Dakota territory, South-east corner

.

Zeb frowned at his silent, sullen partner. Sam Sharp had been a man on a mission ever since leaving Buffalo Hump’s camp. He seemed to be possessed by the invisible hand of urgency, the good time they had at the Red River station was but a memory now, in short— Sam had become a grumpy pain in the ass.
Zeb didn’t think he had to point out the obvious, but he did anyways. “Besides the fact that it’s getting late, that wall of black clouds rolling our way ain't likely to change direction anytime soon.”
Maybe he did have to point it out, because Sam pulled his horse up short, as if seeing the dark wall of nasty weather for the first time.
Frustrated, Sam swiped the hat off of his head and ran his fingers through his hair while studying the vast prairie around them. Finally, he turned to Zeb. “You’ve been through these parts, where do we go?” he asked gruffly.
“If my memory serves me right… were getting close to Fort John. We aint gonna have time to make it all the way there, but there’s some nice thick stands of trees on the way. If we ride fast we might be able to make it there.”
Stuffing his hat back on his head, Sharp said grimly, “Let’s shake it loose then. I don’t like the looks of that mess heading our way.”
Zeb nodded, “Looks like a gulley washer, that’s fer sure.”
Thirty minutes later they were hit with the first round of damp wind. It sprang up suddenly, then continued getting stronger, picking up speed, the farther they rode. The dark wall ahead showed streaks of light, and the sounds of distant thunder reached their ears.
The wind howled as the first fat drops of rain pelted their coats and bare faces. Heads bent against the wind and rain, they pushed onward, into the storm.
The storm had reached an almost deafening pitch, like the roar at the base of a thousand foot waterfall, when Zeb chanced a peek from under the brim of his hat.
His blood turned to ice in his veins.
The wide black wave that approached them was growing larger by the second, crashing across the prairie like a living tidal wave with the volume and speed of a flash flood.
Zeb’s stunned gaze skipped to his partner.
Ten feet in front of him, unaware of the rolling death heading their way, Sam rode huddled over, his head bent against the pounding rain. Water poured in a steady stream from the brim of his wilted hat, to the pommel of his saddle.
Zeb screamed Sam's name, but the turbulent wind whipped the words from his mouth and tossed them carelessly over his shoulder. Drumming his heels into his horse's sides he tried to catch up to his partner.
He had to warn him.
Sensing Zeb’s panic, or maybe catching a glimpse of what lie ahead, Ol’ Ugly reared back on his haunches, shaking his big ugly head back and forth, balking at the insane request from it's rider. He knew there was danger up ahead, and every part of his brain said to turn and run the other way.
Zeb sat the upheaval and then jabbed his heels into the horse’s flesh again as soon as the animal regained it’s footing. The horse jumped sideways and skittered back, it’s long ears pinned flat against the back of it’s head as it screamed in protest.
It was no use. That horse wasn’t going anywhere, except for away from the imminent danger that was bearing down upon them.
Finally, out of sheer frustration, Zeb yanked his pistol.
If he couldn’t get Sam’s attention, they’d both be dead in a matter of minutes. He fingered off five rounds, straight up into the air with no response from the man in front of him.
One bullet left.
Zeb aimed for the crown of Sam’s hat. If he could just nick it, that would be enough to get his partner’s attention, but as he tried to draw a bead the feisty animal beneath him pranced and dipped. Getting an accurate shot would be near impossible. He took one last longing, pleading look at the iron in his hand and took aim...
Sam Sharp rode huddled against the elements, his mind replaying the conversation with Buffalo Hump for the thousandth time since leaving the Comanche village, when something hard punched him in the middle of the back.

Chapter

Grunting in pain, Sam saw something land beside him on the ground. It was a gun. Zeb’s pistol. Reigning his horse to the side, he squinted through the downpour.
Zeb was fighting the frightened animal beneath him as it bucked and twisted, it’s eyes wide, nostrils flared and ears pinned.
“What in the hell?” he muttered.
Sam was getting ready to dismount to retrieve the old man’s weapon, when he caught sight of Zeb frantically pointing, his friends eyes just as wide and scared as Ol’ Ugly’s, and he was yelling something, but in buffeting wind none of the words reached Sam’s ears.
Shaking his head, Sam frowned, “What?

