Father Peter sits behind his desk marking passages in a tattered bible. He closes the book and removes the reading glasses from his strained eyes, rubbing his hands through his fiery red hair. He opens his desk drawer, folds the glasses, and sets them inside a black case beside the curved knife. The blade shines bright as ever. No blood remains upon its glittering surface. He lifts the weapon and balances it between two fingers, spinning the blade back and forth. A pattern of light spills across his chest traveling the length of his robe and past its white collar. Peter’s eyes sparkle as he twirls the blade faster and faster, lost in its glory. He finally stops and lets the knife drop, shuddering from the ecstasy of its shine.
He stoops to retrieve the knife and slides the brown envelope The Tall Man entrusted him across the desktop. He slits the envelope open and sags from hidden burden, eyes clouded with unfallen tears.
“I apologize if I’m interrupting.”
“Of course not, go on,” Peter says.
“There’s been a tragedy.”
“Tragedy?”
“It’s Mrs. Carlyle. Her husband drowned their child in the kitchen before taking his own life. Cut his own throat.”
Peter’s eyes open wide in feigned shock. He raises his hand to cover the upturned corners of his mouth.
“Oh dear,” he says, “Oh dear, this is all my fault.”
“You mustn’t blame yourself.”
“I should have tried to save them sooner.”
“It is not your doing. No one could have seen this coming.”
Peter nods, trying with all his strength not to laugh from the grace of his charade.
“I suppose you’re right. Where is Mrs. Carlyle? How is she fairing?”
“She’s coming for orument.
“You have a fine horse, John,” the man says, his voice quiet but familiar. Soothing and trustworthy.
John keeps his revolver steuady all the while.
“Back away from the animal.”
“Do not be so hasty in your actions.”
The man raises his hands and steps forward. The beaten instrument lies against the crook of his thumb.
“That’s close enough,” John says.
The man halts his approach. He slides his fingers across the brim of his hat.
“Very well. As I said, you have a fine animal.”
“How do you know my name?”
“We knew each other many years.”
The voice. That voice. So familiar. So strange.
“Who are you?” John asks.
“You seek the Riders.”
“Who are you?”
“You seek the priest. The Tall Man.”
The Rider from the Black Rail. The man hired to kill the runaway and his son.
“The boy in the stagecoach,” John whispers.
“Is it all coming to you?”
The man smiles. His sight drifts towards the revolver clasped in John’s hand.
“Nice guns,” he says, “remember to keep the trigger loose and your finger around the guard. Don’t want you shooting the wrong folks."
John studies the man. Shade hides his features. His hair sticks out under the hat’s brim in random tuffs. He raises the harmonica to his lips. A broken tune fills the clear air, resonating on the wind, drifting with the breeze. His performance comes to a close and he lowers the instrument.
“His church is still several miles down this road. It will take you till nightfall to reach the town’s borders. Just head straight, you can’t miss it.”
“Thank you.”
The man glances down at the harmonica in his hand and wipes it with the bottom of his ratty shirt. He meets John’s confused gaze.
“Doesn’t sound nearly as good without the sunsets, does it?” he asks.
“Dad?”
The man’s smile fades and he breaks the connection. He focuses hard upon something beyond the boy. John turns in the direction of the stare. The road is empty. He looks back but the stranger has already gone.
John stands alone on the dusty path. A chilling breeze meets his skin and the shadows fade. The sun drifts out from behind the clouds to continue spreading its warmth. John makes his way to his horse and mounts the creature, rubbing the animal where the ghost, the man, whatever he was, had touched it.
***
Peter stands before the crowd of worshippers with his hands raised to the sky. Rivers of colorful light filter through stained glass, splashing arches of rainbow across the floors and walls of the church. His hair bathes in the glow beneath the window, voice resounds through the cathedral.
“My children, my friends, we have gathered here to honor a great woman, a great woman whose most precious gifts were snatched away from her. Mrs. Carlyle.”
All eyes turn upon the woman. She sits with her head bowed and hands folded in her lap. Some worshipers reach out to pat her back or whisper words of comfort. Father Maxwell kneels beside her and places his hand upon her shoulder. He glances up and meets Peter's gaze. His eyes shine through, crystallized and pure, untrusting for the briefest of moments.
Peter realizes everyone is watching. Soft beads of sweat rise against his forehead. He wipes his brow and struggles to continue.
“And—and we…we honor her.”
He clears his throat and straightens his composure, breathing clear, the image of Maxwell’s gaze still burning fierce in his mind.
“My followers, I do not pretend to understand our Lord’s divine will. I will not lie to you by saying I myself have never felt anger with Him but remember that it is His will, not ours, that decides our fates. Our divine father always has a reason. We may not see that reason now, more likely we will never truly understand the path He has set out for us, but I can tell you one thing; we shall survive. Mrs. Carlyle, you shall survive. One day, many years from now, you will look upon this horrible act and see that there was always a reason, always a message. I know your heart grows weary, but you shall survive.”
