DISCLAIMER – I do not own any Sonic the Hedgehog characters, settings, etcetera (anything copyrightedly relating to SEGA's works). Fang the Sniper / Nack the Weasel is property of SEGA, although some aspects of this story are my own work. Alterations to the Sonic universe in this story are not to be considered canon. Do not steal (forge in your or another person's name) or sell this story in any manner. I have a good lawyer. You may, however, place this on your website without permission. Please ask permission before using aspects of this story in yours. If sections of it look similar to another, please inform me. I'm no thief myself. Thank you, and enjoy.

Bounty Hunter
By Rusty Dillingham

--Chapter Eleven – Solitary Man--

Smiley the Kangaroo didn't particularly enjoy traversing the wastelands at night, so he had opted to find a place to stay after leaving the bar with enough information on Fang to go on for a while. The three kangaroos had roamed the very outskirts of town before finding a building-sized tent full of foreigners who were more than willing to accept money in exchange for a place to stay that night. Shifty hadn't been fond of the idea of staying in town, given what had transpired upon their arrival, but he'd been overruled by both his boss and Speedy, both of whom knew lack of sleep could very well be the beginnings of an untimely demise. Neither of them were concerned over the ramifications of Smiley's actions, especially considering the village's only lawman had just gotten himself shot somehow.

The sleep itself had been surprisingly peaceful. Smiley had them all up by five the next morning, and they spent a well-deserved moment of peace before heading out again. Smiley sat on the bed he'd slept in, sipping at a cup of something hot and watching everything about him silently, including the young ferret who had served him the drink. Shifty was neck-deep in some little handheld video game he took with him everywhere he went. Speedy was somewhere walking around outside the tent enjoying a cigarette. He was not an addict, for he only partook in the joy of smoking once every few weeks as somewhat of a reward to himself for living that much longer. He'd kept the habit under control.

"More coffee?" asked the ferret at one point, watching him carefully.

Smiley shook his head and returned her little smile. He'd caught her eyes on him on more than two occasions since the previous night, enjoying the looks while they lasted. He always seemed to be the one women were drawn to, between the three of them. Although Shifty might have been perceived as the so-stupid-he's-adorable one, he was too much of an idiot to succeed with the ladies, and he had awful manners anyway (plus his breath was commonly mistaken for mustard gas). There was a sense of darkness to Speedy and that could be an exciting thing to some girls, but he seemed to revile all aspects of romance and was too big of an asshole for any kind of relationship but a business one, although Smiley was pretty certain there'd been maybe one or two women before; what happened with that, he didn't know since the other kangaroo had never talked about it. Smiley, though, with his seemingly pleasant personality, light peach-colored fur (in contrast to Speedy's gray and Shifty's dark red) and easy drawl, was the one wall among the trio that was most easily brought down by the other gender, and entertaining such curiosity was a mildly amusing thing to him. He didn't have time for romance, though he savored what little slivers of it he came across.

If he were not so busy, he might have stayed a while, but he had a job to do, and she seemed to know it.

Speedy curled open the cloth covering the tent's doorway, and he stepped in to its warm confines, flicking what was left of his cigarette into the dust outside as he did so. "The hyena's still sleeping out there behind that building. Didn't see his bike with him. Poor dumb sonofabitch had so much to drink, he's probably dreaming he's drowning in beer."

Smiley nodded. He wasn't particularly concerned about Jagged the Hyena, but the foul-mouthed moron worked for GUN, and that was what made him want to keep an eye on the other man's activities. He didn't need any trouble with that group. So long as the kangaroos avoided him and managed to stay one step ahead of him as well, any problems created by Jagged's involvement would be negated.

"Here's to teetotallerin'." He sucked back a big gulp of coffee. "Hoo."

Speedy took off his hat and slapped it against a small table, spilling Sand Hill's obnoxious dust all over the place, plus all over Shifty's game, eliciting a silent glare that was directed his way. "Rain's comin'."

"Bad?"

"Didn't see any lightning." Speedy slipped the hat back on and rested his frame against the table to watch the doorway, folding his arms and crossing a leg. "Should just be a shower. Looks pretty heavy, though."

