The Brotherhood of the Gun

Frank Darabont

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They appeared like a mirage in the blast-furnace heat, shimmering and

weaving into view like a feverish dream. The two riders plodded across

the high desert wastes, hammered at every step by a sun set in a

cloudless sky seemingly leeched of color, a jury of watchful buzzards

skating the thermals high above.

In the lead rode Billy Quintaine, eyes pinned to the horizon ahead. He

wasn't a man who'd ever laughed at much, and it showed in his face.

Twin Frontier Colts, well-worn but maintained by their owner with a

devotion approaching that of a master watchmaker, rode on his hips in a

matching pair of oiled holsters.

Bringing up the rear was Harley Tyrell, his horse trailing some fifteen

feet behind Billy's at the end of a rope. Harley swayed in the saddle,

clutching a suppurated, days-old gunshot wound in his belly. Dried

blood, brown as old barn paint, had made his shirtfront stiff. He

seemed to be staring down at it, his chin bobbing on his chest. A

handful of flies were buzzing and crawling there, but Harley didn't

notice. In truth, Harley hadn't noticed much in the last few days.

His head came up with a lurch. He stared up at the sun, mind swimming

in and out of focus, his voice the sound of dry nettles in a hot wind:

"Billy? Billy, you there?"

Billy didn't look back. "Yeah, Harley. Still here."

"Can't let 'em catch us, Billy!"

"We lost that posse three days ago. Probably still chasing dust devils

up in the territories."

Harley let out a wail and jerked his head about, seeing phantoms. "Have

a care, Billy! They're close! I hear hoof beats! I see dust on the

horizon! Looky there!"

Billy didn't. He knew if he did, he'd see nothing but desert and more

goddamn desert. Harley's mind swam out again, his chin settling back to

his chest. It was a mercy for both of them.

They hadn't gone another hundred yards when Billy heard Harley slip

from his saddle and his body hit the hardpan. Billy glanced back,

brought his horse to a stop. He dismounted and walked back to where

Harley lay on the ground, arms and legs thrown akimbo. He was staring

feverishly at the sky, his sight mostly gone.

Dying. No point in gilding that lily, thought Billy. A man as badly

gutshot as Harley Tyrell had never really had a chance anyway. Billy'd

brought the dying man along less out of hope of finding a doctor than

out of simple loyalty, like for old time's sake. You didn't leave a

wounded man behind as long as he could still ride, leastways not if you

could help it, that's how Billy saw things. But it was time to face the

fact that Harley's riding days were over. A brief flicker of regret

crossed Billy's face.

"Oh sweet God and sonny Jesus," whispered Harley, the words draining

from his cracked lips. "I hurt. I hurt sooo baaad. Like I'm in fiiiire

..."

Billy eased a Colt from its holster with a creak of leather. He aimed

the gun down between Harley's eyes and thumbed the hammer back with a

soft, oily click. Somewhere above, he heard a buzzard shrieking.

Harley's mind seemed to clear just then, fleetingly lucid. His gaze

found Billy's, and he gave him a childlike, trusting smile.

"Billy?"

Billy felt the Colt buck in his hand, heard the thunderclap in his

ears, and for a brief moment the world was all white flame.

[IMAGE]

They found the grave a few hours later, just as the sun was kissing the

horizon and turning the desert the color of blood. It wasn't much to

look at, just an oblong heap of rocks upon which a cluster of buzzards

squabbled and fretted, prying at the stones. The marker itself was no

more than a stick thrust into the ground from which a weathered gunbelt

hung. The bullets had been removed from their loops, but the sidearm —

a scuffed Navy Colt with a chipped wooden grip — still occupied the

holster.

McMurdo fired from his saddle and blew a buzzard's head to paste. It

flopped over in a geyser of feathers and tumbled off the grave, sending

its colleagues screaming into the air in petulant rage. McMurdo got off

his horse and strode forth, the lever-action Winchester nestled in the

crook of his arm, his duster billowing up behind him like black wings.

Already the air was going cold, though he could still feel the heat of

the waning day radiating up from the cracked and blasted ground. He was

rangy leaning toward gaunt, his face as thin and weathered as jerky,

his hair tied back in a ponytail. He wore silver-toed boots with

Mexican spurs, a necklace of knucklebones, and the badge of a Texas

Ranger pinned near his heart.

He swept off his hat and crouched at the grave, taking it in, his sharp

eyes missing nothing. Crouching there, he reminded the other men of a

spider. Thin and angular as he was, it was an impossible association

not to make.

Scorby dismounted and came up behind him, standing at a respectful

distance. With McMurdo, one always stood at a respectful distance, not

because it was ever demanded, but simply out of instinct.

"Here lies Harley Tyrell," murmured McMurdo. "Dropped out of this life

and straight into hell." He tossed a look at Scorby and chuckled.

"Well, damn me, too, if I ain't a poet."

Scorby didn't crack a smile. McMurdo was always making little jokes and

rhymes like that, but for some reason they never seemed very funny

coming from him.

"How you know it's him?"

McMurdo's eyes slid back to the grave. "Initials on the gun. There on

the grip. Dig him up if you don't believe me."

McMurdo sensed something unspoken. He glanced up again at Scorby's face

and saw a look there he didn't much care for. "You got something to

say? Say it."

"Well, Mr. McMurdo ... thing is ... we been at it over a week now. Boys

are tired as hell. Talkin' about turning back."

McMurdo weighed this, glanced toward the others. Some two dozen good

men sat astride their exhausted horses, watching him, waiting for a

reaction. He spat, more to get the dust out of his throat than in

contempt, but he knew contempt was how it would be taken, and that was

fine.

"This grave's only hours old. The rest of you give up if you want. Me,

I'm going after Quintaine."

McMurdo rose and brushed past Scorby. He mounted up and spurred his

horse on, knowing the eyes of the men were on him.

[IMAGE]

The next day, Billy saw a small graveyard on the crest of a low hill.

It was nothing fancy, just a boothill, but it was surrounded by a small

picket fence and was the only sign of civilization he'd seen since he

and Harley had ridden hard out of Danielsville ten days ago with

bullets whining past their ears like wasps. He cantered his horse up

the hill with a tiny knot of hope burning in his throat for the first

time in days, Harley's riderless horse trailing behind him.

