A crimson slice of sun burned brilliantly in it's waning moments from the crook of the sister hills, setting ablaze the cloudy Kentucky sky with warm hues of orange, red, and purple and filling the narrow valley with a final warm blanket of sunlight. There, in the day's swansong, the shadows from the pines grew long threading and lacing over the landscape and flora like netting.

Goldenrods, tulips, and all the flowers that normally shone with such vividness grew silent as though preparing for night. Although a gorgeous display of natural beauty, no one could claim that the valley was unique to the Western coal country of Kentucky. Still raw with nature and by and large untainted by man's fermenting touch, the valley and her inhabitants settled in for nightfall.

Nestled deep within the valley interior, the only sign intrusion of man other than a single railroad track, lay the quiet mining town of Akeley's Hollow. Scarcely old enough for it's buildings to have been fully erected, the town was little more than a series of saloons, dance halls, and the shops that carried whatever remedies required to nurse the ensuing hangover.

Small wooden storefronts, in a distinct "Western Style" that was becoming so popular even in the East, ran along Main Street like a rogue's gallery, each unencumbered by competition simply stated the bare nature of their businesses. Main Street itself was little more than a simple dirt thoroughfare, wide enough for three carriages to ride side by side. Tiny side streets split from the street like tributaries and often ended abruptly, dematerializing into the grip of the woodlands without warning.

Huddled tightly between two taller buildings was an unassuming wooden structure, differentiated only by it's deep, covered porch and the banister that ran along the length of the front. The resonant aroma of coffee drifted from the windows and open front door, and permeated all spaces in between. A figure sat on the porch, his chair tilted back and boots upon the railing. On his considerable stomach, his hands cradled a mug of thick, black coffee, steam snaking carelessly into the dusk air.

The man's face, barely visible beneath his drooping hat, was ruddy and austere and common among those found in outpost towns. Weathered and stern but with a hint of mischief around the eyes and corners of the mouth. A languishing mustache hung over his lip, stained from it's sterling gray to brown and yellow from coffee and tobacco. A pair of astute and keen blue eyes watched the sun-reddened street fill with an impossibly long shadow as a man's figure approached the building.

"Afternoon Red." the figure said as he approached.

"Afternoon yerself." Red replied, not moving from his place on the porch. The man in the street walked up the pair of steps that led up to the porch and leaned on one of the simple columns that flanked the entrance.

"How're things?" the man was Thomas Louis Tannard III, or simply Tom, depending on who he was speaking to. He was a powerfully built man, but thick around the middle with age. Even at 62, only four years only than Red, his silver hair retained streaks of the powerful black locks that accented the days of his youth. Tom was a barber by trade, a ludicrous profession for a man of his physical stature, but then again he was a damned fine one. He and Red had been friends for more years than either cared to count.

"The Lord provides." Red said simply.

"Got word from Jim that Magoffin refused to raise Kentuckians for Lincoln." The last word he accentuated with a great black wad of chew spat into the dust, "Reckons to steer clear of the entire mess."

Red pushed the brim of his hat up and peered at his old friend. Governor Beriah Magoffin was well known by his constituents as a Southern sympathizer and no great fan of the new president.

"And what do you suppose the chances of that happenin' are? Use yer head Tom." He turned back to his coffee and watching the road.

"Well I'll be damned if I'm gonna send my boys to fight for some Yanks who got a soft spot for some niggers. It don't have a damned thing to do with me and if you ask me Magoffin's got the right idea." he was pacing, but now took his spot back against the post, "If it comes to war, I aim to stay the hell out. Nothin' to do with me or mine."

"It never does."

"Well that don't make it right."

"The Lord provides."

Both men fell silent, content to listen to the crickets sing nothing of war. As last ray of the sunlight shot down Main Street and was then extinguished completely, the road turned a soft blue and the valley grew dark at length. Music began to play at a nearby dancehall, the piano chiming merrily in the night air and mingling with laughter and the earnest work of the crickets.

Red gulped down the last of his coffee and set the cup aside, standing and stretching slowly.

"What do you suppose that is?" he asked. Tom followed his gaze, which led far down the street to a soft glow beyond the outskirts of town.

"Comin' from the mines."

"Likely so. But them boys always cut out before dark." He disappeared inside the doorway of the building and left Tom alone in the street, watching the soft glow ebb and flow in the cool evening.