”
Again, Zeb pointed, waving his arm dramatically.
Sam muttered a curse as he turned his face into the stinging rain, “What in the…”
His stomach dropped, as a cold fear slide down his spine.
Buffalo.

And not just a few buffalo. Thousands of buffalo.

The massive formation rushed towards them, crashing across the prairie like a big brown tidal wave. In their panic, the herd had spread to at least a half a mile wide, it's edges growing by the second as each animal fought it's way to the forefront, each trying to outrun the raging storm that drove them on.
Sam swung back around, the gun laying forgotten in the mud, as he stabbed his heels into the horse's sides.


The dark figure on horseback sat upon the hill, coolly studying the ranch below. The wind whistled and howled, tearing at the stranger's clothes like a crazed animal, but for all it's fury, it went completely unnoticed. The sole focus was the ranch house, and more importantly, it's occupants.
The windows blazed a warm lemon-yellow light in the growing darkness, and only occasional shadows from within drifted past, temporarily disturbing the glow. The grounds outside of the house were barren, not a sign of life anywhere. The only movement came from a lone windmill that stood stoic, marking the well in the yard, it's blades spinning wildly out of control.
Satisfied, the stranger gigged the horse down the hill and rode towards the dark barn, unconcerned by the storm that raged around her.

The barn door burst open, caught by the buffeting wind and slammed against the building, it's rusty hinges squealing loudly in protest.
The rancher ushered his hysterical daughter inside and threw her onto the hay-strewn floor. Turning, he hung the oil lamp from a peg on the wall, then stripped off his soaking wet coat, hanging it on a peg as well.
He took his time, all the while his daughter sobbed and pleaded.
"Daddy, please! Tell me what I did! I didn’t do anything, I promise!"
Her father slowly unbuttoned his sleeves, then rolled them up to his elbows, a deep scowl lining his weathered face.
"Daddy!" she cried, "Please, tell me what I did!"
Removing the sodden hat from his head, he tossed it onto a stool before talking. "Your mother seen ya. Said you were at the well with that boy," his voice was tight, void of all emotion. "Said you let him touch you..."
The girl was on her knees, her long dark hair plastered to her head, her thin dress soaked, and clinging to her shivering body. "NO!" she screamed hysterically. "She's lying! I went to the well but there wasn't anyone else there, I swear!" she sobbed.
Raising his voice for the first time, he yelled, "You calling your ma a liar!"
The girl shrunk back from the sharp sting of the angry words.
"Is this what happens when you turn fourteen— you turn into a whore!"
"NO!"
The wind howled through the cracks, as the storm continued it's onslaught outside.
"No daughter of mine will act like a charlatan," he said matter-of-factly, calm once again. "Take off your dress." he ordered, his voice deathly quiet.
"No, please! Daddy, don'…."
"Quiet!" he boomed. "You'll do as your told."
Completely mortified and humiliated, the girl began pulling the wet dirty hem over her head, her small hands shaking violently. Once the dress was off, she clutched it tightly in front of her, trying to cover as much of her thin naked body as she could.
Impatient, he walking over and jerked the thin material from her hands, tossing it away. Glaring down at her, he ordered, "Stand up and turn around. Grab the edge of that stall."
Numbly, the girl did as she was told.
He undid his belt slowly, while he mumbled, "No daughter of mine will end up a whore. Your Ma, she was the same way. Always flirting with the men. She would'a spread her legs at the drop of a hat for any man that would have her." He sighed loudly, as he pulled the strap of leather from around his waist. "But I taught her different. I taught her how a proper lady should act. And now… I'll teach you."
The girl held the edge of the stall in a death grip, her knuckles white, teeth clenched, she waited.
He raised the wide strap of leather, then brought it down. Whack.

The sound of leather striking bare skin was drowned out by the girls scream.
He raised it again. Whack.

