by N. D. Wilson
Once clear of the sand, Sam and Glory ran. They ran until the sweat was burning their eyes more than the sun, until their insides had stitched into knots and their lungs were splitting with hot desert air. They ran until the last of the rippling changes in the landscape had vanished behind them and their vast sandstorm tail had died down to a few whispering grains. And then, finally, gasping, when they had reached the outer edge of old Tombstone, they slowed to a cautious walk.
Sam cleared his throat and spat with every other breath. His arms, writhing unpleasantly from his body heat, both slid under his poncho to get out of the sun.
Glory stuck the hourglass back in her pack.
“Will he try that again?” Sam asked. “Changing everything around us?”
“Didn’t work that time,” Glory said. “But he’ll try something.”
TOMBSTONE WAS SPRAWLING. THERE WERE BARNS AND warehouses and mills and hundreds of tiny miners’ shanties and tents and a huge water tower painted with an enormous and confusing advertisement: “Go to Bangley and Schlagensteins. They Are the Bosses, You Bet!”
Sam in his poncho and Glory in her baggy long johns drew smiles from men shaving or spit-bathing over horse troughs. Long teams of steers or mules—sixteen to a wagon—lumbered past with rough ore piled high.
There were so many loud saloons and so many tired women in absurd dresses with feathers in their hair that Sam lost count. And the mines were right in town. Beside a brick hotel, massive timbers bridged a hole. And there was another beside a tall mansion painted with three different shades of pink.
Sam stopped in the center of a wide dusty street, instinctively keeping his arms tucked under his poncho.
“Have I ever been here before?” Sam asked, turning in place.
“Don’t know,” Glory said. “Not in the book.”
“I think I’d remember.”
They moved on slowly, cautiously. Sam followed Glory’s lead.
A fat man with a donkey laughed loudly at Glory, drawing more smiles from anyone who bothered to pay mind to the two kids on the dirt road.
“Man,” Sam whispered. “We need to get you some clothes.”
“We need to find the train station.” Glory wiped off her sweat-damp forehead and pushed back her hair. “I’m fine.”
On one side of the street, a barber with the longest white beard Sam had ever seen—the tangled ends were tucked into the man’s belt—was leaning against a wooden horse rail. On the other side of the street, the charred remains of a torched saloon slumped together.
“Excuse me.” Glory gave the barber a smile. “Where is the train station?”
The barber grinned, skinny arms crossed over a sagging beard-upholstered belly.
“What she means,” Sam said, “is where do we get her some clothes? And where do we get food? Are we allowed in saloons? They all look like bars.”
“Money?” the barber asked. “You two have any?”
“What’s that to you?” Glory stepped closer to Sam, not for protection, but to offer him protection. Millie had always done the same thing. Sam pushed around her.
“We have enough,” Sam said. The man didn’t need to know the truth. “Food, clothes, and the train station. That’s all we need. If you’d point us along our way, it would be appreciated.”
Sam smiled, but the barber’s grin vanished. The man slipped quickly away from the horse rail, retreating back to his shop door.
A rifle cocked loudly behind Sam. He spun around as three men in long coats and flat-brimmed hats walked toward him. All of them had spectacular mustaches. The shortest of the men held the rifle at his waist, pointing at Sam. Glory backed away.
Behind the men, Sam recognized the heavy cowboy who had tried to take Glory at the railroad. His right hand was mittened with bandages.
“That’s the Poncho Kid,” the cowboy said. “Couldn’t even see his hands till he’d already pulled on me.”
“We’re going to need your guns,” the man with the rifle said. “Get your hands out from under that poncho. And they’d better come up empty.”
10
The Legend Begins
“HE DIDN’T DO ANYTHING WRONG,” GLORY SAID. “THAT idiot was trying to kidnap me. And he drew first.”
“Here’s the problem,” Sam said. “I need my guns.”
“No,” the short man with the rifle said. “You don’t.” His face was almost perfectly rectangular and his mustache drooped down over his mouth like a straggly curtain. It puffed when he talked.
“Could you tell us the best train for San Francisco?” Sam asked. “We’ll move right along.”