Smiley offered a grin. He embraced such weather. Sweating all over Sand Hill and its torturous heat had been getting old anyway, so it would be a pleasant and welcomed change of pace during the hunt. He hauled himself from the bed, then stepped over to where Shifty was sitting and threw his foot into the fellow kangaroo's legs. "Get up and turn that dang thing off. We're leavin' in a minute."

"Ow!" cried Shifty. "Geez, boss. Can I at least get to a save point—"

"Nope."

"Please?"

"Nope."

"C'mon."

"Nope."

"Plea—"

"Hey!" barked Speedy, scowling at the youngest member of the trio with all the contempt he could muster that morning. "He said, getcher lazy ass up!"

"Phooey." Shifty shut it off and put it away before folding his arms and mumbling to himself like some little kid who'd just been yelled at by his mother.

Smiley grinned at his irritable friend. He knew Speedy didn't particularly like his boss' cousin, but by obligation of Shifty being a family member, and since the guy was too stupid to have a real job, Smiley brought him along just for the sake of having an extra gun. It had helped on occasion, but only when Shifty had his brain on straight that day. "Play nice."

Speedy didn't answer and continued watching the doorway. Why was anybody's guess, but that was what he usually did in places like this. Smiley had never condemned the habit. Maybe it could save them sometime. "Enjoy your break?" asked the boss.

"Wasn't long enough," Speedy droned. "I hate this place. I want out of this dump soon."

"It ain't so bad. Just needs some cleanin' up is all. That's why we're here."

Speedy grumbled, a noise that took some of the smile out of Smiley's namesake expression, but nothing was said of it.

"Boss," muttered Shifty while he hooked his ratty old gunbelt around his thin little waist. "You think that fella knows we're followin' him?"

"He's got a name, numbnuts," Speedy mumbled.

"I know that! I'm not stupid. Sheesh. You think Nack the Sniper knows we're followin' him, boss?"

Speedy shook his head.

"Beats the hell outta me. He's been in the game a long time." Smiley jiggled his cup and watched the contents splatter about inside. "I don't think so, but I wouldn't doubt it, either. A yes or no answer doesn't apply here, I don't reckon. You never know what that sorta fellow's thinkin'. So long as we stay with him and don't get too far behind, though, I figure everything'll work out."

"I sure hope so. Having him know we're after him is the last thing I want to have happen. That guy scares the hell outta me."

"How's that?" Smiley went to place his drink on a table near his bed.

"'Cause, boss," Shifty lamented with a wave of his hands, "he's got guns!"

Both Smiley and Speedy turned as slowly as they possibly could to stare at their cohort like the man had a tarantula doing a salsa dance on his face.

"So do we, you dumbass peckerhead!" Speedy yelled.

"But he's got those kinda guns where you don't have to pull back the hammer to shoot 'em first! They're called, like, semiautomatics or something!"

"YOU IDIOT! WHAT DO YOU THINK THAT IS IN YOUR HOLSTER!?"

Shifty glanced at the black semiautomatic sitting inside his gunbelt. "A semimanual?"

The silence from the others rang louder than a bell.

"That is a semiautomatic," Speedy replied in the most monotone voice they'd ever heard, until, "you SKINNY LITTLE BRAINDEAD JACKASS!!"

"Well, how's I supposed to know that? You guys never tell me anything. Next you're gonna tell me we're after Fang the Sniper."

"Um," interrupted the ferret quietly to Speedy, who looked like he were about to spontaneously combust, "do you want some coffee?"

"NO, I don't want any goddamn coffee! I just want to get the hell out of here already before I die from a stupidity outbreak!"

"Do you have hot chocolate?" Shifty asked delightfully. Speedy garbled, his frustration almost boiling out of every pore on his body.

Smiley watched his gray-furred comrade-in-arms. "Boy, you are just too damned high-strung, I swear. I think you need another cigarette break or somethin'."

Speedy faced his boss, his features awash with irritation. "What I need is to get out there and shoot that mangy fleabait already. I'm getting sick to death of this plan of yours. I don't see why we don't just go out there right now, find him, and blast him to smithereens. If he's headed north, then obviously Claw the Mole is headed north too. The only town up there is New Mettle. That's where he's going!"