Then again, over and over while she screamed, until her knees threatened to buckle, her back a maze of crimson welts.
Just outside the circle of light, the stranger watched in silence. Coal black eyes glittered with fury.
Outside the barn, the storm reached a new crescendo. The whole building shook, the old timbers groaning and cracking in protest, the oil lantern on the wall spit and sputtered, the flame dimming, then extinguishing completely.
The inside of the barn was plunged into total darkness.
The rancher cursed and grumbled as he felt his way over to the wall.
Outside, a violent burst of lightening cracked the sky, immediately followed by another and another, as the thunder exploded around them. The storm was directly above them.
Using the light from the storm outside, he located the lantern hanging on the wall. Removing the chimney he struck a match, and touched the flickering flame to the wick. The light spit and sputtered then blazed brightly once again.
Replacing the chimney he turned back to his daughter and froze.
Standing not eight feet away from them was a new presence. A stranger.
Dressed all in black from head to toe, the persons head was bowed, their face hidden behind the wide brim of the black felt hat.
Momentarily stunned, the rancher finally found his voice, "Who in the hell are you," he yelled, "And what are you doing in my barn!"
His daughter, frightened by his sudden shouting, shrieked and backpedaled into the far corner.
Without lifting their head, the figure before him spoke gruffly. "Get your clothes on, girl."
"Just who in the hell do you think you are!" the rancher shouted. "That's my daughter, and she'll do as I say. Betsy— you stay right where you are."
The rancher watched as the stranger lifted their head.
Black pools glittered and glared at him from within a feminine face.
The stranger spoke, "She listens to you no longer. Girl, get your dress on, then go to the last stall on the left. There's a black horse there, you stay with him until I fetch you."
The girl, absolutely mortified by what the woman had obviously witnessed, snatched up her clothes and scampered gratefully down the isle, retreating into the dark.
The rancher, completely outraged, demanded once again, "Who are you!"
The woman glared at him, her lips pulling back. "Right now, I'd say I'm your worst nightmare."
"You take your ass on out of my barn and get off my property. Now!"
The rancher about hit the roof when the young woman simply continued glaring at him. "Your done giving orders around here... Isaiah

."
Isaiah froze, his wide eyes narrowing, "How do you know my name?"
Angel took a step forward, speaking calmly, softly. "Oh, I know all about you, Isaiah Fisher. I know of all the things in which you don't speak. Secret things. Dark things.
The man spit and sputtered, "This aint none of your damn business!"
"Now, that’s where your wrong, Isaiah. It is my business, and I take my business very seriously. And you and me— we got business."
His fists clenched at his side, "Go to hell!"
The young woman's smile slightly widened, "Not just yet. In the mean time… why don’t you take me to your wife."
In a fit of rage, he threw the belt to the ground. "You fucking bitch! Get off of my property. Now!"
In a flash, the woman's smile disappeared, her coal black eyes catching the light, the flames illuminating, dancing from within them. Her voice came low, but deadly clear. "It's time for you to shut up."
The rancher felt the cold hand of terror rake it's fingernails up his spine. Shivering, he screamed again, more out of fright than anger this time. "Fuck you, you fucking cunt! You have ten seconds to get out of my barn before I call my men."
Angel stepped towards him, lifting the shotgun in her right hand as she walked.
The rancher backed away until his shoulders were pressed against the wall.
Angel stood before him, twin barrels nudging his clenched lips, pinning his head to the cold wood. "Open up," she ordered.
The rancher shook his head frantically, sweat pouring down his face as he stared into inhuman eyes.
She lowered the gun to her side as she stepped forward. Ever so slowly, she tilted her head to the side and brought her face to his, "I've seen your thoughts…" she whispered.
Her voice was light and lyrical, but each word cut like the edge of a sharp razor, ran slowly upon his skin. "I know the images that float through your mind when you look at your daughter, Isaiah. Incestuous images. She's so young, so beautiful… sooo innocent. So much like her mother. Her real mother. Not that imposter who shares your bed at night. "
Isaiah turned his head away until the side of his face scraped against the rough wood, but he still couldn't escape the sickening truth behind her words.
"It's that innocence that you seek, and every day it grows harder and harder for you to resist. It wouldn’t have been long before you took what you wanted. Before you killed her completely with your depraved love."
"No." he whispered.
"Already her youthful heart grows cold and empty. Not unlike this old barn. The shame and filth you've pushed upon her grows like cobwebs in the deepest recesses, it covers the windows to her soul with dirt and grime. Her heartbeats are hollow, monotonous, constricted in the death grip of misery and despair where you’ve condemned it."
As she spoke, she ran the tip of her finger lightly along the side of his face. "I'm here to rectify the situation, Isaiah. I'm here… to save her."
Where her fingernail had touched, blood seeped to the surface of his skin, pooled, then ran in a single rivulet, dripping from the edge of his jaw onto his collar.
Isaiah's breath came in short shallow gasps. His hollow cheeks appeared even more sunken, as his eyelids drooped in defeat. "Please," he whispered low enough to insure that his daughter wouldn’t hear. "I can change."
Angel slowly shook her head, "You wont."
"I will! I swear I will," he pleaded desperately, turning to face the stranger once again. "You've shown me the error of my ways. I promise, once you leave, things will be different. I wont look at her. I wont touch her, I wouldn’t do that—ever!"
The woman before him stared into his eyes with an intensity he'd never felt before. It was like she was looking straight into his soul— seeing things that no human ever possibly could.
Holding his breath he waited.
It felt like an eternity had passed before she finally blinked.
Her eyes hardened, the light within them blazing even brighter as she whispered solemnly. "You will— if I don't stop you first."


