ACTION COMICS #1

By The Mauve Lantern

DOC SAVAGE in THE MAN OF BRONZE

CLARK SAVAGE, SR., DEAD AT 63

The reclusive, world-renowned explorer and father of equally-enigmatic Clark "Doc" Savage, Jr., was reported dead on March 3rd, 1933. Authorities were informed by Hidalgan officials that Savage was killed along with an entire exploration team while on an unspecified project. Savage had visited the Central American nation frequently in recent months, staying for lengths of up to three months at a time, according to sources close to the deceased.

"He said that he was working with the indigenous tribes first-hand," states an assistant of Savage. "Something about settling a dispute."

Another assistant claims that it was "a foreign sickness," and that the explorer was called in to "develop a cure before…every person in the state was dead."

Officials have yet to reveal the information of Savage's mission or the cause of his death; all information has been withheld from anyone save for authorities. Speculation as to Savage's enigmatic job remains high, and the Daily Star will do its best to report the news as soon as it is revealed. Some say that the only one who will know the true nature will be Savage's son, the reclusive "Doc" Savage. "Doc" was unreachable at the time of this printing.

With the death of his father, Savage, Jr. stands to acquire his father's organization, Savage Enterprises, now the sole successor to the title. Arronaxe Savage, Savage Sr.'s wife, died at childbirth and Savage Sr. never remarried, leaving his son the only one to inherit his father's work. Many wonder how the young recluse will deal with the news and what he shall do with his father's company; some believe he will steer it towards a new direction, away from exploration. Though Savage Jr. was unavailable for comment, several associates leaped to his defense.

"Doc knows what he's doing, trust me on that. He'll keep his father's company afloat; on that, you can trust me," one Andrew Mayfair claimed.

"Mr. Mayfair is right," agreed Thomas Brooks. "In all the years I've known him…he has yet to fail at any endeavors he assigns himself."

The future of Clark Savage Sr.'s company has yet to be decided, though, with no one responsible for it, save for Savage himself, it would appear that the decision lies square with "Doc" Savage. No one knows when the enigmatic son will return to claim Savage Enterprises, but those associates closest to him report that he will return to the states soon.

On Antarctica, harshest of all lands on Earth, a lone rider crossed the tundra atop a dog sled pulled by eight powerful hounds. His body was bundled tight in thick clothes to stave off the frigid winds blowing across the wintry wasteland. Only the goggles on his face betrayed any sign of a man underneath all the layers, revealing a pair of eyes with irises blue as the oceans themselves. The sled he rode upon contained hiking supplies and equipment, for earlier that day, he had crossed the southern-most continent in search of unseen areas. He had been readying himself for a special, personal mission, one that he knew his whole life had been built towards.

The rider guided the dogs through the snow and over the ice, pushing them no further than needed, until they reached what looked to be a frozen mountain. He stepped down from the sled and crossed over to the mountain's side, stopping when he reached a large, metal door, sealed shut by a hatch system. With a spin of the locking wheel, the masked rider unlocked the door and opened it for his dogs, allowing them the chance to run inside. The man followed soon after, sealing the door behind him.

Inside the mountain was a marvel of science and architecture. There was a massive room, as big as a grand ballroom, built into the ice and was split into two floors, both joined by two sets of stairs. One each floor were three rooms linked to the main foyer, each with their own doors like the entrance. On the bottom floor was a room for the dogs, one for the sled, and the last was a lab filled with chemicals and technology unlike any on Earth. The top floor held a kitchen, a bathroom, and a bedroom for the rider; everything he needed for his basic needs. This frozen fortress was perfect for the rider and acted as his home away from home.

Once he unleashed the dogs and guided the sled into its storage, the man drew back his hood and removed his goggles and face mask. Underneath was a handsome face chiseled out of stone, as if by some artist of the Renaissance, with piercing blue eyes and a head of short, golden hair. The man's skin was tanned to the point of bronze, though hints of scarlet filled his cheeks as he adjusted to the cold temperatures. He rubbed his hands against his cheeks to get the blood flowing back in while he strode to his laboratory.

Inside the lab, itself half the length of a football field, were wonders of science and technology. Modern machines reserved only for the top-most scientists were at his disposal; chemicals of all kinds could be found within. What the man focused on first and foremost though was a machine near the back of the lab, one that received incoming messages from around the world so he might keep on track of current news. Radio signals and Morse messages were tracked and recorded as a special code that the brilliant man had designed himself. Though the fortress was meant to be one of solitude, he used the machine to contact his friends back in the states in times of emergencies.

As the man neared the machine, he found that it had already printed out a message, a lengthy one, judging by the length of the paper. The man reached down and tore the paper where the message ended. It came from his cousin, one of the few who knew how to reach him, and she delivered with her the worst news.

Her message, decoded, read:

Clark,

It pains me to tell you this, but I felt you should hear it from me first. Your father and my uncle, Clark, is dead. They say they do not know how he died, but the reports are saying he was in Central America when it happened, some place called Hidalgo. I do not know much more than this as they have not said anything more. I know that you are busy, Clark, doing whatever it is you do down there, but you must hurry home as soon as you get this message. We need you here to settle your father's estate.

-Pat Savage

Doc read the message again and again, hoping it would change somewhere, but it was all real: his father, the man responsible for shaping his entire life, was gone. Though he never interacted with his father much at all, the pain was still there, still sincere. What hurt worst of all was that he was nearly finished with his plan, the plan he had created after years of training to the point of perfection; the plan that would change the world for the better. The man had wanted to his father to see his plan put into action, all the old man's hopes and dreams realized, but it was too late.

As he had trained himself to do, Doc kept his emotions contained, controlling them with every fiber of his being. An ordinary man might have broken down, but not Savage, not the man who had raised himself to the peak of humanity. He set the message down on a nearby table and walked the length of the lab, keeping his breathing and the rhythm of his heart measured and subdued. His walk took him from the lab, up the stairs, and all the way to his bedroom, where he stripped off his layers till he was down to the long underwear beneath. Once all the weight was removed, the man set into various yoga poses, stretching his body and working his muscles to sink into a meditation. A trilling sound escaped his lips, echoing through the empty halls of the fortress. He was alone, no one but himself to keep his emotions in check, and that was what he intended to do.

Not two days later, Doc Savage arrived in New York on his personal plane. It was a fairly small aircraft, big enough only to hold him, the crates that held his dogs, and the supplies he needed to take with him back to the city. He had a small airfield sectioned off solely for his own usage; only his friends knew of its location. And, when the bronzed man stepped out of the plane, they were waiting for him with a two cars, one a dated antique and the other a large truck.