"Easy there, pilgrim," Smiley cooed. "Haven't we already gone over this before? That guy's doin' all the hard work for us. Right at the end, we swoop in and nail 'em both. Take him out now, and we'll have that much more work ahead of us, all 'cause you didn't feel like following my ingenious, brilliant, well-constructed plan of masterful craftsmanship."

The look on Speedy's face softened marginally. He looked away.

"Listen," Smiley went on, taking on a more relaxed tone. "You know I don't like the guy either. But we jump outta the plane with no parachute, and it'll make things hard. The plan will work, and we gotta stick to it. Just remember that when we're all done, we'll be bitches in riches. Understand?"

"No," the other kangaroo muttered sourly. "I don't."

"And why exactly is that?"

"Don't you get it? That dumbass hyena is after him too. You know he doesn't have a plan beyond catching up to Fang and getting him first. Not only that, but what if these inbred hicks in this piece-of-shit zone recognize him and try to make a name for themselves? I don't give a damn how fast that oily mongrel is said to be; someone out there is gonna get lucky. It might be Johnny Law, it might be Johnny Hobo, it might be your goddamn grandmother, but he's gonna buy the farm someday at somebody's hand. And then where'll we be when your little insurance plan is six feet under? Stickin' our heads in the sand, because we were stupid enough to follow your advice."

There was a strange silence in the room as Smiley put a gimlet stare into his unwavering cohort, a very flat expression adorning his face. Shifty glanced between his companions, unsure of what to do.

"So you think we can't pull this off, huh."

Speedy stood silent.

"You don't think I've thought this through. You think I've just got some two-bit scheme going here." Smiley's head dipped to one side. "You wanna know something? I don't need your approval. I'm the one who's kept us alive when the rough has gotten rougher. I'm the one who makes sure we don't get killed when we're hunting a tarantula that's got six shotguns in six hands. If you weren't where you are now, if you didn't have me to guide that crazy shootin' hand of yours, you'd-a-been shot dead a long, long time ago, probably by Johnny Law or Johnny Hobo. Yeah, you're fast, but everything you say about old Fang the Sniper can be said about you too. You ain't as young as you used to be either, buddy. So thank you very much for your eloquent opinions, but I'm pretty darn positive I know what I'm doing. If you still don't like it, you're more than welcome to go off and git yourself killed any time you please."

Speedy looked like he'd just been told to go to hell by the Lord. "Why, you conceited yellow skunk, I oughta kill--!"

"However," Smiley continued, "I'd appreciate it if you stuck with us and had some faith for a change, 'cause I gotta say, you'd be a helluva lotta help against old Fang the Sniper. This is the one we've been waitin' for, amigo. You know he's tougher than anything else we've taken on. It'll take all three of us. You see what I'm getting at now? Don't get upset all over the truth, now."

The gray-furred kangaroo's silence spoke harsher than words.

"C'mon." Smiley's grin returned. "For an old friend?"

"Ugh!" spat Speedy, swiveling on a heel. "Your head's so damn big, I'd pop it but I'd blow this whole town to shit off its shingles with the concussion."

"What're you guys talkin' about, anyway?" asked Shifty.

"And your head is too little altogether, dumbass."

Smiley adjusted his hat and nodded his head to the tent's opening. They'd spent enough time jabbering. "If y'all are done doubting your fearless leader, let's vamoose. That boy ain't gonna sit around waiting for us."

His two cohorts slowly ambled to the exit. Smiley offered his ferret waitress one of his more pleasant smiles, which she seemed to enjoy. He tipped the brim of his hat to her before stepping away and out into the dawn of early morning light.

The rain continued while Fang rode across the rolling terrain of Sand Hill. At times it lessened, and at times it hardened, but despite the fluctuating nature of the crude weather, it did not go away, and he could not force his mechanical steed across the sands too quickly as a result. His eyes carried no protection against the blasting of water that would pound against his face at high speeds, so he eased along, praying to multiple heavenly figures that the clouds would grant him pardon and depart. They didn't. Clearly he'd done something to piss the heavens off, or they just didn't like him.

