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Virgil had sat in the Nothing with the Shaman for an amount of time he could not identify. He asked, "I saw you dead. How is any of this possible?” “It would be more polite if you asked me a question I could answer,” said Shaman, running his colorless fingers through the colorless grass on which they sat. “I am what you see, but I am not what you see. Your mind makes sense of it with the symbols it has.” Virgil stared at him in mute confusion. The old Shaman that was No One tried again. “All things have a symbol or a name, all things but me. I am no one. I am no thing. I am only that I am." "Is this a riddle?" "No,” said No One. “But because the truth is the wrong shape to fit into your head, you try to make it into a riddle. Some men try paradoxes. I like those best of all, they never go anywhere either." "My wife… I came seeking…" “Yes,” said No One, “I've tasted your desire on the smoke now for seven days – but here it feels like forever and still just an instant. See, paradox!" “Where have they gone?” demanded Virgil, his hand on his gun. "They have gone out of this world, to another. I think this not often done. Someone made a bridge. Someone made a tunnel. Someone made a tunnel through a bridge." "Who? And how do I find this bridge?" "Tunnel." "Fine, tunnel…" “It’s a bridge, you look up. But if it’s not a bridge, it’s a tunnel!” The old man who was No One laughed. “At least I’m pretty sure it is. With an effort, Virgil removed his hand from his gun. He tried again, saying, “Who has done this?" "One from here, one from there. From here the ones dug the tunnel to escape. From there, I think they built a bridge. No One shrugged. “Jave you seen anyone strange? Travelers, I mean?" Virgil shook his head, no. "Then perhaps someone has set a trap on the other side." "How do I get there?" "You would run into a trap?" "I would ride into hell." The Indian shrugged, “It is somewhere, I guess. But it all becomes nothing in the end.” Virgil turned his head and spit. No One was shocked at this. He stared at the moisture hanging from the pigmentless grass and dripping on the colorless earth. Virgil asked more questions and the Indian gave more unsatisfactory answers. This went on for an hour or an eternity, and Virgil had no way of knowing which it was. Virgil left, feeling that the Indian in the colorless place hadn't told him anything worth knowing. Virgil did not remember leaving or even deciding to leave. It seemed that he had simply closed his eyes one moment, and opened them the next, to find himself riding on his horse, blinking against the profusion of colors he saw in the muted, eastern Arizona desert. As he rode back from the Nothing to Nowhere the old Shaman’s words rang in his head, nothing could pass from one place to another without leaving a connection. But where would this connection be? What form would it take? A bridge, a tunnel? How might Virgil use it to return to his family? He remembered the old Indian’s lopsided grin as he told him that the world was filled with women and that Virgil should go find another wife and have some more children. The Shaman said he was too old to try himself, but he had never stopped wanting to. Virgil had cursed him then, saying, “If you can't do anything to help me then what are you good for?" The old Indian had told him that People weren't supposed to be *for* anything. They’re just supposed to be. And added that people forgetting this fact was the source of most of the problems in the world. He remembered setting seven fires to get to the Nothing. It only took him one night to return. The next afternoon, he spotted smoke on the horizon. As he urged more speed out of his horse, he realized the shapes of the hills were familiar. He dropped the pack horse and spurs his tired mount into a weary gallop. But when he crested the hill and looked down at the spot where Grantham had been he

Dance crawled until he passed out. He couldn’t say how long he slept, but he was brought back to consciousness by the peaceful sound of his horse cropping grass close to his head. At this he spasmed in fear, rolled onto his back and crab-walked backwards, scrambling for his pistol. His horse looked at him evenly, knowing him for the fool that he was. When Dance realized his situation, he replaced his half–unholstered pistol and said a prayer of gratitude. Then he started looking for his hat. He saw it a few hundred yards out on the prairie next to a burned black circle. He raised his eyes to the horizon and saw the black tower stabbing into the sky. He shook his head and said, “I never did like that hat, anyway.” Then he caught his horse and rode back to town. With Archie in the lead McAllister and ten of the Teamsters crossed the street and made for the Morning Star mine. But before they could get to the mine yard, Jane Siskin stormed into their path. Gone was the dress of the night before and now she was in dusty leathers again. She planted her hands on her hips and said, “Now just where in the hell do you think you're going!?!” Archie said, “And just whom in the hell you imagine you are addressing?" "Oh, I ain't talking to you, your highness. These boys in on my payroll and that means they should have the courtesy to inform me before they go off getting in some foolishness. I mean, Clod there don't know no better, but I expected more from you MacAllister." "Enough wi’ your haverin’ woman! My head’s not havin’ ’t this mornin. It’s bright and loud already and your man here is invited us to go for a walk in a nice, cool, quiet cave. So we've decided on a wee stroll." Jane turned her skeptical eye towards Archie. Archie told her of the disappearance of the silver deposits and their replacement with an ancient temple of unknown origin. Jane tried to look tough and unfeeling