A/N: I know, I know, I'm three weeks late, I'm sorry. I really wanted to have it done on time, but my husband got HIT BY A CAR while on his motorcycle in mid-June. He's fine, thank god, aside from some minor injuries (i.e., no broken bones or squished innards), but things have been rather stressful. Thankfully writing is somewhat of a catharsis, so the chapter still got done eventually, though the smut I promised never made it to ao3 (SWP_Plus). Sorry, check again soon!

I can't promise the next chapter will be on time either (should be October 1st, per quarterly updates) because I'm definitely behind schedule, but I'll sure try. Anyway, enjoy!

Episode 10, Quick Draw: Part 4

"Mr. Vash did what?" screeched Milly.

Marianne/Gladys had sprayed a mouthful of tea across her desk and now she hurriedly blotted at the papers there with the voluminous sleeves of her blouse.

"What do you mean he signed him up?" demanded Marianne/Gladys. "I didn't see that name on any of the entry forms!"

"Or on the roster!" said Milly. She shoved the paper accusingly into Meryl's face, and then into her hands as she noticed Marianne/Gladys struggling to collect the papers scattered across the desk.

"I think he did it this morning," said Meryl, glancing down at the list of contestant names she was holding.

"Registration was supposed to end at midnight," snapped Marianne/Gladys, scowling as she inspected her sleeves. The fabric was damp, but not discolored; she had managed to keep any ink from running. "That idiot O'Brian shouldn't have added anyone to the list, it'll throw off the whole schedule."

"Well, in his defense," Milly offered, straightening a stack of slightly damp entry forms, "Mr. Vash can be very..."

When she hesitated, Meryl supplied, "Annoying."

"Persuasive," finished Milly, giving Meryl the tamest little stink-eye. "He can be charming, when he tries."

"That is not how I remember him," said Marianne/Gladys, frowning.

"Maybe this O'Brian guy is bribable?" Meryl wondered. She considered what currency Vash might have had on him at the time and added, "With donuts?"

Marianne/Gladys stared at her for a long moment, then buried her face in her hands. When she looked up again she dragged her fingers down over her high cheekbones, stretching the skin there even more tightly and pulling the fleshy lower lids away from her eyes, face frozen for an instant in a gaunt grotesque.

"Ugh, probably," said Marianne/Gladys, rubbing her forehead now. Gesturing at the roster in Meryl's hands, she said, "See if you recognize anyone else." Then she stood and straightened her sleeves again, muttering, "I need to go yell."

Meryl watched her step out from behind the desk and stride purposefully down the hall, and after a moment's hesitation, hurried to follow. By the time she got to the corner Marianne/Gladys had already disappeared into the mayor's office.

Meryl heard a, "Beg pardon, honey," and another figure emerged from the office just as she tried to enter.

The man had been casually tossing an apple from hand to hand, but he missed his catch when Meryl bumped into him. Milly had been close on her heels and she managed to grab the apple before it hit the floor.

"Sorry, sir!" said Milly, offering it back to the man with a sunny smile. "We should have been paying better attention to where we were going."

Meryl knew she should apologize too, but she was too thrown by the man's appearance. He wore elongated goggles that magnified the features they hid, strange red irises gone permanently bug-eyed as he stared intently down at Milly.

One corner of his stern mouth turned up just slightly when he reclaimed the apple, and he gave only a contemplative, "Hmm," before turning to walk toward the stairs. Meryl watched the apple arc from one hand to the other again.

"How strange," said Milly, frowning at the man's retreating back. Meryl didn't spare him another glance, hurrying into the mayor's office as soon as the doorway was clear again.

Marianne/Gladys was already halfway across the room, having ignored the mayor completely (he was still sitting at his desk wearing a bemused expression), headed for the window on the opposite wall.

She dug her fingers under the frame and tried to lift the window open, but it got stuck after only a few iches' progress. She growled through her teeth, shoving it upwards again until it slammed open, the glass panel rattling precariously in its frame. Gripping the sill with both hands, she leaned out and looked down.

"O'Brian, you little rat fink weasel!" she shouted. "Where are you?"

Meryl stepped up behind Marianne/Gladys and glanced down, too. She hadn't realized it earlier, but the building was at the far edge of town and the mayor's office directly overlooked the open-air market.

The area was already being converted into use for the quick draw contest, large awnings being constructed to cover seating areas along the street below. Meryl watched as a man appeared from beneath one of these awnings, looking up curiously. It was the toupee'ed man she had seen at the sign-in table the day before.