"I wouldn't trouble yerself about it. Probably just some of them boys carousin." Thomas called after him. A moment later Red re-emerged from the building wearing his gun belt and pinning his sheriff's badge onto his denim shirt.

"Likely so." he said, and the two men set off down the street towards the mining camp.

((next post a'comin'!

The silent faces of the buildings, dim and looming, watched without judgment or comment as the two figures moved slowly down the darkened main street. Only the muted, irregular luminosity that seeped from the windows gave any sign of life or comfort. Gradually, the rudimentary structures gave way to a country lane both men had walked countless times before, although even the familiar becomes alien in the depth of the evening.

They followed the dim luminosity and watched as it grew the closer they came. Eventually the birch trees and pines, black and imposing, fell away to a clearing in the forest, a circular clearing criss-crossed with tracks that grinned out of the darkness at the two men like drunkards. The camp, a number of crude buildings and storage pens, was largely desolate and empty, save for one area by the mess hall from which the queer glow originated.

The culprit was an artless assortment of kerosene lanterns and torches that snapped and bit against the growing twilight. A loose semi-circle of miners sat around a group of men on horseback, the foremost of the latter was speaking, his words coming out in short, chopped syllables that gave the impression of a bark. Red moved closer.

“…the Southern negro is more akin to us than you gentlemen may realize! As our forefathers battled oppression against the tyrants of England, so now does the southern tyrants!” he pounded a gloved fist against the palm of his hand for emphasis. Red was now close enough to see the man was dressed in a Union Cavalry Officer’s uniform, the blue barely visible behind his heavy overcoat. He was a squat man with a ruddy, reddened face and great sideburns that framed his bulbous nose. The men who sat behind him were irregulars, a patch of blue here and there their only sign of allegiance to the Union. The captain was hissing now, his eyes narrow and venomous.

“…the Southern tyrant is a much more sinister and devious tormenter. But then I don’t have to tell you men that!” he motioned towards the mine entrances, great cavernous maws that led into unending night, numerically marked in rough handwriting, “While you toil away here in mines, they grow rich and fat off of the work of our brothers!”

“Ain’t no nigger that’s a brother of mine!” A voice called out from the anonymity of the crowd. Red pondered on whether any of them, their faces blackened with coal dust and grime, realized the irony of the statement. The crowd erupted into laughter and jeers at the Union captain, who merely sat motionless, apparently impervious to their taunts.

“Gentlemen please…” he implored. There was a shuffle of hooves behind him and another man emerged alongside the captain. The laughter abruptly died away.

His skin was ebony and smooth like a statuette of some great, forgotten deity, his features thick and seamless. Great pools of black consumed his irises and in the torchlight banished all light from them, dominant and stern. He wore a riders uniform, the only other man besides the captain to do so in the small outfit, but underneath his powerful figure was apparent.
Even the captain fell in quiet deference to the man, as he paced his horse contemptuously in front of the miners. He peered down in tempered revulsion, taking in the sullied, gaunt faces one by one. At length, he spoke, his face shining cruelly in the meager circle of light.

“The lines have been drawn and the die cast in the ensuing conflict. Heed my words, war is on the wind. You can smell it…the scent of change, of resolution. It’s there gentlemen, and whether or not you wish to admit it, it’s there.” He folded his great, gloved hands on the horn of his saddle. “You must cast in your lot or be consumed in the tempest. Join together with Lincoln or reap the consequences.”

As he spoke his eyes drifted through the crowd, sizing each man up as though able to see into his very essence. The cold, inky gaze lingered on Red for a moment that seemed pregnant with tension and then as all things do, passed. The eyes of the miners were wide and transfixed, the protests fallen silent. Red stepped forward through the crowd.

“Maybe you boys should keep movin’. Ain’t nobody here interested in fightin’. We’re a quiet town, and we reckon to stay that way.”

The black officer stared down from his horse for a moment at the squat, aging sheriff and then cast a questioning glance at the captain, who for the first time since he had begun speaking seemed fully aware of his surroundings. He coughed nervously and touched the brim of his hat.

“Right sheriff…”

“Morrison.”

“Sheriff Morrison. We don’t mean any trouble. But Gideon here is right, it’s unavoidable, better to choose now and make your intentions clear.” He looked at the gathered crowd once more, “If any of you boys change your minds, we’ll be shacked up at The Golden Horseshoe in town.”

