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.

Chapter Twenty One

In the beginning, there was only darkness and emptiness.

The Gods were there, but they were alone - their existences spent in contemplation. Things continued in this fashion for a very long time. At last, Coyote got bored of contemplation. He tricked the other Gods, and talked them into making a world.

The Gods worked very hard to make a world - except, of course, for Spider. Now, Spider is a very lazy God; therefore, it can be no surprise that he was sleeping when Corn Mother came to enlist his aid.

"Wake up, you lazy creature," She chided him. "The world is almost finished, and you've done nothing!"

Resentful for having been awakened from a wonderful dream, Spider opened only one of his many eyes.

"Away, you nag!" he grumbled. "I have only been saving my energy for all of the marvelous things that I plan to create."

"You're in luck, if that's the case," Corn Mother beamed. "We were just about to create First Man, and I thought that you might like to help."

Now, Spider is a lazy god, but he is also crafty. He knew that he would need a marvelous excuse to avoid having to help to create First Man. Luckily, he managed to think of one quickly.

"I'm afraid that I'm much too busy to help you create First Man," he replied. "For you see, I was just getting ready to hang the Sun up in the sky."

"Oh, well, that's too bad," murmured Corn Mother. "Still, I'm sure that the Sun will be positively magnificent."

Corn Mother departed, and Spider prepared to get back to his nap; first, though, he would need to make his excuse convincing. He spun a bag of silk, and with it he attached the Sun to his back. With it in place, he began crawling up the dome of the Sky, until he had reached the top. Once he was there he spun a thread of silk, and with it he dangled the Sun from the top of the Sky. The work was very hard, and Spider was exhausted from his labors by the time that he descended from the Heavens. When he reached the Earth, Corn Mother was waiting for him.

"What a wonderful thing!" she exclaimed. "It truly is marvelous, just as you promised."

Satisfied that his excuse had worked, Spider gave a weary smile.

"I'm glad that you like it," he purred. "How is First Man coming along?"

"Oh, that old thing?" said Corn Mother. "We finished him weeks ago."

Grumbling, Spider returned to his web to sleep; Corn Mother smiled to herself, having tricked Spider into doing the most difficult job of all. But she may have made a mistake, because Spider did a shoddy job of hanging the Sun in the Sky. Even now, the thread that holds up the Sun is fraying; Spider must return to the Sky to repair it every so often, or it will break and the Sun will fall. And - since Spider is such a lazy God - it falls to us to remind him of his task...

Michael Evans found a lump growing in his throat as Dancing Bird sat, his eyes closed, solemnly reciting the litany that would wake Spider from his slumber. Watching the old man invoke the intercession of his Gods - here, so far from Western civilization and all of its trappings - it was almost possible to imagine that events such as this one were still commonplace on these moonlit plains.

The wonder and mystery of the occasion were lost on Buck, who'd spent most of the ritual fidgeting anxiously.

"Is he almost done?" Buck finally whispered to Evans.

Evans shushed Buck; Dancing Bird momentarily opened a single eye and glared at the two of them, his chant not wavering for a moment. After a few more minutes, the shaman's voice trailed away into silence. An expectant hush fell over the men; at last, Dancing Bird spoke.

"It is finished," he said matter-of-factly. "My part has been played."

Buck blinked.

"What, that's it?" he gawked. "It's as simple as that?"

Dancing Bird scoffed.

"Hardly," he said. "Your task yet remains."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Buck snarled. "I'm not much for chanting, if that's what you..."

Buck trailed off as the stars disappeared from above, followed by the moon. Within moments, a swirling darkness had enveloped the group. The campfire sputtered briefly, and then winked out of existence.

Buck leapt to his feet, swearing. The three men now seemed to be standing upon a level plain of what looked like volcanic glass. A brackish mist swirled about them, making it difficult to see more than perhaps twenty feet into the distance. Strange shapes loomed in the fog. Buck gaped.

"What did you do?" he demanded.

Dancing Bird had made a career of suffering fools, and felt that he was overdue for retirement. His gaze managed to express contempt on an astounding number of separate levels.

"Well?" he drawled. "You didn't think it was going to be as easy as that, did you?"

Evans' face mirrored Buck's confusion.

"I sort of did, actually," Evans mumbled.

Dancing Bird sighed wearily.

"Haven't you been paying attention?" he demanded. "I have done my part; now you must do yours."