as he explained, but the memory of the darkness and the vision he had seen there were so fresh in Archie's mind she was captured by his retelling. "Besides," concluded Archie, “since the road to Bisbee, and for all we know the entirely of the outside world, is gone, it appears you are out of the freight business and must seek a new line of employment. Might I suggest Archaeology?” "Oh my sweet prince," at Jane with a smile. “It's you who don't get how the world works. Roads and towns come and go, but there is always – always – something that needs hauling. But let's have a look at what's in your root cellar. Then she hooked her arm through his and Archie escorted her across the street as if she had been a guest at the season’s finest ball. As they assembled torches in the yard, Archie looked askance at the miners who stood around in small groups, muttering to themselves, “Bloody fools.” “Why are you so angry at them,” Jane asked, “they're just afraid.” “Superstition offends me. Right to my very core." "You mean to tell me you don't believe in ghosts and spirits?" Asked Jane. "Certainly not. I am a natural philosopher. I believe in what I can see with my own eyes, what I can verify with my own senses." “What of God, ye English heathen? Have you seen him?” Asked McAllister good-naturedly as he tied a rag around a length of shattered board. “Carefully recording the wonder of his creation so that we can better understand it, is that not worship?” asked Archie. MacAllister smiled and answered, “Laddie, I’m just grateful when I walk in a church that the roof doesn’t fall in on top of me. They filled a wagon with torches and rolled it as far as the mine tracks would go, then they all lit two torches a piece and advanced into the chamber. The twelve of them spread out in an attempt to fill the chamber with light. But there was something about the darkness. It retreated, but begrudgingly, stubbornly, as if still fighting to clock the secrets of the ancient Temple. Jane asked,

As Sheriff John Dance rode down to the river, Miguel, the Stagecoach agent, came up beside him. Dance gave him a skeptical look, and didn’t have time to get to the question before Miguel said, “I have responsibilities…” Fair enough thought Dance. He cast an eye over Miguel’s horse and rig. It was packed light and well, and Miguel sat his horse easy. He looked like he knew what doing. Probably more than Dance did. Dance was no frontier hand or Indian fighter by nature. But the misadventures of his youth had taught him to travel fast and leave as little trace as possible.  When they got to the river Dance reined, and without taking his eyes off the other side, Dance said, “We’ll head north along the river, see if we can find a place to ford, and any sign of that ship. First sign of trouble, I’m cuttin’ and runnin’. You understand? This is a scout.”  Miguel nodded and said, “If I find a way across, I have to go to Bisbee.” Dance said, “Miguel, you see any telegraph poles on the other side of that river?”  Miguel shook his head. “It makes no difference, I must go anyway. It is my duty.”  “It ain’t a duty, Miguelito, it’s just a job.”  “I may not have a Star like you,” said Miguel, “But I have my duties.”  Dance shook his head and decided he wouldn’t share his opinions about Duty and Bisbee with Miguel. Duty was just some horseshit made up by powerful people to get the little people to sacrifice themselves when it was convenient. And Bisbee? There weren’t no f****n’ Bisbee there anymore.  Give it a few more days, and everybody would see that. It was just that most people, normal people with their settled lives, were slow to adapt to change. They ignored it, argued against it, and tried to resist it. But it was all foolishness. Things changed, the man who changed the fastest was the one who made the best of them. That’s how Dance had wound up as Sheriff in the first place. Everything on this side of the river was normal for the first mile and even though the opposite bank was an unknown land, the river was peaceful and cool and Dance found himself thinking of the day he had come to Grantham, three years ago.  He had ridden into town dragging a different name and a streak of bad luck that had felt a mile wide. If Dance was honest, right now, it felt like he was draggin’ something wider and worse.  At the livery stable, Eli Johnson hadn’t known what to make of him when he handed off the reins to a battered old nag and said, “Take good care of her.”  “Why?” asked Eli, not afraid of offending this stranger ‘cause any damn fool could see this horse wasn’t fit for anything but the glue factory.  Dance had flipped him a newly minted silver dollar and said, “‘Cause I owe her.” That settled, he nodded his battered hat at the building made of thick, irregular stone across the street and asked, “Would I be right in thinking that’s the Sheriff’s office?”  “Yessir, says so right on the sign,” answered Eli, thinking that this man had been out in the sun too long to have retained a grip on the obvious.  The Sheriff’s office had a wide porch and awning of unpainted, rough-cut lumber. The windows, such as they were were in those rough stone walls, were long and horizontal, with the occasional cross openings. The place was a fortress, gunportd and all.  Dance glided up the steps and pushed through the door without knocking.  Inside were two desks - a rolltop stuffed with correspondence and a leather-topped one on the left of the door. There was a table, a few chairs, a half-full rack of long guns on the wall and a pot-bellied stove. What Dance didn’t see were any deputies, or anybody at all. At first.  On the wall by the door was a collection of wanted posters, and as Dance was checking to see if his face was on any of them he heard the muffled cry of someone calling out through a gag.  The back of the room was a wal