His heart gave a little kick as he crested the rise. There was a town

on the other side, almost within shouting distance. It wasn't much to

look at, a hopeless-looking place choked with dust and heat. In fact,

if God took a shit in the desert, it would bear a striking resemblance.

But, by damn, if it wasn't salvation!

Billy glanced at the tiny graveyard and allowed himself a tired smile.

"Never you mind, you boys, you just keep molderin' away. Ain't my time

yet." He heeled his horse in the ribs and headed into town.

A languorous, metallic clank-clank-clank greeted him as he came up the

town's only thoroughfare. Somebody pounding a horseshoe. From the

buildings on both sides of the street came the stares of scattered

townsfolk watching Billy ride in. An old man rocking in the shade of a

barbershop gave him a nod. Some kids playing listlessly in the dirt

paused to gape. A bony old hound squatted in the middle of the street

and greeted him with a splash of piss, just for form's sake.

He followed the weary clanking to the blacksmith's shop and dismounted.

The sound stopped and the blacksmith peered out, blinking at the

daylight.

"Feed and water for the night," said Billy.

The other man nodded, wiping his hands. Billy dug a coin from his

pocket and flipped it to him. The blacksmith examined it with a grunt,

apparently satisfied, then tossed an idle glance at the two horses.

"What happened to the other rider?"

Billy gave a look that chilled the other man's marrow. The blacksmith

shrank back, realizing too late not to pry into a stranger's affairs.

"No never mind to me," he muttered. "I'll take good care of 'em for

you, I surely will."

Billy dismissed him without comment and headed across the street to the

saloon. He mounted the boardwalk and was within a few paces of entering

when a voice called out and froze him in mid-stride:

"Billy! Billy Quintaine!"

Billy turned. A man as thin as a whip stood across the street, leaning

against the wall in the meager shade of a building. He wore silver-toed

boots and a string of knucklebones around his neck. They stood for long

seconds watching each other with heavy-lidded eyes. They were both of a

kind, and knew it at a glance without having to speak. There would be

no parlay between them, no question of arrest or surrender, none of

that polite bushwah. The thin man detached from the wall and moved into

the street, duster swept back and flapping in the breeze, hand hovering

near his holster.

"I'm calling you out, Quintaine!"

Billy stepped off the boards and circled slowly into the street,

angling for position. The sun was directly overhead and in neither

man's eyes, so he knew the advantage was mostly even. He kept his eyes

on his adversary, but his peripheral vision told him townsfolk were

scurrying for cover.

"You the one been trackin' me?"

"Clear across the state."

"The lengths a man'll go to just to get hisself killed." Billy came to

a stop, facing the other man at a distance of some forty paces. "You

got a name?"

"McMurdo."

"McMurdo." Billy knew the name and respected it. "That'd be Tom,

wouldn't it? Texas Ranger. Hear tell you're the best there is."

McMurdo drew a slow breath. "Gotta take you in, Billy. Your choice as

how."

Billy nodded, spread his feet a bit, found his stance. His fingers

flexed, hovering near his holstered Colt.

"Well then, Ranger man ... make your move."

The gunfighters stood, frozen like statues, eons passing in the space

of mere heartbeats. A hot wind off the high desert blew dust around

their boots. A tumble-weed rolled by.

They went for their guns, both men drawing like oiled lightning.

Billy felt the Colt buck in his hand, heard the thunderclap in his

ears, and for a brief moment the world was all white flame.

[IMAGE]

Billy entered the saloon, the ghosts of the gunshots still ringing in

his ears. He felt lightheaded and passing strange, no doubt a residual

of his many days in the heat. He worked his jaw to clear his hearing

and waited for his eyes to adjust. The place was dark but for the murky

daylight filtering through the grime-streaked windows. Dozens of

shadowy men were drinking and playing cards, clustered at small, round,

wooden tables stretching back into the dim recesses of the room. Billy

was taken aback to see so many patrons, and came to wonder if these

mightn't be the men who'd ridden with McMurdo. Well, he thought, if

they were, they were surely cowed to know their leader lay dead as hell

outside in the noonday sun with a dumbstruck look on his face.

Billy stood his ground. If these were McMurdo's men, he figured there

was no percentage in turning tail. Cowed men can turn brave on a dime.

Like as not, they'd be after him like wolves and take him down. Better

to play the odds and gut it out right here in the saloon. He moved to

the bar with a show of unconcern, prepared to put a hole through the

first man to make a move, and the eleven after that.

He bellied up to the rail and put his back to the room. The hairs were

crawling on the back of his neck, but no sudden movement came to his

ears. The bartender was nowhere to be seen, so he helped himself to a

bottle of rye, pouring a shot and knocking it back. There was still no

sound in the place, save for the soft rustle of poker being played and

the desultory buzzing of flies.

As Billy poured a second shot, the emphatic slap of a card drew his

attention. He glanced over and saw a man alone at a table, playing

solitaire and slowly murdering a bottle of rum. He couldn't see the

face, shrouded in darkness as the man was, but it was clear the

stranger was watching him.

"You look like a card-playing man," came the voice, citified and

pleasant, breaking the silence.

Billy gathered the bottle of rye and the shot-glass, and drifted to the

man's table. He kept alert for any hostile moves from the men in the

room, but none seemed forthcoming. He found himself relaxing some, the

rye warming his belly in a pleasant way. He sat carefully, eyes on the

man before him. "Can't say as I mind so much, long as they're dealt

straight."

The stranger leaned into the light, tipping his bowler. He was a little

man with bloodshot eyes, a detachable collar in danger of detaching at

any moment, and wire-rim spectacles perched on a ruddy nose. The suit

he wore was threadbare and frayed — as threadbare and frayed, in fact,

as the man himself.

His hands, however ... now those were another matter. They were more

than clever and beyond fast, moving with the precision of a skilled

surgeon. He spread the cards across the table with a sweep of one hand,

revealing them all face up. A normal deck. A reverse sweep and the

cards jumped into his hands to be shuffled through lightning-fast

fingers. He dealt them facedown, five for Billy and five for himself.