Three men stood by the black automobiles, each of them different than the other. The one closest to the plane was Andrew "Monk" Mayfair, an ape-like man, shorter than the rest and stouter to boot, who had a face that seemed to be a gorilla's. Behind him was Thomas "Ham" Brooks, a taller fellow dressed in his finest and walking with a fine black cane. The one by the car was John "Renny" Renwick, a giant of a man who towered over the other two and looking like he could easy lift the two men high in the air. The shorter men gave Doc a sad smile as he descended from the plane while the large man in the back grimaced.

"Hey, Doc, sorry you couldn't come back under better circumstances," said Monk. "I mean, we all know how much you were looking forward to meeting with your father when you got back in town."

Ham, glared at Monk. "We agreed we would try to avoid the topic, didn't we, Monk?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"It's all right, Ham," Doc assured his friend. "I do wish that I had been able to unveil my plan for Father, not out of pride, but to show him the fruits of his labors. This was his plan from the beginning, you see, the one that I was raised to complete; like showing a producer the finished film, I wanted to see what he thought."

"I'm sure he'd be proud, Doc. Here: let me help you with your stuff."

"Thank you, Monk. I'd appreciate the hand. Renny, do you mind?"

"Not at all, Doc," the large man said as he walked over to the plane and began to unload the luggage. The dogs inside were starting to get antsy in their cages, so they began to bark up a storm when Renny opened the door.

"Holy cow! I forgot how noisy these pups can be!"

"They're just tired of sitting around after a long flight," Ham decided as he took a suitcase and brought it over to his car.

"That doesn't make them any quieter," Monk mumbled as he came out with one cage and hauled it over to the truck.

While the men unloaded the plane, Ham said to Doc, "When we get back into town, there's something I need to discuss with you, Doc."

"Is it about my father's affairs?"

"Exactly. He left me in charge because he wanted to leave most everything to you. All his papers, almost all his belongings: they're yours, old friend. You just say the word and we'll get everything over to your apartment."

"I appreciate that, Ham," the bronze man thanked his partner, "but let's wait until we have everything settled before we divide up my father's work."

"Of course, Doc, of course."

The drive back into the city was long and quiet for Doc. Renny was busy driving the truck with the dogs, leaving Doc with Monk and Ham, who were going back and forth, same as usual. This time, they were arguing about a baseball game, swapping blows as to who deserved to win.

"I'm telling you, the Senators performed exponentially better this year than the Giants! Tell me otherwise!" said Ham.

"I will: the Giants had it coming to 'em," Monk countered. "They played a stronger game out there and deserved to win."

"Not only did the Senators have more victories than the Giants, they also suffered fewer losses during the year."

"Which is why they were due for a big win to make up for it!"

Doc tuned out the banter and focused on the rain outside. He thought back on the years of intense study, physical and mental, that led up to this point. What would his father have thought? Would he be proud of what his son had been able to do? Would he listen with pride when Doc would tell him of his journeys around the world? All the inventions he had created over the years, would his father have looked on them with amazement? It was his intent, his design that saw Clark transformed into the man he was today; there was a tragic irony in the predicament and Doc was well aware of it.

His journey started at a young age, his earliest memory being when he, at the tender age of seven, bewildered his teachers by discovering just what his purpose was in life. Vague recollections of earlier studies drifted through his mind, but this one moment was an awakening for him, a revelation; his life truly began in that moment. Clark had been an eager student, working with such determination that it inspired the mentors he was surrounded with. When he was just eleven, he was operating at a college-level, reading and writing material that would baffle men more than twice his age.

But Clark's studies were not solely limited to the classroom. He trained his body with many teachers over the years, starting at just a little over a year old and going up to the war. When he was still developing his muscles as an infant, doctors created a diet that was designed to give the boy optimal health and performance. Once he learned how to move, he was taught how to protect himself, being pitted against boys twice his age most of the time; Clark enjoyed these scraps, though he lost many. He was taught how to control his urges for extreme violence with the help of Indian gurus; he learned to deal with his opponents swiftly and creatively when he studied under circus acrobats. By the time he was twelve, he stood five feet and six inches and weighed in at a hundred-and-fifty pounds, all of it muscle, and he could defeat nearly ten grown men in combat.

When it became clear that America was just too small for Clark, he was sent to travel the world and meet with other mentors and teachers. He learned to survive in the frigid cold while living with Canadian fur trappers, to track and to craft wood while traveling the Amazon with a tribe thought extinct, and to fly from the greatest men in the world, including the fabled Red Baron. He learned the secrets of the ocean from Polynesians whilst sailing the South Seas, practiced the art of stealth in the jungles of Indochina, and became adept at leaping from tree to tree while living in Africa. He practiced ventriloquism and vocal imitations, lock-picking, sign language and lip reading from teachers all over Europe. Tibet carried with it the most lessons, for he learned the arts of yoga, hypnotism, control of his emotions, and how to block the sensation of pain in his mind; he studied various martial arts so as to be undefeated in personal combat. All these lessons left him a greater man, one ready to face the world and whatever challenges lay ahead.

"What do you think, Doc?"

Monk's question pulled the doctor from his nostalgic melancholy. He rubbed his tired eyes and asked, "Sorry, I must have dozed off for a moment. You were talking about a game, right?"

"The national game, Doc," Ham corrected his friend. "The Washington Senators played the New York Giants about a week ago. Monk is erroneous in thinking that the Giants were the superior team, especially when you consider the sort of season they played."

"I'm afraid that I missed that game; when I'm away, I don't use the radio except for emergencies."

"Don't you feel like you're missing out without a radio? All you've got is those dogs around, and you don't even bring them that often," Monk remarked.

"It wouldn't be solitude otherwise, Monk," Doc explained. "If I've got my food, water, and my work, that's all I'll need when I'm down there."

Ham chuckled. "I might have to borrow it sometime; I could do with a little peace and quiet."

"Yeah, and I could use a little break myself. There's too much pretentiousness out in the city," Monk quipped back.

"All the noise…"

"All the stuck-ups…"

"…and it never stops!"

"…and they never shut their yaps!"

Just like that, the two were back at it. Doc tuned them out and went back to looking out the window, amusing himself by calculating the angles at which the raindrops fell on the windshield and tracking their individual paths.

When they reached the city, Renny left to return Doc's dogs while Ham dropped Monk off at his apartment. Doc had business he needed to take care of with the tailored man, so they went to a local restaurant to discuss legal matters over dinner. The two chose to sit near the back so as to avoid being overheard by nearby eaters.

"Now, I know you're tired after your trip, Clark, but I need you to stay with me," Ham told his friend.

"I was keeping myself awake by doing mental exercises on the way over, Ham," said Doc. "I'm alert and ready to talk. So let's talk."