Mrs. Carlyle meets his words with pitiful eyes. Peter makes his way down the aisle and stands before the woman. Maxwell lets go of her shoulder and steps aside allowing Peter all the room he needs to perform. Peter stares hungrily at the woman, his hazel eyes feeding upon her like a wild dog, drinking in her pain. He places his hand upon her cheek.
“Mrs. Carlyle, I need you to speak. I want you to repeat what I say.”
The woman nods.
“I need you to say ‘It was my Lord’s will.’”
Mrs. Carlyle shakes her head. Her bottom lip trembles.
“You need to say it.”
“It was my Lord’s will,” she whispers.
Peter smiles and continues.
“I do not understand his will.”
“I do not understand his will.”
“But I accept it.”
“I accept it.”
Peter grasps her shoulder tight. His nails dig into her delicate skin. She tries to pull away but he holds her in place, fingers locked around the bottom of her chin.
“My family is better off dead.”
Maxwell touches Peter’s arm.
“That’s enough, Peter.”
“Release me.”
“Leave her be.”
“Release me, old man!” Peter spits.
Maxwell steps away as if burnt. Peter turns back to Mrs. Carlyle. Venom drips with each word that rolls off his tongue.
“Say it, they’re better off dead.”
“My family is better off dead.”
“For now they live eternal.”
“For now they live eternal.”
“In our Savior’s glory.”
“In our Savior’s glory,” she finishes. Her shoulders shudder as she weeps.
Peter glances up and meets the eyes of his followers.
“She is clean.”
They cheer, crying out to the heavens, praising their savior’s name. Peter turns back to Mrs. Carlyle but she’s left. Father Maxwell sits in her place. His crystal eyes drive deep.
***
The stagecoach rumbles to a stop. Michael and his father exit the compartment. From atop the carriage a scraggly younger man leaps to the ground. He breaks into a smile that manages to show every inch of his teeth, including the two missing on the right side.
“Time to switch, Robert,” he says, patting his brother on the back.
“Already?”
“You know the deal, two hours each. Mine are up. Trust me, I’ve been counting.”
Michael runs up and hugs the man.
“Hey, Uncle Jesse! “
“Easy, kid, I’m not as young as you,” the man says. He pretends to gasp for breath.
“You ain’t exactly a prize winner when it comes to looks either,” Robert remarks.
“Funny. Now I have two hours to go over how great that joke was and you have two hours to come up with something better.”
“Sure,” Robert mutters as he mounts the ladder and takes his seat atop the carriage.
Jesse helps Michael up into the coach and closes the door. With the crack of whip, the carriage sets off. Michael sits with his arms dangling outside the window as he watches the road go by. Jesse chuckles and removes his hat, tossing it down.
“Am I really that bad of company that you already wish your pa was back here?”
“Of course not!” Michael shouts over the rumble of the carriage wheels.
Jesse tousles the boy’s hair.
“Just kidding with you. You know you should keep your hair like that, looks distinguished.”
“Distinguished?” Michael asks.
“Really important.”
The kid nods. Jesse sighs. He stares off into the passing plains.
“Learned a new word today, huh?” he asks.
“Yep.”
“You're almost nine now. Ten more days, right?”
“Nine.”
“Nine days. Wish your mother was here to see this.”
“Me too.”
Michael drops down from the window and takes the seat across from his uncle.
“You miss her?”
“Yeah.”
“So do I. She was a pretty neat lady, like the sister I never had."
Michael doesn’t reply. He sits with his head bowed. Jesse touches his shoulder.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” the boy says.
“You scared?”
“Yeah.”
Michael meets his uncle’s concerned gaze.
“Are you?” he asks.
“Am I what?”
“Are you scared?”
“Of course, you’d have to be crazy not to be.”
“Then my dad’s crazy.”
Jesse chuckles and shakes his head.
“No. He’s just a strong guy,” he says.
“Like you?”
“No, not like me, he’s a lot stronger.”
“He’s my dad,” Michael says. He beams with innocent pride.
“Yes he is.”
Michael stares at his uncle’s smile. Jesse notices the boy out of the corner of his eye.
“What?”
“How’d you lose those teeth?”
“What, these teeth?” Jesse asks, slipping his tongue between the hollow space.
“Yeah,” Michael replies.
“It’s a long story.”
“We got two hours.”
Jesse slaps his knee.
“You got the humor from our side of the family, I’ll give you that.”
His nephew waits patiently, ignoring the joke.
“Oh right…the teeth thing. Well, I was about…I don’t know, sixteen? Anyways, I’d known this girl my whole life—” Jesse begins but his nephew interrupts.
“Was this girl Aunt Sarah?”
“You want me to tell the story or not?”
