Chapter Twenty Two

Buck, Evans, and Dancing Bird huddled at the edge of the dark clearing, conferring amongst themselves. The horses stood trembling, their eyes locked on the Pale Man; he waited impassively as the others argued amongst themselves, occasionally making a great show of checking his wristwatch. The three humans had been arguing for almost ten minutes, and the Pale Man valued few things more than punctuality.

"You're positive that this is the only way?" Buck was asking.

"The answer to that question has not changed in the time since you last asked it of me," answered Dancing Bird, his tone deceptively patient.

"I'm sorry to interject," Evans interjected, "but that is Death, isn't it?"

The three men glanced towards the Pale Man, who responded with a half-hearted wave. Buck shivered, despite himself.

"Weird, right?" he mumbled. "Not exactly how I pictured him, I'll admit."

Evans shook his head.

"It's not that," he explained. "It's just that... well, really? Death? That's your deepest fear?"

"Something wrong with that?" Buck asked testily.

Evans shrugged.

"Not really, I suppose. It just seems so... I don't know. Unimaginative."

"Maybe you'd like to do this," hissed Buck.

Death cleared his throat; Buck glared over his shoulder momentarily, and then turned back to Dancing Bird.

"Yes, I'm positive," growled the shaman.

Evans still seemed preoccupied.

"I suppose that everyone fears death to some extent," he continued, "but it still seems rather uninspired to me."

"Shut up," suggested Buck.

"Whenever you're ready," interrupted the Pale Man.

"And you can shut up, as well," snarled Buck.

"You were the one who just wanted to get this over with," Dancing Bird stated pointedly.

"Alright, I'm going," Buck grumbled.

Buck puffed out his chest, turned, and strode as bravely as he could manage towards his opponent. After a moment his gait slowed, and he spun around.

"Aren't either of you going to wish me luck?" he demanded hotly.

"Not me," Dancing Bird answered cheerfully. "I hope he kills you, to be honest."

"Would you please just go?" snapped Evans.

Buck scowled briefly, and then closed the remainder of the distance between himself and Pale Man in a few quick strides.

"So," Buck said coolly. "How does this work, exactly?"

The Pale Man shrugged expansively.

"The choice is yours," he boomed.

Buck raised an eyebrow.

"Really?" he answered cautiously. "So, what, I could challenge you to anything? What about a 'being human' contest?"

The Pale Man considered this momentarily, his gaze level.

"You could," he answered coolly, "but I honestly wouldn't recommend it."

Buck spent a moment trying to work out whether he'd just been insulted, but finally decided to let the comment pass. He risked another glance at Evans, who made a vaguely encouraging gesture. He looked back to the Pale Man, and found the creature's eyes blazing into his own. After a moment, a slow, terrible smile spread its way across Death's face. The expression seemed out of place, and Buck boggled; after a moment, however, a horrible thought occurred to him.

There weren't a lot of things that Polk Buckhorn feared; as a rule, he simply wasn't invested enough in his own well-being. Despite his indignation, he was forced to admit that a lack of imagination on his part was probably a factor as well. There was one thing, though: a terrible, sneaking certainty that perpetually lurked at the back of his mind, no matter how much he'd had to drink. What kept him awake at night wasn't the idea of dying, not exactly; it was the sure knowledge that - someday - he would find himself standing off against someone who he couldn't outdraw.

Death spoke, and his voice was the sound of the last grain of sand slipping through an hourglass.

"And that is why you cannot win," rasped the Pale Man, his voice pitched for Buck's ears alone.

"We'll see about that," retorted Buck, feigning a confidence that he didn't feel.

The Pale Man's cold smile glittered; Buck's face momentarily twisted into a mockery of the creature's smug expression, and then he glanced over at Evans.

"You," he barked. "Bring me my saddlebags, would you?"

Evans started, and then hesitantly removed the bags slung over Sparky's haunch; he approached falteringly, and finally handed the saddlebags to Buck from arm's length. The professor stood, transfixed, and watched Buck fumble through his belongings; after a moment Buck produced a flask, which he emptied in a series of shuddering gulps.

A profoundly disapproving expression crawled across Evan's face; before he could comment, the Pale Man spoke again.

"Choose," he said simply.

Buck tossed the flask aside, and then pulled himself up to his full height.

"Only one thing I'm good at," he announced.

The Pale Man arched an eyebrow, and then reached into his black jacket; his hand returned a moment later gripping an oversized scythe of unlikely baroque design. He made a few deceptively minor adjustments to the instrument; when he was done, it had somehow been transformed into an ornately engraved, chrome-plated revolver. Buck resolutely turned his back to Death, who quickly followed suit, and then made a vague gesture towards Evans.

"Ten paces," he ordered. "Count them out."

Evans gaped, and Buck nodded impatiently. The professor glanced between the two combatants, and then took a deep, shuddering breath.

"One," he said, his voice trembling.

Buck took a step forward, and the rustling behind him told him that the Pale Man had done the same. For once, the familiar feel of his pistol's handle in his hand seemed to offer him no reassurance.

"Two," choked Evans.

Buck took another step. His eyes met with those of Dancing Bird, who was watching the proceedings with a polite lack of interest; Buck scowled at the shaman, his concentration momentarily broken.

"Three."

Dancing Bird's unconcerned attitude had distracted Buck, and he nearly stumbled on his next step. He swore under his breath, and then gritted his teeth fiercely.

"Four."

Buck's foot swung forward and then pivoted sharply as he whipped around, his weapon drawn.

Time seemed to Buck to have slowed to an agonizing crawl, thanks to a combination of adrenaline and whatever strange rules this place outside of reality followed. He had time to admire the perfection of the Pale Man's technique as he drew his own pistol, to watch the barrel swinging inexorably around, to see his adversary's finger tightening upon the trigger. Buck had flung himself to one side as he'd turned, and the ground seemed to be approaching at a remarkably casual pace.

The Pale Man was faster, but Buck had a head start. He could only hope that it would be enough.

To Evans, it seemed as if it had begun and ended in only a single second; the exchange was over by the time he realized that Buck hadn't merely taken a misstep, as he nearly had on the previous count. Two shots were fired in the same moment, and then Buck landed clumsily, having dived to one side as he'd fired.

The Pale Man gaped, his mouth working silently, and then collapsed in a heap. The shadows swirled about him, and he was gone.

Buck stumbled awkwardly to his feet; his pistol whipped up in a blur to point at Evans.

"Don't you dare say it," he growled.

Evans balked.

"I'm sorry?" he stammered.

Buck winced and bared his teeth.

"I know you're thinking it," he hissed. "Probably working out a 'cheating death' joke right this instant. Seriously, I will shoot you."

Evans considered this momentarily, and then seemed to bite back a comment.

"That's what I thought," Buck muttered.

Buck holstered his revolver with an air of distant satisfaction, stumbled, and then crumpled to the ground.