Dr. Krupp was terrified. In all his years of selling snake oil throughout the frontier — a figure he often exaggerated, but in truth amounted to no more than three years — he had seen many remarkable things but never had he seen Dr. Bartoleermere the Second’s Magic Elixir actually work. But it had happened. He had seen the little girl’s wound heal! And Dr. Krupp had no idea what to do next. As townspeople rushed about, frantic with news of the attack, Dr. Krupp walked in a circle in the center of town talking to himself. First, he wanted a drink but then he turned sharply and walked towards the livery stable and his wagon full of elixir. Then he looked around him in terror, certain he was being followed. Grantham, like all frontier towns, was filled with desperate characters; gamblers, miners, drovers, and cowboys down on their luck. What he had was absolutely priceless. Worth more than silver or gold. The patter sprang into his mind unbidden, "the Elixir of life itself… Freedom from man’s age-old enemies, pain, and death. The lauded and once mythical Panacea now made available through the miracles of the modern age.” What a pitch! And all the better for actually being true. He smiled to himself, then he frowned and changed directions once again. His wagon had elaborately painted canvas tarps on either side that proclaimed the value and wonder of Dr. Bartoleermere the Second’s Magic Elixir. The idea was to make it so a passerby couldn't help but notice such a magnificent example of the sign-maker’s art. And that cinched the argument. In a fright, he hastened to the freight yard knowing he must remove the signs and disguise his wagon. Along the way, he passed the Preacher crying out to the people of Grantham as he stood upon an overturned bucket. He was telling the people that these strange happenings were the work of the Lord. These signs and portents were meant to call the faithful to arms. Dr. Krupp avoided the Preacher’s gaze as he pushed his way through the crowd, afraid that the man might call him out… afraid of what that man might say. He crossed the main street, ducked through a narrow alley, and emerged on the edge of the freight yard. Wagons of all shapes and sizes crowded the dusty lot, but from the street, he could not see his wagon and sighed in relief. For the first time in his life, he was grateful that his advertising was obscured from the public. He checked to see that he was not being followed and then hurried in among the wagons with surprising speed for a man of his girth. Behind two battered Conestoga wagons, he found his rig with its colorful signs. He had paid five dollars a side to get them done in San Francisco and they were worth every penny. In fact, he had paid more for the signs than he had to get the patent medicine brewed, bottled, and labeled. In truth, the contents of the bottles had never been important. Grain alcohol, some hop, and something bitter would do it. Bitter because everyone knew that good-tasting things never made good medicine. And that was the secret, no one ever bought or sold a chemical formula. They paid for the prospect of relief from their ailments. And luckily for Dr. Krupp, the western territories were an endless wellspring of ailments. Wrenched backs, aching teeth, consumption, dysentery, hangover, boils, the pox, snakebite, yellow fever, tuberculosis, argue, gout, la grippa –- if you name a man's pain in detail he will believe that you have the cure for him. The secret wasn't in the bottle and never had been. It was in the *salesmanship.* At least it had been. But now… He shuttered to think what a working formula meant. If the one thing he was certain was fake turned out to be real… then was anything real? Was everything fake? Had he been the one being conned all along. He was lost in his own understanding. He climbed up on the side of the wagon and started untying the painted tarpaulin. As he worked he heard a strained cough

Virgil sat for two days while the strange grass around him died in the heat. At night he slept on the ground and in the daytime he sat once again. At some point, he remembered not when, he unhitched the horses from the wagon and hobbled them. When he drank the last of the water from his canteen they had crowded close, pitiful with dehydration. It was only his sympathy for the horses that got him up and moving again. Where the well had once been in the town of Grantham, he found the barest seep of water. It was muddy and brackish, but when he dug it out it refilled gradually. When the horses had drunk, he strained muddy water through his neckerchief into a canteen. On the next day, he heard the lowing of cattle and soon cowboys drove a herd into view. These were some of the hands from the Bar D, and their north herd. They looked at Virgil's face and saw their madness mirrored in his eyes. They asked him where the town had gone and Virgil told him that he did not know, but that it had taken his family with it. They told him how they had awoken to find the other bunkhouse, the corrals, barns, and ranch house missing. And all the other hands and the Burdocks. "I had wife and children," said Virgil. No one spoke after that. They sat a long time as the afternoon turned to night, bereft of an explanation. Finally, the setting sun moved some of the cowboys to go out in search of firewood. As one of them saddled up he asked, "if this isn't Grantham, then what is this place?" Virgil said, "Nowhere." "Hunh,” said the cowboy, “a town called Nowhere,” and rode on. The Cowboys stayed that night, slaughtering one of the beeves for dinner. Virgil got some flour from his wagon and they had steak and biscuits. Even though his heart was broken and he was adrift in a cruel world that he could not force to make sense, the easy way of the Cowboys lifted his spirits. They were