"Huh?"

"I thought you just hadn't realized it yet."

"Realized what?"

"You smell of death, girl. Strong. Like no soul who ever rode on this bike. But you aren't dead. Not when you're wanting to eat and drink, and not when you've still got sweat on your skin." He drew a finger across my forehead. "Alive. I'll be damned." He laughed softly and spoke almost to himself. "Not that I'm not already most of the way there..." I pulled my chin out of his grasp, flabbergasted. He was insane! Or something else? Drunk? I didn't smell alcohol on him, so maybe it was drugs. But his eyes were clear and his voice was firm, a dark sort of humor curling the corners of his mouth. "What the hell; I got you, so we'll make the best of it. Fifteen minutes," he said, turning off the ignition and dismounting. "Don't go wandering off, it's not safe."

"What? Isn't this where we're stopping?" I hadn't seen this settlement on the map; a battered hand painted sign by the road said 'Camino del Muerte'. I didn't like the look of the place, but it might be preferable to going any further with Deadman. "Nope. Another ways to go—place called Hanging Crick. This is just a pit stop." He was heading towards the bar, coat swinging. I followed, having to jog to keep up with his mile-long strides. The parking lot was half full of old Cars and pickups and motorcycles, and when Deadman opened the door the noise of the bar spilled out into the night. The peeling paint on the concrete-block wall read 'Last Ride Saloon.'

The noise quieted a little when the patrons turned to see who the newcomer was, and went dead still for a few heartbeats when he walked in. I came in behind him. The door slammed and I stood alone as Deadman headed to the bar and sat down, tapping the counter with one index finger. The bartender, after staring at both of us for a minute, especially at me, slung a towel over her shoulder and drew him a beer. The conversations slowly resumed, the patrons stealing looks at the huge black-coated figure at the bar. Probably most of the inhabitants for miles around were here—it was Thursday night, eight o'clock, and I could see that this joint was the only entertainment to be had for a long, long way. About fourteen or fifteen people sat at tables, lounged at the bar, or danced slowly to the jukebox. When I didn't move from the doorway, the bartender looked at me again as she switched on the television that hung from the ceiling.

"Coming in?" She was tall and well-built, her ample hair dyed jet black, and her voice had a tone both sarcastic and humorous. "Yes, I'm coming in," I said, attempting a smile while a dozen pairs of eyes riveted on me. I went to the bar and sat one stool away from Deadman, putting my purse on the bar and folding my hands over it. A stocky man with a mane of brown hair meandered up to me.

"Hey there, lady," he slurred at me, leaning on the bar. "You wanna dance?"

"No, thank you," I said. "Could I have a cola, please?"

"A what?" said the bartender, sounding just as surprised as Deadman had. She shot a glance at him; he said nothing. "Deadman?"

"Give it to her," he said impatiently. "OK; whatever you say." Shaking her head, the bartender put a can of Coke on the bar with a glass of ice.

"Aww, why not dance with me? I'm a nice guy," coaxed the drunk. He did sound like a friendly man under the cloud of alcohol, and I turned to look at him. Two upper front teeth were missing from his broad, guileless grin. "This ain't such a nasty joint as it might look to a city lady like yourself. I know how to treat a lady real nice."

"How do you know I want to be treated 'nice'? Or that I fall under any definition of a lady, for that matter?" The words fell into another dead silence and the man looked comically hurt. "Look, I don't want to dance. Sorry."

"Jack," said the bartender, leaning over and speaking in a stage whisper, "Didn't you see who she came in with?"

"Oh my God." He looked much less drunk all of a sudden, backing off and going pale. "Sorry. No offense."

"Uh…none taken." He didn't seem to be afraid that the rider would be angry with him—Deadman, ignored the whole exchange, tilting his head back and draining his beer. Jack seemed to be afraid of me. I couldn't make out why, since the gun was hidden in my purse and I was tiny and slim and one of the least intimidating-looking people I knew. That was why no one that morning had expected resistance; that was why I was still alive. Considering the result, perhaps he did have reason to be afraid. Could people tell what I had done just from looking at me, or…did this have something to do with the odd conversation I'd had with Deadman?

I poured my Coke and drank it as fast as I could and ordered another, eating peanuts in between gulps while the rider drank his second beer. He'd thought I was dead until I'd asked for something to eat? How on earth could he think that a dead person could move and speak and see? Did he believe in the supernatural? Certainly the people in this bar behaved as if they thought he had something to do with ghosts. Perhaps by association, they thought I did too. They thought they knew something about me that I didn't know myself. I stole a look at the rider. Did he think he knew something about me? Did he have any idea what kind of woman I was? A sudden thought chilled me—did he want to take me to this place he had mentioned in order to have his way with me? He hadn't shown much sign of sexual interest in me, though, something I thought I would easily recognize; I had probably shown more in him, to my regret.