"You got fast hands," said Billy.

"So do you, friend, so do you," replied the man, glancing at Billy's

guns.

Billy picked up his cards, fanned them open ... and froze. They were

all identical. Five black aces of spades. Billy glowered over his

cards, slapped them back facedown on the table. "What are you trying to

pull, friend?"

"Nothing, my good sir, nothing at all. Just trying to prove an

important point."

"Which is?"

"That the hand ..."

His pale hand darted out and flipped Billy's cards over. They were

normal again. "... is quicker than the eye."

Billy mulled this display of legerdemain, wrestling with a smile. If

there was one thing he admired it was skill, whatever form that skill

took. And he had to admit, the skill of the little gent in the bowler

hat was a sight to see. Seeing the grudging approval on Billy's face,

the man smiled and reached down, hefting a battered suitcase off the

floor and onto the table. He threw the clasps and Billy reacted fast, a

Frontier Colt suddenly leveled at the other man's forehead. It was a

magic trick of his own, done before the other man even knew the gun had

left Billy's holster. The little fellow went stiff and lifted his hands

slowly into view with a queasy smile, his clever fingers tickling the

air.

"My, you are fast. Forgive me. I forget a man in your line of work

can't be too careful." He glanced down, indicating the case. "May I?"

Billy gave him a measured nod that said do it slowly. The little man

put his hands on the case, spun it halfway around so Billy could get a

clear view, and lifted the lid. Revealed inside were row upon row of

small brown bottles held neatly in place by fabric straps. Each bottle

had a paper label which read: DOCTOR ARGUS'S WONDER TONIC. The man

snatched up a bottle, held it next to his face, and launched into a

mile-a-minute pitch:

"Allow me to introduce myself, Cornelius Bosch, originally out of

Duluth, ever been to Duluth, friend?" He held a beat, waiting for Billy

to answer. Billy didn't. "I thought not. Well, I'm here to tell you

about a miracle of modern medicine ... the one, the only, the

thoroughly amazing ... Doctor Argus's Wonder Tonic! Guaranteed to

quicken the senses, sharpen the reflexes, and improve the vision! Yes,

you heard me right, I said improve the vision. And even the fastest

among us can use that extra little edge, am I right? Each bottle is

being offered today at the unbelievably low introductory price of one

single dollar. Yes, you heard that right, just one thin buck! How many

will you be taking friend?"

The man's palaver was greeted with deep silence. Billy hadn't moved or

blinked throughout. In fact, his Colt hadn't budged an inch and was

still leveled at Bosch's forehead. Bosch swallowed, his adam's apple

bobbing.

"Did I mention our special discount? A one-day-only offer often percent

off if you buy — " He was interrupted by a soft click as Billy thumbed

the hammer back. Bosch cleared his throat gently. "Twenty percent off?"

"Go peddle your potion elsewheres, little man. I'm as fast as there is,

nor do I care much for fast-talkers and con men."

"Mr. Quintaine. Your hand is quicker than the eye, true enough. But

even a man of your considerable skill could use a little of what Doctor

Argus has to give." He placed the bottle on the table and slid it

ever-so-carefully across to Billy. "Guaranteed to sharpen the senses

and improve the vision. Give heed, sir. My final offer, never before

made, one time only. An entire bottle of Doctor Argus's Wonder Tonic

... absolutely free. If you don't see a marked difference ... if things

aren't clearer to you than they ever were before or you ever thought

possible ... I'll pay you the dollar."

Billy gave Bosch a faint, steely smile. The gun dipped and returned to

its holster. "I'll go along, little man. If only to teach you a lesson

about playin' a fella for a fool. Mind, you'll pay more than just a

dollar. I don't look kindly on bein' took for simple."

"You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Quintaine. But fair enough."

Billy uncorked the bottle, put it to his lips, and took a long pull.

His face went taut with the bitterness of it. Wrestling with the

aftertaste, he gazed around the saloon.

Nothing remarkable made itself known. Those same hard men sat quietly

in those same murky shadows, drinking and playing cards. Billy

re-stoppered the potion and slid the bottle back across the table.

"Looks like your magic juice ain't but snake oil, friend."

Bosch leaned forward, eyes riveted to Billy. "Are you sure, Mr.

Quintaine? Look again, I implore you. Look hard"

Billy did, feeling foolish, his gaze sliding from one shadowy patron to

the next. There was something decidedly odd about these men ... they

drank and played cards but hardly ever spoke, and then only in

whispers. It also came to him to consider that the vague glimpses he

caught of their faces in the dimmish light showed them to be pale ...

too pale for men who lived under the harsh sun of a desert.

He saw a bald man lean through a spill of light. Their eyes met

briefly, but then the man was gone from view, hidden behind another

card player. Billy's face betrayed a glimmer of recognition. He tore

his gaze away, trying to shake his disquiet.

"What?" whispered Bosch.

"Nothin'. Just that fella back there."

"What about him?"

Billy hesitated. "For a moment he looked like someone I once ..."

Bosch licked his lips nervously. "Once what?"

"... once knew. Couldn't be him, though. He's dead."

"Oh. I see." Bosch settled back.

Billy grew ever more uneasy, casting furtive glances about the room. He

caught a glimpse of a face here, a face there, but hardly ever enough

to get a good look. More unnerving still, some of the men seemed to be

glancing away the moment Billy's eyes found them, as if they'd been

staring at him only the instant before.

Finally, one man threw in his hand and leaned back in his chair to

await the next deal, face falling squarely into a spill of light. He

had a sweeping handlebar mustache and wore a black frock coat. Billy

took his eyes off the man, squeezed them shut in disbelief, opened them

again. Bosch leaned in, oozing concern.

"Mr. Quintaine?"

Billy's voice fell to a whisper. "That fella there. Damned if he ain't

the spittin' image of Doc Jessup."

"Doc Jessup? The law man?"

"Law man, my ass. He was a lowlife bounty hunter ... till he caught up

with me in Nogales, and I put a hole through that little tin star of

his."

Bosch's eyes grew wide. "He's deceased? Are you sure?"

" 'Course I'm sure. I'm the one who 'deceased' him." He stole another

glance. "Damn, that fella could be his twin brother."

