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action kicks off.”
    A cheer surged from the crowd as one of the dogs attached its jaws to the neck of the other, tossing the wounded animal around the circle. The ringmaster pulled back the curtain and gestured inside. “You wanna talk a little out of people’s way?” he suggested.
    “Much obliged.” Doc followed the ringmaster through and found himself in a small dressing area in a corridor, a mirror propped up against a crate. Farther along the corridor were four cages, holding two pit bulls, a ridgeback and what looked like some kind of cross-breed Alsatian-cum-wolf.
    Doc had handed the ringmaster his swordstick and he waited patiently while the man examined the lion’s head atop it. “This is some fine workmanship,” the ringmaster admired. “Are you in the market to sell this?”
    Doc tried to look noncommittal. “A man has to eat, my friend.”
    The ringmaster smiled. “That he does. What do you want for it?”
    Doc pointed a thumb back to the curtain. “Mayhap nothing if my strategy pans out. Who knows when Lady Luck will smile?”
    The ringmaster reluctantly handed the cane back to Doc. “Lady Luck, she can be an unfaithful mistress. If you do find you want to sell it, I would be very interested.”
    “That’s mighty kind,” Doc said, nodding to himself as he strode back toward the arena. As he reached a hand up to part to curtain he stopped and, as though in after-thought, turned back to the ringmaster. “I guess I’ll know when you’re here by the beacon.”
    The ringmaster looked at him. “The beacon?” he asked, puffing at the cheroot.
    “You know,” Doc said, “the tower. I did not see it myself, got here early, but you light that when it is fight day, am I right?”
    The ringmaster laughed. “That ain’t nothin’ to do with me, man. Nothin’ to do with anyone, far as I can tell.”
    Doc scratched his head, further messing his already unruly white hair. “Then what’s it there for?”
    “You know, I don’t think anyone in this whole ville knows the answer to that. When it first appeared some of the good men of Fairburn tried pulling the thing down. Succeeded, actually. Then the outlanders come and shot six men—” he snapped his fingers “—like that. Chilled ’em, stone cold. Told us we were not to touch the towers again.”
    “Towers?” Doc asked, emphasizing the plural.
    “I hear they’re dotted all over,” the ringmaster told him. “Near the tracks. That’s how they travel, you see?
    By the tracks.”
    Doc was mystified, trying to recall if he had seen any tracks while the companions made their way to Fairburn. “I am surprised they can find them,” he said after a couple of seconds’ thought, not really sure what he was referring to but hoping it would entice the other man to tell him more.
    “Oh, they worked damn hard gettin’ those tracks in serviceable condition,” the ringmaster assured him.
    “’Round here wasn’t so bad. The tracks were just a little buried by the dust storms, I think. But some places they must’ve had to rebuild them pretty much from scratch.”
    Realization dawned on Doc then. “You mean, the railroad tracks.”
    “Too right I do.” The ringmaster spit. “Couldn’t travel around in that monstrosity otherwise, could they?”
    Doc shook his head in agreement before turning back to the curtain. “I shall get back to you about the sale,” he told the ringmaster, “if my bets do not pan out the way I would surely like them to.”
    “Good luck,” the ringmaster told him, and Doc was touched—it sounded like he meant it.
    Out in the main room, the crowd was whooping and cheering. Doc scanned them, looking for Ryan or J.B. among the sea of heads. He spotted Ryan almost immediately, the tall man towering over the crowd around him. He seemed to be talking with a pretty blond woman, but when Doc got closer he realized that his friend was trying to extract himself from the conversation.
    “Excuse me, madam,” Doc said loudly as