Screw ’em. What do I have to lose?

Fordyce finished patting him down. He grabbed one of Gideon’s upraised arms by the wrist, jerked it behind him, slapped on the handcuffs. He reached up to grab the other wrist.

“Wait. The cigarette.” Gideon plucked the smoldering butt from his lips—and tossed it into the flash pot adjacent to Fordyce.

It went off like a cannon, with a concussive boom that slammed both of them to the ground, followed by a huge outpouring of theatrical smoke.

Staggering to his feet, ears ringing, Gideon saw that his shirttail was on fire. The smoke engulfed them, swirling about in crazy billows. There was a sudden volley of shouts and cries.

He ran. Bursting out of the smoke bank, he saw Alida, back on her paint horse, staring at him. The blue suits were all beginning to converge—and their weapons were trained on him.

Another loud explosion took place, followed by a carronade of booms.

There was only one chance—one slim chance. He sprinted forward and leapt onto the back of Alida’s horse.

“Ride!” he yelled, jamming his heels into the horse’s flanks.

“What the hell—?” She reined in the horse.

But Gideon was on fire, and the horse, already spooked by the noise, wasn’t going to wait. With a snort of terror he bolted, galloping down the street toward the church.

For just a second, Gideon got a glimpse of Simon Blaine, framed in the doorway of the sheriff’s office, still as stone, looking at them with an indescribable expression on his face. Then Gideon began ripping off his burning shirt, popping all the buttons, searing his skin in the process while Alida screamed “Get off my fucking horse!” as she tried to get the panicked animal under control. Behind, he could hear another thunderous roar, followed by flash-booms, interspersed with shouting, the blue suits running this way and that, some racing for their cars, others pursuing him on foot. Now the entire town was starting to go up. People were fleeing in all directions, willy-nilly.

Alida swung back her fist and tried to bat him away, striking him in the chest, nearly dislodging him.

“Alida, wait—” he began.

“Get off my horse!”

A pair of Crown Vics were now coming after them, tearing down the disintegrating main street of the set, scattering cowboys and cameramen and spooking more horses. No way were they going to outrun those cars.

They galloped around the corner of the church, almost colliding with the huge pyro gasbag. Gideon saw the opportunity and took it—and jettisoned his burning shirt on top of the bag.

“Hang on!” he cried, gripping the edges of the saddle.

Almost instantly there was a tremendous whoosh and a wave of heat swept over them, a gigantic fireball engulfing the church. The edges of fire licked about them briefly as they raced on, singeing his hair with a crackle. The horse accelerated in a blind panic. The explosion triggered the rest of the F/X explosives, and World War III erupted behind them: terrific roars, bangs, blasts, flash-booms, soaring rockets. A glance backward from the galloping horse produced the tremendous sight of the entire town erupting in flames, balls of fire rising into the morning sky, buildings blasted into toothpicks, fireworks and rockets streaming up, people and horses knocked to the ground, the earth shaking.

Alida pulled one of her six-guns and began swinging it at him like a club, whacking him in the side of the head and bringing stars to his eyes. She prepared to swing again but Gideon grabbed her wrist and gave it a hard twist, sending the gun flying. And then, before she could stop him, he slapped the dangling, open end of the handcuff onto her wrist, shackling them together.

“You bastard!” she screamed, tugging at him.

“I fall, you fall. And we’re both dead.” He yanked the other six-gun out of her holster, disarming her, and shoved it into his belt.

“Bastard!” But the message had sunk in. She stopped trying to throw him off.

“Take us down the wash,” he said.

“No way. I’m turning the horse around! I’m delivering you to the cops!”

“Please,” he pleaded. “I’ve got to get away. I didn’t do anything.”

“Does it look like I give a shit? I’m taking you back, and I hope they lock up your ass and throw away the key!”

And then the FBI came to his rescue. He heard a volley of gunshots and a bullet whined past, others kicking up dust on either side. The damn idiots were shooting at them. They were going to kill them both rather than let him get away.

“What the hell?” Alida screamed.

“Keep going!” he cried. “They’re shooting at us! Can’t you see—?”

More shots.

“Holy shit, they really are,” she said.

As if by magic, she had the horse under control. The animal was now running smoothly, purposefully. She pointed his head toward the edge of the rimrock above the creek. More bullets whizzed past. The horse ran for the edge, gathering speed to leap into the arroyo.

She glanced back. “Hang on, motherfucker.”

Gideon desperately gripped the cantle of the saddle as the horse leapt off the rimrock and plunged down a steep, soft embankment, bounding down the slope in little more than a controlled fall. When the horse hit the bottom he staggered and skidded in the sand, throwing both riders forward, the three of them almost going down. But under Alida’s expert handling, the animal recovered and she brought him to a halt, covered with sweat and trembling.

“We’ve got to keep going,” Gideon said.

Ignoring him, Alida patted Sierra’s neck, leaning over murmuring soothing words into his ear. In the background, Gideon could hear approaching cars, roaring and bouncing along the prairie above and beyond the edge of the canyon, out of sight.

She straightened up. “I’m surrendering you.”

“They’re going to shoot both of us.”

“Not when they see me with a white flag.” She grabbed her shirt and with one violent motion ripped it off, the snaps popping.

“Oh my,” said Gideon.

“Fuck you.” She held up the shirt, waving it as a white flag. Gideon made a grab for it but she stood up in the stirrups, holding it beyond his reach.

Gideon looked over his shoulder. He could hear the cars approaching the edge of the canyon, the big V8s roaring. There were shouts, slamming doors, and a head appeared above the rimrock about three hundred yards from them.

“We surrender!” Alida cried, waving the shirt. “Don’t shoot!”

A shot rang out, kicking up sand in front of them.

“What the hell?” She waved the shirt frantically. “Are you blind? We give up!”

“They don’t get it,” Gideon said. “We’d better get out of here.”

The horse began prancing as bullets kicked up sand around them. Thank God, Gideon thought, they were shooting with handguns. “Go, damn it!”

“Shit,” Alida muttered, giving the horse her heels. Sierra took off. More heads began appearing along the south rim. They galloped along the dry bed of the wash, running the gauntlet as shots continued to ring out from above.

“Hang on.” She dodged and weaved the horse as they thundered along, making a more difficult target. Shots whined by and Gideon hunched his back, expecting at any moment to feel a bullet hit home.

And yet—almost miraculously—within minutes they had outrun the shooters and were still in one piece. Alida slowed the horse to a canter, put her shirt back on, and they continued up the dry bed of the wash as it narrowed into a ravine between two steep hills, which—Gideon noted—would block any advance by FBI agents in cars.

She dropped down into a trot.

“We need to keep up the pace,” Gideon said.

“I’m not killing my horse for you.”

“They’re shooting to kill, you realize.”

“Of course I realize it! What in hell did you do?”