chapter 1 Albert Stark was a coward. Not a quivering, jittery, Âweak-Âkneed sort of a coward, but the kind who viewed his cowardice as an act of sensibility: a coward in the name of pragmatism. To Albert, his cowardice functioned as a shield that existed to service the very sensible goal of Âself-Âpreservation. In the West, brave men got killed. Cowards stayed alive. Death was everywhere on the frontier. "Everything Âthat''s not you wants you dead," Albert would often say. "Outlaws, Indians, angry gamblers, disgruntled prostitutes, wild animals, the weather, Âdisease--Âhell, even a trip to the dentist means taking your fucking life in your hands.
" One needed only to glance at the front page of any local newspaper to see the truth in such a point of view: INFANT TRAMPLED BY SICKLY MARE HUNDREDS PERISH IN LATE SPRING DAMP SCHOOLMARM FELLED BY TUMBLEWEED ABRASION MASS HANGING GOES WELL MUD DEATHS REACH Â30-ÂYEAR HIGH DUTCH FAMILY CRUSHED BY FALLING CHINAMEN WOMAN FOUND GUILTY OF ADULTERY; TONGUE, BREASTS REMOVED 50-ÂACRE BUFFALO HERD DESTROYS TOWN WATER TOWER CONTAMINATED BY BATHING NEGRESS BLACK BEARS FEAST ON KINDERGARTEN CLASS HAIL STORM DRIVES SNAKES INTO LOCAL ÂCHURCH--ÂNO SURVIVORS Yes, it seemed to Albert that fear was a very useful thing for a man living in the southern Arizona territory. So on this blistering hot day he was quite content to once again allow cowardice to insulate him from an early demise. He stood at the center of the thoroughfare, gun belt at the Âready--Âor so it appeared. The townsfolk of Old Stump lined the street, eager as ever to witness that most electrifying of all frontier spectacles: the showdown. But at the moment, Albert stood alone. His opponent was nowhere to be seen, and high noon had officially come and gone. No one spoke, save for the occasional fluttering murmurs of slightly confused anticipation from the onlookers. Dirt farmers watched patiently.
Women fanned themselves, desperately attempting to force a few little bursts of air between their numerous layers of clothing. ÂWell-Âto-Âdo gentlemen checked their pocket watches and smoked the sort of fine cigars one can only truly enjoy outdoors in 112-Âdegree weather. Children fidgeted and played idly with their favorite toys, such as apple cores, bits of string, and deceased mice. Dogs lay panting on the ground, no doubt wondering how the fuck any human being could live a Ânon-Âsuicidal existence in such an awful, depressing place. Albert tried to avoid eye contact with the surrounding spectators, aside from the occasional shared glance with a strikingly beautiful blond-Âhaired woman who stood on the steps in front of the general store. She offered him a wan smile, perhaps meant to be reassuring but with a seemingly dubious degree of conviction. And then, at last, they heard the sound of approaching hoofbeats. Very faint and distant at first, then more distinct, until finally a man rode into view at the opposite end of the thoroughfare.
He slowed his horse with a sharp yank on the reins that appeared to startle the animal, though it came to an obedient halt. The man dismounted and moved with a decided lack of urgency into position at the end of the street. Albert stiffened and regarded his opponent. Charlie Blanche and Albert Stark could not have been more contrasting in their deportment: Blanche was a grizzled, Âweathered-Âlooking mass of aggression, who looked as though he Âhadn''t smiled since the days of Lewis and Clark. He glared at Albert with an expression that seemed to say, I want to shoot you in the dick with a bullet made of cancer. Albert cleared his throat. "So . .
 . I guess high noon to you means 12:15?" Charlie stared blankly for a beat. "What?" "Well," said Albert, genuinely annoyed in spite of his fear, "I mean, you said high noon, and I was here, and . . . I''ve sort of just been waiting." Blanche narrowed his eyes darkly. "I''m here now.
" "Yeah, I know, but it''s Âjust--Âit''s like sort of inconsiderate, because it''s like you''re saying that your time is more valuable than everyone Âelse''s, and . . . well, I know everybody here has like a full day, and they all took time off to be here, Âand--ÂI mean, right, everyone?" No one answered. Albert looked around furtively in search of a supportive face but found none. His gaze landed on a toothless old man who did not look like he had a full day at all. The man stared emptily, his tongue sliding along the perimeter of his solitary tooth, like a sentry dutifully patrolling the last remaining outpost of an Âall-Âbut-Âdefeated army. "Draw," said Charlie Blanche.