"Well, I was consulting your father in the months before his death; this you already know. I worked with him and got his last will and testament written out, and I already spoke with Pat and her father about their parts. As for you, Clark, your father left you almost all of his business. The office, his papers, control of his tools and everything he managed, it's all yours. Here are the keys to the office, the desks…your father was very thorough."

"He was like that."

Ham passed a key ring with over a dozen keys to Doc, who flipped through all twelve. He recognized the main key, the one that opened the door, but he would find out the rest on his own time. The bronze man pocketed the ring and turned back to Ham.

The lawyer continued, "Also, there was a letter sent to you; we just received it today. It appears to be from your father, but don't worry, we haven't examined the contents. We wanted you to be the first."

"I appreciate that, Ham," said Doc, taking the letter and putting it in his coat. "I'll have to take a look at it later. Now, can you tell me anything about what my father was doing in Hidalgo?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, I'm afraid. He was a very secretive man, as you well know, so the most he would tell me was that he was going to settle a dispute between tribes. Something about government work, I think, but he never went into the details. If there was anything, you might find it in his notes."

Doc pondered this for a moment and then replied, "Then that's what we need to do."

"What's that?"

"I need you to take me back to my father's office, Ham; I want to know everything about the trip and what happened to him down there."

"Don't you want to get some sleep first? You must be exhausted after that flight."

"This requires my full attention, Ham; sleep can wait."

After they finished dinner, Ham drove Doc back to his father's office building, the most majestic building in all of New York. Clark Sr.'s office was of the 86th floor and, from the windows, one could see almost all of Manhattan Island and the Hudson and East Rivers; Doc remembered it well when he last visited the city and his father. Doc was impressed with the building, having helped his father purchase the land and aided Renny in designing the spectacle. It was completed just a little less than two years ago and Doc had only seen it a few times, spending most of his time elsewhere in preparation for his mission. On any other day, he might have stopped to marvel at what he had built with his own hands, but tonight, he needed to ease his mind and find out what had happened to his father.

"Don't bother waiting, Ham. It could take me a long time, the way my father held onto everything and gave up nothing," said Doc as he climbed out of the car.

"All right, Clark, but if you do need anything, you know how to reach me," Ham replied.

Ham drove off while Doc strode into the building, his footsteps heavy but fast. He did not notice, having grown used to it, but he started to make a trill sound, not unlike a bird; it was a habit he had picked up while in Tibet. When stress and anxiety began to wear on him, the man would make a trilling sound as if to distract himself. The trilling continued as he rode the elevator up to the 86th floor, walked down the hall and reached his father's door.

Before he opened the door, Doc noticed there was a light on in the office. He thought it might just be a janitor doing some cleaning, but, as he listened through the glass, he could hear the sounds of rustling papers and the slam of a drawer. Whoever was in the room was searching through his father's work, information that was for no one's eyes but his own. Doc checked the doorknob and found that it was already broken; it was just placed so that no one could tell it was damaged. The powerful man backed up and slammed his foot against the door, knocking it open and revealing the criminal inside.

Standing just outside the light was a tall, gaunt man with dark skin and wrapped in a long, black coat, his hands holding onto a small stack of papers. He stared wide-eyed at Doc for an instant before pulling a large knife from his coat and charging at the bronze man. Doc dodged away from the knife and grabbed the man's arm, twisting it around in an attempt to catch him. The dark criminal was flexible though, as he followed Doc's move by contorting his body and spinning around, allowing him a shot at his captor's rib cage. A gloved palm struck Doc's ribs and he was forced back, letting go of the man's arm.

Free, the man lunged at Doc with his knife, but Doc was ready for him. He grabbed some loose papers off a nearby desk and hurled them at the assassin's face; blinded, he stumbled and missed his target. Then, as he spun to face Doc, the bronze man clapped him on both sides of the head, discombobulating the attacker, causing him to grip his head in pain. While he was distracted, Doc got behind the man and wrapped one arm around his neck while the other held his head straight. He felt the man struggle as he choked the air out of him until the man went limp, at which point Doc let the man go; he was not dead, just unconscious.

As he regained his composure, Doc dragged his assailant into the light and propped him up in a chair so he could get a better look at him. The man's skin was a dark brown, hinting at a Latin heritage, and the tattoos around his face verified this. Doc recognized the marks from when he was traveling through Central America as a teenager and, though he was almost certain of it, he needed to check the man's chest to confirm his hypothesis. He tore the man's shirt open and found that the tattoos continued all down his torso, all done in an indigo ink that shimmered like oil in the light. They were a special kind, a symbol belonging to a single tribe located in Hidalgo.

"Father, what did you get yourself into this time?" Doc mumbled as he tied the man to the chair. He had no idea of this at the time, but now he was embroiled in his father's work; if he was not careful, he would meet the same fate…

CONGO BILL in RACE TO THE GOLDEN TREE

Deep in the heart of Africa, the Obako tribe was on the run. Early that morning, a young boy had seen a white man with a bowl on his head go into the sacred temple of Musafah, the Sun King; as no one but the Obako was allowed to enter, the boy ran back to the village to warn everyone. The village chief gathered together the entire tribe, for they were warriors all, and they ran to the temple and waited for the invader to come out. Once the white man came out of the temple, a golden bust of Musafah under his arm, the tribesmen hurled spears and shot darts at the thief, who dodged them all with surprising agility. He took off running into the thick of the forest, the Obako in hot pursuit.

That man, that fleet-of-foot thief, was the intrepid Congo Bill, explorer/thief for hire and currently debating whether stealing artifacts was really worth it after all this time. He was not wanting for money, having earned a tidy sum while working as a spy in Austria, nor did he need the artifacts for his home, a small shack on the outskirts of the town of Tinasha. No, it was the thrill of the hunt, of exploration, of barely dodging a poison-tipped spear aimed at your calf. That was what kept him coming back to this job.

"Janu's right: I think I may be losing my mind!" he chuckled as he leaped over a fallen tree.

He could hear the Obako not too far behind him, hollering and shouting in some tongue he barely understood; "devil thief" was the most he could make out. They were not too happy about losing their lion head, that was certain. Then again, Bill had yet to come across a tribe that wanted anything shiny taken from them. Once, he was nearly decapitated because he was trying to recover pieces from a downed aircraft, which made compromise quite a feat considering he had no idea how to explain a plane to the people.

"Let's see…once I lose the Obako, I'll make my way back to the camp and get myself some well-deserved shut-eye. After that, we'll hoof it back to Tinasha, send the head along to the Brits and then go for a pint down at the Boar's Tusk and swap stories with the sad sacks at the bar. Yes, solid plan," Bill thought aloud.