He steered his way into a canyon. Rock spires stretched high on every side, brown desert plantlife flowering their features. A stream was forming along the canyon's natural route, and he didn't have to worry about getting caught in a flood since he could fly out of there whenever he pleased, so he took his time and enjoyed the developing scenery. It was a peaceful place he knew he could not see often.

His eyes searched every moment for signs of life among the rocks and mountainsides. There were none, as far as he could tell, but the rain would probably have washed away most of it by then anyway. He enjoyed the quiet solitude.

But every once in a while, his odd sixth returned, that funny feeling he got that told him he might have someone behind him, watching him, following him. He tried to ignore it, and at the same time, tried not to, knowing that doing so could get him killed. His own paranoia irritated him. It was difficult, but he rode on, regardless of the danger. He deduced the worries as the cliffs playing mind games with him, a theory that was not unheard of for travelers in these parts.

When the stream began to grow, he gained some altitude and circled around a wide, curvy pass that stretched east, then back north again. This was not the most pleasant terrain he had ever endured, and there were places a man could hide, which left him with an uneasy feeling in his stomach. Fang didn't like presenting himself as an open target, but he had little choice. All he could do was rely on his instincts and reflexes. They'd kept him alive this long; they would yet do their jobs. He wasn't the cripple Speedy the Kangaroo had accused him of being.

The rain did a fine job of replenishing his supply of water, but his food problem was another story. He hadn't packed any four-star ensembles. He was a person who looked forward to a fine meal at the end of a day's tiresome labors, but he couldn't bring himself to fantasize about the pork and beans or canned noodles he'd brought. Fang hated that stuff. It was cheap, though, and it didn't add ten pounds to his ass, so it got the job done. That didn't mean he had to even remotely like it. He'd have lived off beef jerky if he could, but his supply of that was already dry.

He had an even larger problem than crappy food, however. As fine as machine as it was, the Marvelous Queen too required sustenance, and it would need it soon, if the dash's little needle near the "E" icon was any indication. Gasoline was a difficult commodity here in the boonies, too, and he hadn't let that worry him yet. He had a myriad of other problems to sweat over, like how he could get shot at out here, or more importantly, how he was broke. But when the thrum of the Queen's engines began to waver, he knew she hadn't long to live unless he could solve this issue.

When he pitched the craft out of the canyon's end, he spotted a small, quiet-looking ranch-style home some distance from its mouth. It was a single-story brick establishment, with a wooden fence surrounding its exterior and an older sort of automobile sitting inanimate before the wooden, roofed porch. The building was clearly old, but it looked well-kept for as well. Through that, he was able to deduce that the owner probably wouldn't try to fill his abdomen full of lead should he approach. But there was always a chance. He was careful.

He stopped the airbike, parked on a rise that looked down at the small valley the home occupied, and sat silently. The rain trickled off the brim of his hat.

Procuring his binoculars, he scanned the premises. There was no activity outside of which to speak. The windows were covered by blinds on the inside, and the chimney was not seeing use. He lowered the device and drummed his fingers against the airbike's handlebars before glancing at the little needle near the "E" that told him all sorts of horror stories about men trekking across the desert on foot after their rides went lame. Fang grimaced, but still sat inanimate. He sat there for a long while, staring down at the home.

Throughout his entire life, he had been toughened by singularity, by sparing himself the complacence and headaches that were aroused by relying on others. To him, the extent to which a man needed the shoulder of another to rise matched how much weaker he was for it, but a man who rose alone was that much stronger. He'd relied on no one but himself, hardening himself through the harshness of the lands and the awful men who inhabited them. Although it could prove unnerving at times, he was not afraid of being alone. The strongest man was he who stood alone.

