Riley dropped Jack and started pouring glasses of whisky and beer, and suddenly I had a whisky in my hand, and I felt like I needed it, so I drank it, and the next thing I know I had another, and I drank it too.

"Ain't you got that stinker out of here yet?" Billy Bob yelled at Riley, and nodded at Jack's feet, which were now the only part of him you could see at the edge of the bar.

"But you said…" Riley started, then changed his mind. "Right," he said. He went back and got Jack and dragged him out the back door, and as he did, I got one last look at Texas Jack, Deadwood Pistol Demon, and he didn't look so special. He was just a fat, old, dead man with half his face blowed away. And there probably hadn't never been nothing special about him. He was just a sorry old loafer who lived off a storybook rep more than fact, and it had caught up with him. I figured that story Riley had told me about the Mexican was only half-truth. Jack most likely shot that sucker in the back and Riley's mouth took over from there.

Well, Riley got the mess cleaned up, and he came back and poured more drinks, and Billy Bob called for more, and I kept finding a whisky in my hand, and I kept drinking it. Each time I looked up from finishing one, the place had changed some. People looked odder and odder, even when I wasn't seeing them through the bottom of a whisky glass. Blue Hat was up by Billy Bob now, and it was like Texas Jack hadn't never been. The tick had dropped off the dead dog and was hooked onto another. The bony saloon girl was sitting on a stool next to Billy Bob and was entwined around him now, instead of the farmer, who had probably stayed home to do a bit of Bible study with his wife.

Riley was leaning over the bar and I couldn't get my eyes centered on nothing but his teeth, which seemed big and strong and ready to chew me or anything else up. His mouth was opening and closing, and it took a while before what he was saying to Billy Bob sunk into me. He was telling him about Homer, and saying what a bad hombre Homer was, and how he was even tougher than Jack, and he went on and on about the gunmen Homer had faced, and he told that story he told me about him tracking down Wild Bill Longley by himself

I was dizzy, real dizzy. Too many Wild Bills. Wild Bill Hickok, Wild Bill Longley, Wild Bill Daniels.

"He ain't nothing but an old man," I blurted out.

"What's that?" Riley said.

"I said he ain't nothing but an old man. You said he was an old man, seventy year old."

"Well now, boy, I ain't saying different now. I'm just telling Wild Bill here that Homer ain't gonna shine brightly on finding out there's been a shooting in town."

I seen what Riley was doing, but couldn't put the thought into words. I was too drunk. I had just come to that understanding. I'd never drank more than one whisky in my life, and now here I was with a belly full of that hot, worthless rot, and I was so drunk I couldn't make my mouth work. I wanted to tell Riley to go to hell. I wanted to say to Billy Bob that it was just Riley talking, trying to match him up with the sheriff, trying to turn real life into a dime novel, but the only thing that would come out when I finally got my mouth open was what I said before. "Homers an old man. You said he was seventy year old."

"You said that already, hoss," Riley said, and I hated those teeth of his. He didn't look like nothing but teeth with a set of eyes over the top of them.

"He's drunk," Blue Hat said.

Billy Bob laughed shortly, put his arm around my shoulders, and started walking me toward the door. I tried to push against it, but I didn't have no iron in my legs. I think if Billy Bob hadn't had his arms around my shoulders I'd have fallen down.

"Seventy year old," I said. "He ain't no gunfighter. You ain't neither."

Billy Bob pushed a little harder until we went through the bat wings, then when we was out on the boardwalk out of eyeshot of the drunks, he pulled me up close to him and pressed his forehead against mine and whispered. "You're embarrassing me, you dumb fool."

"He ain't no gunfighter, just an old man," I said, but it sounded more like a mumble.

Billy Bob turned me around and kicked me in the butt. I went tumbling into the street.

"Go on back to the wagon and sober up, kid. Stay out of my sight tonight."

I didn't see Billy Bob go away. I wasn't seeing much of anything. I rolled over on my back and looked at the sky for a bit, then I closed my eyes. When I opened them everything was fuzzy, but someone was leaning over me, and he was thin and had his hands stuck out and there were guns in them, and for a moment I thought Wild Bill Hickok had gotten out of that box and come to pay me a visit.

"Bang! Bang!" It was Skinny's voice.

"Help me, Skinny, I'm sick."

Skinny leaned close enough that his face came out of the fuzz.

"Things is going to get bad." He stuck his fingers at me. "Bang!"

"I ain't for playing. I'm sick."

I closed my eyes again, and a moment later I felt hands on me. When I opened my eyes, Skinny was working with all his might to get me up. I gave it everything I had to help, but there just wasn't anything there.

Then Albert stepped out of the dark, pulled me to my feet, and slung me between him and Skinny. They hauled me away, the toes of my boots plowing trenches.

"I tried to stop him," I said to Albert. "I tried."

"I know, Little Buster."

"He killed Jack," I said. "That old man didn't have a chance. He wasn't nothing, Albert. I could have beat him. Anybody could."

"Hush up, Little Buster."

"I didn't know what to do, Albert. I tried but wasn't nobody listening to me."

"You did what you could. Wasn't no stopping them."

I got sick again. They stopped while I chucked up the whisky in my gut, but it didn't help me feel no better. They carried me to the wagon and laid me out on my old stoop.

"Not in here, Albert," I said. "Not here."

"Shush up, Little Buster. You just going to lay here while I fix you a bedroll outside. I'll come get you in just a shake."

"No Albert," I said, but Albert was gone.

Everything was spinning. I turned my head toward Wild Bill and his box. It looked like that damned near skull face was grinning at me, and I swear to God there was a glint coming out of them bony sockets. The same glint I seen in Billy Bob's eyes after he'd killed Texas Jack. The glint he had when all them folks were gathered around him, trying to suck off the killing he'd done.

My eyes closed. I felt like I was whirling around and around. I could hear voices, though wasn't none of them American. It was them spirits in the wood. I knew it. They was talking to me. And though I couldn't make out a thing they were saying, I knew what it amounted to was the same thing Skinny had said: "Things is going to get bad."

I don't remember falling asleep, or when the voices went away-if there ever were any voices besides them inside my head-but when I woke up I was out of the wagon.

Albert had built a tent out of a tarp and had me under it. He and Skinny were inside with me. It was raining. I could hear it drumming on the tarp. I could hear the wind picking up too. It was still nighttime.

My mouth tasted dry and awful, like some rats had nested there. "The storm here?" I asked.

"Getting here," Albert said.