"We're coming with you," Durge said.

The knight had strapped his sword to his back, although it was still wrapped in a blanket. In Tanner's hands was a sawed-off shotgun, and while Lirith carried nothing, by the set of her jaw Travis knew she meant to come as well.

"I'm supposed to do this alone," Travis said.

Tanner shook his head. "In every duel, a man has to have his seconds."

Travis's heart ached, and he didn't know if it was from joy or dread. "But Durge, your gun is never loaded. And Sheriff, your hand-"

"-doesn't need to be steady to shoot this," Tanner said, hefting the shotgun. "I just need to be close."

Travis shook his head. "And Lirith-"

"Is coming." She laid a hand on his arm, and her expression softened. "I love him, Travis. I cannot stay here."

Despite the fear pooling in his stomach, Travis felt a sense of relief. No matter what happened, at least he wouldn't be alone.

Maudie was still in the parlor, and she refused to come out and see them.

"I won't say good-bye," she called through the door. "I won't say it because you're coming right back, do you understand me? You're coming right back!"

"Yes, ma'am," Tanner, Durge, and Travis all said.

Thankfully, Jack hadn't gotten the notion that he was going to the Bar L with the rest of them. "I intend to stay here, put my feet up, and drink tea," he said. "I find, after what happened in London, I've quite lost my appetite for adventure."

Travis swallowed hard. "What do you think the sorcerer will do, Jack?"

"I don't know, Travis." For the first time, worry crept into Jack's blue eyes. "But be ready for trickery. His kind are skilled at deception. Nothing will be as you think. And remember the runes. They're all inside of you-all you have to do is listen."

"I have to go now," Travis said.

"You will be careful, won't you? I find I rather like you, and I'm looking forward to our future friendship. I'd hate very much if that didn't come to pass as you said it will."

Despite the heat, a shiver coursed through Travis. There was something about Jack's words that struck him, something important. But what was it?

"Travis," Durge said. "Sundown comes."

Whatever it was, Travis couldn't quite grasp it. He headed out the door. They still had the wagon, and Durge drove the four of them in silence. They met no one on the road south of town.

The sun was still a handspan above the shoulder of Castle Peak when the gables of the opulent Victorian ranch house came into view, so Durge halted the wagon and they walked the rest of the way on foot. Travis was just as glad. It was hard to sit still. Energy buzzed through his nerves, making him twitch like a dead frog hooked to a battery.

They reached the gate to the ranch. It was open.

Tanner gazed around. "Be on the lookout."

"For what?" Durge rumbled.

"Everything."

Durge reached up and removed the bundle from his back. He unwrapped the blanket, and the ruddy light flickered up and down the length of his greatsword like blood.

Tanner's eyes went wide. "Sweet Jesus, Mr. Dirk. You weren't joking, were you?"

"Durge doesn't make jokes," Lirith said, and she gave the knight a fond smile.

Handling it as if it weighed nothing, Durge slipped the massive sword into the scabbard strapped to his back.

"Let's go," Travis said, and together they stepped through the gate.

Keep your guard up. This isn't going to be a fair fight. Locke will do anything to get the jump on you.

Where had that thought come from? Then Travis understood; the thought wasn't his, it was Tanner's. It was part of the sheriff's knowledge Lirith had granted him with her spell.

Don't forget your blind spot. And keep your hand close to your gun.

It already was.

The four followed the dusty road as the western sky caught fire. The only sound was the hiss of the wind through sunburnt grass. Halfway to the ranch house, the road widened. On the right was a corral bounded by a split-rail fence, empty save for a scattering of troughs and barrels. On the left was a long row of stalls; the gates on all of the stalls were closed.

"It looks like they're going to make us run a gauntlet."

For a second, Travis thought he was hearing Tanner's thoughts again in his head; then he realized the sheriff had spoken the words aloud. Slowly, they passed several of the stalls, then came to a halt. A tumbleweed lurched by, but nothing else moved.

Lirith shut her eyes, and her fingers circled in a weaving motion. "We're being watched."

Travis moved closer to the witch. "How many, Lirith?"

"I don't know. I..." She opened her eyes. "Something's wrong. The threads of the Weirding keep pulling away every time I try to weave them. It's as if there's something they're recoiling from."

"The sorcerer?"

