AUTHOR'S NOTE: Vash being in the old west and all, this seems like a golden opportunity for him to confront perhaps the only man who could bring him down. Think about it. There's only one cowboy that walks the wild west who even has a chance. That's why I call this chapter...

A Geographical Note: Although Vash arrives in Cimarron, Cimarron is actually located in northwest New Mexico, and Vash technically should not have passed through it going from Texas to Santa Fe.

Chapter 2: The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

Meryl didn't know how she'd done it. When she came to, Vash was half-dead, lying on his back, his face wet with tears. He wouldn't speak or move. She paid little attention to the corpse of Legato, but carried Vash to the horse and slung him across the back. She gathered everything she could. She noticed that his sunglasses had fallen off and lay in the sand again. She picked them up and put them in her cloak. She was still thirsty, and still out of water. Legato's body now had a large hole in it's forehead. His face had been frozen forever in a maniacal grin. Nervously, she rifled through the dead man's clothes. Even someone as strange as he was still needed to drink. Her search had netted her a pouch of dried beef jerky and three full water skins, a fourth skin half-empty. She had let a few drops fall from each, Legato was just crazy enough that they might have been from... She still couldn't think about it. Then she mounted her horse and rode. She rode day and night, pusahing herself and her horse to their limits, until they had seen a town off in the horizon. She had smiled, her water had run out again. The horse stumbled. She groaned, lacking the strength to yell at it. It collapsed in the sand, exhausted. Vash's legs were pinned beneath it's flank, and Meryl had to collect her very thirsty thoughts from where they'd fallen in the sand. She hobbled to her feet and put her arms underneath Vash's, dragging him towards town. She walked as far as she could, the town inching closer. Finally, without her permission, her legs gave out and she slumped on the side of the road. She had to go on! She couldn't...

Then, she was lifted. Vash was moving! It took everything she had, but she hung onto him, her arms wrapped around his neck as he carried her, wavering with each step, but never falling. She heard shouts from the town. Apparently, Vash did too. He promptly collapsed.

Santa Fe, the Oasis of New Mexico. In the center of one of the most godforsaken deserts on this earth, the city thrived. Here, in a tiny sheriff's office, the batwing doors opened. Before the deputy stood a tall cowboy, hat on his head, bandanna around his neck, and guns at his hips. Stubble covered his face. "Howdy, stranger." Greeted the deputy, taking his boots of the sheriff's desk.

"Sorry, but the sheriff's out right now, but..."

The stranger cut him off. His voice was dark and gravelly, and struck a twinge of fear in the deputy's heart, almost as much as what he'd said with it.

"Vash the Stampede."

There was an awkward silence. "So you're a bounty hunter?" The stranger cleared his throat.

"Fine, fine."

The deputy opened his desk and procured a poster. "This is all we've got." He handed it to the stranger. The stranger tipped his hat and left as quickly as he came.

$60,000,000,000 WANTED: VASH THE STAMPEDE DEAD OR ALIVE For crimes of: MASS ARSON, ARMED ROBBERY, AND GENOCIDE Tall. Red coat, blonde hair, yellow sunglasses.

ARMED AND LUDICROUSLY DANGEROUS!

Meryl sputtered as she sat up, cold water running down her face. "W-where am I?"

She asked. All she could make out were dark shapes. "The town of Cimarron. You're lucky you're alive." Gradually, the shapes defined themselves. A few men were crouched around her. One held a bucket, connected by a rope to a well. She leapt to her feet.

"Vash!"

"What?" "Vash! Where is he?" "What, him?" Vash was laying on the other side of the well, stretched out on his back. She grabbed the bucket away from the man and dropped it back down the well. As they watched, she quickly winched it back up and took it carefully. She dropped to her knees at his side. His face was crusted with sand. She brushed it aside and lifted the pail to his lips. She listened to the water splash down his throat. He coughed, spat, and gurgled for a moment. She stopped. His eyes fluttered open. "Meryl..."

"Shh. Drink this."

She tipped the water back to his lips, and he drank until it was empty. She stood, moving to refill it. When she turned around again, the men were staring at her with hard looks. "You said Vash."

It was then that she noticed the gold star pinned to the vest of their leader.

"You wouldn't mean Vash the Stampede?"

Thinking fast, she lied top the sheriff. "No, no, of course not."

She dropped the pail back down the well.

"A red coat, blonde hair, and yellow sunglasses."

"He sure looks like Vash the Stampede." Meryl winched the bucket back up.

"He's not. I can promise you."

She turned her back to them and knelt again by Vash's side. As she put one hand behind his head, she saw that he was crying. He mumbled to himself, she couldn't understand. It pained her to watch it, but she helped in the most urgent way right now. She put the pail to his lips and told him to drink. He did so until it was empty again. She sighed and wiped one of his tears. He didn't seem to notice. She lifted him to his feet with a grunt and leaned him on one of her shoulders. She turned towards the men.

"Well?" "A red coat and blonde hair."