"And what does that entail, exactly?" Evans asked timidly.

Dancing Bird sniffed impatiently.

"As I mentioned, the two of you are - apparently - a man of great strength, and one of great compassion. The ceremony is also a test, you see. It falls to the two of you to prove that the Earth is worthy to continue existing."

"What, really?" Evans stammered.

"So it would seem," replied Dancing Bird.

The shaman sat, and then gave a small wave.

"Good luck with that," he said, without much enthusiasm.

Buck's face was buried in his hands; when he spoke, it was from between his fingers.

"Would you please, for the love of God, just tell us what we're supposed to do?"

Dancing Bird grinned.

"Gladly," he cooed. "You, Buck, have to fight and conquer that which you most fear."

"Is that all," Buck deadpanned.

Dancing Bird nodded enthusiastically, his grin having grown somewhat more horrible. Evans' eyes bulged; Buck gave a resigned sigh, and then gestured vaguely.

"Allright," he mumbled. "Let's get it over with."

Dancing Bird gave an unsettling laugh, and the looming shadows surrounding the three seemed to resonate with the hollow sound of the shaman's laughter. The mist swirled, congealed, and began settling into a shape. At last, the smoke parted, and a man stood before the trio. He was dressed from head to toe in black. His skin was pale. His eyes were black, and not just the parts that should've been.

The man blinked, seemingly surprised to have found himself here, and then glared viciously at Buck.

"Can this wait?" rasped the Pale Man. "I'm a little busy at the moment."

Chapter Twenty

Nightfall had come and gone. The desert, so bland by day, actually managed to effect a certain ethereal splendor with only the eerie light of the moon to illuminate it. This particular evening was lent a special loveliness by a freak meteor shower; say what you might, the sight of a third of the stars falling from the sky was fairly spectacular.

In the plain below, a tiny campfire struggled feebly to push back the encroaching shadows. Three men sat in a circle around the fire, their faces ghostly in its flickering light.

Michael Evans and Dancing Bird had spent the better part of an hour getting reacquainted, and Buck was beginning to fidget. They'd both lapsed into the shaman's language at some point, and he was increasingly falling prey to a paranoid suspicion that they were talking about him. At last, his patience snapped.

"Look," he grumbled. "I'm sure you two have a lot of catching up to do, but shouldn't we be getting down to business?"

Evans seemed taken aback, as if he'd forgotten about Buck entirely.

"Your friend has a point," Dancing Bird commented. "You still haven't told me what you're doing here, Michael. You didn't come all this way to pay a social visit, I suspect."

Evans shook his head.

"Isn't it obvious?" he muttered.

Evans gestured vaguely towards the sky above; Dancing Bird looked obligingly upward, appraising the spectacle with a grim smile.

"Ah, yes," he remarked. "Magnificent, isn't it?"

Buck was beginning to lose patience.

"Look, could you try to focus for a second?" he growled. "This is kind of serious."

Dancing Bird seemed almost surprised, or at least he pretended to be.

"Is it?" he replied distantly.

"Well, of course it is," Evans exclaimed.

"If you say so," Dancing Bird murmured.

An expression of profound confusion made its way across Evans' face.

"Look, I'm not sure that you understand," he explained.

"Don't I?" mumbled Dancing Bird.

Evans finally began to lose his temper.

"Perhaps I've failed to impress upon you the gravity of the situation," he growled. "There is apparently a rather large wolf attempting to drink the world's oceans. The only thing stopping him, as I understand it, is the fact that they are currently boiling. This is not to mention the fact that there are - at last count - more than a dozen different gods and monsters fighting over who will get to eat the sun. It's unlikely that any of them will have the chance, as that particular celestial object is amongst those that would appear - against all scientific reasoning - to be falling out of the sky."

Dancing Bird gave the impression of having grown increasingly bored throughout Evans' diatribe.

"And what do you think that any of that has to do with me?" he asked innocently.

"Cut the crap," growled Buck. "You've gone and skipped your little ritual, haven't you?"

Dancing Bird shrugged again.

"Superstitious nonsense," he answered blandly.

Evans coughed pointedly.

"I suspect that there's quite a bit more to 'superstitious nonsense' than meets the eye," he said, "given the fact that the world would appear to be ending."

Dancing Bird's indifferent attitude disappeared, replaced in an instant by a shockingly fierce expression.