But before his desire to work by himself, before his guts, before his cruelty, before his skill with a gun, before everything else that dominated Fang's lifestyle came his appreciation of logic. Despite the frequent big numbers bounty hunting presented, he was in no way a wealthy man. He hadn't been able to afford nor bring along spare gasoline, though he had not anticipated his trek into Sand Hill lasting this long anyway. He shut his eyes and fumed wordlessly, trying to talk himself out of what he was considering doing, but it had little effect. To do this went against every aspect of the way he conducted himself, but he had to do it. It was that simple, because if he did not, he could not continue, and he was far too invested in this pursuit by now to even consider giving up until he was dead, or his target was bagged and tagged before he could cash in.

He started the machine and rolled down the hill slowly, cautiously approaching the home and watching for any sudden movement. None came.

The airbike came to rest by the wide-open wooden gate. Fang lingered his way off the leather seat, the soles of his boots sinking in rainwater amidst what had become a light drizzle, and watched the home again. Still no movement.

He stood there. The possibility that this place was a hideout for people who didn't want to be found did not slip past him, and even then, perhaps the residents wouldn't take kindly to him, knowing who he was, and tried to attack him anyway. It felt like every moment of his life, he was in danger. He hated it, but had little choice in the matter. He had to do it.

He was there for nearly ten seconds before he started stepping towards the porch, his gunhand gripping iron the entire time, lest something happen. He would not draw it unless forced to, but in the entire trip from where he'd parked to the front door, nothing occurred. Fang stopped near the door, feeling his nerves tighten dramatically. Here he was, standing on some stranger's porch, dripping wet and without his gun free. He'd never felt like such a fool before. He could get his head blown off any second.

He heard a cry from somewhere within, a sound that lessened his breath. It was a child's laughter. He grimaced again, and quickly began to feel the ramifications of what he was doing sink into his gut. He might have preferred getting shot to what he was about to do. But after an agonizing few moments of debating to himself whether or not this was worth the humiliation, he finally knocked, and somehow found the resolve to keep from running out of there.

There was silence. Fang prayed vainly that no one would answer.

The big wooden door groaned noisily, and a small white billy goat peered out at him. It took about half a second for a smile to envelope the child's expression. "Hello."

Fang said nothing, feeling a wave of nausea flow through him.

"I'm Sonic the Hedgehog," the child told him pleasantly.

"NO HE'S NOT, I AM!" came a cutting dispute from another young voice somewhere inside.

Fang somehow managed to take his hand off his gun, but still couldn't bring himself to say anything.

"Who is it?" This voice was older, female. Another white goat appeared in the doorway, one who stood Fang's height, if not higher. She was dressed for simplicity, given the curiously cool temperature the rain had brought, with a plain white shirt and dark blue jeans. She wasn't one to flaunt expensive clothing, it seemed – at least not around the house. "If he's looking for your dad, tell him he's over in Station Squa—"

She stopped speaking as soon as she saw who was standing there. Fang expected her to scream or run away. She did neither.

Instead, she shooed the kid away with a "Go play," and then redirected her attention to the miserable individual occupying her doorstep. "Can I help you?"

She didn't sound nervous, but her caution was clear as day. It was obvious to Fang that she knew who he was, so at least he didn't have to go through the laborious process of introducing himself. Rather, he had to jump right to the worst part, but when he went to speak, it was suddenly the hardest thing he'd done in months, shooting people who shot back included. "I, uh..."

The goat stood there, watching him. Her caution seemed to ebb in favor of curiosity.

"Uh," he driveled again, realizing he had to get this over with sooner or later, "listen, uh—"

"Yes?"

Don't rush me, he thought, but it didn't quell the embarrassment that flooded through his nerves at the question. "Um, well."

She was not impressed with his sudden infection of autism, and he knew it.

"Uh." Fang gestured back to where his airbike was sitting, cringing inwardly the whole time. "I'm sort of, uh, running low on gas."

"So?" she asked without missing a beat. Her eyes were roaming over his pitiful state. He'd never felt so utterly pathetic. This was ridiculous; he had pride.

"Well," he huffed, wondering why the words weren't coming easier the more he spoke, even as the most difficult question he'd ever asked began to fly off the rails before it was even out of his mouth, "I was wondering if, you, uh..."

"Do you need some?" She opened the door further.

Fang's lips stopped stumbling over themselves as he struck her with a decided look of astonishment. "Yes."