free and unencumbered by family or attachment. They joked and sang and carried on as young men always had. And their pranks and cocky banter brought a smile to Virgil's face. In the morning, they rode back north to graze the herd. They said they'd get through the calving and the fattening, then drive the herd to the railhead in Tucson, sell the stock and head their separate ways. What would Virgil do, they wondered? He had no answer for them. He did not know himself. As they rode off, the youngest said, "Put up a saloon in this town of Nowhere and we’ll visit more often.” Virgil thought long and hard about what he could do. Could he give his old life up for lost -- be as accepting and carefree as those Cowboys? Maybe he could head down to Mexico. Hell, he might drift back to Bisbee, and kill Fetterman just for the enjoyment of it. In this incomprehensible situation, he could see how Fetterman was the reasonable person to blame. If that shifty b*****d had honored his contract, Virgil would've been in town when whatever had happened had happened. He would still be with Laura and Mac and Pen. It hurt to think of them. It hurt to close his eyes at night and see their sweet faces. Hear their squeals of delight, and Laura's whisper in his ear. Remember the light in Mac's eye when he looked up at him with pride, even though Virgil knew the boy would feel differently if he knew the truth of his father's past. He vowed he would be with them again, no matter what it took. What if they were dead? He shook his head to rid himself such an evil thought. They lived yet, he could feel it. With furious anger, he willed it to be so. For if they were dead, where were the bodies? But then, where hadthey gone? And how have they managed to take the buildings with them? The questions circled endlessly in spirals. Where were the people? Where were the buildings? But where were the people? But where were the buildings? The next day he was sick of drinking muddy water, and even sicker of questions that had no answers. He spent all day gathering wood. That night he mad

As the Sheriff and Pete walked back through town, they could all but smell the fear. Gone was the carelessness of rough men when they weren’t working. Wide eyes peeped out from behind dirty curtains. The piano player in the Occidental Saloon was going at it hammer and tongs, sounding more strained than celebratory. The noisiest place in town was Saloon #3 and that wasn’t a good sign. If Dance didn’t know better he’d say this town felt like it had a showdown comin’. Maybe? Who the hell knew? That was the problem. The damnable uncertainty of it all. Pete peeled off at the jail and Dance tipped his hat to the deputy and kept walking. But before he got to the livery, he stopped in front of the Miller General Store. He knew he shouldn’t, but couldn’t think of a way around it. And he stood there trying to think of a reason not to go in for a good long while. Ah hell, he thought, might not be back this way again. From the doorway, he saw Laura Miller standing in the back, looking out the window. The sound of Penelope signing drifted down the staircase. She sounded as if nothing bad would or could ever happen to her. Mack came down the stairs before John got three steps inside and said, “Morning Sheriff, what can I help you with?” Dance looked back to Laura at the window. She had not turned around to acknowledge his presence in the store. He thought he saw her shoulders shaking. Was she crying? Mack said, "I can get you whatever you need." This annoyed Dance. He didn't like being pushed or goaded or directed. He gave the boy a flat look and said, "I need some cartridge, .44.” The boy took two cardboard boxes from a shelf well-stocked with ammunition and placed them on the counter. The green labels read “Winchester Repeating Arms Co. New Haven, Conn., U.S.A.” Dance was looking at Laura again, and this time Mack said, “Anything else I can get you?" They were polite enough words but the boy didn't say them that way. A thought leapt unbidden into Dance’s mind. For all the rough things I done in my time, I never robbed a store. "Laura," said Dance, a little louder than he meant to. "Sheriff?" asked Mack, giving whatever he was trying one last attempt. "Put it on the tab," said Dance, and then he strode to the back of the store. Laura turned to look at him and her eyes were filled with tears. In her hands she was twisting and twisting her pretty bonnet, looking like she might worry it clean in half. They stood looking at each other, Dance now ashamed of the feelings that he had brought to this place. Above them Penelope's voice rang out clear and perfect as she sang, “May the red rose live always, To smile upon the earth and sky” At a loss, Dance said, “She sounds fine." "Yes," said Laura, “She is… It's a miracle." She waved a hand, unable to explain what none of them understood. "Sheriff, I got your bullets here." "Go upstairs and look after your sister," said Laura. “She's fine,” protested Mack. “She was fine this morning when I placed her in your charge," Laura said. The boy turned and walked away in shame. Laura added, “No more backtalk, you hear, young man!” "Yes ma'am,” he said and then climbed the stairs. “John," she whispered, "John, what am I to do?" John Dance stepped closer, thinking to comfort Laura. As he opened his arms to take her in a hug, she slapped him across the face. "Not that." Laura said quietly, "I'll not do that. Not again." Dance tried to shrug it off and forced a smile, “I didn't mean nothing by it. You just seemed low, is all." "John Dance," she said with the first smile he’d seen from her in as long as he could remember; a sad smile, but a smile all the same. “You always mean something." She looked down at the wrinkled and absurd bonnet in your hands and made a disapproving noise. "Now what is it you want here that you can have and are willing to pay for?" "Laura, I'm riding out for a scout.” "But what about the t