The riders left one by one, forming a single line of dusty, hunched horsemen, their eyes glued to the back in front of them. As the black rider passed his tipped his hat to the sheriff, his sleeve lifting as he did so. On his wrist, thick and broad, was a bracelet seemingly made of wood. A single circle covered by tiny golden loops. Attached to each loop was a miniature wooden cross that danced and jangled like mad as he rode.

Red tipped his hat and watched silently alongside the miners as they head towards town.

“The day I throw in with an army that makes a slave an officer is the day I die!” Tom called after them, the men behind him erupting and howling with laughter.

The shadowy officer didn’t look back, but simply rounded the corner towards town.

The miners drifted into the evening’s vista like fireflies until the camps sole occupants were Red and Tom. Red lit a tightly rolled cigar and struck a match against the sole of his boot. The tiny bit of phosphorous sprang gloriously to life and was just as suddenly shook out and flung aside.

The two men walked quietly back to town, following the lane from memory more than sight. Once they had reached the Sheriff’s Office, Red said goodnight and watch Tom as he shrunk slowly down Main Street until he was no longer visible in the moonlight.

The old sheriff stood on the porch awhile longer, watching the sky and pondering. Down the way the cavalry unit’s horses were tethered in front of the hotel, grunting in the evening chill. He took a final drag on his fourth cigarette of the night and then flicked it into the street.

((no time to write at the moment, more coming later!

((oof...post still coming, I promise. just been busy!

8)

((:::waits for an opening:::))

((oh reeeeaaaally?

ask and ye shall receive! wait till i get out of work!

(( Are you out of work yet?))

((Wow! Do you charge him rent? or did the cheeky little sod just move in sneakily and get squatters rights ? lol soz cudn't resist, is it your dog then ?:)

The small gang of Jayhawkers had swept across the county. Leaving score upon score of burning farmstead and ruined lives in their wake. Rape and murder wasn't out of the question for the morally ambiguous lot that followed Kramer in his so called crusade against the South.

Janos Nomak's farm was no exception. The Slovakian immigrant and his wife and daughter clung desperately to the notion of "the new world". But the new world, it would become apparent, was no better than the old one....

They had taken a drifter into their home. A gruffly spoken but friendly enough sort who earned his keep while the family slept. Taking refuge in their meagre barn among the horse, few cattle and chickens. The daughter called him her Domovoi. He hadn't the heart to correct her.

He asked Janos to call him Martin, on account that it was his name, and that it helped maintain the illusory atmosphere that he might belong there.

Each sunset, Janos would leave a list of instructions pinned to the barn door. Each sunrise he'd find the list's tasks completed.

Martin hunted, Janos thought, so he never asked for food. Only shelter. And on occasion, the tired farmer would find freshly killed but oddly bloodless rabbits on his porch. He didn't question it.

Kramer's Jayhawkers arrived at dawn. Before they'd even dismounted from their horses they'd already shot down Janos' horse. Dismounting they stormed the tiny home, rifles and pistols drawn.

"Don' make this harder than it has to be, mister! We just want a little hospitality fer this evenin'."

Janos, shielding his family with his body stepped out.

"We don't want any trouble sirs. Please leave us in peace."

"That we will, friend. Soon as that roomy wife o' yours fixes my boys some chow." Kramer winked leeringly at the daughter.

"Cute kid. How old's she?"

Mina stuttered, afraid. "I'm twelve this coming sunday, sir."

"Twelve huh? You bleedin' yet girl?"

Janos' face reddened.

"Leave her alone! We'll feed you then you be on your way!"

The gunshot startled Mina and her mother. Both screaming as Janos fell forward, blood stainig the back of his shirt.

"Ain't in any position to state the terms of our little engagement now. Are ya?"

Mina glanced to the barn. Where was Martin? Surely he'd save them?

Kramer caught her gaze.

"Check the barn! Girl looks to be expectin' the cavalry to arrive."

Two of his men went to the barn. Kicking over haybales as they searched.

"Nuthin' here, chief! Coupla chickens though, regular feast we're havin' tonight."

Kramer nodded before turning back to Janos as he died on the dust.

"You! My men need food....and satisfyin'....get cookin'"

Mina darted. She ran to the barn. One of the two men sent to search it turned, firing his pistol. She reached the barn door before the bullet struck her in the throat, spilling her short life into the straw hewn dry earth.