"We keep a few cans in the shed at the side of the house. You can use one. Let me get my shoes."

And she walked away, leaving a thoroughly stunned Fang the Sniper to stand there, speechless.

When she returned, he was still there in that same exact spot. Despite the easing rain, she led him around the house's red-brick perimeter to a wooden shed built in to its side, and swung open its creaky, termite-infested door to reveal a host of red gasoline canisters sitting in the dirt. Fang looked past her and spied all manners of well-kept gardening tools inside while she hauled one from where it lay. He glanced back at the yard. Every inch of what little grass or plant life there might have been was brown and dead. He gazed at the side of the house, where a larger, garden-like collection of greenery looked to have once tried to thrive with effort, but had long since passed on in failure. The sight stirred a dismal feeling within him.

"Here," she said, hauling the canister from its nest with clear difficulty.

Fang held a hand out. "I'll carry it," he said.

"It's alright." She stepped away in the direction of where his airbike sat, and again, he was without words. "Can you close the door?"

He did so before following after her. She reached the Queen and began looking for the gas cap, ignoring the way he again held his hand out to the canister in futility.

"It's there—" he started, but she'd already found it. He was still as she filled the tank to its capacity, unable to look away. The rain drenched her, much as it had him, but she continued anyway until the task was completed.

When she was done, she moved the canister under her arm and flipped the aircraft's cap closed. "There you go."

Fang was quiet. He did not move from where he stood.

The goat faced him, any caution she'd displayed earlier a distant memory. She looked him square in the eye, as though waiting for something. When nothing came, she raised her eyebrows. "You're welcome."

His tongue jolted into movement before he could even consider what to say. "Thank you."

She offered a light smile. "Anything else you need?"

"No," he eventually mumbled after a short pause, trying his best to avert his sight away from hers.

"Are you sure?"

He returned her gaze, unaware of how to respond. It didn't take a genius in social sciences to know she'd noticed his awkward state of confusion. Fang wasn't sure whether to be embarrassed, annoyed, or remain tacit.

"You don't look like you're packing much. Besides a bunch of bullets, anyway."

No response.

She gestured to the building behind Fang. "I just made something to eat for the boys, so if you're hungry, I can give you some too."

It was obvious she wouldn't get an answer to that either, so she moved past him. "You can wait on the porch, if you want."

Into the house she disappeared. Fang remained stationary by the Queen. He placed a leather gloved palm on one of the handlebars, an anxious tension rendering his feet useless. He suddenly became very aware of his unnerved state, but found himself unwilling to move, all the while. Eventually he shook himself clean of his unsettled state enough to retrieve from the Queen his map of Sand Hill, unconcerned that it was getting soaked all the while. He had just exited Shipe Canyon – named for the fine Sand Hill explorer-cartographer who had been gutsy enough to map much of this atrocious zone – which helped him find his location easily. There seemed to be a settlement further north, with few others out this far into the wild, and that was in all likelihood where he would find the bounty he sought. Where else would Claw hide from his grasp like the little coward he was?

That son of a bitch. Fang felt his flustered state give way to anger, and he clenched the map so tightly he threatened to rip it up in his hands if he wasn't careful. He owed that mangy peckerwood. He'd find him and collect that bounty if he had to put the mongrel to bed with a shovel and a hole in the ground. That would be justice.

He heard the door creak again and turned his gaze across the dead, sandy yard to look. She had returned, having dried off while she was absent, and held a plate in one hand and watched him.

Fang stood there, dropping the map to his side and watching back, before looking off at the frontier that encompassed the home's scenic view. For some reason, he did not feel the grit and gusto to get back out there on the trail as he always did. Not yet. It had been replaced by a small tranquility, brought either by the promise of decent food or something else. It was a feeling he was not used to, and he wasn't certain yet if he liked it or not.

Despite that, he put the map back in its compartment and slowly plodded back to the porch, where she waited under its roof and out of the rain. She gave him the plate and moved her hand toward an old, antique-looking bench near the front door. "You can sit down, if you feel like it."

It took him a few seconds, but he obliged. The seat groaned under his weight, but it didn't feel like it would burst apart beneath him. It, like the home, seemed well-taken care of.