For a long time, nobody said anything. They just stood on the bank of the strange new river with the wounded as if the whispering of the water would explain what had happened. All in all, Dance thought, it could have been a whole lot worse and it probably would be before the end. Pete asked, “You want to get up a posse and go after them, Sheriff?” Dance shook his head. “Let’s figure out what we’d be raiding into before we go a-raidin’. Besides, if that boat went upriver, it will come back down. Next time we’ll be ready for target practice. As Dance thumbed rounds into his Winchester the Englishman walked up and stood next to him. Dance looked him over and said, “You got sand, Mister. But if you’re gonna pass the time out West, you best get heeled.” “Archimedes Croryton, but my friend call me Archie,” he said, holding out his hand. “Good for them,” said the Sheriff, “John Dance. What was that you were barking at them?” “Aramaic, Syriac, Latin, some Attic Greek. Anything I could think of really.” “You know what the hell they was?” “Not a clue,” answered Archie. He nodded at the body of an archer floating in the river he said, “But I know how to find out.” And started stripping off his clothes. When he reached his underwear, Archie waded into the river and swam out to the dead archer. His silken garment had billowed out around him, trapping air and giving the corpse buoyancy. Archie grabbed a handful of fabric and dragged the body back ashore. When Archie got to the mud, Dance helped him land his strange fish. As Archie caught his breath, Dance asked, “Anything familiar about this to you?” “I was hoping you would know, you’re the native.” Archie rolled the body over on its back and brushed the mud off the face. The man had a dark, olive complexion with a large, hooked nose and strange characters tattooed on his cheeks. Out of respect, Archie closed his eyes. The man’s silk garments were held at the waist with a thick belt of bronze plates. Archie asked for the Sheriff’s knife and used it to cut the shirt open. It was surprisingly tough. The man’s chest was tattooed in the same diamond pattern as his face. Archie made a close examination of the man’s hands. Dance asked, “Mr. Croryton, how’s a man like you, an educated man, wind up here?” “Sheriff, if you can tell me where here is, I’ll answer your question.” “Hell, you’re in Grantham, Arizona Territory.” Archie said, “Last night, I was reasonably certain that I arrived in Grantham. But now, I am not so sure.” “Fair enough,” said the Sheriff, “What do you make of our guest?” “My guess is this man has done little else in his life but fire a bow.” “Professional military?” “No, I am saying, this man was not merely in the army. His entire body and one might well say his being, has conformed to being an archer.” He gently turned the dead man over in the mud and pointed to the imbalance in the musculature of shoulders and arms. The right arm with a noticeably bigger biceps muscle, the left with a well-defined triceps from extending the bow. And the muscles between the shoulder blades stood out in almost chiseled detail. “He is a professional warrior. Like a Spartan or a Myrmidon.” Dance said, “I ain’t never heard of them, but were they too dumb to duck too?” “Yes, they did not react like men who had ever seen a firearm before. The question is where did they come from?” Dance spit and said, “No idea. Not yet,” as he looked grimly up the river. “Well, then you’ve got bigger questions. Who is this military power on your doorstep?” “Hardly call them military if they don’t have guns.” Archie said, “Did you not see how cool they were under attack? How they continued to nock and fire even as their commander was struck down and their comrades were dying around them?” Dance rubbed his chin. “Yeah, fair point. I was at

Squatting on the bank of the river, Archie offered one word of description for the wooden ship that was bearing down upon the Town of Grantham, “Trireme.” Sheriff Dance paid no attention to Archie. His eyes were locked on an imposing figure at the rail, who was looking down on the town and the people frolicking in the water. Even at a distance Dance could see that this man was not smiling. In the shallows, Mack stared at the ship in wonder. On the bank, his sister turned a cartwheel in the mud. The figure on the deck of the ship raised his hand and uttered a guttural command. The oars closest to the shore stopped moving and the boat turned in the wide river and headed for the shore. The townspeople scrambled and stumbled back up the muddy bank, retreating before the ship. The hollow drumbeat stopped and the prow of the ship came to rest on the mud with the craft stopped 30 yards offshore. The imposing figure at the rail made a speech that Dance could not understand. But as the man gnashed out the words, he could see the white teeth flashing amid the man’s thick, black beard. This man, surely the Captain of this vessel, finished his speech by raising his open hand and making a downward motion in conjunction with his last word. Which sounded like “Klahpheem!” When no one on the bank moved, the Captain raised his hand and repeated this command, This time Penelope shouted back, “Klahpheem!” Embarrassed, Mack said, “Hush up.” Archie said, “We don’t understand you!” The Captain turn his head sharply with a bird-like motion and fixed Archie with his gaze. He smiled and then barked another command, “Ekidst!” Archers filled the rails around him. Archie began shouting. First in one language and then another. But he got no response from the ship. The townspeople stared on in confusion and disbelief. *Don't you do it*, thought Dance as he cocked his rifle and brought it to his shoulder. In