Now he caught sight of Marianne/Gladys and gave her a slightly panicked smile.

"Ah, Gladys," he said, weakly. "Can I help you?"

"You stay right there," Marianne/Gladys snarled. She turned from the window and stalked past Meryl and out of the room, muttering under her breath. Meryl followed and Milly met them in the hall as Marianne/Gladys returned to her station around the corner.

"I need to go clear up this scheduling mess," she sighed, reclaiming the stack of entry forms Milly had rescued from her desk. She turned to ask Meryl, "Did you recognize anyone else?"

Meryl regarded the list of names again; Milly had already made some notes in the margins and Meryl set the paper down on the desk to circle another two names. She hurriedly scribbled the pertinent information ("Wanted for burglary", and "Escaped custody in transit"), noticing how much neater Milly's handwriting was than her own.

"Of course, any of them might be using false names," Meryl pointed out, handing the roster back to Marianne/Gladys. "Like Vash," she added, trying to reinforce the idea that Vash wasn't Vash, wherever she could.

"Yeah, yeah," sighed Marianne/Gladys, sorting the papers briefly between hands. She led the way out of the building, smiling that honeyed smile at each Polo goon as they passed.

Once in the street and out of earshot of the goons guarding the door, Marianne drew Meryl aside, speaking softly.

"Look, Stryfe," she said. "Try to keep..." Marianne paused, and it looked like it physically pained her to say the word, "...Vash... out of trouble."

"Well, he's already in trouble with me," said Milly, frowning, before Meryl could make any reply. "I'm going to give him a piece of my mind! He can't just sign Mr. Priest up for a shooting contest, he's—he's—a priest!"

Marianne smirked. "You tell him, sugar," she agreed. She gave them a little wave of her fingers before turning to head for the contest, presumably to give O'Brian a piece of her mind.

"Come on, Ma'am," said Milly firmly, leading Meryl back to the inn. She stomped up to the third floor and pounded on the door of the room Vash and Wolfwood shared (the hinges rattled under the onslaught), calling, "Mr. Vash, I want a word with you!"

When there was no answer, Milly crossed her arms in a huff, frowning again.

"They've probably already gone down to the contest," Meryl offered, putting a hand on Milly's elbow. Her rigid stance relaxed at Meryl's touch and she glanced down, grimacing only slightly now.

"I suppose I should get my medical bag," Milly sighed. "Just in case." They retrieved it from their room and set out across town again.

There were fewer Polo goons out and about, which Meryl figured meant they were mostly already at the contest. She hoped the sheriff and his men were there, too, and really hoped they'd be sober.

Meryl remembered something and spoke up as they walked: "You had recognized some people on the roster that I didn't know," she told Milly. "Who are they?"

"Professional marksmen," Milly replied. "Some more notable than others. My middle-oldest older brother used to go to shooting contests all the time when I was little, and I got dragged along," she explained.

"Oh, really?" asked Meryl. Milly mentioned her family often, but rarely gave details like this. Given that Meryl shared nothing, it hadn't seemed fair to expect more.

"Yep!" Milly nodded cheerfully. "It wasn't very interesting to me at the time, I was mad for Thomas racing, but—"

"What?" spluttered Meryl, nearly tripping over her own feet at this revelation. Milly caught her shoulder and laughed.

"It didn't last very long," she said, grinning. "I was too big to jockey by the time I was eight." Honestly, Meryl would not have been surprised to hear that Milly was already six feet tall at eight years old.

"But the shooting contests were still a favorite of my siblings, so I still went. That was quite a while ago, though," Milly added, frowning slightly. "Some of those men might be pretty old by now..."

They were still a few blocks from the contest site, but Meryl could already hear the sound of the gathering crowd. Shouts and laughter, people cheering and people jeering.

"Delilah Bailey, you get back here now!"

This voice came from the opposite direction and Meryl turned to see a little girl running toward them in a panic, small arms wrapped around a ceramic jug almost as big as she was. Unable to see properly over her cargo, the girl ran straight into Meryl. Milly swooped down to catch the jug before it fell as the girl bounced off Meryl's legs and staggered backwards.

An instant later, Old Blanche came tearing around the corner of the nearest building, moving far faster than Meryl would have expected for someone of her age, and she snagged the girl by the collar.

