A horse’s belly was slit open like a sack of burst watermelons. Blood and entrails spanned across snow that no longer glistened white. No winds blew, but the rope tied around Rosa’s neck softly creaked as it stretched, dangling from a naked bough.

  Ace Ryker stood grinning, with his blood-caked boot atop the neck of the horse. My horse. With one finger, he pushed on Rosa’s leg to keep her corpse swinging like a pendulum. She was still and pale. Her normally vibrant green eyes were lifeless, and her mouth—lips all dry, yet crusty with drool—hung ajar.

  It was grotesque…

  “Stop running,” Ace said, only it wasn’t his voice. It was deeper, almost like it originated from the bowels of the Earth. It sounded just like Chekoketh had within the hellmouth.

  I couldn’t shoot him. Couldn’t do anything. I wasn’t even sure I was there at all.

  “Can’t you see this can only end one way?” he went on. “Heaven would destroy her. I will use her. Give her to me. GIVE HER TO ME!”

  * * *

  A distant train trumpet snapped me from the trance I’d fallen into.

  I was instinctually clutching Judas’ crucifix tight in one hand. Before I was aware it was all just some horrid nightmare, my gaze darted from side-to-side, searching for enemies. But we were alone. Rosa remained sleeping peacefully in the bed, a soft whistle squeaking through her elegant lips.

  Lips that were not chapped. Lips that were alive.

  The pinkish light of dawn filtered through the window’s thin curtains.

  I don’t really dream—not really. Yet the White Throne had seen fit to let me fall into a sort of a slumber… more like hibernation. My mind still runs wild sometimes. I don’t know how to explain the difference between what I know now in my unlife versus my dreaming when I breathed, but the distinction was there. Somehow, now, it was more real. More visceral.

  I wasn’t sure when the sun had risen. I’d been watching out the window all night while Rosa rested. At some point, those thoughts—those terror-driven, worst-kind-of-nightmare thoughts—must’ve gotten the better of me.

  In past times, that kind of ruminating typically consisted of memories, and that wasn’t one. Which made me fear it was a premonition of sorts. And that sort of thought, I had to send deep down where it wouldn’t haunt me.

  With all the running from Ace, I’d nearly forgotten that a demon wanted Rosa just as badly. Did he want me to see that? The inevitable end of our death-strewn road—

  Heavy footsteps clattered on the cobbled street outside. It wasn’t outlandish to hear fast-moving feet in a town as busy as Revelation Springs, but what was odd was how unified they were, like a regiment of Union soldiers.

  Some shouts followed—mostly people objecting to being pushed aside or “watch it, theres,” and “hey, nows!” as the locals scrambled out of the way and shutters slammed shut.

  I thought the commotion might’ve roused Rosa. And though she stirred, she merely rolled over and tugged the blankets tighter against her neck.

  The troops—for that’s how they appeared—made their way to the nearby town square, where the townsfolk were already busy setting up for another day at market. Each wore a set of dark blue vests and dusters, silvery buttons shining in perfect order. Matching flat brim hats crowned their heads, and leather boots capped their feet up to their knees. Even from here, the big glinting pins on their chests were unmistakable, though not like a local sheriff might wear.

  These were the very men I had so often been accused of being. Federal marshals, same as my old pal Chapelwaite back in Crescent City. Where these men stood out compared to him, however, was they were far finer dressed, with barely a hint of dirt on their uniforms.

  Fresh recruits dispatched to bring order to the lawless West.

  One broke from the parade and climbed the very same stage where a still-mortal Ace Ryker had been hung from not long ago. A small crowd gathered to hear what he had to say. Others—those who were either too busy to be bothered, or more likely, some malefactor—found the nearest alley and vanished. Hard to find a man out here who couldn’t be arrested for something if a lawman got that wild hair up his ass about it.

  “People of Revelation Spring, I am Marshal A.D. Wassel, here by order of the US Marshals Service!” the speaker announced. He had a jaw that looked like it’d been beaten into shape by hammer and anvil, and a basso voice that carried like struck iron to go with it. From his vest, he pulled a sheet of paper and raised it high. From so great a distance, I couldn’t make out the drawing, except to know it was a face.

  The Revelation sheriff, Gutierrez, with his too-wide mustache, came strolling out of his office, flanked by a single deputy. After my last visit, I wouldn’t be surprised if that was all they had in the way of law enforcement.