desperation, Archie asked, “You don’t think they’re going to?” "Yeahp," said Dance. “Well, don’t provoke them!” “I think we’re past that.” “What should I do?" asked Archie. "You could try running,” said Dance. On deck the Captain let his arm fall. Dance fired before the first arrow was released. As the Winchester roared, the Captain fell back onto the deck almost in time with the dropping of his own arm. Further down the bank, Speedy Pete drew slow and opened fire with his pistol. At that range, even a good shot would have a hard time hitting anything with a pistol. And Pete wasn’t a good shot. Archie looked up at the cloud of arrows, considered the futility of running, then muttered, “Never a phalanx when you need one.” The townspeople screamed and ran, some slipping in the mud of the river bank. But there was no outrunning the arrows. Penelope, oblivious as she always was, prepared to turn another cartwheel on the bank. Mack tried to run to protect his sister, but the mud sucked at his feet, and he stumbled, crawling on his hands and knees through the water. As the arrows flew, Dance’s rifle boomed out again and again. And Archers fell at the rail like targets in a shooting gallery. He caught one of them low in the belly, and the archer slumped forward and fell into the slow-moving river. Instead of running, Archie straightened his waistcoat and stood tall, ready to receive fire as bravely as any soldier in any line. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement. There was the little blond girl, tresses flying wildly, throwing herself into a cartwheel. Everything slowed. The arrows flew. The girl turned. A noble fear grew in Archie and he started to run towards the girl. She spun upright, landing on her feet again, holding her arms up in triumph. An arrow on a high trajectory punched through the left side of her chest, knocking her from her feet. Archie slogged through the impossible mud and came to the girl’s aid. The arrow had gone right

Chapter 10 — Ethan Burdock To the Northwest of Grantham was the Bar-D ranch, owned by Ethan Burdock. Burdock had carved a 28,000-acre ranch out of Indian territory long before anyone had thought to look for silver in this rough land. More than five thousand head of Longhorn cattle toughed it out across his range which stretched far north of the main house. Ethan had done well enough for himself that his house was made of stout logs instead of mud, a luxury in this dry land. But after he had almost drowned in the mud of his own house in the freak rainstorm of ’58 he decided he had lived in adobe houses for long enough. Ethan had outlasted or outfought everything that had tried to remove him from this place. He fought rustlers, Apaches, Comanche, flood, drought, and everything else Mother Nature had thrown at him. Along the way, he had buried his wife, son and a daughter, and a lot of good ranch hands. In addition to the main house, there were three barns, four large corrals, and two bunkhouses; one large, one small. All of the buildings formed up in a circle around a kind of dirt plaza in the center of which was a deep and steady well. It was a solid, durable place. And when he sat on the porch at the end of a day, Ethan found beauty in it. But the ranch he had sacrificed so much for didn’t hold much more comfort than that. It seemed like there was always something to do and always someone to fight. He was an angry man, rarely at ease. But tonight was different. Both his boys were away and Lupita had served supper just for him. After dinner, he threw another log on the fire and sipped a glass of mescal thinking of old feuds he had won the way some men thought of women that had once loved. He was old and his bones hurt at night and he needed glasses for reading, but his ears were still good. He heard the rider making hard for the house when he was still a long way off. Ethan took the hurricane lamp in hand and went to see what was the matter. He crossed the yard and went to the figure standing between the two bunkhouses. Most of the men were asleep, but a few had come out in long underwear in various states of undress. Ethan didn’t recognize the horse, but it sure was in a lather. Joseph, his oldest son, detached himself from the group of hands and met him halfway to the house. “What’s the commotion?” asked Ethan. “Charlie. He’s been arrested for murder.” Ethan gritted his teeth and stared off into the distance, thinking *damn that boy.* Ethan looked back at Joe. Joe continued, “He shot a man in a saloon in Grantham about three hours ago.” “You let him go to town?” Joe, a serious young man, saddle-wise and hard as a coffin nail, said, “He’s a grown man.” A grown man, thought Ethan. Grown maybe, Charlie was forever a boy, and forever getting in trouble. “Who brought the news?” “Mayhew.” “He one of ours?” “Rode with us for a couple of seasons, now breaks horses for Dumont.” “Hate to see a good hand go to town,” said Ethan, saying the word ‘town’ like a curse. “He came to be a friend to Charlie and us.” “I know.” Ethan nodded once, making up his mind. “Pay him something, feed him and we ride in the morning.” “You and me?” “Everyone.” “Everyone?” “What else are we gonna do? Hire a lawyer?” Ethan said in a loud voice and the hands noticed and stepped closer to hear what their boss would do. “That’s a start. He’s gonna stand trial,’ said Joe. “We don’t know what Charlie did. And maybe he did gun somebody down. I’ll tell you what I do know. Right now Dumont and the rest of those parasites from back east are trying to figure out how they can use Charlie’s scrape to cause us pain. And sure, they’ll call it justice. But they’ll use it for everything else. For profit, for revenge, for enjoyment. ‘Cause what they want is our land. They want to take these wide-open spaces and the sky at night. They wan