A wave of renewed alertness swept over the onlookers as they shared a collective inhalation. Now the show would begin! Albert took a deep breath of his own. "Um . . . no." A perplexed buzzing from the townsfolk. The pretty blond woman regarded Albert with a look of confused dismay.
"What do you mean, no?" Blanche narrowed his eyes further, nearly squinting them out of existence. Albert took another deep breath. "I . . . I don''t wanna do this. You''re a way better shot than me, and so before this gets outta hand and we both get all crazy and dead here, I . .
 . I don''t wanna have a Âshoot-Âout." "You yellow, Stark?" The corner of Blanche''s mouth twisted into a perversion of a half Âsmile--Âno doubt the warmest expression his Âlong-Ârotted disposition would accommodate. "Well, look, yellow is kind of Âa"--ÂAlbert paused Âuneasily--Â"I mean, Âthat''s kind of racist to our hardworking friends from the Far East, right, guys?" He turned to a small cluster of Chinese railroad workers watching from off to the side. Surely now he''d get a small boost of support. The shortest Chinaman gave him the finger. "OÂ-okay," Albert stuttered. "Welcome.
" Blanche barked out a gravelly laugh. "Even the damn Chinese know you''re yellow!" Albert turned back to face his adversary. "Look, ÂI--ÂI just wanna resolve things more reasonably, okay? I mean, we''re both intelligent adults, right? So . . . I''m just gonna pay you for the damages." Blanche''s expression did not change. "Suits me fine.
ÂThat''s fifty dollars." "Right, okay," said Albert, fidgeting slightly. "Now, Âhere''s the thing . . . I don''t have fifty dollars in cash--" Charlie''s hand moved Âtoward the butt of his gun. "--but . .
 . I will give you Âtwenty-Âfive sheep." Charlie''s index finger was almost touching the trigger. "I don''t want sheep, Stark." Heat sweat was suddenly interfused with panic sweat as Albert realized he was in trouble. "Well, Âthis--Âthis is a lotta sheep. This is like Âtwenty-Âfive sheep. Like a whole .
 . . gaggle. A pack? Is it a pack?" He laughed anxiously as his floundering brain let loose a diarrhetic stream of nonsense. "Oh, my God, can you believe this?! I''m a sheep farmer, and I''m totally blanking on the Âplural--Âis it a school of sheep? I don''t know! Ha! Hey, you know what a group of ferrets is called? A business. A business of ferrets. ÂEnÂglish is fun, ''cause there''s all kinds of secret Âtreasures--Â" The crack of a bullet split the air as Charlie Blanche fired a shot at Albert''s feet. Albert jumped back with a distinctly feminine shriek.
"Your goddamn sheep grazed up half my ranch, Stark! That grass ain''t never gonna grow back." There was a Âdeep-Ârooted hatred for sheepmen among the cattle ranchers of the West, largely because the sheep themselves grazed in such a Âdeep-Ârooted fashion. They would devour the grass so close to the ground that, if left unchecked, they could effectively strip a pasture bare to the point that the grass had to be resown. No cow can graze where a sheep has been, the cattlemen would declare. As a result, range wars often broke out between cattle and sheep farmers, with terribly bloody consequences. It also Âdidn''t help that sheepmen were generally considered huge pussies. Albert swallowed what little saliva he had left as Charlie raised his gun and took aim. "Okay, okay!" Albert threw up his hands in a gesture of surrender.
"I''ll sell off the sheep myself, all right? I''ll get you the money! ÂO-Âokay? You''ll have it tomorrow." There was a terrifying moment during which Albert was certain that, even though he had truckled to his opponent''s demands, Blanche would pull the trigger. But, instead, the other man slowly lowered the pistol. "If I don''t have that cash, I''m comin'' after you. And I''ll shoot you three times: forehead, nose, and chin, so your head splits clean in half like a fairground watermelon." "Oh, and I would deserve it," Albert blurted obsequiously. "In that scenario? Oh, my God, what a jerk I would be. But ÂI--Âthat''s not the kind of guy I am, so ÂI--ÂI''ll get you your money.
" Charlie Blanche carefully holstered his weapon. Albert let loose a quivering exhale as Blanche moved back Âtoward his horse. I''m so glad I Âdidn''t pee, thought Albert, feeling an aftershock of panic over how truly close he''d come to death. He turned and walked back up the street, his legs feeling like they were made of Âjam--Â CRACK!! The townsfolk gasped. Albert collapsed to the ground as an unimaginably cutting pain blasted through his ankle. "FUCK!" he screame.