A dart whizzed by his ear and imbedded itself into a tree trunk. "Of course," he muttered, "I'll need to make it back to camp first."

The tribesmen chased Bill through the jungle, winding around the trees and running through the grass, whooping and screaming like monkeys the whole time. As Bill wondered if this was meant to intimidate him, he heard the sound of running water and grinned at the prospect. Running water meant a stream or a river, something he could use to escape from the vengeful Obako; by the sound of it, this was a big one too. He heard the water crashing around and, for a moment, he was reminded of the rivers back in Scotland, traveling down them at breakneck speeds with nothing but a canoe and a paddle to keep him from crashing and drowning. Those were great times indeed.

Bill chased the sounds of the river and soon found himself on the bank of a rather large, rather deep, and rather fast channel; just what he needed to make his great escape. He made it just in time to, for the Obako were beginning to catch up to him. Tossing the bust into his knapsack, Bill tossed his hat away and jumped into the water, instantly being swept downstream. When he heard the Obako draw close, he dove below water and swam in a zigzag pattern to avoid their spears; fortunately, though a few came near, the current worked in his advantage. He poked his head up out of the water to take a breath and saw that the Obako were so far downstream they were like specks now, soon to be out of sight for good. Laughing heartily, the man swam along and began to plot out his next move.

"Right, so check that off the list. Let's see…get the lion's head, run like a bat out of Hell, and escape via river. Wasn't there something Janu warned me about this area? Ah, that's right! He said, "Avoid the river!" But what could he mean by that?"

No sooner had Bill asked that than he received his answer. The river did come to an end eventually, as all rivers do, but this one ended in a most unfortunate way for Bill: it ended in a waterfall.

"Not good," he gasped as he tried to swim towards shore. "Not good, not good, not good at all!"

Sadly, he could not reach shore; the power of the current was just too strong. All he could do was get himself ready for the plunge, however high up it may have been. Bill took a deep breath and dove back underwater, streamlining his body by pointing his arms above his head and stacking one atop the other. He saw the end of the river and the start of the fall, and braced himself.

3…2…1…

Bill went flying through a spray of mist before dipping down and rocketing towards the water below. It was quite the drop, so much so that he regretted opening his eyes and taking it all in. He tucked his head down and prayed to God Almighty that he made it out of this alive; he wanted his last moment to be spent drinking the finest Scotch, not plunging to his death by water.

Fortunately, the bone-shattering impact never came. The lucky daredevil cut right through the water, barely making so much as a splash. Down below, the river was much calmer, allowing him a chance to come up for air again. Bill howled with laughter, pumping his fists into the air.

"Billy-boy, you've done it again!"

Far downstream, miles away from the Temple of Musafah, a young man was stoking a fire to keep the chill of the night away. This boy was small, dark, and lean with short, curly hair and scars running all over his body; he wore nothing but a pair of tanned jodhpurs and sandals made from grass. His name was Janu, and he was expecting Bill to return two hours ago.

He paced around the fire, occasionally stirring a bowl of stew, and paced some more, waiting for his friend and mentor to return from his latest expedition. Janu was glad to see that Bill had a hobby that was as exciting as it was engaging, but he really should have considered going back into the hunting business. At least there, he could overpower the prey and did not risk death by spear so much. But, try as he might, Janu could not convince his friend to give up his dangerous pastime.

Finally, as the first stars began to appear in the sky, Janu spotted a tall figure marching toward the campsite. He got up and waved, asking, "Back so soon?"

"I told you I would be late this time," Bill replied as he drew closer. "Remember, I went in this time without an escape route in mind just to see what it was like."

"And?"

"Exhilarating! I swam through rapid waters and dove over waterfalls! Oh, Janu, you had to be there to see it!"

As Bill stepped into the firelight, his partner found that the hunter was wearing only a pair of damp boxer shorts, his knapsack hanging from his shoulder. Janu grabbed a blanket from the tent and tossed it over to Bill, who wrapped it around his shoulders.

"Good lad, Janu. Mmm, the stew smells good tonight!" Bill remarked. "What have you made for us tonight?"

"I dug up a few roots and chopped them up, threw in a few lizards for flavor, and ground up some grass to give it a little garnish. Will monsieur like the fine china?" Janu quipped as he gave the stew one last stir.

"Fix me up a bowl, you smart aleck, while I get changed. And while you're at it, take a look at the find. Those stuffed shirts weren't kidding when they said it was a marvel!"

While Bill was in the tent, Janu opened up the knapsack and pulled out the bust of Musafah. It was a golden bust, almost a perfect sphere, carved into the shape of a lion's head, mane included. When he moved it in his hands, the bust would catch the light of the fire and glisten like the precious metal it was. Janu let out a slow whistle as he hefted the baseball-sized prize.

"This is something else. Very intricate details, and to get the gold so perfectly round is quite a feat. Did the professors tell you who made this?" the boy asked his partner.

"They weren't sure, but they think that it had to have been an ancient tribe from far back. That temple of theirs must date back thousands of years; Egyptian times, I believe. Whatever the case, they were certainly unhappy with my taking their lion head," Bill explained as he walked out of the tent, fully-clothed.

"Well, you did steal the Sun King's gift to them; they can't have appreciated that too much."

"You make an excellent point, Janu, but I find myself not caring in the slightest. Now, pass me some of the swill before it gets cold."

The two friends passed the rest of the night as they usually did, Bill telling Janu about how his job went and Janu would reprimand Bill for nearly getting himself killed; Janu would tell Bill of news he had heard and Bill would pick out rumor from truth. When they had their fill of dinner, the hunter would regal his captive audience with another story of his glory days back as a soldier in the first World War, fighting in the battlefields of Europe. His young friend, a pacifist, simply nodded and smiled at the stories, taking them for what they were: nostalgic moments for Congo Bill. When they had had their fill of chatter, they would settle in for the night and rest up for the trip back to Tinasha. Such was their happy, carefree life.

Three days later, the two men arrived back in the small town of Tinasha. They walked like kings, striding down the dirt road in the center of the town despite the odd looks the townsfolk gave them. Bill had an erratic relationship with the Tinashans: when he did right by them, he was treated like a hero; when they felt he had wronged them, they would run him out of town for two days. On most given days though, in between exiling and celebrating the local celebrity, they gave him and Janu strange looks, as if to tell them they were always watching the two to see what would happen next.

"I always hate this part," Janu grumbled, scrunching up his shoulders and ducking his head.

"I don't see why," Bill replied. "We have their undivided attention now, so why not live it up? Mr. Mumbasa, nice to see you! How's that medicine working for your back? Miss Nevanti, you're looking pretty as a picture! Hello, girls! Going to get some water, eh? Save some for me; I'm thirsty enough to drink an entire watering hole!"