  “What’s this all about?” Gutierrez asked, voice gruff like he’d only just woken.

  “Well, Sheriff. Nice to see you are, in fact, alive.” Wassel gave a little smirk. Smug bastard.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just seems like you might’ve been… sleeping on the job.”

  “It’s early, Marshal. Most of us are just waking with the sun.”

  “Now, you know that’s not what I’m saying. I have it on good authority that an outlaw by the name of James Enoch Crowley has been spotted in the region. Perhaps in this very town!”

  I cursed. Heaven after us. Hell after us. And now the federal marshals? It didn’t even make sense. Chapelwaite and I had departed on good terms far as I knew, and he was the only fed I knew. I racked my brain.

  Chapelwaite may have been a marshal on the surface, but his true allegiance was to Judas. Could the ancient vampire have decided he wanted a bite out of my neck as well?

  Wassel continued, voice loud and strong, “Anyone caught harboring the fugitive will be punished to the full extent of federal law unless they surrender him now!”

  “Jesus Christ,” Gutierrez said. “You’re gonna wake the whole town. Can’t this wait?”

  “The long arm of the law rests for no drunk, heathen, or scoundrel.”

  By then, dozens had gathered to hear what the pompous prick had to say. Posted bounties were commonplace out here, and those bad enough for marshals to make a show of force were sure to make a stir. And stir they did. People were whispering, murmuring, and otherwise prattling.

  A sharp bang on the door sounded behind me. I spun, and Rosa yelped, nearly rolling out of bed. She bunched the sheets over her body as she sprang up, throwing her back against the headrest. She wore a fog of fear and confusion like a mask. It wasn’t a way I’d like to have been woken either.

  “It’s just me!” Picklefinger announced. “Don’t shoot.”

  Good thing he announced himself, because my Peacemakers were raised without even giving it a second thought.

  “Come in, dammit,” I barked. “You trying to give us goddamn heart attacks?”

  His master lock clicked, then the door swung wide. He plowed through, cheeks as red as his beard.

  “Jesus fecking Christ, Crowley! You got marshals after you and you came here?” Picklefinger’s words came out in a harsh hiss.

  “Wait, what?” Rosa said, looking between us.

  “I don’t know what they want,” I said. “It was Ace Ryker after me. This is something new.”

  Picklefinger raised a brow. “Ace Ryker is dead. Watched him hang myself.”

  “Right. Some of his men, I mean.” I couldn’t exactly explain the nuances of how that both was and wasn’t true.

  “You’re yankin’ my dick.”

  I crossed my heart. “Swear it on my honor. I didn’t know the feds were involved.”

  “It’s the truth,” Rosa confirmed.

  Picklefinger’s face fell into his palm. “You attract trouble like flies to shit, Crowley. If they’re here, they’re by the train too. There’s no way in hell you’re boarding.”

  “We have to board,” I said in a tone that invited no response.

  He did anyway. “There’ll be other trains.”

  I shook my head. “We can’t stay here. You don’t understand.”

  “I certainly don’t. So, some of Ace’s old boys want you dead. So what? They’re bad enough to chase you across the country?”

  I started to respond, but Rosa slid to the edge of the bed and cut me off.

  “They’re after me, Joshua.” Barely dressed as she was—just her frontier shirt, buttoned up halfway and barely covering her lowers—she knew what she was doing.

  Picklefinger caught himself eyeing Rosa, then turned back to me, sighing. “Just stay here, you two, okay? I’m going to go see what more I can find out.”

  “It’s a waste of time,” I argued.

  “Just stay!” Raising his voice in true anger didn’t seem to be much in his character, so I knew not to discredit it. I owed him that at least.

  I nodded, and Picklefinger stormed out of the room, muttering, “That just sucks the shit out of the bull’s ass.”

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  I glared out the window before shutting the curtains. The clock on the bank across the street read 6:19 AM. We had until 6:40 AM before departure.

  “What do we do?” Rosa asked me as she quickly started getting dressed.

  “I ain’t too sure, to be honest,” I admitted.

  “Why would federal marshals be after you?”

  “That, I also don’t know. Just be ready to move.”

  I retrieved all my various effects, then returned to the window and peered around the curtain. When Picklefinger stepped out into the square, townsfolk greeted him like the local celebrity he was.