Her mother collapsed, hysterical. Inconsolable. Till Kramer clubbed her unconscious with his rifle butt.

They ransacked the house, taking everything they could eat. Taking the sobbing widow one after the other till she lay bloodied and torn up inside and her last attacker shot her in the face.

Sated, the men hit the trail north.


---------------------------


Sunset.

The barn seemed to heave underfoot. The cattle seemed genuinely afraid as the earth at their feet was pushed upwards. The dirt covered figure pulled itself out of its resting place. Shaking loose soil from his shoulders, Martin sniffed out his surroundings.

Blood.

His eyes went feral as he found the dead girl. Growling he lifted her, carrying her to the house. Then her mother. Then Janos himself.

Laying them on the bed he snarled as if memorising a scent, before he kicked over the few oil lamps in the house and lit them.

Outside he watched the homestead burn before turning his eyes north. Strapping his LeMat pistol to his waist, and placing his wide brimmed hat on his head he pulled his great dustcoat around him and ran.

Moonlight draped the town in ethereal silver, like some divine artist outlining each structure in white hot mercury. Red leaned against the exterior of his office front, one boot jacked up against the wall. A cigarette hung listlessly from his lips and he peered through the cobalt smoke towards the dancehall. At the end of the street, a rowdy procession of men appeared and careened wildly down the street, their forms melded into a singular black mass in the twilight. Red peered towards the moon and judged it to be nearly eleven, well past his normal office hours.

But the lonely trek towards home that he took each evening led his directly passed the cemetery that contained his wife and two beloved children, and his widower’s bed held no allure. With the potentiality of trouble present, there was nothing that would coax the old man home now.

He watched the half dozen miners or so file into the Golden Horseshoe like some sort of bacchanalian funeral procession. Their finest flannel shirts and crispest denim jeans, “Carousing Clothes” as they were known. Their faces and hands had been scrubbed clean, and they shone a milky white in the moonlight. Like beings of alternate extremes, they were black from coal dust during the day, yet ghostly white beneath from their time in the mines.

Red pushed off the wall and leaned against the banister nearest the dancehall, in part to get a better look, in part to advertise his presence. The miners did not acknowledge him. They laughed and slapped one another’s backs as they marched towards the doors, but Red could see clearly the anticipation in their wild, gaunt glares. It was the look of a man hungry to part of something bigger than himself. To be part of a force, a movement, a mob. The seductive combination of power and anonymity that comes with greater numbers was a trait familiar to Red.

He had confronted lynch mobs before, sometimes with success, sometimes with failure. The same wild, intoxicated flame always danced in the eyes of the participants. Now that flame flickered within the miners’ eyes. He exhaled a final plume of smoke and fired the cigarette butt into the street. Arms crossed, he rested his chin on his chest for a moment like some reverent supplicant. Then, quite simply, he pulled his keyring from his belt and found the miniscule key to his firearms cabinet. That located, he disappeared into his office interior.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

When he emerged into the street several minutes later, he carried an old carbine rifle in one hand and rested the other on the creviced grip on the single-shot revolver tucked into his hip holster. The miners had disappeared into the dancehall and Red found himself alone on the street. He walked up the simple dirt street, eyes transfixed on the saloon’s entrance.

He opened the swinging door and stood silently at the threshold for a moment. Through the dingy haze, Red could make out the two distinct camps on either side of the room, carefully keeping their distance from one another. The soldiers sat quietly drinking and playing cards near the corner furthest from the old sheriff. The miner's meanwhile stood whooping and laughing at the bar, slapping one another of their backs between gulps of mash whiskey.

One of the miners hammered joyfully, albeit somewhat awkwardly, away on the saloon's piano, filling the room with uptempo melodies. Red, seemingly unnoticed by either group, slipped wordlessly into the room and took up a seat at an empty table in the corner. He could see the officer, "Gideon" the senior officer had called him, perched silently behind his men. He sat motionless, arms folded, watching the miners. His company played cards and chatted idly amongst themselves, but to Red they seemed to shoot furtive glances at him, as if awaiting some unknown event or revelation.