"But what about the sunglasses?"

"What?" "He's got no sunglasses."

Meryl felt his sunglasses in her cloak's pocket, where she had put them days ago. "Fine, fine. We'll look into it, but for now, let's get him to a bed."

The sheriff took Vash's other arm, and together they helped him to the saloon.

The man with no name rode across the desert. He hardly said a word, these days. He gave out justice where it was deserved, and he pursued those that hurt the innocent as far as they chose to run. Cimarron. Vash the Stampede was in Cimarron, and that's where the man with no name was headed. He would give Vash the Stampede the justice he deserved. A bullet between the eyes.

The world came back to Vash the stampede. He had killed a man. He had committed an unforgivable sin. He sat up in bed. The room swam wildly, and he returned to his laying position. Legato had wanted it. He had wished for death at the command of Knives. Knives had killed the entire town... His thoughts wandered until the door opened. He turned his head to look at Meryl as she entered the room. She smiled.

"Oh, good, you're awake! I'm so glad, Vash."

Setting down the bag of food she carried, she sat on the edge of his bed and put one hand on his forehead.

"Are you all right?"

Vash looked away.

"I killed him." All the light drained from Meryl's eyes. "You've never killed anyone before, have you?"

Vash shook his head.

"I've seen that look on people I've known." She continued. She didn't say that Vash's expression was the same as the ones she'd seen multiplied a hundred times. She sighed.

"Here, all I can do is make you some lunch."

She went back to her bag.

"But I suppose for you it would be breakfast. Fine, oatmeal it is." Vash looked out the window. A bird flew.

The man with no name made camp that night next to a milestone that read: Cimarron, 6 miles.

The next day, Vash looked at himself in the mirror. He took a long hard look at himself. Legato, or Blue Rivers, the name given to him by the Cherokee that he had lived with for half his life. He had met the man before, so steeped in shamanism that he knew how to read men's thoughts. He wore a skull on his left shoulder, the skull of his teacher, the source of his strength. During one of their battles, a battle which had given Vash the scars that horrified so many, Vash had tried to destroy it. His bullets had merely zinged around it as Legato cackled and Knives watched...

"Come on, brother! You can do so much better! Fight him! He's only human, after all!" Knives cackled. Vash's chest heaved. A metal spike had impaled his right arm, blood flowing freely from around it. Legato smiled, his eyes widened in his madness as he summoned the spirits of warriors long dead to fight once more, turning everything into a flying, dangerous foe. "Master, I doubt that he will kill me. He doesn't seem to want to take life."

Knives sat in a rocking chair on the saloon porch, smoking a cigarette. Inside, the piano played ragtime, although it's player lay slumped across a pool table, the red of his blood staining the green felt. Three pool cues, a half-finished game of billiards, and a few empty beer bottles were scattered around it as well, along with Knives' cigarette stubs. Vash knew that it was John Chapel sitting at the piano, and knew that his infamous weapon lay next to him. It fit him, a wolf in sheep's clothing. John Chapel was another madman, although from Vash's position, it seemed the lunatics had gained control of the asylum. "Well, what are we going to do, dammit? I'm getting bored. Brother, you really should think about joining our merry little band. It'll be so much fun! Why, we could move on to larger cities, and destroy anyone we see!"

Vash coughed and spat a wad of blood. His jacket was tattered, an insane amount of bullet holes filling the fabric, although the wounds on his body did not match them. Knives had put them there, sending off dozens of shots while he and Legato had fought, mostly to keep himself occupied, since he knew Vash could easily dodge them, though they tore through the folds of his coat constantly. "I doubt he wants to do that, either."

"Well, what are we going to do?!"

Knives was beginning to get angry. "I have a suggestion." "Please! By all means! Liven this up a bit!"

Vash wavered on his feet. Inside the saloon, the piano player's corpse twitched. Next to him, a cowboy, lying in a scattered mess of playing cards, brushed away the ace of spades that had been jokingly taken from his hand and placed over the gaping hole in his face. Chapel hit a sour note as he heard footsteps behind him. He snatched up his cross, tapping the spring- release that turned it into the lethal twin guns he had been known to wield. His eyes widened behind his glasses as he watched the dead walk out the door. He shook his head as he tossed the guns to the floor and went back to his playing, understanding Legato's twisted idea.

The walking dead appeared in every window and doorway. They advanced on where Vash stood. Knives laughed.

"Excellent! Go on, brother! They're already dead, after all! What good is it to leave them like that? Come on now! I know you're such a wonderful shot, it's not like you're going to miss! Come on, brother! Shoot them! Shoot me! Shoot Legato! Shoot something, dammit!"

'I am no monster. Knives is a monster.'

The man with no name rode into Cimarron, and tied his horse to the post outside the saloon.

Meryl had left Vash's sunglasses next to his gun. He picked them up and slid them into his jacket pocket. He combed his hair back into the tall spikes, and shaved his stubble with a few quick swipes of the razor. He left the room, and appeared on the stairs at the same moment the man with no name opened the batwing doors.