  “Go back inside, Pick,” Sheriff Gutierrez warned.

  Picklefinger ignored him. “Howdy there, Marshal!” he called out to Marshal Wassel, mustering his most cheery persona. “I hear you’re looking for James Crowley?”

  Wassel hopped down from the gallows, not at all cheery in return. “This the guy?” he asked one of the other marshals.

  The second marshal looked down, clearly inspecting Joshua’s pickled finger. “That’s him alright.”

  Wassel sauntered toward Picklefinger. “I heard an interesting rumor today.”

  Picklefinger chuckled. “Just one? I started at least five myself.”

  “Funny, isn’t he?” Wassel said to his friend.

  “A fucking hoot.”

  “So,” Wassel said. “I heard you know this Crowley fellow. Heard he’s a pal.”

  “You know what I do around here, Mister?”

  “It’s Marshal.”

  “Okay. Do you know what I do for a living, Mister Marshal? I run one of the busiest establishments in this town. Everyone who crosses those doors…” he pointed vaguely over his shoulder, “…thinks they’re my best chum in the whole world. All I can tell you about James Crowley is that he passed through here months ago. Stirred up some trouble and hasn’t been seen since.”

  “And you can speak for this entire town?” the second marshal asked.

  “I serve this entire town, so yeah. I suppose I can.”

  Marshal Wassel turned to Gutierrez. “That true, Sheriff?”

  “The long and short of it.”

  Wassel stuck his tongue out a bit and nodded slowly, as if pondering. “Well, I’m not sure I believe you. Boys! Start checking all the hotels and taverns in town. I want every goddamn room swept.”

  “Now, you wait just a second!” Picklefinger protested, moving in front of one of them. And he wasn’t alone. A number of locals in the square got all up in arms about their privacy being threatened by a government that had barely any presence out here.

  “Start with this ginger prick’s place,” Wassel said.

  “You’ve got no right,” Picklefinger said, placing a hand against Wassel’s chest.

  Marshal Wassel grabbed Picklefinger’s wrist. “I have every right!”

  “No you—”

  He shut Picklefinger up by twisting his arm, then bashing him in the face with the butt of his revolver. The big Irishman went down like a fresh cow pie. A few people ran to help him. The sheriff’s hand fell to his holster.

  “You don’t fucking belong here!” A big brute of a local man—whose arms had surely seen more time in the quarry than most—ran at the marshal. Without hesitation, Wassel shot him in the kneecap and cut his legs out from under him.

  People screamed, and rightly so.

  “Back off!” Marshal Wassel swept his gun across the faces of the throng, signaling all his men to do the same. “Next one to move will learn exactly about our rights. Now, Sheriff, show me which tavern belongs to this potato eater or I’ll pin that star on your deputy.”

  Gutierrez stared down at the shot man, then at Picklefinger, who was hunched over on the ground, clutching at his nose. Blood poured out and stained his beard an even richer shade of crimson.

  “I told you to stay inside, you dumb son of a bitch,” Gutierrez said. Then, clapping his hands, he shouted, “You heard them, everyone! Let’s keep this civil and it’ll be over in a jiff. This town has seen more than enough death.”

  As he started leading them our way, Rosa stole my attention. Not sure how long she’d been tugging on my arm, I’d been so fixated on the situation unfolding out there. It was like a powder keg ready to blow.

  “James, what’s the plan?” she asked.

  “We go for the train now and hope nobody sees us.”

  “And if they do?”

  I tapped my guns.

  Rosa exhaled. “Are all men so barbaric?”

  “When it suits us.”

  “Well, I have a better idea. Follow my lead.”

  Before I could answer, she rushed toward the door, and all I could do was swing my rifle over my shoulder and follow. She practically glided down the staircase to the ground floor.

  “Rosa, would you just wait a second!”

  Next thing I knew, she went running through the swinging front doors, screaming like a banshee. I hurried to the front window and watched her fall to her knees by an alley across the street, fake crying like a widow at the grave. She did it damn well too, and I suppose she’d been unfortunate enough to have had practice at that particular ailment.

  The marshals pushed through the crowd to reach her, as locals gathered all around her.

  “What happened?” a marshal asked.

  “That way,” Rosa shrieked, pointing down the alley. “He struck me and ran that way!”