As Bill marched down the street, he waved to everyone he passed by, which usually prompted the townsfolk to turn their gaze away. He quite enjoyed messing with them and getting in their faces; it was the best way to deal with their stares. If he stared right back at them, they tended to leave him alone.

"It's always so uncomfortable, like they're plotting something and we don't know what it is."

"Well, all you need to do is look at it a different way. Don't think about how they're plotting our demise-"

"What?"

"-Instead, think of it as them planning a party just to honor us. They're keeping an eye on us so that we don't suspect anything."

Janu looked up at his boss and thought he had gone even crazier. "Does anything about them look like they're planning a festival?"

"Not exactly, but you never know," Bill answered as he waved to an old lady tending to two young children. The old lady just huffed and cursed under her breath, giving the explorer something to chuckle about.

As they reached the more active part of Tinasha, Bill passed his knapsack to Janu. "Run that along to the hostel and ask the professors for a ten-percent increase. There were poisoned dart traps hidden in the temple, and you know how much I hate those."

"And if they refuse, sir?"

"Then you tell them that I can go back to the Obako and tell them where and how they can find the ones who have their Sun King. As for me, I'm going to get a drink at the Boar's Tusk; try not to need me."

Janu took the knapsack and ran off to meet with the customers while Bill sauntered off to the Boar's Tusk, certainly not the only place in town to get a drink but, in his mind, it was the only place worth going to. The Boar was a large, two-story gentlemen's club that was the fanciest building for miles around, which made it a hotspot for anyone from outside of the country. The lounge was quite nice, filled with fancy chairs and tables and furnished with all sorts of trophies acquired by the various hunters who served as patrons. Any number of animal heads was mounted on the wall and more than a few tribal masks and weapons hung high for the patrons to see. Bill was a big fan of the bar, which always carried his favorite drinks no matter when he came in; he could be back from a long trip and the bartender would always have a glass ready for him. Then he would go and swap stories with the hunters and traders that passed through the town, most of them looking for Congo Bill so they could hear his latest escapade. To the jungle explorer, this was truly home for him.

"So, who was it that said the Obako were too much for one man to handle?" Bill declared as he burst through the doors of the Boar.

Everyone in the club let out a hearty, "Bill!"

"What was it like?"

"Were they big as jungle cats?"

"Did you find the Sun King's skull?"

"It was dangerous, they were the size of any normal man, and I just had Janu deliver the skull to the professors," Bill answered as he walked to the bar with a smile on his face. There was nothing he could ask more than to be adored by his public.

To make a great day even better, there was already a glass of whiskey sitting on the bar; they certainly knew what Congo Bill liked. When he took his seat and knocked back his drink, another man came up and joined him.

"Bartender, I'll have what he's having," the man requested.

As the bartender walked off to get another glass, the man offered a hand to Bill. "Mister Glenmorgan, it is an honor to meet you," he said with a preacher's smile on his face.

Bill sized up the man before him. Not too tall but not too short, there was a puffiness to him that made him appear to be made of dough. He had black hair slicked to one side of his head as if to cover where his hair was thinning out. His eyes were squished shut when he smiled, which gave him the look of being asleep. The clothes he wore, a white, three-piece suit, were too nice for Tinasha. This was no hunter or trader; whoever he was, he was a businessman.

"There's no "Glenmorgan" here, sir, only Congo Bill," the explorer answered, leaving the man's hand hanging in the air.

Slightly put off, the man's smile shrank a bit. "Whatever floats your boat, sir. I'm here to offer you a business deal. Does that pique your interest?" he asked, sitting down on a barstool.

"It most certainly floats my boat."

The man laughed. "An explorer and a comedian; I like that. Now, allow me to introduce myself: my name is Jonathan Palmer, and I'm here on behalf of my boss, Antonio Colossi. Mr. Colossi runs a company known as Golden Tree, and we specialize in chemicals; manufacturing them and delivering them. We are doing well, but we could be doing better, so Mr. Colossi decided we needed to find something that no one else had, that no one else in the entire business could use. That's when he learned about the Golden Tree, a legend passed along to him by an African servant. Do you know the legend, Bill?"

"I have not heard that particular tale," Bill replied, gulping down the rest of his whiskey and signaling the bartender for another.

"Legend has it that the tree grows fruit unlike any other in the world. No one is certain what the fruit is like, but old stories indicate that it was used in an ancient form of alchemy. That's why Mr. Colossi has taken such an interest in the Golden Tree: if he can prove that alchemy exists, there will be no end to the profit; he will be the richest man on Earth," Palmer explained before taking a swig of his whiskey.

"Wow, that's good stuff. Anyway, Bill, what do you think? Would you be willing to search for the Golden Tree for us? We have done our research and located a rough area of where it might be found, and Mr. Colossi will give you whatever you need for your expedition."

Bill downed the second glass of whiskey like it was water and turned to face Palmer, his smile from earlier replaced by a scowl of discontent. The businessman felt a shiver run down his spine at the sight of the angry hunter.

"Mr. Palmer, I'll tell you what I think of your deal: it stinks. I and no sane man would ever agree to look for something that exists only in fairy tales like Santa Claus, the Sandman, or your fig tree. In fact, I'd be more willing to go look for the first two than find your tree; that's what I think of it. And even if you had any proof that it existed, I still would not go, and do you know why? You, sir, are a businessman, something I have come to hate with a burning passion after all these years. It's why I favor the natural world over the so-called "civilized world" where animals are caged and men like you and Colossi are allowed to run free and govern lives.

"Do you know want to know why I came to Africa? To get away from people like you. I fully support the men who want me to do their dirty work if it means the treasure I find is going to a museum or a university; at least then I know that my work is going somewhere useful. But I cannot stand people like you, who try to control every little facet of existence and will do whatever it takes to seize that which you do not have. So take your fairy tale somewhere else, Mr. Palmer, because you will get no support from me."

When he finished his rant, Bill turned back to the bar and said, "Bartender, I'd like another."

"Bill, surely we can work something out. Name your price and we'll match it," Palmer pleaded.

"Don't have a price; I do the work because I like it."

"I could work out a deal with Mr. Colossi and see if he would let you keep one of the fruits. Would you like that?"

The hunter was growing sick of Palmer's begging and bartering. He must be a good businessman to be unable to take no for an answer. There was just one way to get the point across to the puffy man, and that was with a show of force. Bill leaned over in his barstool and put his face within a hair's breadth of Palmer's, who could smell the strong whiskey on the Scotsman's breath.

"I'll say this one more time and then I'm throwing you out of this bar with some of those pearly whites missing. I refuse to work for your Colossi, and if you ever come back here working for that living pile of filth, I'll skin you alive and mount your head on the wall. Do I make myself clear?" said Bill to the businessman.