"And why shouldn't it?" he barked.

Evans stammered, somewhat taken aback.

"The hell is that supposed to mean?" scoffed Buck.

"Well?" Dancing Bird demanded. "It was bound to happen sooner or later. Now seems like as good a time as any."

Buck's brow knotted.

"Not really your decision to make, is it?" he grumbled.

"Isn't it?" Dancing Bird replied evenly.

There was an uncomfortable silence before the shaman spoke again.

"This Earth, like me, she's getting old," he murmured distantly. "Getting tired out and used up. Maybe she's ready to die, hm?"

Dancing Bird seemed lost for a moment in contemplation, and then another fierce expression stole across his face.

"There is also the question of revenge, of course," he rasped. "For the fate of my people."

Buck and Evans both gaped. After a moment, Dancing Bird's face relaxed again.

"In any case, I don't see why it ought to be any of my concern," he mumbled. "It seems foolish that an old man such as I should be the world's only hope."

Buck's jaw had begun to clench rhythmically; his hand seemed to be gripping the handle of his revolver, perhaps unconsciously. Finally, he gave Evans a furious glance.

"Talk to him, will you?" Buck pleaded.

Evans stared back at his associate, and then looked away into the shadows.

"What's there to say?" Evans muttered. "I think..."

His words were choked off mid-sentence by what sounded like a sob; when he spoke again, his voice was husky.

"I think maybe he's right," he finished.

Buck stared dumbly.

"Wait, what?" he demanded. "The hell's that supposed to mean?"

Evans sniffled loudly, obviously struggling to control himself.

"Look, you don't understand," Evans choked. "I've seen cultures die, Buck. Dozens of them, probably. Hundreds or thousands of years of history and beautiful tradition, just wiped out overnight. I've seen a lot of good and decent people squashed underfoot for the sake of advancing this thing we call civilization."

Evans shook his head slowly.

"And what good is any of it?" he demanded. "I know you, Buck. You don't like the modern world any more than I do. But people like you and me, we don't get any say in the matter. It'll just keep expanding - this mindless, devouring, impersonal thing - until it's swallowed up the whole world and turned us all into machines. Until there's nothing worthwhile or human left."

Evans shrugged.

"If that's all that the future holds," he asked morosely, "then what good is it?"

Evans fell silent, still shaking slightly. Buck stared back and forth between Evans and Dancing Bird, his mouth hanging open. At last, he spoke.

"I can't believe this," he snapped.

Buck sprang to his feet, livid with anger.

"We come all this way, and now you're gonna give up just because this old snake has a chip on his shoulder?"

Buck now had the full attention of both Evans and Dancing Bird. He'd taken his gun from its holster without realizing it, and was now waving it around in a fairly unsettling fashion.

"Look," Buck snarled. "You two ladies wanna have a talk about your feelings, that's great. Really, it's adorable. But you're gonna have to do it some other time, because right now we've got more important things to worry about."

Buck put a hand to his temple and winced; the other - with his revolver still in it - was still gesturing towards his increasingly uncomfortable companions.

"Maybe you're right," Buck muttered, "and the world's ready to die. Well I'm not, you understand?"

Buck finally seemed to notice the fact that he'd drawn his pistol; his mind cleared somewhat, and he decided to capitalize on the fact. He cocked the hammer, and took aim at Dancing Bird.

"So," Buck said flatly, "it's about time to make a decision. You gonna help us or not?"

Dancing Bird gave Buck a slightly contemptuous glare, and then sniffed.

"Of course I am," he grumbled.

Evans jolted upright.

"You are?" he choked.

Buck seemed somewhat deflated.

"Oh," he stammered. "Good..."

Evans stared uncomprehendingly at Dancing Bird.

"What made you change your mind?" he asked.

Dancing Bird cracked a very small smirk.

"I haven't changed my mind," he said blandly. "I never said that I wasn't going to help you. Just that I wasn't happy about it."

Buck's hand fell numbly to his side as both he and Evans gawked at the old man.

"The way I see it," Dancing Bird continued, "it's not as if I have much choice in the matter."

"Don't you?" Evans mumbled.

Dancing Bird rolled his eyes.

"The gods have forced my hand, it seems," he explained. "I am a man of great wisdom - at least in theory - but I could not have performed the ceremony by myself. Two others are required: a man of great strength, and a man of great compassion."