Sam and Zeb streaked across the prairie, their horses necks stretched flat, their noses pointed in a north-eastern direction, each trying to beat the edge of the charging buffalo herd.
Sam sent up a quick prayer, praying that none of their horses hooves found their way to any of the hundreds of prairie-dog holes. The speed they were traveling would snap a horses leg in two like a dry matchstick.
Sam chanced a quick look behind them. The buffalo were closing in.
Their big shaggy heads bobbed up and down, their eyes wild. Tongues lolled in their exertion, their breath becoming one, filling the air with the sounds of their labored breathing. Horns clacked sharply together as they ran side by side, crashing wildly across the prairie.
Zeb followed directly behind Sam, his packhorse straining on it's tether, loaded down with all of their gear. But he was lagging further behind, pulling Zeb back with him, as the tense seconds ticked by.
Sam veered his horse to the left and yanked back on the reigns. The horse arched his neck, chewing at the bit, fighting Sam as he tried to slow him down. Sam jerked harder. The horses legs stiffened beneath him, slowing him down just long enough for Zeb to catch up.
Sam grabbed for the knife at his waist as Zeb flew past. The long blade glimmered briefly, before being plunged down, it's razor sharp edge slicing through the taut rope.
Released from his burden, Ol' Ugly took off like a shot, his legs churning, his hooves kicking up the muddy soil beneath him. Sam loosened the grip on his own reigns and gave his gelding a solid kick. It didn’t need much urging to get the hell out of there, and quickly caught up to Zeb. Side by side the men rode hell bent for leather.
As the land beneath them began it's slow incline towards the crest of the low ridge, Sam looked back again.
They had just barely cleared the edge of the buffalo herd, but Zeb's packhorse wasn’t so lucky. Sam watched through the driving rain as the horse, laden down with all of their wet gear, stumbled and then fell. It somersaulted, flipping ass over end when the wild raging herd caught up to, then over took it.
The horse's panicked squeal was cut short as it was trampled under the heavy pounding hooves of the stampeding buffalo.
The men's horses carried them up the rise and down the other side. Bringing their mounts to a sliding stop, the men looked at each other through the rain, neither believing how narrowly they had just escaped certain death.
Their elation was short lived, however.
"You reckon Barney made it?" he asked, gazing towards the top of the ridge, as if hoping that the packhorse would appear at any moment.
Sam shook his head sadly.
Zeb slowly wiped the rain from his face. "I didn’t think so," he murmured glumly, then sighed, his narrow shoulders rising and falling. "He was a good hoss." he said, with a slight hitch in his voice.
Sam nodded slowly in heartfelt understanding. Men like Zeb didn’t have family. They led solitary lives, sometimes going for months before seeing another living soul. And in their loneliness, oftentimes their animals became just like their family. He could see the old man was taking the loss especially hard, and suspected that was the reason. "That he was, Zeb. That he was."

