Chapter 5: Tower Tango

Roland could see the barrel of the gun pressing into the back of his head even clearer than he could feel it. The yawning .45 caliber maw swallowed light just as efficiently as it spewed thunder and lightning. It had a dark, yet cold blue shade. The steel felt cold as well, despite the heat of the desert. This was no salvaged and cobbled harrier's gun, this was the weapon of a gunslinger. He wanted to turn around with everything inside of him, but his instincts wouldn't allow it. Instead, he spoke two words that were both a surprise and a relief to the man behind the gun.

"Hile, gunslinger."

To Roland's unease, the man said nothing. There was a pause long enough to drive

(the Bebop)

a caravan of buckas through. Roland began to think the man with the gun either had no knowledge of the High Speech, or had no intention of listening to someone who did. In Roland's head, Cuthbert suddenly chimed in, his jovial yet maniacal voice matching his tone when he had clocked Roland back at the Bar K. Mayhap he isn't a gunslinger at all. Mayhap he was sent west by Cort, then ambushed a gunslinger for the piece he now holds to your noggin. Ever think of that, cully?

He began to think hard about this possibility, but the man quickly disproved it.

"Gunslinger, huh? I've been called worse in my life," the man said, a small smile in his voice just sane enough to ease Roland's mind considerably. "I'm more of a bounty hunter, but as you can see, this isn't the first time I've used a gun. I guess in this place, that would make me a gunslinger."

Roland could sense that the man behind the gun had lost some of his initial focus, and that was all his instincts needed. He sidestepped to his right, (in a distant part of his mind, he could hear his near-empty waterskin hitting the ground behind him) then drew both guns, training them on the man's chest. He was amused to see that, either because of a lack of ammunition or a lack of information, he didn't fire a shot. Just like an unbroken horse, you never know which way your instincts will lead you. Cuthbert's voice said. The hard part is that sometimes, you'll hang on anyway, ignoring the danger just to satisfy your curiosity.

Standing there with his guns trained, he was finally able to see what the man with the gun looked like, and it satisfied his curiosity just enough to leave him wide open. He was wearing a blue suit with a yellow shirt, and a loosened black tie encircled his neck. His boots looked like the ones on Roland's feet—broken, dusty, trailworthy—yet they were the same shade of blue as his suit. He appeared lanky yet graceful, tall but not ungainly, thin but strong. His dark hair was a wild, yet somehow tidy sprawl; orderly chaos and organized discord. Roland could also see the gun he held in his hands. Aside from two key differences, it was a mirror of Roland's own weapons. First, the metal of the gun was the same dark shade of blue as the man's suit. Second, the grips were made not of sandalwood, but of a metal with a dusky red color that reminded Roland of the roses in the gardens of Gilead. His bombardier's eyes were even able to make out a guardian-like design carved into the side of the grip: a swordfish.

Before Roland could begin to think of what to do next, the man in the blue suit regained the upper hand. He moved his feet with a speed that Roland didn't expect, and before he could stop himself, he had fired two rounds. The bullets never came close to the man in the blue suit, instead splintering their way into the moldering wreckage of the coach behind the shack. The man in the blue suit moved with the same spooky speed that Roland had, and he was faster than most he has seen in his life. He was faster than Jonas, faster than Cuthbert, and even a little faster than Cort. His right boot struck Roland's left hand, and it continued forward to connect with Roland's right hand. His left hand was barely able to hang on, but his right hand was hit in just the right spot to send the big revolver spinning into the air. Before was out of Roland's hand one second, it was in the left hand of The Swordfish. So this is how it feels to be on the other side. He thought to himself. Gods, what speed!

The Swordfish, as the gunslinger had dubbed him, leveled both guns at his head and fired. Rolling to his right side, Roland could hear the lead missile bury itself in the sand behind his head with a toneless thunk. He noticed with some degree of satisfaction that the only bullet came from his own gun, and that it was the last live shell in the chamber. He was further satisfied to know that the gun still in his left hand had one bullet left. He fired it mid-roll, and kept the gun trained even as he stopped at a kneeling position, ready to fire another bullet that didn't exist. Instincts being the unbroken horse they are, the gunslinger could no more deny them as he could change them.

Instinct or no, this was one fast opponent. Bounty Hunter was what he claimed, but Gunslinger was what he embodied. Roland was able to see the bullet harmlessly rip its way through the shoulder of The Swordfish's suit as he rolled into his own kneeling stance, both barrels pointed once again at Roland's head.

For nearly a minute, they stayed exactly like this. They didn't move an inch, didn't breathe harder than was absolutely necessary, and didn't say a single word. Roland could hear the gunshots' aftermath ringing through his brain. He could feel the edge of The Swordfish's boot on the skin of his left hand. He could feel the invading sand moving southward in his clothes. More than this, however, he could feel the confusion and the bright, piercing glare that comes with meeting one's equal. Roland was neither faster nor slower than The Swordfish, as this scuffle had proven, but according to his own admission, he was not a gunslinger. A mere bounty hunter as fast as Roland Deschain, descendant of Arthur himself? Impossible. Even so, this last was a thought that stuck in Roland's mind like a grain of sand in an oyster. He decided to make a pearl out of it.