Palmer tried to act unfazed but Bill could see the glass shaking in his hands and the sweat beading around his brow. He had the man scared and now he had to seal the deal. The angry hunter suddenly lunged forward, his hands above his head, and he howled like a wild animal. Palmer screamed and fell out of his seat, dropping his glass on the floor. Bill roared with laughter as the doughy man picked himself up.

"Y-you'll regret that!" the pudgy Palmer threatened, but Bill paid him no mind.

"And how are you going to do that, eh? Bore me to death with another story? Ha!"

Furious, Palmer tugged his sleeve back and revealed what looked like a golden watch, only the clock had been taken out and replaced with a small, round microphone. He tapped a button on the side and said into the microphone, "He said no. Bring them in."

"What, you calling in some friends, Palmer? Of course you'd have someone fight your battles for you! Isn't that just like a businessman?"

All Palmer did was smile at Bill, giving him the same look a prankster has when he knows that the joke is coming. Bill stopped laughing when he felt the ground begin to rumble and he heard engines roaring in the sky. Bottles of alcohol shook free from the shelves and fell to the floor, smashing into so many pieces. The patrons of the Boar's Tusk were running about trying to avoid being hit by the trophies that fell from the walls and rafters, dodging spears and stuffed animals. As the thunderous roar and the source of the quakes drew closer, Bill ran outside to try and identify what was causing all the chaos.

Outside, on the outskirts of town, were over a dozen tanks, all in a line and all drawing ever closer to Tinasha. A roar not unlike a dragon's signaled Bill to the threat in the sky: seven bombers, all flying in formation over the city and occasionally dipping closer to spook the residents. When one did fly close enough, Bill was able to spot a symbol of the tail of the plane: a tree made entirely of gold.

Palmer pushed Bill aside and stood outside the door, gesturing at the gathered forces. "Impressive, don't you think?" he asked his unwilling prospect.

"What is all this, Palmer?"

"Golden Tree is a powerful corporation, Mr. Glenmorgan, with plenty of tools at its disposal. In the event that you refused our job, I was ordered to bring in troops and raze your little village right into the ground. I don't want to, but you leave me no choice, Bill. One word from me and this entire town is wiped off the face of the Earth," the businessman explained, showing Bill his watch.

Bill watched the machines draw closer and ideas began to formulate in his head. Palmer was in control; if Palmer was removed, then the soldiers would have no reason to destroy Tinasha. Acting on this notion, Bill drew a pistol from his belt and cocked it, aiming dead center at Palmer's head.

"I wouldn't do that, Bill," the plump man warned.

"And why's that?"

"The men are under specific orders to go ahead with the destruction of the town in the event that I do not report back in an hour. If you kill me, that's the same as saying no; you'll have doomed this town regardless. You've got no other options, Bill, than to agree to Mr. Colossi's job."

Bill glanced up and saw the tanks rolling in. They would be nearing the huts on the outskirts of town now, where the natives still resided; he had no doubt that their homes were being destroyed at that moment. The bombers hovered in the air like buzzards, circling Tinasha and spying on it from above to check for signs of life and action. He could hear the bombs in his mind, smell the smoke and burning in the air, and see the destruction of all he had come to know. And if Palmer had his way, Bill's horrible vision would become a reality.

"What's your decision, Bill?" the businessman asked, oh-so-condescendingly. "Will you let Tinasha burn? Or will you swallow your pride and help Mr. Colossi get to the Golden Tree?"

THE VIGILANTE in RETURN TO THE WEST

It seemed the whole population of New York City had turned out at the Apollo Lounge that cold March night. In the four years since its opening, the lounge had never had a crowd like this; the bartenders could not pour the drinks fast enough. The manager, Lenny Weisinger, flitted around the establishment, mingling with the fine and fancy patrons and asking them how they were enjoying their time in the Apollo. He got compliments on the band, the service from the waiting staff, and the atmosphere of the lounge, how it all came together to make for one heck of a club. Everything was going so well until one of the waitresses tapped him on the shoulder.

"What's the matter, Elise? Does Table 13 need another round?" the manager asked with a smile on his face.

"No, sir, there's a rather difficult customer at the door," the tiny blonde replied.

"Is he refusing to leave?"

"Actually, we refused to let him in."

"Why would you do that? A customer is a customer!"

"Yes, but he isn't exactly dressed for the lounge, sir."

Confused, the manager followed Elise back to the door and discovered just who the unruly customer was. The bouncers were holding back a tall, well-built man wearing a dingy blue shirt, white pants checkered with oil and dirt, and cowboy boots caked in mud. He had a handsome face marred by the presence of a five o'clock shadow and his long black hair reeked of cheap hair gel. His teeth were yellowed from years of smoking cigarettes and bared at the immovable bouncers.

"Dag-nabbit, all Ah want is a doggone drink after a long day of work! That ain't too much t' ask now, is it?" the cowboy asked.

"Sir, we will gladly serve you if you would leave and change into something else," one of the bouncers replied.

"Listen, son, yer doin' yer job n' Ah can respect that, but iffn' you don't move by th' time Ah count to three, there's going to be some problems. One…two…"

"Mr. Saunders!"

The cowboy stopped his counting when he saw the manager and he grinned like the Cheshire Cat. When the manager gestured for the bouncers to move, Mr. Saunders walked up to his friend and wrapped him in a bear hug.

"Lenny! Great to see ya!" he exclaimed.

"It's great to see you to, Mr. Saunders," the manager wheezed.

"When are ya gonna start callin' me Greg like Ah asked ya to?"

"Sorry, Greg, just been a long day of "ma'ams" and "sirs"; you know how it is."

"Don't Ah know it!"

"Right this way."

Lenny walked with Greg all the way into the lounge and showed the man just how full up the place was. There seemed to be standing room only; not a single barstool or chair of any kind was left open. Greg let out a booming laugh.

"It's about time you got some business, Lenny! This place is usually deader than a cemetery," he exclaimed.

"Yes, well, I imagine everyone's just trying to get out of the cold," Lenny reasoned. "Awful weather we're having today, y'know?"

"Th' weather's mighty terrible but Ah could care less. Today's a day to celebrate!"

"You mean-"

"That's right! My record is finally finished!"

Greg turned to the lounge and announced, "Yer attention, please! The next round of drinks is on me!"

Everyone in the bar hollered and cheered, not caring why a man was splurging on liquor; someone else was paying for the drinks and who were they to say no? Lenny clapped his new favorite customer on the back in congratulations.

"Gee, that's swell, Greg! Here, let me show you to our V.I.P. table; you've earned it tonight, pal."