The two taller men simply stared. And spat. One of them was thin and gaunt and sickly, with moist mushroom-clammy skin. His mustache was tidy and waxed tight. A single tuft of hair on his chin punctuated his lower lip. The other man was easily twice as thick. He had a round face, and heavy unshaven cheeks to match his rough gray mustache. He picked at his teeth and then flicked something away.
“Listen,” he said. His voice was like tree bark. “Poncho, you may be a kid, but I’m the sheriff here, and when a man’s been shot and he points the finger, a judge has to be called, and that means I’m going to need you to give me whatever guns you’ve got strapped on and then wait behind bars till a trial can be arranged. Shouldn’t be more than a week. I’ll even buy some clothes for the girl here and find her a place to stay while she waits.”
Sam shook his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t. An outlaw took my sister to San Francisco, and I don’t have much time to get there. Maybe no time at all.” He looked back at Glory for confirmation. She nodded.
Sam faced the men and flexed the fingers on his right hand. Speck could easily take out the short rifleman with the hair curtain on his lip, and then deal with whatever guns were pulled next. The sickly guy looked like he could faint before anything even happened. And that just left the guy with the fat face. Sam wasn’t even nervous.
And then he remembered. The revolver on his right hip—Speck’s revolver—was completely empty. He’d never reloaded after the cowboys at the railroad.
Fear chilled him. If he fought, he would have to use Cindy, and if he used Cindy . . . six things were going to die. Not things. People. Maybe Glory. Maybe him.
Sam coughed and cleared his throat. His forehead was suddenly damp, and he could see that all three men noticed.
“This is bad,” Sam said. He raised his right hand up out of the poncho, fingers splayed and palm facing the sheriff. “This hand, I can control. Well . . . a little bit. But it doesn’t like to hurt people even when I want it to. If I draw with this hand, you might get a little hurt, but it wouldn’t kill anybody. But that gun is empty.” He swallowed. “My left hand doesn’t care what it shoots so long as something dies. Even me. I really don’t want to use my left hand. Please don’t make me.”
Kill.
Sam pushed the desire back down, trying to force his own message into the vicious brain attached to his left hand.
No. No. No.
KILL.
It wasn’t working. He could feel Cindy’s excitement. Even the horns above her eyes were trembling. She wasn’t frightened. She wasn’t even rattling. She was hunting. Sam took a step back. Paper crumpled in the dirt beneath his feet. He looked down.
DON’T HURT THE EARP BROTHERS.
FT
Relief poured through Sam. Somewhere, the priest was still alive. He hadn’t been completely destroyed protecting Sam. Sam felt like he’d just shrugged a bag of rocks off his shoulders. He’d been so busy surviving, he hadn’t realized how much the priest’s death had been weighing on him. But why couldn’t he have said something more? Sam would have really appreciated some direct and perfectly clear instructions. And some encouragement. He would have preferred something like:
GOOD JOB, SAM. YOU’RE HANDLING EVERYTHING PERFECTLY. MILLIE IS FINE AND WAITING FOR YOU. I’M INCLUDING SOME MONEY, TRAIN TICKETS, A MAP, SOME COLD BOTTLES OF COKE AND A BAG OF CHIPS, A SHIRT FOR YOU THAT
DOESN’T ITCH, AND SOME NORMAL CLOTHES FOR GLORY SO SHE CAN GET RID OF THOSE RIDICULOUS LONG JOHNS.
“Sam?”
Sam blinked. His mind had left Tombstone completely. Now it came flying back. Glory was looking worried.
“I’m fine,” Sam said. “Look.”
He nudged Glory and tapped the paper with his toe.
Glory snatched it off the ground and laughed out loud.
“Father Tiempo’s alive!” she said. “Man, that’s a relief!” She grinned at the lawdogs. “Have you heard of him? Father Tiempo? Maybe we won’t be stuck here forever. We aren’t from here, you probably guessed that, and he’s pretty much our only way back.”
The three men stared at Glory like her brain had been sunbaked.
“You’re the Earp brothers?” Sam asked. “All three of you? I know you’re probably famous, but I’ve only heard of Wyatt Earp. And you aren’t in the Poncho book. Well . . . maybe you are now, but you weren’t when I last read it. Aren’t you good guys? I’m not supposed to hurt you.”