Blanche glanced up at Meryl and Milly—and the jug—and looked momentarily relieved. Then she scowled and shook the girl.

"That's lye, you silly bint," she snapped. Meryl watched Milly's eyes widen and she took a firmer grip on the jug. "You could blind yourself trying to pour that out, or worse. Next time I see you in my shop without dirty linens in your arms, I'm telling your momma I caught you with that!"

The girl paled and nodded, then gave a squeak of pain when Blanche flicked a finger hard against her forehead before releasing her.

Blanche gave a great sigh of relief as the girl fled, slumping to stand in a posture that seemed much more appropriate to her advanced age. She gestured for the jug and Milly handed it over.

"What was that about?" asked Meryl, watching the girl disappear around a corner.

"Apparently there's a bounty out on bottles and cans as targets for the contest, a double-penny apiece," said Blanche. She scowled again. "Looks like they're running out of empties. I should probably just lock up for the day, to be safe."

"Are you going to watch the contest?" Milly asked, curiously.

"Can't be bothered," said Blanche. "If it's keeping me from working, I might as well go home and nap instead."

"With all this noise?" asked Meryl. Blanche just snorted a laugh.

"I'm old, I can fall asleep whenever I want." She turned away, calling back over her shoulder, "You two have fun, though. Clothes'll be ready tomorrow afternoon."

"Thank you, Miss Blanche!" Milly replied.

At the next corner they turned onto the main thoroughfare that led to the open-air market, and the whole street was lined with vendors set up to cater to the contest-goers.

There were food carts of all kinds (Milly excitedly pointed out the cotton candy machine), water sellers, and a few temporary bars set up by the local saloon. There was even an ice cream stand with a big yellow umbrella to keep it shaded, squeezed in between one of the bars and a kiosk selling brightly colored paper fans.

In more than a few places Meryl spotted people collecting betting slips and handling cash.

At the entrance to the market itself, a large chalkboard had been wheeled out and placed next to a small stage where a skinny guy in suspenders was fiddling with a megaphone. Once he finally figured out how to turn it on, he started reading names from the chalkboard, asking contestants to present themselves at the stage.

Meryl could see Vash's name in the last prepared slot on the board, with Wolfwood's last-minute entry squished into the meager space that remained below it, barely legible. Neither man seemed to be in the gathering crowd of contestants.

As people arrived at the stage, Milly helped Meryl put faces to the names she'd seen on the roster. At first Milly was pointing people out, but when a big man with an eyepatch noticed the attention and glowered down at her, she gave a start and ducked behind Meryl as if she could hide there. After that, Milly just kept up a whispered commentary:

"That man with the cigar is Jasper Gorse, and wearing the red bandana is Kent Pluckner. That skinny fellow with the long black hair just goes by Longshanks, and the older gentleman there—" Milly cut off with a gasp. "That's Big Daddy Bigelow Bullet!"

"I'm sorry, what," said Meryl flatly.

"Hush, it's just a stage name," Milly told her. Milly stepped out from behind Meryl (as though it made any difference) and waved at the old man, calling, "Mr. Bullet, sir! I'm a big fan!" The man turned, looking for who'd hailed him. He spotted Milly and looked surprised, but still ambled over, smiling amiably.

"Haven't heard that name in quite a while," said the man, his voice that gravelly rumble of a life-long smoker. The crow's feet etched deep at the corners of his eyes crinkled at Milly and he grinned. "But you're much too young to know me!"

"I was very little, sir, the last time I saw you," she admitted, smiling back happily. "You took first place in a bullseye competition in Big Littlerock!"

"Big Littlerock, huh?" he said, doubtfully. He shook his head but gave Milly a rueful smile. "I can't even remember, young'un, but I'll trust you. Oh, that's me, these days," he added, when the announcer called, "Contestant number 14, Wilbur Cochran."

"Good luck today, Mr. Bullet!" Milly said brightly, waving again as he made his way back toward the stage. Meryl watched him go, and after a moment she noticed another crowd gathering behind the stage.

She moved around Milly for a better view and saw O'Brian there, handing out coins as kids lined up to drop off bottles or cans. Various Polo goons were collecting items from the pile, presumably to set up as targets wherever the shooting would actually be taking place.

There was a growing stream of people making their way to the contest now, and after a few more minutes Meryl and Milly were carried along with the crowd and away from the listings. Meryl watched the stage over her shoulder as long as she could, still hoping to see Vash, but eventually she gave up on finding him there.

