You had nothing else to tell her that you reckoned she wouldn’t ignore; you ruled it was better to keep moving ahead. Perhaps, though unlikely, her hopes would ring true, and she would find her brother an unchanged man. Else, the devil would get his dues. You glanced at her with brief pity and then moved ahead, your soles drifting through the sand and leaving your imprint on the Graveyard Frontier. With a seething expression, Goldie looked as you ignored the watch hand guiding towards Henry and instead trudged to where you deemed right to go. You were not going to be led by a child, neither were you going to walk to your death … even though Bill said the El Dorado Warren was not a nice place either.

Another couple of hours passed in trudging silence, the soreness of prick marks boohooing in mild annoyance. The bullet wound crackled in your luminous flesh as if it was a sunken knife that chipped and then shattered into dozen shards while still inside your shoulder. You grasped your joint but it did little to veil the pain. The only thing keeping your attention from the wound was your thirst: what meagre drops of cactus juice you had in your body were becoming a memory. If Prickly Nicety’s nectar was a drink of choice in the Graveyard Frontier, then you hoped you would chance upon it again, even if it was going to dress in the flesh clothing of someone you knew. It wouldn’t be another Mercedes. Would it? You knew other people the welcoming and kind presence who could try and challenge your reason besides her, true?

As you recollected their names and visages of them, you heard the sound of creaking metal and then, once you focused your gaze, a dazzling spectral monument in the shape of a windmill—no, a windpump. Standing there was a tower of abandoned opaque lumber that was curved and shifting like mist, similar to the ranch you saw not so long ago. Its eerie glow shifted from pale blue to intense green and cast a dim light which battled but soon faded into the fog. The many unmoving blades flashed under the moonlight, scintillating rust gnawing on the outlines. The rotor ground and groaned, but barely moved an inch. You neared underneath the phantom construction towards the empty pipe, as dry as your throat. You swallowed and scratched your head, was this some sort of joke on the behalf of the underworld?