  Clever girl. With all the recent revelations of her mysterious abilities, I’d nearly forgotten her most potent power—her feminine guile. A group of marshals started running until Wassel arrived.

  “Hold on, now!” he ordered. “The fugitive is known to have an associate. A greaser girl with green eyes.”

  I swore as his heavy boots clomped toward her. In the position she took, her messy hair covered most of her face, but it wouldn’t for long. Having just lost a hand, I checked that my fingers were properly within my trigger housings—not a precaution I was used to taking.

  “Let’s see that pretty face,” Wassel said, placing the barrel of his pistol under her chin. Slowly, her face rose to meet his.

  I didn’t wanna kill these men. Right bastards though they were—at least their leader. However, they were just lawmen following orders across this great big country, with no idea the flavor of shit they’d just stepped into. Rosa had given them a chance, but they were too well informed.

  A second before I made my move, she sent a right hook straight into the marshal’s rocklike jaw. Packed quite a wallop too. Surprised him enough to send him reeling.

  I burst through the doors and fired off two shots. Each found their marks on the legs of the two feds waiting behind her.

  Then, quick as a whip, I rushed in and grabbed Rosa’s hand.

  “Get them!” Marshal Wassel ordered.

  I dragged Rosa down the street as locals went running every which way for cover.

  Having no connection to this town, the marshals opened fire with zero concern over who they hit. Gunfire echoed in an ugly symphony of discordant notes. Bullets clanged, popped against wood and dirt. And occasionally came the squishy sound of metal through meat.

  “You’ve lost your touch!” I told Rosa, keeping her in front of me so I absorbed any bullet that happened to be aimed true.

  And then, I did. And it wasn’t iron which bored harmlessly into the back of my thigh. The searing pain of silver tore through me before it caused me to lose command of my functions. I howled as I shoved Rosa around a building and leaned against a barrel. More bullets chewed through the corner wall and sprayed silvery dust that caused my usually perfect vision to blur.

  “Shit on a stick,” I growled. “They’ve got silver.”

  Rosa struggled to catch her breath. “And that hurts you, right?”

  “It ain’t fucking pleasant!”

  Silver. No federal marshals would go into a gunfight with silver bullets unless specifically ordered to. Hell, any normal man with half a brain still wouldn’t do it. The metal was softer, and the bullets harder to craft. These men had been prepared.

  “Can you run?” Rosa asked, her voice tinged with desperation.

  A train whistle filled the air. The tone familiar. Departure. Gunfights were always a good way to get the schedule moving a little quicker.

  “James!” Rosa shook me.

  “Ace was right about one thing,” I said. “Pain is a nice reminder.”

  I gave her a light push to keep moving. As we emerged on the other side of the alley, I fired backward to send the marshals into cover themselves. I aimed at buildings to avoid hitting anybody, but the effect remained the same.

  The moment my gun clicked empty, we ran. My damn leg dragged behind me like a lead weight. Normally, that would have little effect on me, but with silver lodged in there, there was both pain and sensation I was unused to. Slow as I was, another silver bullet burrowed into my shoulder before we ducked back into cover again. One of my Peacemakers—the one still loaded with four shots—slipped from my grip. Rosa bent for it and held it out for me. I shook my head.

  “You use it,” I said. “My aim will be shit.”

  Compared to her five-shooter, the Peacemaker was massive, and she’d struggle to keep it steady, but presently, it was better in her hand than mine.

  Groaning the whole way from the white lines of fiery pain, I holstered my empty pistol and drew my rifle. I blew a hole through the sign hanging from the tailor’s shop, exploding it into chunks that made the shot sound more dangerous than it was.

  “Go!”

  Another train whistle sounded as we took off again through the cover of hung laundry. This time, it was accompanied by the chugging groan of a locomotive’s steam engine kicking into gear. Time was no longer on our side.

  I stopped at a pen containing dozens of cows, and shot the lock off the gate. A quick burst of rifle fire into the air got them stampeding out into the street to block our pursuers.

  Chaos sounded behind us, which was a good sign.

  “We’re almost there,” Rosa said, not looking back at me. “Can you make it?”

  “Yeah,” I huffed.