Several tiered seating areas had been constructed against the buildings that butted up against the open market, rows of weathered old benches already straining under the weight of so many eager onlookers. Some were shaded by awnings or canopies, but most sat under open sky, certain to be stifling hot in the midday suns.

The covered areas were filling up quickly as people hurried to find seats in the shade, but Meryl was looking for somewhere more specific, certain there was some central location where all the contestants would be gathered to stay under direct supervision of the contest officials. Or of the nearest Polo goons, anyway.

Meryl caught movement out of the corner of her eye as they walked, shapes moving in the dark under the nearest bleachers. She frowned, trying to track the figures, and just happened to be watching when one man set his beer bottle on the bench next to him so he could gesticulate more wildly in his storytelling. In a flash, a small hand darted out from the darkness under the stands and the bottle disappeared.

Meryl choked on a laugh—they were running out of empties!—but only shook her head when Milly looked at her curiously. A moment later the storyteller reached for his drink and, finding it missing, immediately shoved the man sitting at his left.

"You asshole! You stole my beer?"

"The hell are you talking about? Hey! Get your hands off me!"

As others in the stands turned to watch the argument, or tried to keep the two men from actually coming to blows, Meryl saw three more bottles be set down and immediately snatched away into the dark.

"The contest will be starting shortly," called the announcer. "Please take your seats!"

"Here, Ma'am," said Milly, pointing to a pair of seats at the end of a particularly rickety set of bleachers. She ushered Meryl up the steps.

"We're not here to watch the contest," argued Meryl, trying to turn back. "We need to find Vash and Wolfwood!"

"Well, for now we can wait and see if they turn up, alright?" said Milly, reasonably. She didn't let go of Meryl's shoulders, still steering her toward the last two seats in the back. "The first shooters are setting up anyway, so we don't want to be blocking anyone's view."

Meryl sat where Milly placed her, not at all pleased with the situation. She heard the announcer calling for contestants in what seemed to be random order ("Contestant number 13, Arthur Brodie; contestant number 6, Jasper Gorse; contestant number 8, Shaw Sharidan: please come to the range,"), and wondered if Marianne was having fits somewhere about the hastily reorganized schedule.

The three men arrived and each took his mark at his assigned station in the temporary shooting range that had been constructed for the contest. The targets were just upturned crates set 25 yarz away, with five bottles (or cans, or any combination thereof) lined up a few iches apart.

They all stood at the ready, hands an ich from their holsters, but Meryl didn't hear the announcer give the call to draw. Instead, a familiar shrill voice rang out, almost drowning out the first round of gunfire.

"I'm eighty-two years old, you can't expect me to sit out in the open, I need the damn shade!"

At the other end of the bleachers from where Meryl and Milly sat, two old ladies stood just under the few iches of shade that extended into the street. They seemed to be wilting under the suns' onslaught, one of them rapidly fanning herself with a slightly battered lace fan. The other was harassing one of the men sitting in the front row.

"Move it, buster," she said, trying to muscle in between him and another man to make room for herself to sit on the bench. "Esther, get in here and help me!"

"Look, lady, I was here first!" said the man, though he seemed to be having some difficulty fighting the old woman off.

"Miss Enid, Miss Esther!" said Milly, waving to get their attention. She stood, calling, "You can have our seats!"

"What?" Meryl glanced up, startled.

"Come along, Ma'am," said Milly, pulling her up by the elbow. "We need to find Mr. Vash and Mr. Priest anyway, right?"

"What?"

She followed Milly down the steps (grumbling at this reversal), but when Meryl reached the bottom, two teenage boys pushed past her and raced for the seats she and Milly had just vacated.

"Like hell!" snarled Enid. She had reached their end of the bleachers and now she grabbed a bottle out of the hands of someone in the second row as she mounted the steps. She chucked it at the back of one teen's head and it struck dead-on with a crack! He went down over the side of the bleachers and the other boy scrambled away in a panic. "You're next!" Enid shouted, but when she reached for a second bottle Esther grabbed her wrist.

"Enid, no," she said, firmly, though she did glare up at the other teen. At this point everyone else in the stands was glaring at him, too, and he seemed to decide it was probably best to just jump down after his friend.