He stared at the food before him. It wasn't elegant or high-priced, but it looked and smelled fine to him, much better than the muck he'd been forced to bring along with him on this venture. But still, he couldn't bring himself to pick up the fork. Every part of his psyche screamed in protest at what he was doing. This is wrong. I shouldn't take this. I don't need this. She could have put something in it. I--

"Hey," she said, and he looked up at her. She was still standing there, watching him. "It's alright."

He considered that. The fork entered his hand, and he took a bite. It wasn't a flawless taste, but he saw nothing wrong with it. He took another.

She smiled, apparently satisfied, and leaned her frame against the bricks near the door, looking out at the drizzle curtaining before them from the porch roof.

"So who are you after?" she asked while he ate.

Fang didn't answer.

"Badman, huh."

No reply. Names of people he was pursuing weren't a subject Fang indulged in with other people.

She looked out at the horizon. It was nearing mid-day, by then. "How is it?"

"Good," he admitted between a bite. He had to admit, it was better than anything he could remember having recently. He normally didn't like home-style cooking, but he could make an exception with canned goods waiting for him back on the Queen.

"Thanks." She was quiet, then. It seemed she didn't want to intrude too much on his business. Fang noticed, since people were always butting in and sticking their noses into his affairs. Too many questions bugged him. Too few could have the same effect.

He glanced at her. He wasn't a man who enjoyed talking when he didn't have to, and to share the company of someone who understood that for a change was nice.

The rain let up a little, giving him a better view of Sand Hill's notorious dunes and towering peaks in the distance. He wondered silently why she and her kin made their living in this place. Many folks could be intimidated by such broad freedom and the lonesome feeling of unpeopled land. Some tried to settle on their own, longing for a home where the stars were so low, it looked like one could reach up and swat them, but often they were driven out of it by their own quiet fear of such an environment. Others, however, could find peace in that, and he could see why. He did not particularly like every aspect of Sand Hill, but he saw qualities of it to which he could connect.

He glanced to her again. He contemplated something, and eventually went through with it. "Why do you live here?"

She seemed a little surprised by the question, but said nothing of it. "I wanted to live somewhere the kids could look back on and appreciate when they were grown up. This used to be a ranch. We restored it as best we could, but we're still working on parts of it. The fence, for instance."

"It's a good home."

She nodded. "I like the location."

He wasn't sure he agreed. "Seems a little out of the way."

"Yeah. It can be hard to get them to school every morning, but it's worth it. There are some dark sides to it, but this zone can be nicer than people give it credit for."

"It's not that nice," Fang mumbled before another taste.

She looked down at him and considered that. "Maybe not. Otherwise, you wouldn't be here. But the boys like it."

Fang didn't reply.

"Are you going to New Mettle?"

That must have been the marked settlement he'd noticed on his map. "I guess so. Anyone been by here recently?"

She shook her head. "No one out of the ordinary. We get weirdoes lingering around here looking for my husband sometimes, but I guess you get that in an environment like this. You make weird friends."

"Not many friends worth having here. You should be careful."

She thought about that.

"This place attracts all kinds," he told her. "More lawless than law-abiding, around here. It's good that you're living far from the heart of it. The women don't seem to get much respect in the towns. I doubt children get better treatment, even with the school up there. This isn't a place that suffers fools. It's hard and it'll kick you if you give it the chance."

"I know," she said passively, "but we like it here anyway. There's a peacefulness here."

He shrugged and scraped what was left of the meal onto his fork before finishing it off. "Your choice."

Her brow rose. "You don't care for it much, I take it?"

"I've been in nicer environments." He set the plate aside and leaned forward, looking at the ground before him. "I don't look forward to setting foot in that town. It's the biggest mark on my map, which means it's the biggest hotspot for people who don't want someone like me there."

"Maybe you'll find what you're looking for quickly, and you won't have to indulge them in any debates."

He couldn't resist a mocking snort. "I hope so." God, I hope so.

