… and tumbled out the other side of the carriage. He felt the wind knocked out of him as his rib cage absorbed the impact. He pulled himself up, clutched his side in pain, and turned back toward the open door. The church was gone. All that remained was the inside of the carriage, which looked just like any other. Even the bright purple effervescence of the surface had become dulled. He reached an arm inside, searching, grasping for any trace of the vanished mirage, but found nothing. Instead of disappointment, however, he felt something else. Anger. Something had tantalized him with this gateway to the life he wanted and then deliberately denied him access. It was then that Albert realized, with a wave of release, how tired he was of being a perpetual punching bag for the endless blows the western frontier hurled at him.
He heard the unmistakable shriek of the condor. He looked up as the monstrous creature bore down on him from the sky once again, its eyes glowing an unearthly green, its white fangs glinting bestially in the sunlight. But this time, Albert did not run. Something tugged at his waist, and when he looked down he saw that he was wearing his gun belt. Without a moment’s pause, he drew the pistol and fired several rounds at his avian attacker. To his frustration, the bullets did not pierce the bird’s skin, instead bouncing off harmlessly. However, the bird did veer away from its trajectory and circled back up into the air. It swung around for another assault, and Albert fired at it again. His gut wrenched as he heard the click-click of an empty chamber. No more bullets.
The condor dove directly for him. He was about to run when he noticed a bulbous feathered convexity between the condor’s legs. A ball sack, he realized. Completely exposed and unprotected. Could it be that easy …? The bird came at him, shrieking with open jaws. As it overtook him, Albert kicked the ball sack as hard as he could with the toe of his boot. The condor let out an earsplitting, hellish scream that echoed all across the field as it spun away, head over tail, off into the sky, until it vanished to a pinprick of darkness against the sun.
Albert sat up with a violent start. The light was suddenly gone. He could feel a thick coat of perspiration descending the surface of his face. As he took in his surroundings, he realized he was still sitting around the campfire, with the Apaches watching him intently. The first pink ribbons of dawn were visible on the edge of the horizon. Albert felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. It was Cochise.
“Did you shoot the black condor and kick it in the balls?” asked the wizened old warrior.
Albert was startled. “Yes. How do you know that?”
Cochise’s eyes crinkled as he gave Albert a warm, knowing smile. “It means that true courage does indeed lie within you. If you can trust in its power, then you may yet find happiness.”
Several hours later, Albert stood facing the entire Apache tribe at the edge of their camp. He regarded Cochise with a look of gratitude. Albert had begun his odyssey as their prisoner, and now he was closing it out as the beneficiary of their wisdom and kindness.
“Thank you for everything, Chief Cochise. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”
Cochise gave him a look that was almost paternal. “There is an ancient proverb among my people: Sometimes the only way for a man to discover his true path is to take drugs in a group.”
Albert nodded. “Thank you for letting me take drugs with you. I know what I have to do now.”
He gave Cochise a long embrace, mounted Curtis, and waved goodbye. The Apaches watched as he galloped off toward his destiny.
The main thoroughfare of Old Stump was overcast and deserted as Clinch Leatherwood dragged his wife out into the center of the street, his pistol pressed against her side. Lewis, Ben, and the rest of the gang watched with amusement as their leader began his deadly theatrical display.
“All right, sweetheart,” he whispered into her ear, his foul breath assailing her nostrils, “now we’re gonna find out whether your little boyfriend gives a fuck about you.” Clinch took out the gold pocket watch for which he’d shot a man not three months before. “He’s got six minutes till noon. If he doesn’t show, he’s gonna be picking up pieces of you all over the street.” Clinch shouted at the empty horizon. “STARK!!”
There was no answer. Anna stood stone-faced, ever the picture of courage. She knew she was going to die today, but she also knew she’d be goddamned if she’d give her bastard of a husband the pleasure of seeing her break. In reality, the last thing she wanted was for Albert to make an appearance. There was no way he stood a chance against Clinch. She already felt the regretful sting of her own betrayal, and she did not want to be responsible, indirectly or not, for his death.
For a moment, they all struck a morbid tableau: a large and sinister man with a reptilian gaze standing rigidly in the center of the street, a loaded pistol against his wife’s ribs, his gang watching as if they were witnessing a carnival show rather than a prelude to murder, and dozens of goatish frontier faces with fearful eyes peering helplessly from windows, doorways, alleys, all too terrified to emerge. Even the sheriff watched from the safety of his office, displaying his usual ineffectiveness.
And then, from the distance, the sound of hooves. As they grew closer, Anna’s heart sank even deeper. No, Albert, no! Get out of here or he’ll kill you too!
Albert appeared astride his horse at the end of the thoroughfare. When he came to a halt, his clumsy, nerdish dismount only amplified her distress. Was he insane? He was a sheep farmer with one week of shooting practice under his belt, and he was going to go up against the deadliest outlaw in the West?
“Let her go, Clinch.” To his credit, Albert’s voice was steady.
Clinch gave Anna a loveless squeeze. “Well, now,” he said with an evil grin, “true love conquers all, doesn’t it, sweetheart?”
“Albert, don’t be stupid!” she shouted desperately. “Get the hell out of here!”
Clinch twisted her arm, hard. “Too late for that,” said the outlaw. “He’s already been real stupid, haven’t you, Stark? You’ve been with my wife.”
Albert seemed to carefully measure his response. “Well, I mean, we haven’t done it, if that makes a difference.”
Clinch shoved Anna roughly toward Lewis, who restrained her firmly—and with far too much pleasure—and leveled his gun at the space between Albert’s eyes. Albert stiffened, but held the other man’s gaze. “Y’know, I hear you’re a pretty tough guy, Clinch. Well, why don’t you prove it? You and me. Gunfight. Right here, right now.”
Clinch brightened visibly. He looked almost entertained, as if someone told him he was about to be treated to a puppet show. “You really do have a death wish, don’t you?” he said with a grisly little cackle.
“But—” Albert raised a hand. “But let’s make it interesting. One bullet apiece. One for you, one for me.”
For a moment, Clinch actually looked caught off guard. “What?”
“Yeah. Empty all your bullets but one. Unless you think you need more than one to kill me.”
Clinch hesitated. He certainly had no fear at all of this lowly, pathetic sheep farmer, but he also was clearly unable to calculate what Albert’s angle was. He eventually seemed to decide it made no difference. His dark smile returned as he emptied the chamber of his pistol save for one round.
Albert did the same.
“Okay. On the count of three, we shoot,” said Albert, a few beads of perspiration popping out on his forehead.