Greg followed his friend up a flight of stairs and past rows of tables, shaking hands with the patrons who recognized him. Most only knew him from his declaration, but there were some who were genuine fans of his work; those were the ones he appreciated the most, though Greg drank in all the attention regardless of its source. As a little-known radio star, it meant the world to him that so many recognized him as the country singer he was.

"Right over here, Greg," Lenny said, gesturing to a table filled with handsome men and women.

"Much obliged, Lenny," Greg replied, flipping a quarter to the manager before sitting down.

Even though he was surrounded by socialites far better dressed than he, the singer felt no awkwardness. He thrived on new situations and looked forward to them wherever he went; all new things were worthwhile experiences. The stares Greg received from some of the patrons at the table went unregistered by the singer. Tonight was going to be a good night one way or the other.

"So, what is it that you do, sir?" a dandy across the table asked.

"Ah'm a singer, friend," Greg replied while signaling to a waitress.

"A singer? How romantic!," exclaimed a brunette at the end of the table. "What do you sing?"

"Folk songs, mostly. Ah'm what folks might call a "country singer", but, th' way Ah see it, Ah'm just singin' what Ah know. Ah sing about life, death, n' everythin' in between."

"Got any hits?" asked a large man with two women under his arms.

"Just one, sir, but Ah finished cuttin' a record today, so we'll see iffn' this sells too."

"What's your name?" the brunette asked.

"It's Greg Saunders, ma'am, but you c'n just call me Greg; all mah friends do."

"Were you the one who just ordered our next drink?" asked the dandy.

"Th' one n' th' same."

"Well, Greg, you just made yourself a fan!"

And so the night went on in that fashion: Greg would wander from table to table, introducing himself to people from all over the city and worming his way into their conversations. Some did not want to be seen with such a loud, dirty man while others were charmed by his openness and his good nature. By the middle of the night, Greg had chat it up with most of the debutants in the VIP section and had grown bored with the mingling. He needed to get to the dance floor and "cut a rug" or whatever the kids were calling it these days.

As the band struck up a fast, Mexican number, Greg joined the dancers on the floor and slid along to the music, swinging and dancing to the rhythm of the beat. A buxom blonde appeared through the crowd and danced along with the cowboy, matching his movements step by step, note by note. The other people on the floor made room so the two had space to dance and pull off more elaborate moves, like when Greg twirled the girl away from him and brought her back in.

"Yer pretty good," the cowboy said over the sound of the band. "Where'd you learn to dance like that?"

"Spent a couple of years in Tijuana as a waitress," said the blonde, spinning into Greg's arms. "How about yourself, hotshot?"

"Ah was born with golden feet, darlin'."

Greg and his partner danced through the rest of the song, ending on a move that sent the blonde over the cowboy's shoulders and into his arms. As the audience applauded, he smiled at the woman and set her down on her feet.

"I feel like I owe you a drink for that," she remarked, taking a couple of breaths to calm down.

"Ah believe Ah will take you up on yer offer, ma'am," Greg replied, having burnt a sizeable hole in his wallet that night.

Before they could clear the floor though, a burly man stormed up to the pair. He stood a head taller than Greg and looked like he belonged in a zoo. The shape of his head made him look like a gorilla and his muscular, barrel-shaped torso and ropy arms only enhanced the effect. Worst of all, this gorilla-man was steaming mad; if he were a cartoon, smoke would be coming out of his ears.

"What're you doing with my doll, mac?" the ape-man asked through gritted teeth.

"We were just dancing, Johnny! You wouldn't dance, so I figured-"

"Shut up, ya tramp!"

Johnny slapped the blonde across the face with one of his meaty hands, sending the girl flying off her feet. Before he could strike her again though, his arm was pulled back and held in place by Greg, who glared the ape-man down.

"Sir, if'n you don't want trouble, you'll keep yer hands off th' lady," said the cowboy.

"Don't you be telling me how to handle my woman!" Johnny shouted, wrenching his arm out of Greg's grip. Even though he was smaller and leaner than the gorilla, Greg left a mark on Johnny's arm, right on the spot he was holding.

"How 'bout you take yer anger out on someone yer own size?" Greg asked.

Johnny sneered. "Then why don't you go get him?"

Greg just looked at him with indifference. This made Johnny's ire spike, sending him into a hollering rage as he charged at Greg like an angry bull.

"You asked for it!" he yelled at the top of his lungs.

Johnny cocked his arm back and balled his ham-sized hand into a fist, but it never made contact. Greg side-stepped the big man and stuck a foot in his path; the ape moved so fast that he never saw it coming. Head-over-heels, Johnny tumbled into the on-looking crowd, a crowded table eventually stopping him. When he got up and turned around, Greg was right behind him.

"Mah turn," he said as he punched Johnny in the face, breaking the ugly man's nose.

Before he could get another shot in, Johnny tackled Greg and drove him to the floor. The gorilla man reared his fist back but was boxed in the ears by the smaller cowboy, whose arms were left free from Johnny's grasp. As he clutched his head, ringing from the attack, Johnny was caught unaware by a blow to the jaw. The ape fell over and howled in pain, giving Greg a chance to get up.

"What do ya eat in th' mornin', rocks?" the cowboy muttered as he rubbed his hand. "Ah ain't felt a critter with a head as hard as yers!"

With that, Greg turned and walked over to the bar. He needed a drink to come down after a fight, and the scared bartender was more than happy to oblige. As the man poured a glass for Greg, Johnny crawled up off the floor and tried to tackle Greg one last time. This time, the cowboy spun around and, planting his feet in the ground, caught the ape-man and lifted him over his shoulder, using the man's momentum to help him. He sent Johnny flying off the ground, over the bar, and right into the mirror surrounding the bottles on display.

Greg twisted his neck from left to right, feeling the joints crack, and said, "Sorry 'bout th' mess, folks! Y'all go back to yer dancin' and drinkin'!"

As he walked to the door, Lenny ran up to him, asking "Greg, are you okay? You're not hurt, are you?"

"Ah'd be more worried 'bout yer bar, Lenny. That ugly son of a gun couldn't hit th' broad side of a barn door," said the cowboy.

"Don't worry about the bar; I've got it covered."

"Good to hear. Ah don't want to be more of a burden, so Ah'll make mah leave."

Once he got his hat and coat from the front desk, the cowboy walked out into the night. Though the rain had stopped, the cold was still there, so he wrapped his dark coat about him and lowered his white hat to block the wind.

"Hey, mister!"

Greg turned and saw the blonde from the dance floor following him. She was wrapped in a thin coat that did not go past her knees, leaving her bare legs unprotected from the chill.

She said to the cowboy, "I just wanted to apologize for what Johnny did. That klutz gets jealous in all the worst ways; I can barely convince him to go out, and when we do, it usually ends up like that."