She crossed her arms, looking across the yard. "I'd be wary of my surroundings in that place, if I were you. They've got some new city constable taking care of things who doesn't know what he's doing. Couldn't enforce the law to save his own life, so there's a lot more trouble roaming around there these days than there normally would be. I don't go there very often anymore, myself. Can't even let the kids hang out there after classes. It's just dangerous."

"Sounds fun." Fang rubbed his legs. Sitting on the Queen for so many hours at a time with no breaks took a toll on them, and they were already bad as it was. A dull pain emanated throughout his thighs every second.

She noticed. "Are you alright?"

He nodded, but knew he didn't look it. She was eyeing him carefully, and he felt bad for trying to convince her otherwise.

He was quiet for a while, thoughts occupying his concentration. Then, he said, "I saw your garden."

She didn't seem to know what to make of that. Her brown eyes centered on their black counterparts a few feet away.

"You should try again," he continued, watching the shower before them. "This weather'll help."

She fixed him with an interesting look, but said nothing. Fang picked at one of his gloves tiredly.

"Anyone at that town I should be aware of?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Well," she started, "Juarez probably won't be happy to see you."

He thought a moment. He'd heard the name before, but he'd heard a lot of names, and many often weren't worth remembering. He'd been in the game so long, he was starting to wonder if he'd lose his mind over all the names he tried to keep track of. "Don't know him."

"Javelina. One of the lawless you mentioned, and pretty proud of it. He hangs around there looking for people to test his aim against. I think there's a bounty on him, but I don't try to pay attention to stuff like that. There are so many badmen around, it's hard to know where they all come from."

"I'll keep an eye out."

"Could you?"

Fang focused on her. She was giving him that watchful, curious look again, but he sensed a bleak, unhappy feel to it.

"Yes," he eventually said after finding his voice.

She smiled, but the somberness remained. "Thanks." She paused. "It's nice to know there are people like you around."

The awkward, unnerving feeling returned to flow through his veins and around his stomach, newly rejuvenated and with more strain on him than before. He stared up at her; she merely glanced back.

"I know you get a lot of flak, but, you do good work. It may not seem like it, but there are people out there who value your presence."

Fang felt his mouth go dry.

"Thank you," he managed, turning his sight to the wooden porch beneath him. He was conscious of her attention, and could not bear to return it.

Her smile lingered, and she was quiet for a while then.

Eventually he rose and handed her the empty plate. "What do I owe you?"

"Don't worry about it."

He offered the barest of nods, unable to express his true appreciation. "Uh—"

"Hm?"

"Thanks again." It seemed to come easier this time.

"You're welcome." She fixed him with a vigilant eye. "Same to you, for the company."

Fang stepped off the porch and back into the rain, and returned to the Queen, hauling himself into the leather seat and powering the craft up. It rose as he steered it north, and then, accompanied by a blast of its rocket thrusters, cut a path away from the building into the horizon before only the thunder of the airbike's engines played the presence of the bounty hunter. She stood there on the porch, and turned twice to look back as she went to return inside. The engines died off, and he was gone.

Claudia shut the door with a thud and ambled into the kitchen, listening to the boys play in their room. She had heard of few people like him in her time, and met even fewer. There had been such a miserable, lonely feeling to him, almost to the point where it had seemed overwhelming, yet he handled its pain masterfully, like a worker ant that knew every inch of its job and offered no complaints. She knew that he had not led a good life, but he managed, and to her, he did not seem the part of the awful man his reputation suggested. He was admirable. She found herself thinking of that, and of him.

"Who was that?" Bronson, her youngest, asked as he entered the kitchen.

"No one, hon'. You done playing?"

"No, Fonda's making me be Shadow. I don't want to be Shadow. I hate Shadow."

"Well, you guys will just have to figure that out for yourselves. Just don't fight ov—"

There was an abrupt knock at the door.

"Hang on, sweetheart." Claudia stepped away and returned to the door. What could he want? He hadn't left anything there, as far as she'd been able to surmise. Perhaps he wanted to address something directly, a thought that struck an odd anxiety through her. She clicked the locks on the door and swung it open. "Ye—"

Sombrero the Gila Monster glowered at her from behind a gleaming silver pistol. "Hello."