But Gideon said nothing. Instead, he simply sat and watched the merry men tell bawdy stories and repeat jokes they known for years. Red followed his gaze. He knew most the miners by name. Had known them for years. They were good men for the most part, but rambuncious when drunk. Hardworking men like them often played hard and were dangerous in numbers. That's what worried him so.

The miners outnumbered the soldiers three-to-one by his count, and more than a few of them were staring contemptuously at the black officer and his men.

"Godammit boy!! Stop poundin' on that damned thing!" the voice was deep, and sufficiently slurred that Red knew it meant trouble. It belonged to Ted Nealy, one of the biggest men in Priory County. He lumbered over the piano player now, his eyes dark and menacing.

"Well..." the piano player started, firing uncertain glances back towards Gideon, "...I ain't tryin' to cause trouble here mister. I just..."

"Yeah well you found trouble boy." Ted punctuated the threat with one great meaty digit pounded into the soldiers chest. The single finger nearly dislodged the man from his seat. Red stood up.

"That's enough Nealy. You don't like the music, don't listen."

Nearly whirled around to confront the interloper, but his anger softened visibly as he recognized Red. A momentary uncertainty crossed his face, but the eyes of the other miners fluctuated between him and Red, and his battle lines were drawn.

"Now look here Red, it's bad enough these fellas come here tryin' to get us mixed up in something that has nothin' to do with us...but then to come into OUR TOWN and start runnin' around like they own the place...well it ain't right and it's ain't fair..."

"I don't suppose I give a good goddamn what you think is fair and what isn't Nealy." Red took several steps towards the bar, the rifle still balanced neatly in the crook of his arm. "What I care about is keepin' the peace. So go back to your drink or get the hell out."

"That won't be necessary." the velvet-smooth voice of Gideon cut through the room. But the time their eyes had fallen upon him was already standing and pulling his long duster over his powerful frame. "We don't wish to upset these gentlemen. It's apparent they've no desire to join the cause."

He stood and the soldiers stood with. Without another word, the soldiers left their half-empty drinks and filed out into the street, Gideon bringing up the rear. As he stepped out, he gave a backwards glance over his shoulders. Those ebony eyes danced and shimmered!

"Believe me gentlemen, in a few months time, desire will have nothing to do with it."

He stepped out and within minutes the soldiers had ridden off into the night.

That night, Red’s dreams came violently and with a sense of urgency. As soon as he had laid his head down on his pillow, the dreams came crashing over him like a tempest. Impossibly deep and dense, the old man felt his essence hurtling through the abyss, pressingly driven towards some unknown objective. As he tumbled and gyrated in the lightless ether, he could feel his guts burning with an alien hunger. Even as he wheeled and spun, the hunger intensified until it was all encompassing.

“Up and at em old timer!”

The voice wrenched Red from his sleep and though his mind was groggy, his body reacted instantaneously. His hand darted his pillow and he found the reassuring hardness of the pistol’s grip, warmed by it’s hearth beneath his head. Still bleary, the sheriff rolled onto his side and whipped the pistol’s barrel into the dim light of the room.

Over the weapon’s front sight, the room that doubled as the jailhouse office and his room lay still and empty. The few meager belongings he had moved from the old house once the memories of his fallen family had grown too strong to bear, stood unmolested. With an exasperated grunt, he lowered the gun and swung his legs over the side of the paltry bed and sat for a moment, rubbing his temples. The nights were getting longer…

A whistle from his right.

Red turned his head just in time to catch the business of end of the gun butt on the bridge of his nose. He vaguely felt a sensation of warmth spread over his face and upper chest as his nose shattered and spilt. As the uninvited darkness washed over him once more, the last things he made out was the angry visage of the piano-playing soldier on the other end of the rifle.


Movement.

Slow and spasmodic.

He tried to open his eyes, but found he could manage only one. Fuzzy at first, the world gradually shifted into focus. A soldier had hold of either arm and as they hauled him down the dirt trail deeper into the evening woods, Red tried unsuccessfully to get some sense of bearing. He arched his neck slightly, trying to get some read of the trees and instantly a white hot bolt of pain was sent crackling from his face to tailbone and then back to his face, where it pulsated. He snorted in shock and agony and found his nostrils battered beyond use. The air stopped short at his nose and Red fell into a coughing fit that shook him entirely.