Dancing Bird glanced into the shadows at the edge of the firelight, where a small canine beast was crouching. It appeared to be grinning at him.

"How very convenient," Dancing Bird sighed, "that the two of you have managed to find me here."

The shaman pondered this thought for a moment, and then rose to a businesslike posture.

"And there you have it," he said smartly. "We might as well get started."

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."

Chapter Eighteen

To Evans, it seemed as if hours had passed as Buck and Melody had stood staring at one another. The town was silent except for the howling of the wind; a playful zephyr teased a tumbleweed across the road, mostly to spite Buck. At last, Melody spoke.

"Been waiting a long time for this," she stated flatly.

Buck sniffed, not letting his guard down.

"Yeah, about that," he grunted. "Like to tell me what all this is about?"

Melody snorted derisively.

"You care?" she spat.

Buck contemplated this momentarily, his eyes still glued to hers.

"Not especially," he admitted. "But you'd like to tell me anyway, wouldn't you?"

Melody gave a dismissive shrug, but the tone of her reply confirmed Buck's suspicions.

"I don't suppose that you remember much of June of 1870?" she called.

"Not really," conceded Buck.

Melody chuckled sourly.

"Doesn't surprise me," she murmured. "You spent most of the summer working for a railroad tycoon, scaring farmers off their land. Ring any bells?"

Buck shrugged noncommittally, and Melody pressed on.

"One of those farmers was a man named George Chamberlain," she continued. "You paid him a visit on the seventh of June. Told him things would get ugly if he didn't clear out."

Buck shrugged again.

"And?" he demanded.

"And things got ugly," she hissed. "You killed him. Gunned him down right in front of his seven-year-old daughter."

Buck slumped slightly, to Melody's great surprise.

"Oh," he muttered.

Melody's eyes widened, and then a savage grin spread across her face.

"So you do remember," she cooed.

Evans' eyes boggled.

"You did what?" he screeched.

Melody risked taking her eyes off of Buck's just long enough to shoot a glare in Evans' direction.

"You stay out of this," she hissed.

Evans gaped at Buck, his mouth working soundlessly. During the brief moment when Melody's eyes were averted, Evans could swear that he'd seen a flicker of something - possibly sorrow - sneaking its way across the gunman's visage. By the time Melody had turned her attention back to him, Buck's face had contorted into a vicious sneer.

"Gonna be straight with you," Buck growled. "A man like me - using a gun's the only thing he's good at. You're good at something, there's gonna be people such as want to pay you to do it. Guess that makes me a killer; got no illusions about that, and I don't make no apologies for it."

Buck sniffed, and then continued in what might have been a placating tone.

"That don't make me responsible for what happened to your pa," he murmured. "Me, I just pull the trigger; if I hadn't taken the job, somebody else would've, and your pappy'd be dead just the same. Now, the guy willing to pay to have another man killed - that's the real bad guy, if you ask me. You got a problem with what happened, maybe you oughta take it up with him."

Melody scoffed.

"Oh, I have," she snarled, her voice dripping with venom. "I took it up with his friends, his family, everyone who ever so much as shook his hand. Then I took it up with him."

She grinned again, with shocking intensity.

"Been saving you for last," she finished.

A dreadful silence once again settled between the two. This time it was Buck who broke it.

"This might surprise you," he snarled, "but you're not the first person that ever came after me looking for revenge. Gonna tell you the same thing I tell 'em all."

Buck sniffed contemptuously, and then continued.

"If you're looking for an apology, then sister, you're in for a big disappointment. I knew what it was gonna mean when I chose this life, and I'd be lying if I told you I was sorry. But if it makes it any better... well, you should know it was nothing personal."

Melody stared for a moment, and then gave a short, derisive laugh.

"That's supposed to make it better?" she demanded. "You killed my father in cold blood; just a business transaction, right?"

Melody shook her head.

"I used to hate you for that," she grunted. "The fact that killing him didn't even mean anything to you."

Buck's glare wavered slightly.

"Used to, did you?" he ventured.

Melody chuckled again.

"Don't get me wrong," she sneered. "You're not exactly my favorite person. It's just that... well. To tell you the truth, you're just so damn pathetic that hating you seems like a waste of time. No, I pity you."

If Melody felt anything resembling pity, it was nowhere to be found in her expression; her eyes burned into Buck's, shaming him despite himself.