At that moment, the man with the mustache reached for his vest,

sweeping his coat aside. A tin star was revealed there, pinned over his

heart. In the center of the badge was a bullet hole, perfectly round

and crusted with flecks of brown. A cascade of blood had once spilled

down his front and soaked into his trouser leg, where it had dried and

caked the fabric stiff as board. A few flies had lofted up from inside

the man's coat as he'd opened it and were now buzzing lazily in the

air. He waved them idly aside as he plucked a cheroot from his vest

pocket and planted it between his teeth. He lit a match with his

thumbnail and put flame to his cigar, puffing it to life. Smoke swirled

up and caught the light.

His eyes met Billy's, and he smiled.

Billy looked slackly away, the color gone from his face. He glanced to

Bosch, but found no help there — the little man wore a fixed smile, his

expression inscrutable. Feeling like the victim of a bad dream, Billy

looked again at the man with the mustache.

Doc Jessup was still watching him. He blew a smoke ring that billowed

toward the ceiling, and muttered something to his two companions. This

prompted the man across from Jessup to turn in his seat and look

straight at Billy. It was Harley Tyrell, Billy's recently deceased

partner, his forehead cracked open by a .45 caliber bullet that had

just yesterday blown a hole between his eyes and splashed a torrent of

blood down his face. A few flies were crawling aimlessly in the wound

as if looking for treasure there. Then the third man at the table

leaned back a bit, peering around Harley to also get a look at Billy.

It was Tom McMurdo, the Texas Ranger whom Billy had just left dead in

the street, sporting two gaping bullet holes — one in his chest, the

other in the hollow of his throat. An empty string, once a necklace of

knucklebones, hung loose about his neck. Billy's second shot had torn

through it, blasting those bones off their string and into the air.

They'd scattered into the dust at McMurdo's feet before he'd gone down.

Billy had seen it happen.

Billy sat, limp, all strength drained from his arms and legs, mind

reeling.

"I'm seeing things," he whispered.

That's when I finally spoke up. "Well, yes and no," I told him.

Billy turned and saw me. I suppose it goes without saying that his jaw

dropped.

[IMAGE]

I was behind the bar. I'd been there all along, watching this whole

thing unfold. Billy hadn't seen me when he'd walked in, of course, even

though I'd been there plain as day, and I'm kind of hard to miss. He'd

stared right through me when he'd bellied up to the bar and poured

himself that first shot of rye. I have to say I'd really admired his

nerve at that moment, the way he'd kept his back to the room and dared

somebody to make a move. He hadn't seen me then because his mind simply

hadn't been open to it, but now that it was I'm sure I struck him as

quite a sight — seven feet tall, three hundred and fifty pounds, and

red. Plus there was the matter of the sawed-off horns. From a distance,

people have occasionally mistaken them for goggles parked on my

forehead. I was almost tempted to let my tail twitch up into view from

behind the bar just to see the look on his face, but I didn't give in.

This was delicate business, and no time to be fooling around. Billy

just sat pinned in his chair, gaping. For a taciturn man, he looked

ready to jump out of his skin. He actually closed his eyes and rubbed

them with his fists, like a kid expecting the boogeyman to disappear

when he opened them again. I'm not the boogeyman, so I didn't oblige

him.

"You're not seeing things that aren't there," I continued gently. "Or

haven't been there all along."

Billy tore his gaze off me and put it on Bosch. He was having trouble

catching his breath, but managed a harsh whisper: "What was in that

tonic?"

"As advertised, sir, the Doctor's tonic is guaranteed to sharpen the

senses and improve the — "

Billy lunged across the table, grabbed him by the throat, and hauled

him choking out of his chair. "You slipped me some'a that Injun peyote,

din'cha? I'll snap your scrawny neck, you son of a — "

The sound of chair legs scraping the floor made Billy freeze. He

turned, heart hammering. A half-breed Washita Cherokee had risen to his

feet at a table across the room. He had three bullet holes stitched

across his chest. From the look on Billy's face, he remembered putting

them there.

"Frank? Frank Little Bear?"

Little Bear gave a nod. "Been a long time, Billy."

Another chair scraped, drawing Billy's attention as another man stood.

Billy seemed to know him, too. Chairs began scraping all over the

saloon as the dead rose to their feet. They were shredded with gunfire,

spattered with dried blood. They gave off an acrid reek of expended

gunpowder mingled with that cloying cinnamon smell I always seem to

encounter when dealing with the dead. Billy's gaze darted wildly around

at their sallow faces and empty eyes. Of course he recognized them all,

and why wouldn't he? He'd killed each and every one of them.

"Look around, Billy," I said. "Many familiar faces here. Many old

friends."

"They've all come to pay their respects, Mr. Quintaine," added Bosch.

"All those you've ever killed. You're the guest of honor here today."

Billy let go of Bosch and shot me a terrified look. "Who are you? The

Devil himself, come to snatch my soul?"

I did my best not to laugh. I didn't want to offend the guy. "Naw. They

call me Hellboy, but that's just on account of appearances. I'm a

concerned friend, is all."

The dead men chose that moment to start closing in on Billy from all

corners of the room. He took that for a bad sign and backed away,

yelling to Bosch: "Then you'd be Satan? And that galoot behind the bar,

that'd be your demon?"

"Satan? Oh, my. You do me far too much credit. I told you, name's

Cornelius Bosch, originally from Duluth. A traveling salesman and

sometimes gambler. Born with a gift of gab, which is why the others

invited me here today. I'm not with these gentlemen, strictly speaking,

though we do share a kinship. I was caught in the crossfire when you

robbed that Wells Fargo office in Haddonton, Missouri." He pronounced

it Missoura. He reached up and opened his suit coat, revealing a bloody

hole in his vest. "A stray bullet. Your stray bullet, I'm afraid."

The dead kept advancing, hemming Billy from all sides. He finally ran

out of backing-up room and bumped into the bar, watching the revenants

loom closer.