Just catching up? Here’s the story so far in ebook and audiobook format If you’re already on board, take a minute to leave a review on Part I on Amazon. — Sheriff John Dance hadn’t slept much. When the night started, they didn’t have any customers, so he sat outside on the porch waiting for the heat to die down. About eleven he took a quick turn around the town. There were few drunks, but everything was quiet enough. Those goddamn cowboys from Burdock’s place weren’t in town, so nobody was expecting trouble. He thought it was safe to go to bed. So he kicked the dust over to the Cavalier, Grantham’s third-finest rooming house, and had just about closed his eyes when Speedy Pete had come a-hammering on his door. Pete was out of breath and that was a bad sign. Speedy Pete’s nickname was ironical in nature, and he wasn’t one for hurry. Turns out Dance had been wrong about Burdock’s boys. Well the worst of them at least. Earlier in the evening, the youngest son, Charlie Burdock, had installed himself at Saloon #3. What the name of the establishment lacked in originality it made up for in accuracy, being the third saloon built on the spot. The first one had been blown over and the second had burned down. Dance didn’t want to speculate about what Act of God or gross negligence would result in Grantham receiving saloon number #4. He sent Pete in through the front and had him pretend to be staggering drunk. Pete was all but worthless in a fight, what with speed being of the essence, and smarts of a bonus. But Pete did have the virtue of being so non-threatening that he was liked by everybody. He was sort of the mascot of Grantham. Which came in handy. Dance slid in through the back and found the place empty but for Charlie, Pete, a dead man on the floor, and Oscar, bartender and unlucky owner of saloons one through three. Old Oscar’s eyes went wide and he almost gave the play away. Charlie didn’t notice. He was loaded to the gills and regaling Pete with the story of how the dead man got that way. Spit flew from Charlie’s mouth as he said, “And Pete, hand to God, he went for his pistol and… well, I HAD to shoot him. You wouldn’t arrest a man for defended hisself would you?” “No sir,” said Pete nice and slow, “that sure enough… ain’t no crime… that I know of.” Charlie slammed his palm on the counter and turned to Oscar Brace behind the bar.” See, Oscar — I told you. I TOLD YOU! Was self-defense, the law even says so!” Charlie said, putting a swerve on the word ‘says’. It was a convincing performance. Hell, even Dance wanted to believe him. Except for one problem. The poor b*****d on the floor wasn’t heeled. No evidence of a gun whatsoever. In fact, from what Dance could see, the rough lookin’ Polack on the floor had a surprised look on his face. Hell of a way to go. Dance hoped he’d live at least long enough to see Saloon #5. He eased his pistol out of the holster and carefully pointed it at the back of Charlie Burdock’s head. He put his thumb on the hammer but didn’t cock it, wary of the click. Dance stepped forward as quietly as he could. Part of him hoped Charlie Burdock would spin and try for his gun. He wouldn’t feel bad about putting this man down. Hell, he wondered if he shouldn’t just let fly now. He had done worse to better for less. But the damnable thing was, Dance liked Charlie. Hell, everybody did. Even if he weren’t no damn good. Another step. Charlie poured Pete a drink from his own bottle. Maybe he didn’t shoot because he knew that Pete would be flat rattled and never trust him again. And poor Oscar would be cleaning blood and brains off the bottles behind the bar. But it wouldn’t be the first bullet hole in the mirror behind the bar. Another step. Speedy Pete threw his drink back and looked to Dance as he brought his head down. Dance shook his head, *not yet.* It’d be better for the Sheriff’s office, in g

The Apache rode until sunset. Then they rode until sunrise. They felt the wind through their hair and the horses pounding the earth, but all they heard was *the song*. In the beginning, they had thought Goyaate had sung the song and they had only kept pace with it. Then they opened their throats and came to believe that they too sang the song. But after many hours, when exhaustion had stripped away all illusion, they realized that the song was singing all of them, and they were carried by the magic of it, out of themselves, across the land, without hunger, thirst, or fatigue. They came to the middle of the emptiness where the color had leached away from the grass and the wind had forgotten its name. There in the center was nothing. And in the center of nothing was No One. No One saw Goyaate and jumped with the surprise of seeing something in the emptiness. Then he remembered being human and raised his hand in greeting. The men and the horses fell exhausted and into a deep, dreamless sleep. All but Goyaate. He approached No One and sat with him by the fire that No One did not have. Goyaate told No One of all the things that the Apache did not have. Lands of their own, horses, great herds of beef. He spoke of the loved ones who had been murdered by the white man, and the children who had not been born because there had been no mothers to bear them. He spoke of the stories that had not been told and the laughter that had not been laughed. And with each of these things that weren’t No One nodded in understanding. And when he was done listing the things that had been taken, the things that had been lost, and the things that would never be, Goyaate named Hope and he named The Future. No One looked away, because Goyaate had listed all of the things the Apache did not have and there was only nothing left to say. Only then in that empty place did the mighty Goyaate dare to speak of the thing he had a vision of — of peering through a hole in the nothing