Meryl and Milly left the old ladies to get settled ("Yeah, those punks better run!" "Enid, shush."), and Milly insisted they stop to check on the boy who'd taken a bottle to the head. He had a bloody nose from the fall off the bleachers and a goose egg at the back of his skull, but when he showed signs of concussion Milly demanded they take him somewhere he could sit down properly and rest.

The announcer was calling more contestants to the range and Meryl was getting anxious to find Vash, trying to hurry Milly along so they could get back as quickly as possible.

Eventually Milly decided she was comfortable leaving the boy and his friend sitting in the shade outside the café they had visited that morning with Marianne. When the owner, Jenni, came out to meet them, she didn't seem too surprised to hear that the two boys were causing trouble. She promised to keep an eye on them and Milly smiled her thanks, finally allowing Meryl to drag her back to the contest.

Meryl didn't know how many rounds of shooting had passed during their absence, but she was relieved to finally spot a familiar figure leaving the range.

"There's Mr. Priest!" said Milly, noticing too. She looked briefly disappointed, adding, "It looks like we just missed him shooting. I wonder if he was any good?"

Meryl decided not to offer any guesses, despite having seen Wolfwood's expert handling of the pistol that morning; she and Milly would just have to find out together.

They caught up to Wolfwood just as he stepped into the shade of a large marquee set up directly behind the range. Meryl tried to follow him, but a Polo goon appeared and blocked her way.

"This is only for contestants, miss."

Wolfwood looked back at this and grinned when he caught sight of Meryl.

"It's okay," he said, waving the goon aside. He hooked a thumb at Vash, who was already sitting a few yarz away. Vash noticed the gesture and waved at the group. Wolfwood went on, saying, "She's his..."

Now he hesitated, and Meryl raised her eyebrows.

His what, exactly?

"...sharpshooting coach," Wolfwood said, finally.

The goon looked dubious. "And her?" he asked, pointing at Milly.

Wolfwood's grin grew broader. "She's mine."

The man begrudgingly allowed them to enter the marquee, directing them to sit in the back row. Meryl dutifully made her way along the back of the seating area, but as soon as the goon turned away she climbed over two rows of seats and sat directly behind Vash.

Milly sat beside her, immediately leaning forward to poke Vash hard in the shoulder, hissing, "Mr. Vash, what were you thinking? Entering Mr. Priest in a shooting contest?" Vash looked back at her, bewildered.

"Don't worry about me, honey," Wolfwood assured her, taking the seat next to Vash. "I'll be alright."

Milly was still so focused on her annoyance with Vash that she didn't seem to notice the "honey" comment, or at the very least she didn't go pink.

"...contestant number 27, Vash the Stampede, please take your mark!"

Meryl winced as the announcer read Vash's whole name. She could hear people commenting in the crowd: Hey, did he say Vash the Stampede? The outlaw? He wouldn't come here, the money's not good enough. Which guy is it, that big one with the beard? I heard he's got a glass eye. I heard he files his teeth into fangs! Bullshit, that ain't real.

Vash stood and made his way out to the range, following the two other men who had been called before him. They took their marks, waited for the call to fire, and Vash's line of glass bottles seemed to shatter simultaneously, before the man at his left had even hit his first target.

After the last of the shots sounded, Meryl could hear the neighborhood kids Vash played with cheering in amazement at this unexpected talent, and others in the crowd hooted at the contestant who hadn't hit even one target. He and Vash both slunk away to the marquee as the third man stayed to enjoy the cheering at his perfect score, five out of five targets.

The man who had hit nothing was turned away at the front of the marquee, apparently eliminated from the contest by this failure, and Vash returned to his seat with a grin at Milly's delighted congratulations.

Meryl leaned forward when he sat down, squeezing his shoulder as she spoke quietly in his ear: "Tone it down a little; we're trying to keep a low profile, remember?" Vash nodded without turning, reaching up to put his hand over hers.

Meryl pulled away before he could touch her and his fingers halted for a moment in mid-air. Then that hand closed into a fist and fell into his lap. He abruptly hunched over, bent sharply at the waist.

"My head is killing me," he groaned. "Why did you let me drink so much?"

"Me?" demanded Meryl. "I was the one trying to stop you all!"

Vash's strained voice came from somewhere between his knees now, shushing her: "Please, be a little quieter."

She raised her voice, leaning closer. "What was that?"

Vash gave a miserable little whimper and Wolfwood barked a laugh, slapping him on the back.

"Let's get you some hair of the dog, son." He drew a flask, but Meryl pushed his hand away.