It was late into the evening by the time they reached the shelter of the tall trees. They were cold and soaked to the bone as they went about unrolling their bedrolls. That was the only thing either of them still had, and that was only because they had been tied behind their saddles.
Earlier, after the buffalo were long gone, Sam had rode out to still form of Barney the packhorse. Trying not to look directly at the poor horse, or what was left of him, Sam had kicked around at what was left of their supplies. He found a few pots, smashed flat and ground into the mud. Their food was nowhere to be seen. Everything was gone. Either buried far beneath the dirt and mud, or carried and kicked along by a hundred sharp hooves.
As the men snuggled down into their wet blankets, Sam spoke. "Tomorrow we'll ride the rest of the way to the fort you were talking about. I don’t have much money on me, but we should be able to get a few things."
Zeb didn’t answer, but Sam heard a sniff come from the old man's direction.
"I'm real sorry about what happened to Barney, Zeb."
After a moment, he heard Zeb clear his throat. "It weren't yer fault. These things just happen I guess."
"Yeah, but that don’t make it any easier, does it?"
"No, I guess not." After a long moment, Zeb spoke again. "Sam?"
"Yeah."
"Do you think that maybe you could say a little prayer for ol' Barney? He sure was a good ol' hoss."
Sam's stomach tightened at the thought. "I don’t think the Lord is on speaking terms with me right now."
Zeb thought a moment before he answered, "I don’t believe I've ever heard any mention of the Good Lord turning a def ear to anybody."
Zeb's reply hit Sam hard. How could he refuse his friend something that obviously meant so much to him? The old man was in pain, and if a few words brought him comfort…
He began quietly, "Our Father, who art in heaven…