"I used to think this was about setting things right," she laughed. "Can you imagine? As if your life could ever be worth half of what my father's was."

Melody's eyes clouded slightly, and her voice grew distant.

"I'm like you, Polk Buckhorn; got you to thank for that. Just like you, I got no illusions. The world ain't fair, and killing you won't make it so."

She seemed to collect her thoughts in an instant, and her eyes hardened once again.

"Killing you won't bring him back; I know that. Nope, I buried my pa a long time ago. I'm just looking for a little bit of closure; just tying up a loose end."

Her smile had returned, again with a little too much exposed tooth.

"I will admit to a little bit of conceit," she chuckled. "I'd like to think that the world will be a better place without you in it, if only by a little bit."

Buck's face, which had grown increasingly rigid throughout the last few moments, now seemed to be made of stone. His hand rested on the butt of his revolver with a deceptively casual indifference.

"You about done?" growled Buck.

"Not quite," Melody grinned.

Two guns flew from their holsters. Only one shot was fired.

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.

Chapter Sixteen

Michael Evans awoke to the smell of bacon.

The campsite that he'd chosen had little to recommend it aside from the fact that it had been the smoothest patch of ground in a landscape that seemed otherwise to be entirely composed of jagged little mounds of yellow stone. The morning sun was already bearing down with cruel intensity, and the thin cloth of his bedroll did nothing to make the earth beneath his back any more comfortable. Still, with that smell in his nose, it was almost possible to imagine that he'd somehow found his way home.

Since leaving Tombstone more than three weeks before, he'd had almost nothing to eat aside from stale trail rations; he'd finally begun almost to take them for granted, and only now did he realize how dearly he'd missed the comforts of civilization. For a moment, he actually considered thanking Buck for the gesture; after a moment, the fundamental inconsistency in this train of thought finally forced itself upon his still-groggy mind.

Evans sprang bolt-upright, cursing vehemently.

The sudden motion on his part shocked Melody Chamberlain, and she very nearly dropped her skillet into the fire as her hand jerked instinctively towards her hip; after a moment, she relaxed again.

"Didn't realize you'd woken up," she chuckled. "You really shouldn't startle me like that."

Evans boggled.

"What are you doing here?" he blurted.

Melody shrugged.

"You and your friend seem to have split up," she replied.

She shrugged, and then poked at the bacon.

"It would appear," she mused dryly, "that I have been following the wrong set of tracks."

Despite himself, Evans found that he was staring at the contents of the skillet. There appeared to be eggs and potatoes in there, as well. After a moment, a bizarre idea dawned on him.

"Are you making me breakfast?" he demanded incredulously.

Melody grinned.

"I'm making myself breakfast," she announced. "But I do have enough for two, as it happens."

Evans nearly asked Melody why she was feeling so generous, but - in an uncharacteristic moment of clarity - realized that it was probably a better idea not to rock the boat. A few minutes passed in silence; Melody devoted her attention to cooking, and Evans to watching her cook.

He jumped involuntarily as Melody came to attention with a start, as if struck by some sudden realization.

"It occurs to me," she announced, "that we have yet to be formally introduced."

She stuck a hand in Evans' direction; he hesitated for a moment before taking it, as if he was being offered an angry rattlesnake.

"Melody Chamberlain," the girl beamed.

"Doctor Michael Evans, of Maryland," Evans replied uncertainly.

The girl stared dumbly for a moment, and then she collapsed into fits of laughter.

"A doctor? Really?" she gasped. "You're a doctor?"

Evans found himself blushing.

"Is that so hard to believe?" he grumbled sullenly.

She waved a hand, fighting to regain her composure.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" she chuckled.

Her chuckling died down, and she wiped a few stray tears from the corners of her eyes.

"I didn't mean to offend you," she explained. "It's just that... well. You keep strange company, Doctor Michael Evans of Maryland."

Evans stared for a moment, and then let out a dry laugh of his own.

"I suppose that I do, at that," he admitted.

The girl stared into his eyes, and he found himself nearly blushing for an entirely different set of reasons.

"So," she murmured. "how exactly does a man like you end up traveling with a man like Polk Buckhorn?"

Evans considered this for a moment, and found himself at a loss for any satisfactory answer.

"Mostly bad luck, I think," he said.