that led to another world. One where the white man could not follow and would never come. He said that, if it existed, then No One must surely know about it. And if there was a place for an emptiness that contained another world then surely it would be here. No One smiled and shook his head slowly. No One knew of such a hole. He told Goyaate of the dangers of such a passage. Of how it could be like one of the lines that the white man used to catch fish from the water. A hook dangling on the end, hidden by bait, floating its way through Goyaate’s dreams. No One could know for sure that it was a trap, but he knew that such a passage across the borders between worlds couldn't be opened just from one side. Someone was calling to this world and even with greatest of visions and the strongest of magics it would be dangerous to answer. Goyaate laughed bitterly and said, "dying there can only be as bad as dying here. No One said nothing. Then he said one thing. From that one thing Goyaate was able to understand how the ceremony was to be performed and where and how he might find the place for such a rite. Goyaate smiled and said, “That is strange, I…" No One asked him to finish his sentence. "It is easier than I thought." "Most things are when you know how." Goyaate nodded and turned and looked at his men and their horses, lying on the ground as if dead. No One said, “You have come a long way, you should rest." Then No One touched Goyaate on the shoulder and the emptiness rose up within him and fell into a deep sleep. Who could say how long they slept, or if time even passed in that lack of a place. But after what seemed like a long time, the creatures rose from their slumber. Man and horse alike were amazed to find that they were not thirsty or hungry or even sore after the ride. When several of them started wondering from where they might find something to make a fire, Goyaate said, “We should not waste this gift." Then he mounted his horse and rode on. The

The saloon was a shoddy-looking two story box of building, made from unfinished boards that had not fared well in the desert sun. Above the awning was a sign, painted directly on the wood that read, “Morning Star Saloon. Jethro Earp, Proprietor.” Jethro was happy to tell all the patrons that he was related to the famous law man and saloon-keeper with whom he shared a last name, but in point of fact, Earp was not his real last name. Nor was Jethro his real first name. But other than that, he was a reasonably honest man for a saloon-keeper. In his travels, Archie had become familiar with uniquely American institution of saloons. But the Morning Star was something unexpected. While no expense had been wasted on the outside of the building, the inside was lavishly decorated. And open two stories to the rafters. Around the top of the room were what appeared to be opera boxes, most with curtains drawn and some with painted ladies hanging over the rail. A heavy red-faced girl with strawberry blonde hair, called out to Archie and waved, and the others joined in. Archie didn’t know how to take this, so he looked down at the floor. It was unfinished planks heavily stained with tobacco juice around the spittoons and here and there with what could be liquor or just as easily blood. The saloon was crowded, and a large man in a fancy suit was addressing patrons who were not otherwise occupied playing faro or poker or in one case, sleeping on the floor. “And you may well ask how I survived the the onslaught of those unspeakable savages and subsequent crash, to find myself alive here among you, my fellow men of the West, no worse for wear. And friends, I have an explanation.” “You was jes’ lucky!” called out a tired miner, who was leaning against the bar to avoid falling down. “Lucky I am, indeed, my good man. Indeed, some say blessed! But not in matters relating to highwaymen of any race, breed or nationality. No sir, I was fortunate to have made the acquaintance of a true genius of our age, the modern Hippocrates, to whom the secrets of the ages are known. Dr. Amadeus Bartoleermeer the 2nd who has rediscovered the sacred well-spring of Pancea for our troubled modern age…” and here he produced a small bottle of patent medicine from his jacket pocket, “A marvelous elixir, which restored me from my broken state to the hale and hearty creature you see before you.” “Did it give you all them extra words,” cried a voice from the back. A sweet whisper in Archie’s ear said, “Don’t believe a word of it. I was on that stage and I am perfectly fine.” Archie turned and saw a lovely woman dressed in nothing more than a corset and petticoat. She smiled hungrily and said, “I escaped with nothing more than a bruise on my leg. Would you like to see it?” Archie was flustered by this and, at a loss, blurted out, “Archimedes Croryton, at your service.” “There’s a thought,” she said, “why don’t you come upstairs with me, Mr. Croryton.” “I… uh… You are very forward aren’t you. Miss?” “Alice, just Alice,” she said, wrapping her arms around him. “But if you want, you can call me yours.” Archie looked around desperately, not sure what to do. From across the room, Archie saw MacAllister plowing through the crowd towards him. Grinning from ear-to-ear, he clapped Archie on the shoulder and said, “They’ve only Irish whiskey in this godforsaken place, but I’ll buy you one anyway.” He tipped his hat at Alice, “Ma’am.” As they bellied up to the bar, Jethro dragged Dr. Krupp out by his ear. Not to be silenced by this rough treatment, the good Doctor bellowed, “Look for my wagon! Discounts for quantities! Perfect for hangovers…” Jethro hurled him through the door of the saloon and he was heard no more. Archie watched Alice lead another man up the stairs and said, “Are they all so… mercenary here?” MacAllister laughed heartily and said, “She’s