Each member of the dark assembly wore a similar expression: grim satisfaction, with a side of dreadful anticipation. They'd been waiting a long time for this, the lot of them.

They'd taken a vote the night before, and had settled on Manhattan as their first destination; it was a long way to travel, but they'd made good time so far. In actual fact, they rode no faster than any other four horsemen might; nevertheless, the miles melted away in a blur, as if the land itself were in a hurry to get out of their way.

The Pale Man's grin widened as the travelers skidded to a stop, having finally reached their destination: the heart of the new world's culture, and of its pride.

He had a look at his surroundings, and his smile disappeared instantly. The Burly Man began swearing passionately; someone else let out a low whistle.

"Um," the Sickly Man muttered.

"Wow," agreed the Thin Man.

Whatever calamity had struck this place, it had been thorough; no two bricks seemed to have been left atop one another. There were no signs of life apart from a handful of ravens picking amongst the ruins, their calls ringing over-loud against the quiet rustling of a dry wind. The sun loomed - red and angry - behind a thick veil of ash.

The city appeared to have been quite utterly leveled.

"It would appear," the Thin Man said slowly, "that somebody went and started the party without us."

The Pale Man stared about himself furiously, provoking a nervous cough from the Sickly Man.

"Well, this just cuts it," the Pale Man grumbled.

A terrible howling noise broke out against the silence - a sound the likes of which had previously existed only in nightmares. It was like nails on a chalkboard to the power of screeching clarinets, and even the Pale Man felt a shiver running down the length of his spine as he searched for the source of it.

As it turned out, it was the sound of the Beast weeping.

At he same moment - hundreds of miles away - Polk Buckhorn flinched involuntarily.

For poetry's sake, it would've been nice if he'd somehow sensed that something somewhere was terribly wrong; the truth, however - as it usually is - was quite a bit more mundane. The awful tingling sensation in the back of his neck was the same one that he always got when someone was pointing a gun at his back.

"You're gonna want to turn around real slowly," Melody suggested.

Time seemed to slow down as Buck took in his surroundings, really registering them for the first time as they suddenly seemed to take on a layer of awful significance. He'd spent the night back in the town of Carter's Refuge: the same small town where he'd both stolen Sparky and earned the price on his head. In the month since he'd been here last, it had gone from a typical Western settlement to an even more typical ghost town.

Now he found himself standing - with his hands above his head - at one end of the world's most typical Western main street. At the other end, he now knew, stood the woman who was apparently his nemesis. Two things occurred to him at this point: that he was wearing black, and that high noon appeared to be approaching.

Buck sighed, and then turned around slowly, his hands above his head.

Melody stood, grinning expansively, with her revolver pressed to Evans' temple. Buck started, and then gave a half-hearted wave.

"Hey there," Buck offered.

"Hi," Evans grumbled resentfully back.

Melody's grin widened, and she shoved Evans away from herself; he fell away without resistance, collapsing in the dirt at the edge of the street.

"I'd threaten to shoot him," she explained, "except that I doubt you'd care."

Buck shrugged.

"Well, he does owe me money," Buck muttered.

Melody chuckled, and then holstered her pistol; her hand remained upon the grip of the revolver, her fingers twitching eagerly. She nodded encouragingly at Buck; he sighed, and then reached slowly towards his own hip.

"Let's get this over with," he grumbled.