He slapped leather and drew both guns, picking targets at random and

blazing away. I clapped my hands over my ears and tried not to go deaf

from the massive booming gunshots — holy crap, those old Frontier Colts

were loud.' I was yelling for Billy to quit it, tried to tell him he

was overreacting, but he was firing shot after shot and doing some

yelling of his own: "YOU'RE DEMONS FROM THE PIT, COME TO DRAG ME OFF TO

HELL!" The dead men were staggered back as the bullets hit home,

chewing through them in clouds of dust — but dust is all they were,

brittle as parchment, and they remained on their feet. Billy's guns ran

dry, snapping a few times on empty chambers. I took my hands off my

ears, relieved, working my jaw. The ringing in my head was fierce, but

I could still hear McMurdo well enough:

"Heaven or hell, Billy. Whatever you care to call it. It's a warm

place. A quiet place. Maybe after a lifetime of tussle, somebody

figured we had a little quiet comin' to us." The kindness in his voice

surprised me. Even the hard men can be kind, as it turns out.

"We're all there, Billy," added Harley, flies orbiting his head. "All

of us who lived by the gun. And died by it."

"We're a brotherhood," said Doc Jessup. "A brotherhood of the gun."

"You don't belong here, Billy," insisted Little Bear. "You belong with

us."

"NO!" roared Billy, the ice returning to his veins. "Now you listen!"

They stopped in their tracks and waited to hear what he had to say. The

dead are polite at times, if not downright placid. Depends what mood

you catch 'em in. Billy jabbed a finger at Bosch. "I'm sorry for your

misfortune, friend, but I never meant for that bullet to find you! If

you were standin' where you shouldn't, you only got yourself to blame!

And you, Harley! You were dyin' anyhow! All I did was put you out of

your sufferin'! It was a kindness!" He lifted his chin and seemed to

grow a few inches, looking them all straight in the eye. Again, I

admired his nerve. "As for the rest of you, I kilt each and every man

in a fair fight! I never backshot a single feller among you, so you got

no cause now to come a slitherin' out of your graves to complain!"

"Can't argue a bit of it," whispered McMurdo. "It's all like you say.

But our time is past. You don't belong here. None of us do." He drew

close, and for a moment I thought he was going to kiss him. "Like I

said, Billy. I gotta take you in."

"Listen to him, Billy," I said, resting my elbows heavily on the bar.

"He's making good sense. Why don't you ask me what year it is?"

But Billy ignored me, roaring in McMurdo's face: "I shot you down, Tom

McMurdo! Shot you dead as hell! Least you should do is stay that way!

Fair is fair!"

"You shot me dead, true enough. But you don't recollect what happened

after that, do you?"

Billy hesitated. I saw confusion on his face as he tried to remember.

"I ... I came in here." He tossed a glance my way as if maybe I'd back

him up. I just shrugged.

"You recall walking away from his body? Crossing the street? Coming up

those saloon steps? Can you honestly say you remember any of it?"

"I must've! I'm here, ain't I?"

"It's all a blank, isn't it?" I tapped my noggin with the forefinger of

my giant stone hand. "C'mon, think. Tell me you remember anything after

Mr. McMurdo bit the proverbial dust. You can't, can you?"

" 'Course not," said McMurdo, shaking his head at Billy. "Stubborn as a

mule and twice as dumb. You're just like us, only you ain't got sense

enough to admit it."

"Accept it, Mr. Quintaine," said Bosch. "That's all you have to do.

Just accept it."

The dead men started muttering, urging Billy on, ghostly voices echoing

and overlapping, swelling to an eerie drone that set my teeth on edge.

Billy was shrinking in on himself, and I can't say I blamed him — it

was spooky as hell and whittling away my nerves, too. He whirled away

from them and clapped his hands over his ears, slamming his elbows to

the bar, his entire body hunched, and began screaming as if to preserve

his last shred of sanity: "YOU'RE DEAD! YOU'RE DEAD AND I'M ALIVE! NOW

GO AWAY! GO AWAY! GO AWAAAAAY!"

The silence was abrupt. The ghostly mutterings had stopped. So had the

visitation. The saloon was empty, except for Billy and me. He opened

his eyes and saw that I was still there. He jerked around and found the

others gone. I'd watched them evaporate behind his back like vapor,

vamoosing into thin air.

"Well, now you've gone and done it," I muttered.

"Oh, I know what you are," he growled, fixing me with a baleful look.

"Yeah? I can't wait to hear this."

"You're a watchacallit, a figment. Pretty soon you'll disappear, just

like them others. Hell, they was never here, only that little fella,

that Bosch. Only he were real, and he slipped me some'a that peyote

like I said. I just had me what the Injuns call a vision walk. Nothin'

but bad dreams and bullshit." He snapped his fingers dismissively at me

a few times, demanding that I fade out like a mirage. "Go on now,

figment, off you go. You disappear, too, like a good fella."

"Oh, brother," I sighed. He stared at me with contempt, daring me not

to vanish. I scratched my head and felt stupid, trying to figure out

how best to explain things and at a loss for what to do next.

Suddenly, there came the sound of boot heels thudding the boardwalk

outside. Somebody was approaching the saloon. Billy fixed his gaze on

the entrance, terror mounting all over again, not knowing what new

horror to expect.

The footsteps paused. And then:

Big Bart burst in through the swinging doors, looking like something

out of a Gene Autry musical — ridiculous white cowboy outfit encrusted

with imitation rhinestones, red plastic holsters on his hips, boots

glittering and twinkling with tiny inset mirrors, fringe swinging from

his elbows Grand Ole Opry-style. For the second time in one day,

possibly in his entire life, Billy Quintaine's jaw dropped.

I stifled a grin and silently blessed Big Bart's timing. This could

actually work in my favor, and I sure couldn't have planned it.

"Come on, folks, step right in!" bellowed Big Bart. "There's still lots

to see!"

He strode in, spurs jangling like cheap Christmas bells. He was an old

stunt man who'd spent most of his life falling off horses and had

retired to Arizona with a few bones still unbroken. Now he spent his

days happily giving the tourists the big spiel. They poured in at his

heels, spreading into the saloon with their ice cream cones and

slushees, the cheap sunglasses coming off their faces as they looked

around and started snapping pictures. Their clothing was a riot of

styles and colors — loud tropical print shirts, sneakers as subtle as

neon billboards, sandals and flip-flops, goofy straw hats. The kids

mostly wore jams, always a stupid excuse for a garment in my eyes

because it couldn't decide whether to be shorts or pants. A few of the

ladies had so much sunscreen on them, they looked paler than the dead

cowboys had.