Michael’s cheeks flush red.
“Sorry," he says.
“No problem. Yes, it was Aunt Sarah. And as I was saying, before a little badger interrupted me, there was this girl. I’d know her many years, always loved her. Since, geez, since I was your age I knew I loved her. First time I saw her I poked your dad and said, ‘That’s the woman I’m going to marry.’ Course I was ten years old at the time so he just punched me in the shoulder and—”
“You’re talking too much, Uncle Jesse.”
Jesse shakes himself out of the nostalgia. It’s his turn to blush.
“Right. Sorry about that, you know how I get.”
“Yep.”
“Anyways, I’d always loved her, but I never got around telling her. Well when you’re sixteen you start courting girls you like.”
“Yuck.”
“You won’t think that way in seven years.”
“Seven years and nine days.”
“That’s right, now shut up. So I never got around to asking your Aunt Sarah if she liked me back. Almost lost her. She went with a fella by the name of Lloyd. Big fella. Twice my size. And he treated her like horse sh—poop. He went with another girl without even telling your aunt and that hurt her, made her cry. The man was so stupid that he didn’t realize what he was losing. So naturally, being a sixteen year old madly in love with a wronged woman, I challenged him to a fight.”
“Like a duel?” Michael asks with widened eyes.
“No, like a fight. With fists.”
“And what happened?”
Jessie clicks his tongue against his teeth and stares up at the ceiling.
“Well the guy was twice my size, so he pretty much beat the piss out of me,” he says, “by the way, don’t tell your pa I used that word.”
“What word?”
“Never mind. One of the punches he got in knocked my back teeth out. Found them later that day in a puddle. So he leaves me there a mess and your Aunt Sarah comes and holds me in her arms and being the bloodied, smitten teenager I was, I told her I loved her.”
His nephew giggles.
“Really?”
“Really. Two years later we were married. Matter of fact I still have those two teeth, had them in two separate little boxes. We each kept one.”
“Gross.”
“Maybe, but we loved each other. People do weird things when they’re in love.”
“Like challenge giants to fights?” Michael asks.
“Like challenging giants to fights. You can make it through anything when you’re in love. And you never forget them,” Jessie whispers, poking his nephew’s chest with his finger, “so I’m telling you right now, don’t you ever forget your mom. Don’t ever stop loving her. If you love someone you never back down, because if you wait too long you’ll lose them.”
Michael smiles.
“So do you still love Aunt Sarah?” he asks.
“Kid, I love her with all my heart. I just have to wait a while till I get to see her again. But I can handle that. I’m pretty sure she can too.”
Jessie and Michael sit in silence. Jessie reaches into his pocket and draws a deck of cards. He shuffles them in a whirlwind of black and red.
“Enough stories, why don’t we play some poker?”
***
Gabriel stands over Peter’s desk and stares down at the opened package. A strange force calls to him, egging him on, driving him to this letter. He glances around the room even though he knows he is alone. A voice inside his head urges him forward, daring to question his fighting morality. He reaches out and grabs the envelope.
“Can I help you with something?”
Peter stands in the doorway carefully flicking a coin over his knuckles in smooth rhythm. Gabriel fumbles the package.
“My word,” Gabriel gasps, clutching his pounding heart through his chest, “You startled me, Peter. I left my bible at home and I was wondering if I could see yours. I need a few psalms for my next sermon and you always underline the best passages.”
Peter continues to stare. The coin moves with blinding speed.
“Neat trick.”
“My father taught me it when I was a boy. They say that if a coin shines when the trick is done it means the performer holds a terrible secret in their heart.”
The quarter blazes.
“You have a secret?”
“Indeed I do, Gabriel.”
Gabriel stoops to pick up the envelope. Peter nails it down with his boot and the startled priest leaps back. Peter retrieves the envelope and slides it underneath the reading lamp’s light, studying the contents.
“Nothing’s moved.”
“Why would it have?” Gabriel asks.
“Yes…why would it?”
Gabriel shifts towards the desk.
“May I borrow one of your bibles, Peter?”
“By all means.”
Peter slithers around his desk and opens the drawer a crack. He chucks the envelope inside and reaches in. His hands close around the curved blade.
“Gabriel, did you open the envelope?”
“Of course not.”
“Gabriel…”
Peter withdraws the knife and slides it behind his back, hidden from view.
“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?” he asks.
“Never.”
Gabriel steps back. Peter watches him still. His eyes swirl in their darkened pools. A rumble rises from outside.
Gabriel turns towards the sound and Peter returns the weapon to the drawer. He approaches the window to his office and peers out through the glass. Down the road a stagecoach approaches.
Atop the carriage, guiding the working steeds to their standstill, sits the runaway.
***
The Tall Man stands outside the rickety shack. Mottled wood hangs creaking from weak hinges as wind blows through the holes in the roof. Sunlight shines in as he forces the lock. He waits for signs of movement. None come. He enters.