The next morning dawned clear and bright, and as the men prepared to ride on into the fort. There was no mention of what had taken place the previous day, or the loss that Zeb had suffered, or the fact that he had openly sobbed while Sam had prayed for his recently dearly departed horse.
"Beautiful day, isn't it?" Zeb said casually, as they tied their bedrolls behind their saddle.
"Just glorious," Sam smiled. "How far do you think the Fort is, Zeb?"
"Oh, I reckon we got us a good five miles or so. If'n we hurry, we could probly get us some breakfast somewhere's."
As Sam slid his butt into the saddle, he looked over to his friend, "I don’t know how your financial situation is… but mines not real good."
From the back of Ol' Ugly, Zeb gave him a blank stare. "How's my what?"
Sam smiled at his friends confusion. "I don’t know about you, but I aint got much money."
"Oh… Oh! Well, why in the hell dint ya just say that in the first place?" he groused. Without giving Sam a chance to answer, he continued, "Wall, I aint got much, but I got me enough."
Sam chuckled at his friends odd, round-about answer. "Okay… Well, I guess we better head out then."
"Yeah, I reckon we better, if'n we ever plan on getting there."
Sam reigned his horse to side to keep Zeb from seeing his smile.
A good four hours and some twenty miles later, they finally rode into the Fort. As they made their way up the street, a huge commotion outside of the jail drew their attention.
Twenty horse stood saddled, with riders on their backs. Men in the back were yelling for the people into the front speak up.
It looked like a fairly controlled mob.
Sliding up to a horseman in the back, Sam asked the man what all the fuss was about.
The man wore baggy, thread-bare, overall's and a floppy farmer's hat. Before he spoke, he spit out a long stream of brown tobacco juice. "We got us a killer on the loose, and we aim to track the bitch down and bring her to justice."
Sam heart sped up. "Her? As in, a woman killer? Are you sure?"
"Oh, it was a woman all right," the man nodded. "They got a witness."
Frowning, his mind racing, Sam asked, "Who was it that got killed?"
But the man didn’t answer, he just shushed him, "Here comes the Sheriff."
Sam and Zeb watched as a man wearing a sheriff's badge walked out from the doorway, crossed the boardwalk, then jumped up into the back of a wagon that was parked in the street.
"Listen up!" the man shouted, getting everyone's attention. "As you all know, Isaiah Fisher and his lovely wife, Maurine, were murdered last night. The ranch hands out there found their daughter this morning in the barn. After talking to her, the men went into the house and discovered the dead bodies of her parents, upstairs in their bedroom. Now, according to the daughter, we're looking for a female. She's dressed all in black, and she's riding a tall black horse. Now, I need to tell you, by the condition the bodies were found in, we're dealing with a real stone cold killer."
The sheriff looked around crowd, his expression conveying the seriousness nature of the matter at hand. "Nobody rides alone! You need to team up, preferably in groups of five, and if you come across a woman traveling alone that fits that description— your orders are to shoot her on sight."
Worried grumbles went up around the crowd. Shooting, killing a woman, was simply unheard of.
Waving his arms in the air, he silenced the crowd before speaking again. "We're not dealing with an ordinary female here, gentlemen. I wont go into detail, because there's women folk present," he said, glancing at a group of women who had gathered together on the boardwalk, "But, whoever this woman is… she's obviously insane. The Fisher's suffered un-godly torture, before they finally bled out— their bodies were completely mutilated."
Audible gasps went up around the crowd, and one rather portly woman on the boardwalk, swooned, then fainted dead away. Her friends tried desperately to keep her upright, but they lost that battle, and her body hit the boardwalk with a resounding thud.
Looking rather sheepish, the sheriff cut his speech short, "Just be careful out there. And, for the love of God, do not approach this woman. Kill her and bring the body back to me to collect your reward."
Someone from the crowd shouted, "How much is the reward?"
All of the men gathered about, held their breath, each waiting to hear the sheriff's response.
The sheriff walked to the end of the wagon bed and shouted quickly before he jumped down, "Fifty dollars to any man-jack that brings me her corpse!"
The posse erupted in chaotic excitement. Hoo-rah's went up around the crowd, then as one, the riders all reigned their horses north and took off in a collected gallop.
Only Sam and Zeb were left sitting on horseback in the middle of the street. Zeb wore a thoughtful look as he watched the riders disappear.
"You don’t suppose…"
Sam sighed as he swiped a hand down his face, "I have a bad feeling about this."
"Let's have us a little palaver with that sheriff."
After the crowd had dispersed, they had watched him walk back into the sheriff's office, and as they gigged their horses toward the building, they watched him re-emerge, and head back toward the wagon.
Seeing the two strangers approaching, he stopped and waited for them, a curious expression lining his face.
"Howdy, Sheriff." Zeb greeted the man as they pulled up. "We was wonderin' if'n we might have a word with ya."
The sheriff, upon closer inspection, must have come to the conclusion that they looked harmless. He cinched his hat down tighter on his head and started climbing up onto the deck. "I'm afraid I'm busy right now. In case you hadn't heard, we got a killer running around, and I got missing body parts I need to find before I box the bodies up."
"Missing body parts?" Sam asked, a knot already forming in his throat.
"Yeah, " the sheriff said as he settled into the wooden seat. "Isaiah Fisher's missing both of his eyeballs and his hands were cut off at the wrist. His poor wife had her tongue cut out and her chest ripped open. Doc said her heart was removed."
Sam wiped the sweat from his brow, his stomach pitching, "And you think that a woman did all that?"
"According to their daughter it was a woman. I know— it's hard to believe isn't it." The sheriff sighed as he remembered the gruesome scene back at the ranch, "As far as I can tell, they were whipped to death before their bodies were mutilated. Those folks' bedroom looks like the inside of a goddamn slaughterhouse."
Zeb whistled softly, "Jesus H. Christ." Then, realizing what he had said, he immediately apologized, "Sorry, Sam. I probly shouldn’t say that."
The sheriff eyed Sam carefully. "You a preacher or something?"
"Or something, is more like it." he answered, shooting Zeb a scowl.
Zeb, however, had seen the opportunity. "Wall, hell— I mean, heck, yeah he is. This here's Reverend Sharp, from down out'a Texas."
The sheriff looked at him skeptically. "Your from Texas?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you’re a reverend?"
Sam met the mans eye, but he couldn’t lie. "Was a reverend."
The sheriff nodded thoughtfully, "Well, you'll do. Could I get you two to ride on out to the Fisher ranch with me? I could use someone of your profession to say a few words over the deceased and perhaps have a word with their girl. We got us a preacher, but he only comes through town once a month or so."
Sam didn’t know what to say at first, but he did need more time with the man so he could figure out if the woman the posse went after could possibly be his Gracie. When he finally answered, he felt like a low-down, dirty fraud.
"Sure, Sheriff," he smiled weakly. "I would be honored to."