"I don't think so. For all his power, the Scirathi is a living man like any other. He would show up clearly to me. But this is different. It's as if it's both alive and-"

Twenty yards away, the gate of the last stall swung open, and Calvin Murray stepped out. Or what remained of Calvin Murray, for even from a distance Travis could see the dark blotches of decay. Black spittle drooled from the lupine jaws that had been grafted onto Murray's face; the cougar's paw dangled loosely at the end of his arm. With lurching motions, Murray used his human arm to reach into the stall behind him and pull something out.

Lirith held out a trembling hand. "Sareth!"

The Mournish man was gagged, his hands bound behind his back; a crusted scab marred his forehead. They had taken his peg leg away from him, so he was forced to hop on one foot. His eyes went wide as they locked on Lirith.

The witch started to rush forward, but Durge grabbed her arm. "You'll be killed if you try to go near him."

"You're right on that account, Mr. Dirk," drawled a voice behind them. "And I'd hate to see a pretty woman get killed, no matter the color of her skin."

They must have come from one of the first stalls, Travis thought as he and the others turned around. Lionel Gentry ambled toward them. Flanking him were Eugene Ellis and Deputy Wilson. Guns glinted at their hips. A scent rose on the air: sweet, cloying.

Travis tried to pretend he felt more anger than fear. "I didn't come here to fight you."

Ellis took a drag on a thin cigar; the smoke poured back out of his mouth. "You don't have to fight anybody, Mr. Caine. You look quite well for a man who's supposed to be dead. I'm sure you don't want to do anything to alter that. All you have to do is give us what we want."

Travis had to force his left hand to stay away from his pocket; he could feel the steady warmth of the scarab against his leg.

Durge cast a stern look at Wilson. "Deputy, why have you cast your lot with these evil men?"

The young man only stared, his pudgy face pallid. Gentry laughed and tousled his hair. "Go ahead and tell them, Mr. Wilson. You wanted to lead a life of adventure, didn't you? Just like you read about in those dime novels. Well, here you are. Ain't it grand?"

"Where is Locke?" Travis said loudly. "Is he too much of a coward to defend his honor? Or doesn't he have any?"

"Honor is overrated, Mr. Caine," answered a voice from behind. "As I'm sure you'll agree."

Travis turned. Aaron Locke stood a few paces in front of Sareth and Calvin Murray. He was clad in a stylish brown suit topped off by a smart hat. His boyish face was freshly shaved. He looked ready for a night at the opera house. The only thing dispelling the image was the six-shooter belted at his side.

"However," Locke said, "I will not be called a coward. You may be a cold-blooded man-killer, but I've seen things that would make even your blood curdle."

I bet you have, Travis thought, gazing past Locke toward Murray, who still held on to Sareth. The Mournish man's eyes were hazed with pain. Instinct that was not Travis's own stirred inside him. He knew, just like Tanner would have, that he had to buy more time so he could take proper measure of the situation.

"Where's your servant, Mortimer Hale?" Travis called out, taking several steps toward Locke.

Locke matched them, striding closer. "Hale? He truly was a coward, Mr. Caine. He liked to write about violence, but he didn't have the guts to perform it himself. He grew uncomfortable with some of the things my new...associate was doing. As did some of my other men."

"So you killed them," Travis said, moving closer.

Locke matched him stride for stride. "No, I didn't. Mr. Gentry, Mr. Ellis, and Mr. Wilson did the deed. That's how I knew they weren't cowards themselves. And for that they've been rewarded." He smiled, a charming expression. "Oh yes, and good Mr. Murray helped as well."

The creature behind him grunted, as if it recognized what had once been its name. It was a horrible, pitiful sound. The thing pressed its rotting muzzle against Sareth's cheek, licking him. A moan escaped the Mournish man.

Only a dozen paces separated Travis and Locke now. Travis adjusted his spectacles. It seemed a shadow clung to Locke, cloaking him. The sun had touched the shoulder of Castle Peak; the daylight was staring to fade, that was all.

Travis started to take another step, then halted as Locke's hand moved to his gun. So this was it, then. Travis was aware of Durge, Lirith, and Tanner behind him. He would have to hope they could keep Gentry and his men from interfering. As for Murray, the creature's orders seemed to be to keep hold of Sareth. That meant all Travis had to worry about was Locke.

Remember, Locke is fast. You probably can't beat him on the draw. You're going to have to hope his shot goes wide, and then make sure yours doesn't.

He didn't know if the thoughts were his own or Tanner's. It didn't matter; he knew they were right. He brushed his fingers against the grip of the Peacemaker at his hip and kept his eyes on Locke.

You can't do this, Travis.