"Bounty hunter?" he asked, his voice rough with the dry desert air. "You'd call yourself such?"

The Swordfish was slightly taken aback, but seemed amused. Thoughtful, even. "Nah, I don't call myself anything anymore. Capturing a few bounty heads and collecting a few million woolongs made me a bounty hunter in another life. Taking a look around, though, I can see it's gonna be an even rougher road collecting bounties for a living in this place. Maybe I'd do better as a gunslinger, what do you think? How's the gunslinging business 'round here?"

"Mayhap we can palaver without the aid of our companions?" Roland said, glancing at the guns in The Swordfish's hands. The man in the blue suit considered this for a moment, studying the weapons as if he had never seen them before. He looked back at Roland, who only raised one eyebrow slightly as if to repeat the question.

"What the hell. We're both empty anyway, right?"

"Yes."

They both stood up slowly, lowering their guns even slower. Roland glanced from the Swordfish's calm, brown eyes to the sandalwood-gripped revolver he had taken, then back again, raising his chin in a subtle gesture: May I have it back? He appeared to be suddenly reminded of having taken it in the first place, and flipped it around in his hand so that he was holding onto the top of the barrel with the sandalwood grip facing his opponent. He replaced his Jericho Peacemaker (that's what it is now, so I guess I'll embrace it, he thought to himself) in his docker's clutch, lifting the gunslinger's weapon slightly: Come and get it. Aside from holstering his own gun, Roland didn't move an inch. The Swordfish shrugged, then tossed the gun across the space above the sandy pit that could have once been a garden. The gunslinger deftly caught the gun with his right hand, then flipped it into position and holstered it in the same practiced, fluid motion.

"Nice move. You learn that sort of thing at the Gunslinger Academy?"

"Yes, in a way."

"There's really a Gunslinger Academy somewhere around here? I was only kidding."

"Not around here. It is… was… in the Inner Baronies. It isn't important. Does yon shack have enough space for a gunslinger and a bounty hunter to palaver?"

"I'm not sure there was enough room in there for me and the sand. Besides, here's just as good a place as any, right?"

"It should do for now, I suppose, but the day's light will fade quickly and building a fire so close to the town below may draw unwelcome attention," he said, cocking his thumb towards the town in question.

"What's wrong with the town?" The Swordfish asked this as his gaze shifted northeast, regarding the place with a look of increasing uncertainty. He had just arrived here, but every person he'd met so far was armed and dangerous. More than that, if someone who could prove to be his equal was concerned about attracting attention, he was equally, if not more concerned. Most of all, they were now two gunslingers with no ammunition. "The locals give you a lot of trouble?"

"It's too late to find out for ourselves, but mayhap still too early for accurate judgment. Our gunfire hasn't drawn them out yet, and if ka is on our side, it won't. But if it does capture their interest during the night, I wouldn't give them a signpost to follow," Roland settled, cross-legged, as he said this, gathering his fallen waterskin with the rest of his gunna. The Swordfish sat down as well, and his countenance brightened considerably when Roland brought out a small drawstring bag.

"Is that what I think it is?"

Roland held it up, his eyebrows raised. The Swordfish nodded, and soon they were both savoring the sweet flavor of Garlan's finest crop. The smoke was much stronger than what he was used to, and tasted like it had been in that poke longer than he had been alive, but just one drag was enough to make him feel a little less out-of-place. In fact, he almost felt like he was back on

(Mars, the Bebop, Ganymede, anywhere but here)

earth again.

"Thanks. I needed that. You know, for some reason, I've been calling you Andy in my head all this time. I know I'm wrong, but I'd like to see how far off I am."

Roland shook his head, smiling slightly. This one was definitely the sum of Alain and Cuthbert. Perhaps with a little bit of Roland himself in there somewhere as well. His smile disappeared, suddenly flashing back to the day on Jericho Hill. Not allowing himself to get lost in useless and destructive memories, he forced himself to answer.

"My name is Roland Deschain, of Gilead. I am a gunslinger, but mayhap I am not the last."

"The last?"

"Yes. The world has moved on."

"Must've moved pretty far to make someone tough enough to take on your pals."

This last caused Roland to flash back to Jericho Hill once again. It was only a brief revisit, but was still too long for his taste. "Yes, it has. Too far. Much too far." A moment of silence passed between them, as if in memorial to the world that wasn't yet beyond saving. "What name did your mother call out when supper was ready?"

"Is that some kind of riddle?" Swordfish asked, looking up at the darkening sky as he puffed the last of the diminished cigarette. He glanced back at Roland, who didn't look like the laughing type, and answered his question. "My name is Spike Spiegel, of Mars."

Thanks to everyone who read this chapter. I apologize for leaving for so long, but thanks to Sharona, I haven't forgotten about it entirely.

I definitely have a plan for future chapters, and although an ending isn't in sight, I do plan on finishing this story. Thanks again for reading!

-T.J.