"No," she said, scowling. "He needs water. Coffee would be better, assuming I can find any left in this stupid town, and some kind of protein after all those donuts."

"There were all those food carts along the street," Milly reminded her. "I think I saw a few selling kebabs."

"Perfect," said Meryl. "You keep an eye on these two morons, I'll get Vash some food."

"Some for me, too, please!" called Milly, as Meryl stood and began to shuffle past her and down along their row. "Thanks Ma'am!"

As Meryl had feared, there were no coffee vendors on the main street; her choices were limited to water and a surprisingly wide variety of alcoholic beverages. She chose water, obviously, in the biggest paper cup they would sell her.

When she went looking for food, Meryl's stomach grumbled unexpectedly and she realized she hadn't had anything to eat yet. Milly had snacked on all those finger sandwiches at the café, but Meryl had been too busy grilling Marianne for information to snag any for herself.

Now she was spoiled for choice: a large selection of grilled meats, tofu, vegetables, fried dough in a dozen styles. Even the cotton candy called to her now, though probably sugar on an empty stomach wasn't the best idea.

Meryl considered the offerings at a kebab cart and wondered what Vash might like best. She had an absurd moment of guilt at not knowing his preferences (he knew her spice tolerance, after all), but eventually she decided on chicken.

Remembering Milly's request, Meryl ended up buying a skewer for each of them, which meant she had to manage four in one hand as she carefully held the large paper cup in the other.

Meryl heard a few last shots and accompanying cheers from the crowd as she returned to the contest. At the chalkboard, the announcer had erased the initial list of names and was reorganizing for the next round of the competition.

The shooting stations and temporary range had been cleared away by the time she reached the area, which seemed odd, but it dropped immediately from Meryl's attention when she returned to the marquee to find Milly hurriedly sorting through her medical bag as Vash held his right hand pressed over his ear. He winced and Meryl noticed a tiny trickle of blood down the side of his neck.

"What the hell is this?" demanded Meryl. She shoved the water and kebabs into Wolfwood's hands, ignoring his protests, and just climbed over him to take the most direct route to Vash. "I was gone for five minutes!"

"Well, it turns out the second round of the contest is actually a duel, against a live opponent," said Vash. "Ow," he added, as Milly finally pulled his hand away and dabbed antiseptic on the bloody shell of his ear.

A dozen angry retorts sped through Meryl's mind, including, You Idiot! and I told you this would happen! and What's your next stupid plan?

But what came out of her mouth was, "And he beat you?"

"What? No!" said Vash, incensed.

"The guy had a wig and mask on, he was facing backward the whole time," Wolfwood explained, gesturing with hands full of skewers. "He drew before they even finished the ten paces." He grinned, adding, "Then Big Girl rushed the field and tackled him before he could get another shot off."

"Milly!" gasped Meryl, appalled. And Milly called her reckless?

"He was cheating!" said Milly, stubbornly. "And he could have shot Mr. Vash again!"

"It's okay," said Vash, shrugging. "It just clipped me! And Big Girl's got me all taken care of, right?" he asked Milly, grinning up at her as she fixed a neon pink band-aid over the small injury.

Milly smiled back and opened her mouth, most likely to reply in the affirmative, but she caught sight of the look on Meryl's face and hurriedly turned away to put her medical bag back in order.

"Vash," Meryl began, through gritted teeth. The announcer was already calling him to the field again, but Meryl stood there toe-to-toe where he sat, looming over him. He couldn't stand up without knocking her over.

The announcer appeared at the marquee before she could finish her—threat? plea? request?—and he addressed Vash directly:

"Contestant number 27, are you fit to continue?"

"Yes," said Vash.

"No," said Meryl.

The announcer glanced between them, puzzled, but Vash nodded and waved him away. Vash slid his chair back into the next row so he could stand without interference. "I'll be right there."

"No you won't!"

Vash was moving along the row behind now and Meryl struggled to follow (she had to clamber over Wolfwood's lap again, for starters). She managed to catch up with him at the front of the marquee, grabbing his elbow and swinging around to stand between him and the exit.

"Vash, stop," said Meryl. "This isn't what we signed up for! Bottles and cans, remember? Not live fire! You've already been shot, for chrissakes—"

"Well, yeah, because he was cheating," Vash pointed out. "I didn't have the chance—"

"To what?" Meryl demanded, voice rising in a mix of anxiety and frustration. "Were you going to shoot him first? No! And it's not like you're going to shoot the next guy either, so what's the point in walking out there just to put a target on your chest, as well as the one on your back?"