  It was a jaunt, but when we finally reached the plaza outside the train station, we had a new surprise waiting. Two marshals inside opened fire from behind the cover of a half-open door. Rosa returned a salvo from both her and my pistol, shattering glass windows. One of their bullets nicked the dirt right by her feet, and I threw her behind a parked carriage, its driver having abandoned it in the fray.

  I leaned out, and my rifle tore a chunk out of the door before shredding one marshal’s abdomen. I wasn’t trying for a kill shot, but it’d take a miracle to survive that one. Risk of the trade, I’m sorry to say. You take up hunting fugitives, and whether right or wrong, you invite mortality.

  A silver bullet from the other shaved my forehead and I fell flat to my back. I saw nothing but white, then heard Rosa skirt around the carriage.

  “Wait,” I said, but as was often her way, she didn’t listen. As the marshal made his next move to finish me off, she shot him. There came a shout and a groan, which meant it wasn’t fatal. Not immediately, at least.

  My vision started to return just in time to peer out again, rifle ready. The marshal was on the ground.

  Three things happened next. I depressed my trigger, he spun to shoot, and before either could happen, Rosa’s boot met his temple and knocked him out cold.

  My relief was quickly overwhelmed by reality.

  The delay had allowed Wassel and the others to catch up. They formed a perimeter around one half of the plaza. However, it appeared they hadn’t spotted me yet. Rosa dove into the station before she was riddled with bullets. While I knew she was comfortable in a fight, sometimes when seeing her in action, I wondered how many she’d been in during our decades apart.

  “They want you alive, bitch, but I’m thinking not!” Wassel hollered.

  I stayed out of sight as they advanced on her. If my count was right, she was out of ammo. Rosa was smart, though, and she proved it by pilfering the firearm of the dead marshal inside the station.

  Men passed by the wagon, entirely unaware of my presence. I waited until a leg was close enough—wasn’t sure whose—then swung my rifle through the dirt and shattered his shin.

  I retrieved his weapon as I scrambled to my feet and made a break for the station while Rosa gave me what cover she could. Silver rounds filled my back as I ran.

  Ever wondered what being burned alive feels like? Don’t. By the time I made it through the doorway, my mind was fractured by pain. I could barely control my limbs, or my mouth.

  “I’ve got you, James!” This time, Rosa wedged her arm under my shoulder and helped me along. My one foot dragged uselessly. The other might as well have been a peg. And all the while, the train’s chugging and whistling grew louder. Metal clanked and strained.

  Everything was a fuzzy blur, but we reached the station’s back door. Sunlight seared my eyes, telling me we were on the platform. Wood splintered everywhere as the feds kept shooting. The train was slowly starting down the track, and I could vaguely see passengers as they stared out their windows in shock. Only when bullets peppered its hull, did they duck and scream.

  Rosa pulled me along as fast as she could go. The damn train was picking up speed. Our only chance was grabbing on to the back of the last car, and there was no way she could bear the weight of both of us. I peered back over my shoulder, only able to see through one eye. Silver embers danced in the other. The feds fanned out through and around the station.

  From what I could tell, Wassel wasn’t with them. That made me guess it was his leg that I’d ruined.

  Rosa stretched her hand toward the railing on the back car’s rear door platform. Only inches away.

  My body may have been a bumbling mass of uncontrollable limbs, but I focused with every last bit of it I had to push off my one working foot and give her the momentum she needed.

  She grabbed hold. I twisted away from her and slid to my knees. She needed to get free, whether I did or not.

  “James!” she screamed, clinging on to the moving locomotive without me.

  I couldn’t will my lips to speak, or smile, or anything. All I could do was watch as she pulled herself up to safety, and her screams were drowned out by the rumbling train and its deafening whistle blow.

  The marshals all closed in behind me, not that I could do anything about it. This was it. All the supernatural monsters I’d faced, and it’d be men—normal, ordinary, men— who’d finally finish me off.

  I heard pounding hooves before someone clenched my arm, and I was dragged behind a horse galloping at full speed. My body bounced and hopped, causing the marshals’ opening fire to miss completely. They were caught off guard, and I remained completely confused.

  In the condition I was in, it took unreasonable concentration to rotate my head so I could see the rider. And there, wearing rags from Picklefinger’s basement, was Mutt.

  “One last ride, taibo!” he shouted.

  He snapped the reins of his horse and she neighed. Never had a sound been more welcome than that of my beloved Timperina.