"You've got nothin' to apologize for, miss. Ah'd get mighty angry if'n Ah saw mah girl dancin' with another fellow," Greg replied.

"Still, I feel terrible. And let me look at your hand."

Greg held his hand, the one he used to punch Johnny in the nose and jaw, out for the blonde to see. She winced at the blood oozing out of the knuckles.

"I'll assume that's not Johnny's. You need to wrap that up, mister," the girl told the cowboy.

"Ah've had worse."

"Yeah, but you've never had a nurse like me. Come on, I'll take you back to my place and get you wrapped up."

"Fine, but let me give you mah coat. It's th' least Ah c'n do."

The blonde accepted the gesture and let Greg wrap his large coat around her. It hung off her thin frame like a blanket, dwarfing her. She smiled at the warmth and glanced up at the singer.

"Aren't you going to be cold, mister?"

"Darlin', if'n you think this is bad, you should come see a prairie winter sometime. It'll chill you right to the bone," Greg replied, a smile creasing his face.

The couple did not get far before they were stopped again, however. This time, a weasel-like man sneaked out of a nearby alleyway and jumped out in front of Greg and his lady. He had greasy hair that was thinning and teeth in desperate need of a dentist. The knife in his hands was long and sharp, and the weasel never once let it off of either Greg or the woman.

"Give me everything youze got, buster!" the weasel man said.

"Now, why would you want t' do this?" Greg asked the assailant. "Ah've done nothin' to ya unless yer a friend of th' big palooka back there."

"Nah, I'm just a patron who decided to help himself to your moneybags! Now, are you gonna hand it over or do I have t' cut it out of youze?"

"Greg, I think we should do what he says," the blonde whispered.

"Ah worked hard fer mah money n' Ah ain't about t' hand it over t' no rat. Now, 'scuse me fer a second."

In one quick motion, Greg embraced the woman, reached into the pocket of the coat, and drew out a silver revolver. He had the gun cocked and loaded before the weasel could even blink.

"Ah ain't had t' use this in a long time, friend. Do you want to be th' one t' start up mah comeback?" he asked the weasel man.

"Eek! N-no sir, not at all!" the thief replied, dropping his knife and scurrying back into the alleyway.

The blonde woman gazed at Greg with such admiration, such awe that it made the cowboy turn a slight bit red. She said to him, "Well, a brawler and a gunman. Where did you say you were from, Mister Saunders?"

"Just a little town called Miracle Mesa, ma'am. Ah'm a Western man."

"Well, cowboy, how about I patch you up and then you show me how you do things in Miracle Mesa?"

"Ma'am, that would make mah night."

A few days later, a telegraph boy knocked on Greg Saunders door. The uniformed deliverer waited in solemn silence as he heard the sounds of activity inside, of someone scuffling across the room, knocking a couple of things over along the way. When the door finally opened, Greg opened the door in a white undershirt and a pair of blue jeans; his feet were bare.

"What c'n Ah do fer ya?" he asked the boy.

"Mister Saunders?"

"That'd be me."

"Telegram for you."

When the boy passed his message to Greg, the cowboy flipped a nickel to him and retreated back inside. He stumbled back to his bedroom, where Shelly, the blonde girl was waiting. She had stayed with Greg for the past three days for fun at first until she realized that Johnny would get out of the hospital at some point. Greg offered her a bed and food if she helped keep the place livable, a proposition Shelly could hardly refuse.

"A message from your fans, Mr. Saunders?" Shelly joked as she walked into the bathroom, putting on the finishing touches of her make-up.

"Very funny," he replied, "very funny. Ah'm not sure what it is, but it comes from Miracle Mesa."

"Bad news from home?"

"Let's hope not."

Greg sat at the foot of his bed and read the telegram. It said:

WE REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR FATHER HAS DIED IN SERVICE TO OUR CITY COMMA MISTER SAUNDERS PERIOD THE FUNERAL WILL BE ON THE 23RD COMMA IN ST MICHAELS CHURCH IF YOU WISH TO ATTEND PERIOD

The paper slipped out of Greg's hands before he even got to the second line. He had not been back home since he left for the big city ten years back, nor had he been in touch. Matthew Saunders had been a man of the law, of practicality, and he thought little of his singing son, who seemed to disobey him at every turn. All his other children had turned into productive members of society; Greg was the one who turned out wrong. If he did not know any better, Greg might have thought the old man was happy to be rid of him.

"Nothing but a damned disgrace, that one," he remembered Matthew saying once.

Greg picked up the message and held it in his hands. The 23rd was just a few days away, and he could make it in plenty of time if he took the train. If nothing else, it would give him some measure of closure to visit his family and show them how he had turned out. Wouldn't that be a surprise? Greg Saunders finally had a career.

"Everything all right, Greg?" Shelly asked from the bathroom.

He hesitated for a second before getting up and pulling a suitcase out from his closet. The cowboy reached in and pulled out a black jacket, the same one he gave to Shelly a few nights ago.

"Everything's fine, Shelly. Ah'm goin' back home fer a funeral."

"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry! What happened?"

"Mah father is dead," Greg answered, a slight note of happiness sneaking into his voice.

He left the station the next day, riding the 11:30 train out of New York and to the west. Shelly insisted that she come along as "moral support", though Greg supposed that she wanted to keep hiding from her crazy boyfriend. Part of him was grateful for the company, but the other part did not want her to see him in case he did something shameful. If he were to spit on his father's grave or pick a fight with his brother Lucius, he did not want anyone but family and friends to see it. Shelly was nice, but so far, she was neither.

"So Alan is the judge, David is the bailiff, Eleanor owns the farm, and Lucius is the deputy?"

"Yep, yep, yep, n' yep. Th' only reason Pa didn't make Elly go into law is because mah mother passed away n' someone needed t' tend t' th' land."

"What made you go into the music business?" Shelly asked.

"Ah always liked sounds: th' sounds of men workin' in th' fields, th' sounds a guitar makes when it's played, and th' sounds of people listening to good music. Ah wanted t' make people feel good, so Ah tried t' make mah way into th' business," Greg explained.

While Greg and Shelly spoke, the train barreled out through the West, traveling across the plains towards Miracle Mesa. It would be just a few more hours before they got to the nearest station and there was nothing but desert as far as the eye could see. Great rocks towered in the distance like sleeping giants, but that was all there was to see. That was why everyone onboard was shocked when they saw a gang of twelve riding alongside the train, each one covering their face with a bandana. The leader, a man with a metal glove on one hand, gestured further up the train and the men rode ahead.

"What's going on, Greg?" Shelly asked.

"Bandits, Shelly. We've got bandits."