I glanced over to Billy. Well, you can imagine his reaction. The poor

fellow was flabbergasted, with the tourists milling around him like he

wasn't even there. He waved his hand in front of a few faces, but

didn't get so much as a blink. He realized they couldn't see him. Folks

started noticing me, though, tossing uncomfortable looks my way. Big

Bart raised his hands to get their attention and reassure them. I'd

talked to him earlier and told him why I wanted to hang around, and had

gotten his blessing. He seemed like good people. Reminded me of Lee

Ermey. Four grandkids and another on the way.

"Nothin' to worry about, folks, that there's Hellboy, good ol' pal o'

mine. Dropped in on us today just to have a little fun and check out

the ghosts."

I gave a little wave. "Don't mind me, folks. Just part of the show."

That seemed to relax everybody, so Big Bart launched into his routine,

and a polished one it was: "Now this here's the saloon! Here's where

all the cowpokes and hombres would come to unwind and wet their

whistles after a hard day ridin' the range. Don't you grown-up folk try

orderin' nothin', y'hear? Happy Hour's been over for quite a while."

This got a chuckle from the group. Billy turned to me with a look that

said what in God's name is going on here? I motioned for him to listen

and be patient — besides, I really dug Big Bart's act and didn't want

to miss any of it. "Now, it might just interest you folks to know this

saloon has its very own ghost."

A little boy looked up at him with wide eyes. "You mean it's haunted,

Big Bart?"

"Why, little pardner, that's exactly what I mean! What's a ghost town

without a real honest-to-goodness ghost?" He tossed a wink at the boy's

parents and made them smile. I noticed an older kid with his baseball

cap turned backwards elbowing a pal and rolling his eyes at the

corniness of it. The kid had no idea, but Billy Quintaine was standing

right beside him. Yuk it up, Pizza Face, I thought. If you only knew.

Big Bart leaned down and gave the little boy a mock-scared look, really

playing it up. "And not just any ghost, mind you, but the ghost of the

most notorious, despicable varmint ever to terrorize the Old West! I'm

talkin' about none other than Billy Quintaine himself!" The tourists

murmured, impressed. Bart straightened up and moved among them, weaving

his spell. "He was the fastest gun alive ... but his luck ran out the

day Tom McMurdo caught up with him. Tracker Tom, the Texas Ranger! And

what a showdown it was! The two hombres faced each other on the street

outside this very saloon. I tell you folks, the very earth must'a shook

with each step they took."

He slapped leather — or in his case, red plastic — and quick-drew one

of his prop guns. The crowd gasped. "Both men drew! Both men fired! But

it was Tom McMurdo that hit the ground, cut down by the outlaw's

bullet!" He paused, looking at their faces, dropping his voice for

dramatic effect. "But we all know Tracker Tom wasn't alone that fateful

day. Unbeknownst to Billy, McMurdo's posse was hid out in every nook

and cranny of this town. And, yes sir, yes ma'am, the moment Tom bit

the dust, that posse made itself known to Billy Quintaine! From every

doorway, every window, every rooftop they came, all a flingin' lead!"

He quick-drew his second gun. The crowd gasped again.

"Quick as a flash, Billy Quintaine drew his other shootin' iron!

Howlin' like a banshee, six-guns a blazin', he tried to fight his way

across the street and get back to his horse ... but he never made it to

the stable. They cut him down in the street like the mad dog he was.

Billy Quintaine died a kickin' and a twitchin' in the dust, a big look

of surprise on his ornery face."

Billy didn't look ornery at the moment. He was watching me with a slack

expression, searching my eyes for the truth. I gave him a gentle nod.

Bart looked up at the ceiling, speaking in a low, spooky voice: "Some

folks say late at night — round about midnight, in fact — if you listen

real hard, you can heat the lost soul of Billy Quintaine a whistlin'

and a cryin' through the eaves of this very saloon."

By now you could hear a pin drop. The tourists were looking up,

scanning the cracked boards with dread as if expecting to see some pale

spectral face peering down at them. Even Billy was looking up, eyes

wide.

Bart suddenly bellowed, "THERE HE IS!" and started blasting his

cap-guns at the ceiling — bam-bam-bam-bam! I enjoyed seeing the

tourists shriek and jump, knowing I'd gotten suckered in myself the

first time. Big Bart howled and yipped with glee, spun his six-guns on

his fingers, and rammed them back into their holsters with a grin. "Got

the varmint!" The tourists exploded with laughter, and some of them

even applauded. "Well, folks, let's mosey on down the trail, there's

still lots left to see."

He led the tour group out of the saloon. Silence returned. Billy stood

for a time, not looking at me, then went to the swinging doors and

peered out. I knew what he was seeing out there. A concession stand. A

gift shop. A fake horse you could sit on and have your picture taken

with. He craned his neck, and I figured he could see the sun glinting

off the SUVs and RVs parked down at the far end of the street.

I felt for him. It couldn't be easy knowing his whole life, all his

struggles and hardships, all his pain and tears, had ended here — as a

cheap gimmick for the amusement of tourists. He drew away from the door

and finally looked at me.

"So that's how it is?"

"That's how it is."

He moved slowly across the room to the little round table where he'd

sat earlier with Bosch. I could see him trying to wrap his mind around

everything as he sank back into his seat. He picked up the bottle of

rye and stared at it. He saw that it was old and dusty and dry as a

bone. There hadn't been any hooch in it for a long time.

"What year is it?" he asked softly.

"We're into the next century now," I said, coming out from behind the

bar. "The twenty-first, I mean." That got him to look up. "Hey, you're

not missing much. We're only a few years in, and things are already a

bigger mess than ever. I thought we'd outdone ourselves in the last

one, what with two world wars and all, but it looks like we're just

getting started. I kinda miss the old days myself. Give me cowpokes

riding the range. No bin Laden, no 9-11, no quagmire in Iraq, no

assholes cooking up anthrax or trying to build nukes in their

basements." He gave me a puzzled look, but I waved it aside. "Aw, crap,

you don't even wanna know."