Meryl knew she was drawing attention to them both, now, but she didn't care. She managed to bring her voice down, to something only Vash could hear:

"Please, Vash." It came out strained, and more desperate than she wanted. "Don't do this."

His expression had changed throughout her tirade, from the Idiot's amusement to something more of the man-in-red's alert attention, and now it was just Vash looking down at her, gaze clear and calm and so very careful...

He reached out toward her for a moment, but his fingers twitched away and closed on empty air as his hand fell back to his side. A brief flash of that longing Meryl had seen in his eyes in the past came now with a palpable sense of disappointment that punched the breath from her lungs and made her guts twist up in anguish.

When he finally gave her a soft smile and murmured, "I'll be careful," with that same quiet promise from the night before, her heart ached and any further argument fell to pieces before it could reach her lips. Vash slipped past her and out of the marquee.

Meryl waited until she could get her unsettled insides back under control before returning to sit with Milly and Wolfwood, the latter of whom had evidently claimed her vacated seat while she'd been gone. Milly didn't seem to mind (pink though she was), so Meryl sat in Wolfwood's previous seat, gripping the sides of the flimsy folding chair so tightly her knuckles went white.

All she could do now was sit and wait, though she knew it wouldn't take long. A quick draw match generally lasted all of 30 seconds, from two men walking onto the field to one man being carried off.

Vash's match lasted almost six minutes.

At the ten pace mark, his opponent spun on his heel, drawing with impressive speed, except there was no one there for him to fire on; Vash had thrown himself to the ground and was scuttling away on all fours. Startled, the other man started firing at him anyway—you had to shoot the other guy to win, right?—and began chasing Vash as he got farther and farther out of range.

When the man's gun ran empty, Vash sprang to his feet and started sprinting toward him. He yelped, fumbling in his trouser pockets until he retrieved a speed-loader and shoved it into place, hurriedly closing the cylinder and taking aim at Vash again.

Vash let out an ear-piercing shriek and scuttled away, feinting and weaving across the field until the other man ran out of ammunition, again. This time when Vash sprinted back toward him, he screamed and ran, until Vash snagged him in a choke hold and waited for him to pass out.

Medics removed the unconscious man on a stretcher while Vash returned, triumphant, to the marquee—though it was to shouts of laughter rather than any cheers in his favor, but he didn't seem to mind. Technically, he hadn't even violated any rules. There was nothing that said you couldn't just... not shoot anyone.

Vash plopped down into the seat next to Meryl now, winded and grinning.

"See? It's fine!" he told her. "Nobody even got hurt!"

Meryl glared at him and reached up to press her thumb firmly into the bruise already purpling at the center of his forehead.

"Ow," said Vash, recoiling."Okay, I admit, I didn't expect him to just throw the gun at me in the end." He reached up to gingerly inspect the injury himself, adding, "He's a lousy shot, but he's got a pretty good arm..."

A few minutes later Wolfwood was called to the field for his first match, which ended up being against Wilbur "Big Daddy Bigelow Bullet" Cochran. Milly caught Wolfwood's arm as he stood.

"Mr. Priest, please be careful," she said, anxiously.

"It's okay, honey, he's not going to get hurt," Wolfwood assured her, smiling.

"Of course he's not," said Milly, exasperated. "He's way better than you!"

Meryl clapped a hand over her mouth before she could laugh out loud, but a huge snort still escaped through her nose, echoed by Vash's own muffled laugh through the fist he'd stuffed in his mouth.

"Maybe you should drop out," Milly suggested, worriedly. Wolfwood patted her hand.

"Give me the benefit of the doubt, eh, honey?" he asked. "If anything happens, I'm sure you can patch me up."

Eventually Milly released him, reluctantly. She sat rigid in her seat and grabbed Meryl's hand, holding tightly. Meryl gave a comforting squeeze back (only wincing a little at Milly's death grip).

They waited in silence as the announcer called out the paces, and when he reached "Ten!" Milly squeezed her hand so hard Meryl thought she could feel bones bending under the pressure.

Both men spun and drew at the same time, but Wolfwood shot from the hip while Cochran was still bringing his revolver up to bear. The old man yelped and hopped back as the gun leapt out of his hand and hit the ground at his feet.