The men exchanged slow glances and then all of them spat. The sickly one tugged at the hair tuft on his chin.
“We’re the law,” said the man with the rifle, and his mustache puffed. “That the same thing?”
“No, Morgan,” the sheriff said. He scratched his fat scruffy cheek and then hitched his thumbs in his gun belt. “It ain’t the same. I’m Virgil.” He nodded at the gaunt man next to him. “This is Doc Holliday, an honorary Earp and the man to see if your teeth are paining you. Wyatt is out hunting down some dog of a cowboy or other.”
Doc Holliday nosed the tip of his boot in the dirt and then stepped forward. He looked even thinner when he moved and his cheeks were practically caved in. His hair might have been blond once, but now it was on its way to ash. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, climbing out of phlegmy lungs.
“What I’d like to know, is how a boy your age could possibly think that he could hurt us?” The man cleared his throat, locking eyes with Sam. They were cold eyes, blue that had died and gone to gray, like Sam’s father’s before the end. Only these eyes had a hardness to them, a knife’s point, a desire to kill. Sam felt like he was looking into Cindy’s eyes.
“And I’d like to know,” Doc continued, “who the outlaw is who took your sister, and who you’re planning to gun down in ’Frisco. Not many outlaws working on their own in that town. Point of fact, I only know of one running things out that way, and if it’s him you’re after, I’d be a kind man just to put you in the ground right now and spare you the travel. You have no kind of chance, and that’s coming from a born gambler.”
“Sam.” Glory pulled on the back of his poncho. “Come on. The Earps aren’t going to shoot a couple kids in the street.”
“Oh, but darling, Doc Holliday will.” Doc grinned, swallowed a cough, and slid away toward the center of the street, tucking his long coat behind him, leaving his pale, bony right hand free. “Only one man currently in this world faster than Doc, and he spreads his vulture wings over San Francisco. Here’s a practice bout for you, Poncho. If you can’t get past me, well . . .” He pursed his lips and shrugged.
Sam shook his head. “I’m not supposed to hurt you.”
“Sweet of you, child,” Doc said. “But you won’t. Go ahead. Draw. Friendly right hand or killer left, I don’t particularly care which you use in pursuit of my demise.” He sniffed and then coughed lightly behind a tight smile.
“He’ll kill you,” Glory said, stepping back. “He really will.”
“I’m not fighting you,” Sam said.
Glory chimed in, pointing at Virgil. “That one said you’re an honorary Earp and we have instructions not to hurt the Earp brothers.”
“Your poor stolen sister,” Doc said. “Her brother not even willing to fight a dentist to get to her. If you draw on me, kid, I swear on the tears of three dozen angels that I won’t kill or maim you. You can hold out hope of dying in San Francisco.”
Kill.
Sam blinked. His left arm felt as taut as a violin string, humming like it was freshly plucked. Sweat rolled down the center of his back, tickling him all the way to his gun belt. He was going to do it. The man was practically begging for it, and grinning while he did.
“I know two men faster than you, Holliday! Not one.”
Sam spun around. Three men on horses were riding slowly down the center of the street. Tiny, in his tight suit and tall motorcycle boots, led the way. He was wearing sunglasses and his bowler hat. Rattles, with his huge white mustache, rode next to him. The third man had a bushy red beard, caked with blood. He was wearing Manuelito’s top hat.
Sam’s heart jumped in his chest when he saw it. He didn’t want it to mean anything. It could have just fallen off. Sam tried to envision Manuelito and Tisto safely hidden in the caves.
“His hat,” Glory whispered. Sam could hear the fear in her voice. “Sam . . .”
Tiny slid off his horse, smiling. “Doc.”
“Tinman,” Holliday said. He pinched his tuft of chin hair and smiled. “Why, I thought you were dead and feeding the daffodils.”
“How would I be dead? No, just been occupied. Mostly with this kid here.” Tiny sniffed at the air. “You haven’t forgotten Wyoming, have you? Two of you drew on me and I left you both bleeding. Would have finished you off then, but I always like saving some for later.” He glanced at Morgan and Virgil. “Would love to add some badges to my tin collection, but where’s the Earp that matters? No offense.”