I came to the table, eyeing the flimsy chair Bosch had occupied. No way

it'd hold my weight — I'd broken enough chairs in my day to know. I

swapped it out for a smallish barrel I spotted near the wall. It looked

stout and might make a handy stool. I sat gingerly on it across from

him, thankfully sans pratfall — the barrel held. He was watching me.

"And you? How do you fit into this, if not to drag me to hell?"

"Me? I just happened by. Had some vacation time piled up, and things

were quiet at the office, so I was heading down to Sedona to hang with

a pal of mine. Go hiking and stuff. Supposed to be some kind of nexus

of psychic vibes down there, which sounds a little Age of Aquarius to

me, but I thought it might be fun." I could see I was losing him by the

way his brow was furrowing. "Sorry, I'll try to make better sense.

Anyway, so I was driving by and saw this place from the road. Big damn

billboard, you can't miss it. Looked like my kind of tourist trap, so I

stopped for lunch. I took the tour, used the rest room, spent maybe an

hour — nothing out of the ordinary. But then, bam, soon as I tried to

leave, this place knocked me right on my ass. I felt like Shemp getting

hit with a frying pan. Before I knew it, I had ghosts all over me like

flies on frosting."

"Ghosts?" he said, trying out the word for the first time. "Are such

things drawn to you?"

"Yeah," I admitted. "Always been that way. I see dead people, like the

kid in the movie. Come across it a lot in my line of work, among other

things. Anyway, the ghosts in this place were filled with need. Since I

have this sort of knack to attract the dead, they seized upon me for

help. I couldn't really say no. I mean,

jeez ... those guys have been trying to get your attention for, what, a

hundred and twenty years?"

Though I could tell my lingo left him a little fuzzy here and there,

the man was sharp and got the gist. "They ... they came out of

kindness?"

"Well, kindness, yeah. But also pain. They're pretty much at rest, only

it bothers them having one of their own rattling around not at rest.

That would be you. So I tried what's known in paranormal terms as an

'intervention.' That means cluing somebody in to the fact that they're,

you know, no longer with us. It's not like there's a manual or

anything, so you mostly wing it. I came up with that cornball stuff

about Doctor Argus's tonic. It's kind of a smoke-and-mirrors gimmick

known as a 'trigger.' It's really all about the power of suggestion —

give someone an excuse to really see things as they are, they usually

run with it. It almost worked, too, but like McMurdo said, you're

awfully stubborn."

He met my eyes. "What do you mean ... almost worked?"

I sighed, hating to break bad news. "Well, here's the thing, when you

told them to go away, they went away. They tried their best, but you

were pretty firm about it, and ghosts can be sensitive. What happens

now, I don't know." I looked up at the rafters, hoping to get some

residual feel, but there was nothing — no ghosty vibe at all, except

for the man across from me. "This place feels pretty empty."

I looked back at Billy and saw tears shimmering in his eyes. My heart

broke for him a little. He'd finally gotten there, finally admitted it,

and maybe all for nothing.

"But ... I can't stay here in this strange place. They was right, I

don't belong. Haven't in a very long time."

"Yeah, I know," I said softly.

He looked up toward the ceiling, no longer speaking to me. "Hey, you

fellas. I was wrong. You hear me, you boys? I was wrong!" No reply. He

rose to his feet, turning slowly, checking out the rafters. "Tom? Doc?

Harley? Can you hear me? Wherever you are? Wherever you've gone?"

"Hey, Billy, listen ..."

He started shouting, shutting me out, desperate now: "I DON'T BELONG

HERE! DON'T LEAVE ME BEHIND! YOU CAN'T! IT AIN'T HALF FAIR!" He held

his breath, listening. So did I. All I heard was the breeze in the

eaves. Above our heads, a spider web billowed and settled. "Please?" he

added in a small voice.

I couldn't believe it, but it looked like he was about to cry. Then he

stunned me by crumpling his face up. A ragged sob hitched in his chest.

Billy Quintaine, a man who'd never cracked in life, finally did. I

guess finding out he was dead didn't strike him nearly as hard as

knowing his time was past and he'd been left behind. His tears began to

flow freely and without shame. The man was alone. Truly alone. He

buried his face in his hands and fell to his knees on the dusty floor,

shoulders heaving. All I heard were his sobs and his thin, muffled

pleading:

"Take me in, Ranger Man ... please ... take me in ..."

And then the damnedest thing happened. A voice called from outside.

"Billy! Billy Quintaine!"

It was McMurdo's voice. My heart did a flip. The sudden smell of

scorched gunpowder mixed with the aroma of cinnamon whapped me in the

face so hard my stomach lurched, and I actually had to grab the table

with both hands to keep from falling over. I'm really glad it didn't

make me puke, as it would have spoiled the poetry of the moment. Billy

was lifting his head from his hands, hope creeping into his tear-filled

face. The voice called again:

"I'm callin' you out, Quintaine!"

I looked to Billy for his reaction, but he'd pretty much tuned me out.

He blew a long breath and got to his feet, trying to pull himself

together. He wiped a runner of snot from his nose with his sleeve, then

pulled his guns and started to load them. His movements were

methodical, measured. As I watched, a startling transformation took

place — the broken man was slowly replaced by the fierce gunslinger,

determination and resolve deepening with each shell he slid into the

chambers. By the time he slapped those chambers closed, he was Billy

Quintaine again. Gunfighter. Standing tall and proud. Ready to face

anybody and anything. At peace with what lay ahead.

He turned to a murky mirror, meeting his own reflection. He spun the

Colts on his fingers, performing a fierce flourish and ramming them

into their holsters where they belonged. He turned and walked to the

swinging doors of the saloon, his boots klock-klock-klocking slowly

across the dusty boards. I thought he'd forgotten all about me, but

then he paused and looked back.

"I thankee, stranger," was all he said, then stepped outside to face

his destiny.