Melody lowered her eyes and smiled warmly, and Evans found himself grinning as well. Something had occurred to him at some point during this exchange, which was that he couldn't imagine why he would have assumed that anyone who might want to kill Polk Buckhorn would necessarily have to be a bad person. He was still considering this thought when Melody handed him a plate covered in a heaping pile of breakfast. It looked delicious.

"Eat up," she insisted.

Evans did exactly that, and was not disappointed. He'd devoured half of what was on his plate before realizing that he'd been attacking his food with an embarrassing and uncivilized degree of fervor. Meaning to apologize, he looked up at Melody. It only took one glance to put any thought of eating out of his mind entirely.

The girl hadn't touched her own food; instead, she'd been staring at him. The look in her eyes reminded Evans of the first time that he'd seen her, and he very nearly returned his breakfast.

Evans had met his first wife back when he'd lived in New York City. At once point early in their engagement, she'd invited him to a private after-hours tour of the Central Park Zoo, where her brother had been an employee of some sort. The experience had been one of the most memorable throughout his relationship with the woman in question, and he found himself suddenly and inexplicably reminded of it now.

The animals on display had been ragged, pitiful things - taken from their native environments, broken, tamed. He'd found himself drawing unpleasant parallels to his own field of study, and by the end of the night had been in a morose and torpid mood.

For all of their efforts, however, the people who ran the place had failed to domesticate one of the beasts in particular. He'd felt its presence before he'd even seen it, as if its power had been something tangible.

He'd never seen an African lion before, and it had never occurred to him that the descriptions that he'd heard might not have done them justice. Instantly, he'd known why the lion was called the "king of the beasts." Man had long since established his dominion over nature, but this monster clearly hadn't gotten the message. Its attitude had plainly suggested that it owned everything that its eyes touched, and he wouldn't have cared to debate the issue.

The mere physical presence of the creature had been intimidating on a level that Evans had never thought possible. He'd watched it for he wasn't sure how long as it had paced about its pen, staring back at him just as relentlessly. There had been a fundamental difference between its attitude and that of the other beasts, and it had only taken Evans a moment to realize where the difference lay. The being had known full well that it was a captive, and its restlessness had suggested that it'd had a clear opinion on the point.

When the lion had looked into his eyes, Evans had been left with no doubt as to what his fate would have been, had the bars separating them been removed for but a moment.

He experienced a similar revelation when his eyes met Melody Chamberlain's.

Melody's face quickly shifted into her best impression of a vapid smile, but the doctor's horrified expression told her at once that she'd acted too late. She chuckled sourly, and the sound seemed to curdle Evans' blood.

"Enjoying our breakfast?" she inquired, her voice thick with mock sweetness.

Evans swallowed hard.

"What's the point of all this?" he whispered.

Melody shrugged.

"I've dealt with your type before," she coolly explained. "You damned spineless know-it-all types who think you know about the world because you've read about it in the Times."

She spat contemptuously, and Evans shriveled somewhat despite himself.

"Don't worry," she cooed. "You're weak, and I know it. I lean too hard on a man like you, you just go to pieces. No way do I get anything out of you that way."

Evans choked down a lump in his throat, and then ventured what seemed like the obvious question.

"And what are you hoping to get, exactly?" he squeaked.

"Don't be cute," she snapped. "I want Buckhorn, and you're going to give him to me."

Realization finally dawned on Evans. The girl thought that he knew where Buck had gone; that was the only reason that he was still alive, he suspected. The realization that his life depended on allowing Melody to continue believing this was not far behind.

For her part, Melody seemed to have spent the majority of her venom, and she once again attempted a pleasant tone.

"Look, I'm well aware of the sort of life you've led," she soothed. "I'm sure that you've never been in a situation like this before, so I'll tell you exactly how things are going to be."

She grinned, and the smile was deceptively genuine.

"I'll let you live," she drawled, "if you tell me what I want to know."

Evans, much to his own surprise, had stumbled upon a plan. It was crazy; it was risky. It was far too audacious to have any chance of success, as far as he was concerned. And yet - as far as he could tell - it was the only option that he had at his disposal.

"A friend of mine lives not far from here," Evans answered evenly, "maybe two days to the north."

He swallowed hard, and then delivered the punchline.

"Buck was going to meet me there," he finished.

Melody grinned.

"What are you waiting for?" she sneered. "Get your things packed, and lets get going."