The soldiers exclaimed and dropped Red to the dirt, where he lay convulsing and shooting up gobs of blood that appeared black in the darkness. His arms his own again, he instantly reached to his hip, only to find himself unarmed. The soldiers looked at the old man contemptuously, laying prone on the forest floor like a helpless babe.
“Shiiit. How long you been awake old man?” the shorter of the two asked. He removed his service revolver from it’s holster. It glittered eagerly into the soft twilight.

“Hell, as long as yer awake, you can walk yerself.” The other added. The darkness obscured his features, but his tinny voice assured Red that it was the piano-player. “On yer feet goddamit!”

The soldiers riding boot dug into the old man’s ribs. The sheriff clumsily rose to his feet, and at the soldiers forceful prodding, continued down the path.

The trees were like monoliths in the dark and Red found it astounding that a forest he had become so familiar with could be so terrifying. Overhead, the filament was vast and eternal, seemingly unaware of his tribulations below. As his utter insignificance became apparent to him, so to did his helplessness. So far as he could tell, he was very much a dead man walking.

As they trudged forward, Red in front, the two soldiers directly behind him, he listened to the sounds of the forest for what he thought may be the last time. Animals scurried through the underbrush, predators and opportunists, not so different from the soldiers. But gradually a set sounds of unfamiliar to the wilderness became audible.

They were initially faint, but soon drown out all other sound. The crackle of fire, the laughter of men, and the shrieks and the lamented wails of the women. The trail ran up the side of a small bluff, and when Red reached the peak he stopped short.

“Good God almighty.” He whispered.

Red stood over a small circular glade in the forest. Illuminated by a great bonfire in the center that created a pulsing halo of crimson and orange, the large clearing was packed tightly with moving bodies and activity. The soldiers were almost all present, the majority of them naked and aroused. The old man’s stomach dropped as he realized many of the nude figures below were the townswomen and their daughters. In some cases they were bound, in others they were simply restrained.

Some of them lay prone in the dirt while others were bent over logs or saddles and the soldiers thrust their filthy, darkened forms over them. They shook and undulated drunkenly, laughing and cackling wildly. They forced their whiskered lips over the women’s mouths and sucked hungrily at their flesh. They pried apart their legs and drove themselves inside them.

In the distance, almost outside the bonfire’s reach, a line of townsmen stood over a great pit. The old sheriff scanned their faces and quickly recognized most of the men as miners. They stood, their hands and feet bound by twine and rope, simply staring blankly ahead at the defilement of their women. Their wet eyes shook and shimmered in the firelight, their jaws quivered fighting back the rage and sorrow.

At the end of the line of men, a soldier wearing nothing but a riding hat and pair of boots stood loading a pistol. He stood deftly slipping the rounds into the top-break revolver. Once the chambers were filled, the man snapped the pistol shut and merrily gave the cylinder a spin. He approached the first captive stood prone before him. Slowly and with great theatrics, he raised the pistol and laid the silver barrel upon the man’s forehead. It was Ted Nealy.

The pistol issued it’s loud retort and a great flame erupted from the back of Ted’s skull. The colossal man’s body went limp at the knees and he tumbled wordlessly backwards into the pit. His wife shrieked piteously, her cry droning off into a sorrowful wail. The soldier cried out joyously and approached the next man in the line. Red looked away. With each hollow crackle of gunfire, the old man shuttered.

“Keep movin’ goddamit!” the piano-player barked, and he placed a boot into the small of Red’s back. The unexpected shove sent the old sheriff lurching forward over the peak of the bluff. The lost his footing and tumbled down the face of the hill, spinning and jerking in a sensation oddly reminiscent of his dream. He came to stop at the foot of the clearing. The naked, pulsing soldiers paid him no attention.

One of the soldiers, a great bearded man lay several feet from Red, his massive frame draped over a dark-haired young woman. He recognized her as Catherine, his old friend Tom’s wife. The vivacious, lively eyes that so characterized her were now lifeless and dark and streaked with tears. Several feet away, a small infant cried in the dirt. The beast of a soldier barked with anger and pulled himself off of Catherine.

He stood glaring at the infant, his eyes wild with fury and lust.

“Goddamn whore! I warned you to shut that lil’ shit up!” his thick, wiry beard was streaked with saliva and liquor. A shock of thick black hair careened down the sides of his face and broke like waves over his powerful shoulders. His bulbous body was muscular and taught and seemed to be fully covered in hair from one end to the other.

