The man had grown a two-day beard, but that was the least of his problems.

Some two hundred feet above the sidewalk, he had curled up at the very tip of the crane's outstretched arm and threatened to jump. The police had backed off, but only to the other end of the boom. They weren't about to climb out to arrest him, but neither were they about to just give up and go home.

Of course, he couldn't go home, either.

Never mind the police - he was sure his beating had put Patsy in the hospital again, and she'd never forgive him this time.

He'd climbed the crane to get away; now the street was filled with the curious, and restaurants had even set out tables on the sidewalks. Aside from a spot marked off with police tape – the spot he'd hit if he were to let go – the road below looked remarkably like some sort of street fair.

Things just couldn't possibly get worse.

"Hi there."

The startled man cried out and scrambled to retain his grip. He curled tightly around the boom and looked up.

Standing in the air, casual as you please, was a powerfully-built black woman in a star- spangled leotard – Americana.

He blinked. He had heard of Americana, sure, but hearing about her and having her say hello to you two hundred feet above the sidewalk with nothing holding her up were two very different things.

And - what the heck was she doing in Kentucky?

Americana smiled. "Must be getting kind of cold up here, after two days and nights."

The man nodded dumbly. Maybe she was an angel, and he was already dead.

"You've made your point." Whatever it is. She extended her hand. "What do you say we go down where it's warm, all right?"

For a long while the man stared at her. Then his arms slackened, and he rolled off the boom and out into space.

The crowd below screamed, but Americana was already moving. She dove underneath him and grabbed him before he had fallen thirty feet.

Cheers erupted as she slowly sank toward the ground, the man lying limp in her arms.

"Hey. You all right?"

He gurgled something about seeing his departed mother again, at which point Americana handed him over to the ambulance crew.

"Thanks, Americana," a police sergeant said, clearly awestruck. "We'd have had to go out after him…"

Americana noticed that, unlike in Washington DC, the police and passersby were all maintaining a respectful distance. They had never seen anything like her before – and, the heroine noted, their excitement was somewhat balanced by an edge of fear.

"Oh, I'm sure you guys would have done fine. I was just passing through and decided to help out."

It was a little white lie. Actually, she had heard the man-on-the-crane story on the radio, but when she heard it again two days later, she had decided a trip to Lexington was in order.

Besides, there was a bookstore in Lexington she had been dying to visit.

"Americana! Gerry Rivers, WBBA Radio!"

The heroine smiled and gently pushed down the microphone the man had thrust into her nose. It was nice, she thought, to be bothered by only one reporter. "Yes, Gerry. How are you?"

"Um, I'm fine, thanks," the reporter said. "Americana, are you here to fight the Polecat?"

Americana blinked. "What?"

"The Polecat. You're here to take him down, right?"

The heroine blinked again. "Who's the Polecat?"

Americana stood in the center of the Bank of Lexington's lobby, the glass from the broken chandelier crunching under her boot. Wooden panels along the walls lay shattered, and the vault door hung at an odd angle on bent hinges.

"Oh… my… heavens," she said finally.

"He's a gunfighter," Rivers offered helpfully. "Shot up the place, brought down the chandelier."

"He sure went to town," Americana said, examining a piece of shattered crystal. "Certainly seems like overkill – all this damage to rob a bank?"

"It's his third one, ma'am," a policeman said quietly. "He hit outside of Memphis last week, and two weeks before that in Arkansas. Just got a little showier this time."

"'Showier'?"

"Yes, ma'am. If you notice, the teller cages are completely unharmed. Yet he's accurate enough to bring down the chandelier with one shot. He was showboating, ma'am."

Americana nodded. "Why… haven't I heard of this guy?"

She turned, but the policeman was on his walkie talkie. "Yes, she's here… yessir, I'll tell her."

She looked at him.

"You might just get a chance to meet him real personal. We just got word he's hitting a bank over in Huntington."

Americana soared down the highway toward Huntington, West Virginia.

Heavens – what she had planned as a nice little weekend trip was now turning into a multi-state chase. She couldn't very well tell the people she wasn't going after this guy, even though he was probably going to be gone long before she got there.

She hadn't anticipated all this flying, either – thank heaven she had taken a discount flight to Lexington. Still, flying used up her power quickest of all – she might have to stick around Huntington and recharge.

Great – spending a weekend in West Virginia, of all places. Not that she really had the money to be staying in a hotel; maybe the airline would let her change her ticket?

Sure, she smiled. That would work! Now all she had to do was find the bank, make an appearance and…

Or, maybe not.