Glory and Sam were exactly between the two gunfighters. Glory slowly pulled Sam backward out of the street.
Morgan Earp looked at Sam, but he kept his rifle on Rattles. “Don’t you go anywhere.”
Up and down the road, people were steering clear. Wagons crawled away out of sight. One hundred yards in both directions, pedestrians retreated, until the whole town seemed silent.
“We need the boy alive, Doc,” Tiny said. “And I’ve been hunting through all sorts of lifetimes, and I’m tired, so I’ll be taking him now.” Tiny glanced at Sam.
Glory and Sam backed up onto a wooden sidewalk in front of a window painted “General Store.”
“I saw him first,” Doc said. He cleared his throat and then spat. “When I’ve finished with you, I’ll finish with him.”
Tiny flexed his right hand. “I’m afraid that doesn’t fit with my plans.”
Sam’s heart was thumping. His arms could feel the blood flow, the adrenaline, the fear.
Cindy began to rattle. Sam didn’t even notice. He was focused on the growing tension, wondering if he would make it all worse if he drew his gun. He wasn’t even sure if he could make Cindy shoot Tiny first, but he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to stop her from shooting anybody else.
Doc Holliday was the first to look around his feet, checking for the snake.
Tiny did the same. Rattles wheeled his horse around, scanning the ground.
Glory put her hand up on Sam’s shoulder, pinning Cindy’s buzzing rattle flat beneath the poncho. Speck started up immediately and Glory pinned his flat, too.
Doc and Tiny both looked at Sam.
Sam smiled. “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “You two get on with your thing.” Then he grabbed Glory’s hand, and they ran straight into the general store.
Expecting bullets, Sam and Glory both stayed low as they scrambled between shelves. There were shouts behind them, but no gunfire.
Sam careened into a pyramid made of bags of flour, knocked a small crate of whisky bottles off a shelf, and then smacked into a high wooden counter. Glory went around it. Sam rolled over the top as the front door banged open and Rattles stepped in.
A fat clerk in suspenders was already sitting on the floor behind the counter, reading a newspaper called The Epitaph.
“No, you can’t hide in here!” he said. “Absolutely not! Leave immediately.”
Sam carefully drew his left gun, keeping his barrel up and his finger off the trigger. Cindy buzzed crazily wit
h excitement, and her yellow eyes gleamed beneath her horned brows as Sam flipped open the revolver and tapped all but one bullet out. And still he kept his finger off the trigger and his thumb off the hammer. Cindy’s muscles were rippling inside his arm, but he held her back.
Calm, Sam thought. Careful. Only the one I have to hurt.
KILL.
The clerk stared at the backs of Sam’s hands. His eyes went wide, but not as wide as his mouth.
“He’s called Poncho,” Glory hissed at the clerk. “And no one is faster than he is. No one! And he never hurts anyone unless he absolutely has to. And his hands can see in the dark, and he’s walked through time hunting evil, and even snakes obey him.”
“No I haven’t and no they don’t,” Sam said. “I wish they would.” He bobbed his head up over the counter to take a look and immediately backed down. A gun fired and a jar of pickles behind the counter shattered. Vinegar and glass rained down.
“Here’s the deal, Rattles!” Sam yelled. “Leave now, or I guess you’re going to be the first villain I actually kill. At least this time around. Do you want me to count to three?”
Gunshots began popping like fireworks in the street outside.
Rattles laughed. Sam could hear his boots move forward across the wood floor.
“No way out, boy. Red is at the back door. Tiny will have the Earps mopped up shortly.”
A window exploded.
“I can count down from three or up to three,” Sam said. “Either way is fine.”
Glory slapped Sam in the shoulder. Both of his rattles roared to life beneath his poncho. “Just do it already.” Then she yelled over the counter. “You know how you hate snakes? Well, this kid is your worst nightmare.”
More gunfire outside. Cans tumbled off a shelf.
“One!” Sam yelled.
“I’m ready, boy,” Rattles growled. “Just you rise on up.”
“Two!” Sam yelled. He slid his hand down onto the butt of the gun. Cindy was as rigid as steel inside his arm. He slid his finger onto the trigger.