Thick lines of dust and sand kick up beneath his feet to further pollute the stale air. Rotten oak lines the floors of the hallway as The Tall Man makes his way through the building, sweeping the rooms one by one, his drawn revolver glittering in the shallow light. He turns back to the hallway. A single door closes to the outside world.
Light spills from the bottom of the doorway and trickles out into the hall. Soft rays twinkle across the ground in kaleidoscopes of color. The Tall Man places his ear to the cold wood. No sound. He raises his free hand and lets it drift forward, hesitating for the briefest of moments, then turns the handle.
A flash of light dances across The Tall Man’s face. Beyond the doorway lies the bedroom, cramped and desolate. Tattered pictures line the room held up in filth covered frames. A bedside lamp sits dimly lit in the corner, a pile of used bulbs in a mildewed box beside the nightstand.
A crooked bed lies in the center of the room. From beneath the moth-eaten sheets rustles emerge. A ragged voice calls out.
“Who is that? Paul, is that you?”
The Tall Man remains silent, hidden by shadows that lie beyond the reach of the weak lamp.
“Paul?”
“Paul is dead,” the Rider replies.
The Tall Man emerges from the darkness to tower over the frail form. A shrunken, wrinkled man stares up at the Rider. He shifts under the covers and groans. He smacks his cracked lips. His jaw draws tight.
“You,” he says.
“Me.”
“I knew you’d come.”
“Of course you did.”
“Ever since you met my boy I knew you would bring him to his fall.”
The Tall Man chuckles. He removes a pair of poorly rolled cigarettes and a match box from his breast pocket. He strikes the head, briefly illuminating calloused hands. The match dies with a plume of smoke that drifts toward the ceiling and vanishes into dark.
“Care for a smoke?” The Tall Man asks, holding the second stick out.
“You know I can’t.”
“I know.”
The man shakes beneath the sheets. He glances around for some sign of hope but knows none exists.
“What did you do to my son?” he asks.
“I did not kill him.”
“Liar.”
“The name of the man who murdered your son was John, a young boy. Your foolish child lived with him. He cared for him, took him in, and when the boy was strong again he abandoned your son to die. Your son died alone, much the same as you. Quaint, isn’t it?”
The old man lifts his head and raises his arms with sudden grace. His hands lock upon the side of the bed stand sending bottles of medicine and crusted over dishes tumbling to the floor. Wheezing breathes shudder forth as he struggles to stay up. The Tall Man watches this display of strength with quiet interest.
“I know that’s a lie. I know he would never let a heartless man into his house. My son was a strong man, a good man.”
“Your son was a murderer, no better than I.”
The man’s arms give way and he falls back, robbed of all his former glory. His ravaged laugh carries through the empty halls.
“My son may have sinned but he was a better man than you,” he whispers.
“Yet I’m still breathing.”
“Don’t worry, God will strike you down soon enough.”
“There is no God,” The Tall Man replies.
“He will strike you down through another, through one of his servants.”
The Tall Man shakes his head and removes the cigarette from his lips, letting it plummet to the ground. He snubs the butt out with the toe of his boot, grinding it into the wooden planks. He raises his hand from his lap, revolver clenched tight between his fingers.
Paul's father watches the Rider, his face as stone.
“Go on then, kill me. Kill the last of us.”
“You’re not the last.”
The old man raises his eyebrows. He scoffs the Rider before him.
“So there is another. Charlie’s gone. It must be Hank,” he says.
“Hank is dead.”
“Then it’s his boy. How fitting. Hank was always the strongest.”
“No. Not the strongest.”
“His son will find you.”
“He’s nothing but a slimy bastard, the spawn of Hank’s whore.”
The old man smiles.
“You always loved her.”
The Tall Man returns the revolver to its holster and removes the wool pillow from behind the frail man’s head, the time for words past.
“Your son awaits you,” he replies.
The Tall Man shoves the cushion against the man’s face. His pray thrashes with the last of its strength, untrimmed nails scratching his face. The shudders come next, groans and gulps of desperate air that rise from beneath the fabric. The man’s twitching hands fall to the side and come to a stop. Urine soaks the sheets, waste draining the last of his strength.
Paul’s father lies still.
***
John kneels in the middle of the road and shifts his hand through the dirt, tracing the imprints ground into the earth. This is where the coach stopped. Footsteps scatter in all direction. John stands and wipes the dirt from his hands. The tracks are only a few hours old.
He glances down the barren roadway, Garrison still nowhere in sight. By now the runaway and his son have reached its borders. The priest will see them, dispose of them according to his master’s wishes.
John will need to hurry. Another family will not be destroyed. Too many have died already. John mounts his horse and digs his spurs into its sides, following the runaway’s path. Their fate rests in his hands.
He must fly.