The First Financial Bank was fairly easy to spot - or rather, the twenty patrol cars with lights ablaze surrounding the bank were fairly easy to spot. And from the looks of things, the police were in siege mode.

He was still inside.

Americana dropped down behind the van that was evidently being used as a command post.

"Hi. I see you have a situation here…"

"Holy - !"

"Americana?!"

Don't forget, Americana told herself, this isn't Washington. These people know only the costume.

"I'd like to help, if I can."

A graying officer in gray body armor extended a hand. "Dean Roper, ma'am. Huntington SWAT."

Americana took it. They had a SWAT team in Huntington?

"Perp's still inside. Helluva marksman. My men are good men, ma'am." His eyes narrowed. "Shot the guns right out of their hands."

He paused for a moment. "We storm the building he'll kill us for sure. I… don't like asking outsiders for help…"

"We're on the same team," Americana said softly. "You guys have done your job by holing him up. If I can take him out without anyone getting killed, well, it's just my job."

Roper nodded solemnly. "He's got hostages. He threatens them you back off, understand?"

"Crystal."

"All right." He clapped her on the shoulder. "Let's do it."

Americana flew across the bank's lawn – their bank had a lawn! – and up the stairs to the open, enormous front doors.

Wow, she thought as she boldly strode into the lobby. Three chandeliers, painted ceiling, gold and rich woods everywhere. They didn't make banks like this at home.

"Well, it's about time you showed up."

A man dressed in red shirt with a back bandana pulled up over his lower face, black jeans and boots, and a black Stetson leaned casually against the now-empty teller cages. His fingers brushed the handles of two Colt revolvers in his belt.

"I was startin' to wonder what a man's gotta do to get your attention in these parts," he drawled.

"Flowers usually work best," she replied drily. "But chocolates work too."

"Ooh, funny girl," drawled the gunman, who continued to lean casually. "By the way, name's Polecat."

"So I heard. I'm Americana. If you've heard of me you know that I'm bulletproof."

"Izzat so? Well, now, I've always wanted to find out which of us is better – me 'n' my irons, or you 'n' your fancy powers."

She took a step forward. "Look, if you just want to surrender now…"

"Reckon not."

Before Americana could move, his hands dipped and came up with his guns. He fired, hitting Americana squarely in the chest. And Americana was blown back twenty feet!

"Wha –what the heck? I… felt that!" Americana felt for a wound, but there was none – the bullets hadn't penetrated her costume or skin, but – they hurt!

Americana was up on her feet and charging, and the gunman fired four more times! Each bullet that hit her caused her to grit her teeth, but they weren't enough to stop her from closing the gap to the gunfighter. She reached out grabbed his guns, then crushed them in her hands.

Polecat's eyes widened as he watched his six-guns reduced to steel dust.

"Well," Americana said smugly. "I guess that answers that question, doesn't it?"

"Mebbe." Polecat stroked his chin. "Mebbe not."

His hands darted like lightning to his side, to come up with… a cigarette lighter.

"Oh, come on," Americana rolled her eyes. "I'm immune to fire, too."

"Cocky little minx, I'll give you that," the gunman said, "But there's a second reason I took the name Polecat!"

Boom boom boom boom! Another four rounds slammed into Americana's chest!

She flew back head over heels and landed with a thud on the bank president's desk.

"Oohh, wh-what -?"

The golden metal rope that delineated the waiting line now curved around Americana's ankles – and threw her to the other end of the room! She crashed into the vault door, and collapsed in a heap on the floor.

"Unnnh…"

"Pole, as in, magnetic pole," the gunfighter chuckled. "Those 'bullets' are pure magnetic force! My powers are a match for yours, it seems."

He gestured dramatically, and the vault door ripped off its hinges!

"Or, even, superior."

With that, the vault door smashed down on Americana's head. She lay, stunned, beneath the hulking metal door.

"Heh. That was simple."

Polecat gestured again, and the door moved downward, crushing Americana into the floor.

The gunman walked over to the wreckage and stood upon the door with satisfaction. He then motioned to the three people bound and gagged inside the bank vault. "Reckon you're rescued, folks. Heh."

Suddenly the door started moving!

"Oh, hell," Polecat exclaimed. "Time to ride off into the sunset!"

He gestured, and instantly a tornado of magnetic force whipped around him and carried him up toward the skylight. If any cop was up there, well it would be too damned bad.

"Yeeehah!" he cried as the skylight shattered out, away from his body, and the tornado carried him into the sky. "So long, Americana!"