"Excuse me," I said to the bartender. "Do you have a phone I could use?" She stared at me and pointed to a pay phone in the passageway to the toilet. I got up, dug for change and placed a call to Papa. No one answered except the machine, and I left a message telling him I was all right and to expect me later tomorrow. I gave him the names of Camino del Muerte and Hanging Crick, then hung up. Papa was probably out inquiring after my welfare or even driving my usual route back towards my house, so there was no help for it; I hoped he would think to check the machine. The bartender came around the end of the bar to kick the jukebox, which had stuck on 'Highway to Hell', and as she returned I put out a hand to get her attention. To my surprise, she flinched at my touch.

"Jesus! What do you want?"

"Sorry. Did I startle you?"

She folded her arms, her expression closing down. "Look, I know you got a right to be here. He's got a right too. But pardon me if I'm not real eager to associate with you!" I opened my eyes wide; I must have looked stricken, because the bartender's scowl relaxed slightly. "It's nothing personal, lady, but this is the first time he ever brought one of his—" She cast a look at Deadman and broke off the phrase. "Did you want to ask me something?"

"Yes, if it's not too much trouble."

"Sorry. Go ahead."

"I had a flat tire twenty or thirty miles east of here. I'm going to need a tow in the morning. How can I leave a message with the garage?"

"A…message?"

"Yes, a message. Could I leave a note with you or something? That you could give them when the place opens up?"

"Uh…I guess so." She took a bar napkin and wrote down my license plate number and the approximate spot I had left the car.

"There's something else I'd like to find out." I indicated Deadman with my eyes. "Do you know…him? He gave me a lift, and he says he wants to take me to a place he knows—is it safe to go with him?"

Her face slackened into incredulity. "Is it safe? Don't you know where you're going?"

"Why would I know that? I'm not from around here."

"I can see that, but…geez." For a moment she examined me from top to toe. "Look, if you don't know yet, I don't think I can explain it. I'm not going to touch that one." I could see her shrinking away from me; she was intensely uncomfortable in proximity to me, though she didn't like to show it. What on earth was her problem—everyone's problem? What was the mystery?

"I don't understand," I said with some pique.

She rolled her eyes. "OK, let me put it like this; I don't think you have any choice but to go with him. If he picked you up…"

"Yes, I'd been waiting by the car for hours. He was the only person to come along."

"Yeah, he would be." She let out a breath. "OK, to answer your question. If he wants to take you somewhere, then that's probably the place you should go. As for safety, I'm not sure what you mean."

"I mean…is he likely to…" I dropped my voice to a whisper. "You know. Do something to me."

"Oh…like, molest you?" The bartender pulled a strange grimace, part rueful, part repelled. "Uh…I've never heard of anything like that happening, no. That's not what he does."

"What he does? What does he do? Patrol the road or something?"

"Yeah, something. Excuse me, OK?" She backed off and went behind the bar again.

A man banged open the door and stalked into the bar with a snarl, a shaven-headed and bearded bruiser in a black leather vest and jeans with no shirt. He took the beer the bartender handed him and sat down on the other side of Deadman, glaring at both of us.

'What the hell are you doin' here, Deadman?" he bellowed. "Damn bad luck storm crow! Fucking Grim Reaper! Who's going on the ride this time around?" I saw Deadman's head move slightly, but his narrowed eyes expressed most of his opinion of the hothead. "You are goddamn pathetic, you know that? You make me fucking sick!"

"You under the delusion that I give a shit about your damn opinions?" replied Deadman.

"I know who's taking the ride!" The belligerent man bared his teeth at me as I sat down again. "I saw you haul this fancy city tart in on your bike! I warned you about mixing with decent people, and now you go bringing THEM in here! Where do you get the balls? Fucking pathetic! I wanna heave!"

"Where does this go?" asked a trim Mexican man, coming in from the back room with a crate of bottled beer. "I can't fit it in the—" He caught sight of me and whistled, rotating his hips with a waggle of his mobile eyebrows. "Ay caramba, chiquita! The nights are cold out here…you need some Latino heat to warm you up?"

"No," I said wearily, wondering when I could leave the bar. "Thanks for the offer, but no thanks."

"Shut up, Diego," said the bartender with a swat to his wiggling backside. "Put it under the counter for now. And keep it in your pants!" Diego noticed the rider and seemed to make the connection between him and me. Putting down the crate of beer, he quickly crossed himself and disappeared into the back room again.

"You goddamn carrion-eating vulture," continued the belligerent man as if he had not been interrupted, pointing with his middle finger. "Where'd you find this stuck-up cunt? Hunting road kill again? You make me puke!"

"Yeah, huntin' road kill," said Deadman, his jaw working as if he were chewing bones. "Just found me a squashed rattlesnake. I think his real name is Jim though" He finished his second beer, slammed the mug down on the bar and stood up, cracking his knuckles. "Got his head beat in somehow." The hothead glared at him with an ugly snarl. "Yeah, looks like boot prints on old Rattlesnake's face," said the rider, pretending to consider the question. "But it might be road burns from somebody draggin' him behind a bike." He smiled, far less pleasantly than the first time I had seen him do so.

"You sick, pathetic freak!" yelled Jim, stabbing both middle fingers in the air.

"Outside, boys!" said the bartender, flexing one well-conditioned arm and tossing her black mane. "You bust up the place and I will knock your fool heads together, and I mean you too" she said pointing and Deadman.