Sam left the upstairs room, choking down the taste of his own vomit. He took the stairs two at time and made a mad dash for the sweet smell of fresh air outside.
Staggering against the rail of the wrap-around porch, he inhaled huge gulps of air, trying to settle his queasy stomach.
"That bad, huh?"
"Oh yeah, it's that bad, Zeb."
Zeb whistled slowly again, "Jesu— I mean… Shit."
Sam watched the ranch hands mill about the yard like stray cattle. He could tell they were unsure about what to do with their boss gone. Most of them were huddled in small groups, their hands stuffed in their pockets, as they spoke quietly amongst themselves, occasionally eyeing the big house where the gruesome murders took place.
"Why wouldn’t those men be out looking for the person that killed their boss?" Sam mused. "You'd think they'd at least do it for the reward."
Zeb chose to ignore his friends ramblings, instead asking the more important question, "You think it was your girl, what done that to those folks?"
Sam, leaning against the rail for support, shook his head, trying to clear the garish images from it. "Zeb, I don’t know how any man could have stomached doing that. There was a rope that was thrown around an exposed timber beam in their room. The ends were noosed around each of their necks, then they were whipped, probably until one of them fell, in effect, strangling themselves and the other."
"Sweet Jesus."
"The room looked like some mad painter with a penchant for red, just splashed big buckets of crimson paint everywhere. Only, it wasn’t paint, it was blood. God, there was so much blood." He straightened, meeting the old man's eye, "Inside, my head is screaming, 'No', she couldn’t have done that— not my sweet Gracie. But in my heart… I'm afraid that she did."
Zeb, feeling a bit ill himself now, waved his hand, "Alright, I think I git the idea. Lord, what would cause a person to do something like that? You think these people had anything to do with what happened to her and her daddy?"
Sam frowned, "I don’t think so. I was able to ask the sheriff a few questions on our way upstairs. According to him, Mr. Fisher has lived here for years, and as far he knows, he never had anything to do with the war… Maybe we should talk to a few of his men."
"Sounds like a good idea to me, Sam. They'd know better than anyone, if'n Fisher had any skeletons hiding in his closet…"