"Ee-yurk!" Something grabbed his leg?

"Leaving… so soon, Polecat?"

Americana flung him as hard as she could across the city – and that was plenty hard. He crashed into a railroad yard, smashing through two boxcars.

"Ohh, damn," Americana breathed as she caught up. He had never shown whether or not he could take as well as he gave. Ohh, heavens, what if she killed him?

She suddenly became aware of movement – a fraction of a second too late. A lariat of lightning snapped around her upper torso, pinning her arms – and before she could react she was whipped off her feet!

She yelped as she was whirled through the air and into the side of a boxcar, which crumpled under the impact.

As Americana shook off the stars in her head, she caught a glimpse of the gunman. Polecat's costume was ragged, his bandana half-hanging off his face, his hat gone. The man grimaced as he extended his arms, and the metal of the car rolled in upon Americana, holding her fast.

Americana strained against the combination of metal and magnetism. Just as she felt the metal start to give, a motion caught her eye. She looked up just as an engine block from a wrecked Chrysler smashed into her forehead.

Americana slumped. Her vision swam as she tried to raise her head, but the terrible, throbbing pain!

At Polecat's command the boxcar began collapsing from both ends with an earsplitting shriek of metal. A field of blue surrounded him as slabs of steel and bars of iron crushed in on the helpless superheroine.

He dropped his arms to his sides as he huffed and wheezed, trying to catch his breath. A cold smile crept across his face. Mouth off to him, would she?

Heh… welcome… to Boot Hill, lil' lady, he chuckled to himself as he rolled a cigarette. My reputation is gonna fly when word gets out –

KASHOOOM!

"Oh, no."

Americana burst from amidst the remnants of the railroad car and slammed into Polecat, knocking the lighter from his hands. She followed with roundhouse punch that he somehow dodged – but as he raised his hand to fire he realized he hadn't any metal in his hands; he couldn't shoot her!

He rolled and came up to her side, her fist missing by inches.

"Maybe you shoulda taken the hint, Americana," he said sternly, a lariat of lightning appearing in his hands. "I was content to just tan your hide, but now, now I'm gonna finish you good."

He's faster than I am, Americana thought. Wait for it, wait for it…

Suddenly his hand flashed out, but Americana had already dropped into a rolling somersault. The lightning lariat flashed over her head as she came up underneath his jaw!

The gunman flew over her head and landed on the remains of the railroad car – with his lightning lariat still active!

Polecat howled as the blue-white flash coursed through his body. He shook for several seconds, then dropped motionless to the ground.

Americana gasped as he rose, quaking, smoke rising from his tattered and burned clothing. His eyes flashing rage, he thrust his hand toward Americana and…

Nothing.

Americana rose to her feet, somewhat more steadily than her foe. She tensed as he once again thrust his had toward her – again, with no result.

"Wh-what did you do to me?" he cried. "I can't feel the power any more!"

Americana hesitated. Was he faking, or –

"What did you do to meeeee?" he screamed.

Nope. He's lost it all right. In more ways than one.

Americana walked toward him. "Your powers are gone, Polecat. Short-circuited, I guess."

With a cry of rage the gunslinger leapt at Americana –

And was promptly laid out with a single blow.

She stood there in the silence and looked down at Polecat's beaten body, listening to her own heavy breaths.

What he had said… was he waiting for her? To test his powers against hers? Why not come to Washington, then… unless the isolation of this small town was what he was counting on?

On the other hand, he could be just another loon.

"Is… it safe, now?"

Americana turned to see Dean Roper and four other officers cautiously approaching.

"Y-yeah," she said. "He's harmless now."

The officers approached Polecat with guns drawn.

"I- I can't believe it," Roper breathed. "I mean, the – the destruction!"

"Sorry about that," she sighed.

"No, no, I'm not blaming you or anything. Just – hey, look, why don't you stay for dinner?"

"...Huh?"

"No, look, I think we all owe you a steak. Or a salad."

Americana laughed. "No, no, I couldn't. I'm kind of a mess right now, anyway."

"You can get cleaned up, rest up a while at this hotel, no charge," he said, presenting her with a business card. "Join us for dinner, about 7:30?"

"I…"

Americana looked at the card.

Roper was certainly persistent, she'd give him that.

She was exhausted. And her plans for the weekend had been blown, anyway.

And she could use the downtime in her secret identity to recharge her powers…

"Sure. Sure, I'd like that."

She rose into the air.

"Seven-thirty it is," she said, smiling.

Maybe this little side trip was turning into a whole new kind of adventure.