The infant shrieked again and the soldier bellowed in anger. He marched over, his great phallus still erect, and snatched the child up from the ground by the leg. The babe dangled in the night air, twisting and writhing like a piglet. The soldier took several steps towards the bonfire and lifted the child overhead.

Catherine spun in an instant from her back onto all fours, her face feral and twisted. Her naked body was tense, and Red could see every muscle twitching in agony. A single serpentine trail of blood ran down the inside of her leg, creating a glistening seam from her groin to her ankle. She issued an animalistic, instinctive yelp.

The soldier pitched the child into the fire with no more care than he would have taken when throwing another piece of timber on. The tiny cry intensified and then ceased altogether. A flurry of embers erupted from the bonfire and escaped into the night air like fireflies, twisting and churning as they went.

The mother howled in fury, loss, and humiliation and threw herself upon the great man, her nails grasping and tearing at him.

“That’s more like it!” he cried and a great uneven smile erupted across his face. He subdued her easily, holding her naked body against his in midair. He pressed his thick brown lips against hers. Catherine opened her jaws and bit down on his lower lip with a cry of vengeance. Blood erupted from the soldiers lip, coating both of them as the soldier roared in agony. He heaved her aside like a pillow and clamped one meaty hand over his bloody lip.

He stormed over to his clothes and crouched over them, rummaging through them. He produced a large pistol and whipped around on his heels with surprising agility for a man his size. Catherine, her face dark with his blood and wild with hatred, was careening towards him, a rock clutched tightly in her tiny fist.

Screaming a final battle cry, she brought her fist hurdling towards his head in a wide arch. The soldier easily sidestepped the intended blow and as Catherine passed by discharged his gun into her temple. Much as Ted’s had, her body went limp and she crashed lifelessly to the ground, a fist-sized hole now dominating the side of her head. The massive man stood staring at her for a moment, then gingerly touch his lip with two fingers. He pulled his hand back and examined the blood of his digits. His face visibly darkened and he stormed off into the night to find another victim.

Red sat on his knees, staring into Catherine’s expressionless face. The piano-player and his companion had scaled their way down the front of the bluff and now lifted him to his feet. Pushing the old man forward they navigated the baccanalian nightmare. They pushed their way through the sweating entanglement of bodies until they reached an area suspiciously absent of people.

A simple wooden table next to a non-descript chair sat oddly out of place. On the table stood a single kerosene lamp, which burned stoically amongst the madness. Gideon sat in his cavalry uniform, one leg draped over the other, a seemingly ancient tome spread across his lap. He raised his eyes as the men approached, his face oddly bestial in the low light.

“Ah Sheriff Morrison.” He purred. “The last of the unaccounted for. Where have you been hiding?”

Red stood silently, looking like a hieroglyph with face caked with dried blood.

“We found ‘im in the jailhouse.” The piano-player reported. Gideon revealed a horrific smile. His teeth were angular, sharpened and utterly alien.

“The jailhouse? Always the last place you look I suppose.”

“If you’re aimin’ to kill me, you’d best do it now. Otherwise, I’m sure as hell gonna kill you.” Red was surprised at the solid confidence he found in his own voice. He spat a thick mixture mucus and blood that flew through the air and landed at the dark man’s feet.

Gideon smiled amusedly and closed his book, placing it upon the table beside him. He un-crossed his legs and placed both bootheels upon the ground. Placing his palms on his knees, he leaned forward.

“Never fear sheriff, never fear. I fully intend on killing you in short order. Why, I would’ve killed you hours ago had you been sleeping at home as we thought. You could have joined your friends there.” Gideon motioned across the clearing towards the pit, where all the townsmen now lay in a bleeding pile. “Instead all we found was…”

He looked inquisitively at the piano-player.

“Dead wife and child Gideon.” The soldier said.

“That’s right. A dead wife and child buried out back. Is that why you don’t sleep at home sheriff? Are the memories too much?”

Red’s brains felt like they were on fire and his head was pulsing. He could feel his knees quivering and wondered how much longer his body would sustain it’s own weight.

“Rot in hell.”

The barb drew a sharp gasp from the pair of soldiers who peered nervously towards their commander. Gideon crossed his legs once more and offered a sympatheic grin.

“I already am.” his grin lingered a moment longer in the firelight and then slackened. He went back to his book, waving the trio away, “Kill him.”