The saloon became deadly quiet. Some whispered to themselves, "It IS Vash the Stampede..." Others watched the man with no name, cowering away from the sheer aura of danger he radiated.

"You're Vash the Stampede." The man with no name said.

Vash nodded.

"I'm sorry, I can't fight you now. I have too much left to do. I need to go on living."

The man with no name smiled.

"Dying ain't much of a living, boy."

He aimed both guns and fired, shattering a perfectly harmless whisky bottle and putting a hole in the wall behind Vash. Screams filled the saloon, and Vash disappeared back into the back rooms. The man with no name followed, both his guns drawn. An open door and open window led to the street. He dashed back down the stairs and out the doors, chasing his quarry.

Vash stood in the center of Cimarron's main street. The man with no name dashed out into the center of the dirt track, his poncho flapping around his shoulders as he skidded to a stop, his boots kicking up dust that blew away on the wind. He smiled as he looked at Vash. About fifty feet lay between the men as they stood on the deserted main street, passers-by having ducked behind the nearest shelter available. Meryl watched with fascination from the window of the General Store. Vash hadn't simply defeated the man and been done with it already. What could that mean? The man with no name snapped open the breaches on his guns. Through a trick of springs, the two brass casings left over from the man's earlier shots at Vash were dropped in the sand, while the bullets popped halfway out. The man with no name's hands went to his belt, where they withdrew two bullets. As he loaded them in, he spoke to Vash. His voice was quiet, though Vash could still hear him perfectly, even at the distance they were apart.

"You know, sometimes you've just got to ask yourself a question..."

He snapped the revolvers closed simultaneously.

"Do I feel lucky?" With a trickshooter's twirl, he dropped both the guns back in their holsters. Vash reached into his pocket and withdrew his sunglasses. He calmly slid them onto his face. "Well, do you, punk?" Vash didn't reply. He knew the man wouldn't back down, no matter what he said. He would have to fight again. The man with no name narrowed his eyes at Vash at hovered a hand above his right pistol. "Ready..."

Silence in Cimarron.

"DRAW!" They drew simultaneously, each gun becoming only a blur. The man with no name rolled to the right, a bullet zinging through the space where he had been a moment before. Meryl gasped inside the store. It was the first time she'd ever seen Vash miss. Vash dashed to his own right, heading to dive behind cover. The man with no name rolled into a kneeling position, his left arm bent in front of him, crossing beneath his shooting arm to steady it. He drew a bead on Vash as he ran, pulled the hammer back on his pistol, and...

Bang. Vash crashed into the dirt, not moving, face down. Meryl cried out from inside the town store and ran towards the street. Another onlooker grabbed her and held her back as the man with no name approached the motionless body. He dropped his gun back in it's holster. He circled Vash, kicking his gun far out of reach. Just in case. He shook his head.

"It ain't enough for what you've done, but it's all I can do."

He looked up at the sky for a moment and withdrew a cigarette from beneath his poncho, and a match from his blue jeans pocket. He looked down as he raised his boot to strike the match across the heel and took another look at his former quarry. Who was now lying on his back. "Oh, hell."

"Excuse me, mister, I think I tripped in a pothole. Do you think you could give me a hand up? I'm a little dizzy."

The man with no name swore and dragged Vash to his feet. Then, he reached back and threw a hard right cross at Vash's nose. Vash leaned back, then blow whizzing by his face. "Hey, now, let's discuss-"

He didn't finish. The man with no name clocked him in the teeth. Vash stumbled around for a moment before the man hit him again. And again, and a few more times for good measure. Finally, Vash stumbled and fell, his nose bleeding.

Vash wasn't sure exactly where he was. He knew his head hurt, his nose hurt, and there were some strangely hard objects loose in his mouth. Oh, that and all he could see was this strange, endless, spinning blue. The spinning was getting a little nauseating. Could you stop the world, please? I'd like to get off... Vash groaned. A dirty, stubbly face filled his vision. "You're not the man I'm lookin' for." "What?" "You're not the guy I'm after." Vash nodded.

"I see."

The man nodded and walked to his horse, digging through the saddlebags. Vash lifted himself off the earth, although it felt more like he was lifting the earth off of him. He shook his head to clear it and stumbled towards the man with no name, who was rifling through his saddlebags for something or other. "He's in Santa Fe."

The man with no name stopped for a moment, and nodded.

"Thank you."

Meryl watched this exchange with a small amount of amazement. After that, she decided it was more or less over. She ran to Vash's side and pulled him toward the doctor's by one arm. He held his head with the other, complaining.

"Ow! That hurts! Don't pull so hard!" The man with no name shook his head and mounted his horse. He rode back out of Cimarron the way he had come.

Ladies and Gentlemen, the only cowboy who ever had a chance of hauling in Vash the Stampede, let's have a big round of applause for Clint Eastwood, the Man With No Name.