For a moment Cochran just stared down at his empty hand. Then he barked a laugh, actually slapping his knee as he bent over, still laughing.

"Damn, son!" he shouted. "That's one hell of a trick!"

Cochran retrieved his revolver and walked toward Wolfwood, hand outstretched. Wolfwood met him, bemused, and Cochran shook his hand heartily before slinging an arm around his neck (Wolfwood bent dutifully so the shorter man could manage it), leading him off the field, saying, "Let me get you a drink, son, you can tell me where you learned how to do that."

Meryl glanced back at Milly, who just sat there looking shell-shocked.

Wolfwood did not return to the marquee before the announcer called him for his next match, and he barely made it to the field before being disqualified as a no-show. He won his duel by way of a graze on the other man's shoulder, and when he finally made his way back to his seat next to Milly, she was staring at him in disbelief.

"Mr. Priest, I can't believe you actually shot that man!" she said, appalled.

"Well, I'm not exactly at my best at the moment," said Wolfwood, apologetically. "If I'd tried that disarming trick again, that guy might have lost a finger. What's a little flesh wound between friends?"

Meryl caught a whiff of his breath as he sighed, and she wrinkled her nose at him. "You reek of whiskey. Where have you been?"

"Doing shots," Wolfwood replied, slumping further in his chair. "I lost track of how many. Ye gods, that old man can drink."

"If you're not at your best," said Milly, frostily, "maybe you should drop out." The suggestion was more forceful this time, accompanied by a stern look. Wolfwood just waved off her concern.

"I'll be okay honey," he said. "So will everyone else, I promise."

"Contestant number 13, Arthur Brodie; contestant number 27, Vash the Stampede: please come to the field."

Vash stood and Meryl gave a start.

"Wait, where are you going?"

He looked puzzled for a moment, hitching a thumb toward the field like it was an obvious question.

"You can't seriously still be competing!" squeaked Meryl. She was not ready to have that conversation all over again, but Vash was already giving her that look, and when he murmured that same, "I'll be careful," she was frozen, helpless, and breathless, watching him make his way to the front of the marquee.

Vash turned to give her a smile and a little wave as he exited, and Meryl finally managed to call out a desperate, "It's not like that little stunt of yours is going to work again!"

But it did. Twice. She didn't understand why people just kept trying.

On the other hand, Meryl hadn't expected Wolfwood to get so far through the competition, either. He was a preacher. What business did he have, being so good with a gun?

With each match he won, he was a little closer to facing Vash, and Meryl didn't like it. It wasn't like he would fall for Vash's antics, and it wasn't like Vash was going to actually shoot anybody for such a stupid, pointless reason as this stupid, pointless contest.

Eventually, the announcer called, "The final round will be between contestant number 27, Vash the Stampede, and contestant number 28, Nicholas D. Wolfwood!"

This time it was Meryl and Milly shouting a frustrated, "No!"

"Mr. Priest, you can't—"

"Vash, that's enough—"

"Calm down, girls," interrupted Wolfwood, grinning as he stood up and headed for the exit. "I'm going to go withdraw now, Broom-head'll win by default."

"What?" said Milly.

"What was the point of all this?" demanded Meryl.

Vash just grinned at them too, taking a bite of chicken kebab. Meryl had forgotten about them in the initial fuss after her return and now she wondered where they'd been all this time. She hoped they hadn't been just sitting on the ground, though from the way Vash seemed to be crunching uncomfortably she guessed there might have been some sand in that bite.

"Contestant number 27, Vash the Stampede; please come to the field now or be disqualified."

Meryl, Milly, and Vash all looked toward the front of the marquee at this, frowning. Vash began to rise but Meryl put a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back down into his seat.

"Stay here," she ordered, hurrying past him and out of the marquee. She didn't see Wolfwood anywhere, so she headed for the announcer to see what was going on. Or to just withdraw Vash or Wolfwood herself, she realized. A much more simple solution.

Meryl spotted Wolfwood at the stage before she got there, frowning as he turned away from harried conversation with the announcer. She met him a few yarz past the chalkboard, putting a hand up to stop him.

"What the hell are you doing?" Meryl hissed. "I thought you were going to drop out!" Wolfwood gave her an annoyed look for a moment, then smirked down at her.

"Why would I back out now?" he asked, loudly enough for the whole street to hear. "I'm one bullet away from $$60 billion!"