[IMAGE]

"Oh, shit," I muttered, and came up off my barrel. I was across the

room and at the window before you could blink. What I saw out there

made my

insides flutter. Gone were the concession stand, the gift shop, the

parked cars, and the dumb fake horse you could get your picture taken

with. In their place stood a man in the street wearing silver-toed

boots and a necklace of knucklebones. His duster was swept back, his

hand hovering near his holster. Billy was circling into the street to

face him. I caught glimpses of townsfolk scurrying for cover. "You the

one been trackin' me?" demanded Billy Quintaine. "Clear across the

state," answered McMurdo.

They were playing it out. It occurred to me how inevitable that was.

They had to, in order for Billy to move on. It was his ticket to mount

up and ride.

"The lengths a man'll go to just to get hisself killed." Billy found

his spot, set his feet. "You got a name?"

"McMurdo."

"McMurdo." Pause. "That'd be Tom, wouldn't it? Texas Ranger. Hear tell

you're the best there is."

McMurdo took a breath. "Gotta take you in, Billy. Your choice as how."

Billy nodded, spread his feet a bit more, and flexed his fingers near

his holstered Colt. "Well then, Ranger man ... make your move."

The gunfighters stood, frozen like statues, eons passing in the space

of mere heartbeats. A hot wind off the high desert blew dust around

their boots. A tumble-weed rolled by.

They went for their guns, both men drawing like oiled lightning.

They fired at the same instant. McMurdo — for the first and last time

ever in his life — missed. Billy didn't. McMurdo caught the round in

the chest and threw his head up toward the sun, features contorted in

an ecstasy of pain, and managed to stay on his feet somehow. He looked

down, gun still clutched in his outstretched hand, blinking in dull

surprise at the gaping wound and the steady drip drip drip of blood

pattering onto the silver toe of his boot.

He lifted his head in amazement and tried to get a shot off, but Billy

beat him to it. The second bullet took McMurdo in the hollow of his

throat just above the breastbone. His necklace flew apart, throwing

knucklebones into the air. They scattered in the dust at his feet as he

staggered back, his arm flinging stiffly to one side and discharging

his gun into the ground. He choked up a startling spray of arterial

blood and fell, hitting the ground in a cloud of dust. One last violent

spasm, and that was it. Dead as hell.

A hush descended. Billy stood in the street, the smoking Colt in his

hand. He lifted his chin and scanned the empty buildings surrounding

him. Waiting. The whole damn world seemed to be holding its breath.

He whipped his other gun from its holster, one in each hand now, and

bellowed at the top of his lungs: "C'MON, YOU SORRY SONS A BITCHES!

WHAT'CHA ALL WAITIN' FOR, JUDGMENT DAY?"

And then the street exploded. It was like Big Bart said — from every

doorway, every window, every rooftop they came, all a flingin' lead.

You know how they say time sometimes seems to slow down and get weird

when you're having an accident? It's like the seconds stretch out and

the world goes kind of slo-mo? That's how I felt as I stood there

watching the last few moments of Billy's life tick down, as if molasses

had been poured into the very gears and cogs of time itself.

The first bullet sheared through Billy's collarbone, kicking up a spray

of blood. He howled like an enraged banshee and spun, running for the

stable, trying to get to his horse. The Frontier Colts were blazing in

his hands, and his boots were slamming through the dust like thunder.

Pistols and rifles boomed from every nook and cranny of the town,

pinning him in a horrendous crossfire. He started taking hit after hit,

the bullets whining in like angry hornets and tearing big, bloody holes

in him.

Several men went down as Billy's bullets found their marks. One guy

even cartwheeled off a rooftop and fell through a porch overhang in an

explosion of splintered wood, just like I'd seen done a thousand times

in countless movies. The poor fellow died never knowing what a cliche

that would someday be.

Billy ran on, screaming through the brutal storm of gunfire, jerked

around in a Saint Vitus dance, bullets chewing him to pieces and

throwing a red mist of blood trailing through the air in his wake. He

spun in one direction, pirouetted in another, and finally fell to his

knees. He was still firing his guns, even though he was out of ammo and

the hammers were falling on empty chambers. A few more bullets struck

him, and he jerked and recoiled with each impact.

The shooting finally stopped. The only sound now was the wind whistling

off the high desert.

Billy knelt in the street, swaying, staring up at the sky. His hands

dropped slowly to his sides, dragged down by the now impossible weight

of his guns. His head bobbed forward as his life ebbed away, and for a

brief moment he looked like a man hanging his head in shame.

The last thing he did? He turned his head slowly, caught me watching

from the window of the saloon, and I'll be damned if he didn't give me

a wink. I swear it's true. Then he toppled and crashed face-first into

the dust.

I pulled away from the window. "Wow," was all I said. It was all I

could say.

[IMAGE]

I went to the small revolving postcard display atop the bar. It was

like all the others around town, mounted on a slotted metal box so

people could pay on the honor system. Only in Arizona will you see this

sort of trust. I spun the display slowly on its spindle. It was filled

with the typical array of pretty pictures captioned with slogans like

Greetings From Arizona! and Howdy Pard! There were, however, a few

bearing actual historical photos. I knew because I'd idly browsed one

of these racks when I'd first gotten into town, before the ghosts had

shown up and started haranguing me. I found the postcard I was looking

for and drew it out.

It told the rest of the story. It was the famous sepia-toned photo of

Billy Quintaine lying in a rough wooden coffin propped up in front of

the saloon with his hands lashed across his chest and pennies on his

eyes, surrounded by the surviving members of the posse. They'd dragged

him off the street by his ankles, stripped his clothes, wrapped him in

a shroud, and posed for pictures.

A cheap amusement even then, and the body hadn't even been cold.

I dug two quarters from my pocket, clanked them into the little box,

and left the saloon with my postcard. Across the street, I saw tourists

posing on the dumb fake horse.

I sighed and headed for the parking lot. A red '59 ragtop Cadillac with

the biggest damn tailfins Detroit ever slapped on the ass of a car was

calling my name. It was a guzzler and handled like a sofa, but it was

one of the few things I could fit in, and I loved it.

It was time for me to mount up and tide off into the sunset. "Hi-yo,

Silver," I muttered, forgetting to add the "away. "

Even if I didn't stop for gas, I'd never make Sedona by dark.