Those were his own thoughts. But they weren't true. He could do this because Tanner could, and Travis had the sheriff's skill, his knowledge. Only it was more than that. Travis had stood before the gates of Imbrifale. He had faced a Necromancer. He had stared into the empty heart of a demon and had survived. What was facing one man to that?

Now he was getting cocky, and that was a sure way to die. He forced all thoughts from his mind. The only thing that mattered was the gun at his side.

"Are you ready, Mr. Caine?" Locke said, his voice calm, even pleasant. The shadow seemed to thicken about him. "I assure you, this time the rumors of your death will not be in error."

"I'm ready," Travis said. "But not to die."

Time shuddered to a halt. The last sliver of the sun hovered just above the ridge of the mountain, casting a bloody sheen over the world. A low peal of thunder rolled across the land, and Travis knew it was a single beat of his heart.

Then he saw it: a glint of red as Locke's hand reached for his six-shooter and drew it from its holster. Travis knew he had to start moving, then realized his gun was already in his hand, his arm was already rising.

It should have been hard, but it wasn't. In an easy motion, Travis thumbed back the hammer, aimed, and squeezed the trigger. New thunder rolled, far louder than before, and Travis felt heat and pressure as the bullet was released from the gun.

Locke was still cocking his own six-shooter. Somehow Travis had gotten his shot off first. His aim was true; the bullet flew straight toward Locke's chest.

With a sharp ping! it ricocheted away.

Time resumed its normal cadence. Travis heard an oath sworn behind him-Tanner?-as well as laughter. Locke's smile widened, and with an easy motion he took aim.

That's why you beat him on the draw, Travis. He was taking his time. He knew your bullet couldn't hit him.

That was impossible. This was 1883. There were no such things as Kevlar vests.

Only maybe there was something better than Kevlar. Travis squinted. Yes, he could see it more clearly now that the sun was gone. The shadow surrounded Locke like black gauze. But what was it really? Travis bent his head, peering over the rims of his spectacles. When he did, the shadow vanished.

A spell. The sorcerer had cast a spell on Locke, one that protected him from harm. Jack was right; he should have been expecting a trick.

"Travis!" a voice shouted. Lirith.

There was a roar of fury, followed by the bright ringing of metal, and Travis was certain that if he turned around he would see that Durge had drawn his sword. What else would he see? Sareth's eyes were wide, but whatever he was shouting was muffled by the gag.

"Get back!" came Tanner's stern voice.

Metal clanged against metal. Then came the sound of gunfire. Travis wanted to turn, to do something, anything, but he couldn't take his eyes off the six-shooter in Locke's hand.

"Good-bye, Mr. Caine," Locke said amiably. And fired.

It must have been some magic of the spectacles. Travis watched the bullet leap free of the cloud of smoke that erupted from the barrel of Locke's six-shooter. The bullet flew toward him, spinning on its axis as it ripped through the air. It was headed straight for his chest. No matter how long this second lasted, when it was done, so was Travis.

Speak a rune, Travis, said Jack's voice in his head.

But that was impossible. Jack wasn't here. He was safe at the Bluebell with Maudie.

Did you hear me? There's no time to waste. Dur should do the trick nicely, I think.

No, this was a gunfight. It was the fastest draw and the best shot that won, not magic.

By the Lost Eye of Olrig, you're not a gunfighter, Travis. You're a runelord! Now speak the rune of iron before it's too late.

It was impossible. There shouldn't have been time; he should already be dead. All the same, Travis opened his mouth and spoke the word.

"Dur."

Time sped up. Travis groped at his chest with his left hand, expecting to feel a bloody pit. He didn't; he was whole. The high-pitched zing! of the bullet still echoed on the air. It had gone wide and struck a fence post.

Travis heard another shot behind him, followed by a grunt of pain. "No, do not touch him!" a woman cried. Lirith. However, there was no time to turn around. Locke frowned at his gun, then stretched his arm out and fired again.

"Dur," Travis said again, flicking his hand to the left. The bullet whizzed by his head, then was gone.

Travis moved forward. Locke swore, cocked his six-shooter, fired. Again Travis spoke the rune of iron, again the bullet obeyed his command. He kept closing in on Locke, speaking the rune each time the other fired.

Finally, Travis was so close he could have reached out and put a finger in the barrel of Locke's six-shooter. Sweat beaded Locke's boyish face; his carefully shaved upper lip was trembling. He adjusted his grip on the gun, thumbed back the hammer, pulled the trigger.