Mack Clark wiped the sweat from the back of his neck with a dirty handkerchief. He was the ranch foreman, and probably knew old man Fisher better than any of the others.
"No, I don’t recollect him having anything to do with the War. Besides raising beeves to sell to the Fort, that is. He never mentioned having any kin, or the like, in the War between the States… Maybe the missus did, but I wouldn’t know anything about that. None of us ever talked to her."
Sharp frowned. "You've worked here for 13 years and you never talked to her?"
"Nope. Old man Fisher didn’t allowed that. He liked to keep his women on a pretty short leash, if you know what I mean."
"His women?" Zeb asked curiously. "You mean, he had more than one?"
Mack shook his head, "I meant her and her daughter, Betsy. That was a strict rule around here. We weren't never supposed to talk to the woman folk. Ever."
"That ever cause any problems that you know of?" Sam asked.
The cowboy studied the mountains far off into the distance while he chewed on the question. "Well, it hasn’t since I've been workin' here. But I believe something might of happened right before I hired on here."
"Like?" Sharp pressed.
The cowboy shrugged his shoulders, "I'm not rightly sure, but whatever it was, it caused Fisher to fire all the men in his outfit."
"All of them?"
"Yep. Every single one."
Sam was still having a hard time pinning Gracie as the killer. He had to find out for sure. "Did you or any of the men see anybody here last night?"
"Nope. We've all talked, and not a one of us seen anything out of the ordinary. And we definitely wouldn’t have heard anything with that crazy storm we had."
Sam could see how that would be possible, especially if the storm here had been as bad here as it had been once it had reached them out on the prairie.
"The sheriff said that the Fisher girl had seen someone? A woman?"
The foreman nodded, his weathered face taking on a worried cast, "That would be Betsy. Lenny found her in one of the stalls this morning while he was doing his chores."
"You mind if we speak to Lenny?"
"Nope, not at all." The foreman turned toward a group of standing about twenty feet away, "Lenny? You wanna come over here for a minute?"
Lenny, a tall, lanky cowboy wearing holey jeans, a faded flannel shirt, and a beat-up cowboy hat, began walking their way.
"These men here wanna ask you a few questions."
Lenny looked at Sam and Zeb guardedly. Sam stuck out his hand and introduced himself, "I'm Reverend Sam Sharp, and this here's my friend, Zeb Tucker."
The young cowboy seemed to visibly relax some, "Reverend Sharp?"
Sam nodded, feeling that little pang of guilt again, but he had found that by introducing himself as a man of God, people tended to let down their guard a little faster. And right now, the clock was ticking. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Gracie was out there someone being chased out by a mob of men with blood and dollar signs flashing in their eyes.
"I understand you found Betsy Fisher in the barn this morning?"
Lenny nodded, eager to tell his story, "Sure did. She was hiding in the last stall on the left, buried under some of the hay."
Sharps heart hammered in his chest as he got closer to finding out the truth. "She told you she had seen a woman?"
The lanky cowboy looked momentarily confused as Sam got right to the heart of the matter. "Not exactly," he drawled. "She got really scared when she seen me, so it took a little cajoling to get her to talk…"
"And," Sharp prodded anxiously. "What did she say?"
Lenny sighed, toeing the dirt with his boot "Well, it didn’t make any sense to me at the time…"
Sam wanted to slap the boy. Here he was, pussy-footin' around, and all Sam wanted to hear were the words. Who killed those people.
Lenny looked him in the eye, "She was a bit hysterical, you see…"
Sharp felt his fist clench at his side.
"At first she just kept saying the same thing, over and over…"
Sam was thinking about what it would feel like to punch Lenny right in the mouth. Hard knuckles, meeting soft flesh. Teeth cracking under the pressure.
"An Angel came and saved me from my daddy."
Sam's heart sank.
"The Angel told me to stay here. An Angel came and saved me from my daddy… Over and over she said it. She was still saying it when I left her there."
Angel.
Sam blinked. "The girls still in there?"
"Yep. She wont come out fer nothing'."
"She say anything else?"
"The sheriff talked to her when he rode out the first time this morning. He was able to get a description of the woman, but he couldn’t talk her out of that stall either."
Zeb clapped a soft hand on his shoulder, "You should go on in and talk to her, Sam. Maybe you'd have better luck."
But all of a sudden Sam didn’t want to talk to her, he felt miserable. It felt like his whole world had just spun completely out of control.
Gracie? Angel? Murdered and dismembered those people? How could that be?
Zeb gently pulled him so he was facing the barn. Giving him a soft nudge, he said, "I think the girl pro'bly needs to talk to somebody…"
Sam's feet moved forward on their own accord. But after only a few steps, he stopped and spun around. "Why would that girl need saving from her own father?"
Mack Clark grimaced, then he and Lenny exchanged guilty looks, "Her pa was… kinda hard on her."
Sam's eyes narrowed, "Hard, how?"
Neither man would look at him.
"Hard on her, how?" he demanded.
"He could be a bit… heavy handed, at times." Lenny mumbled, looking guilty.
He should feel guilty, Sharp thought as his blood began to boil. The whole lot of them should feel guilty! They all knew that Fisher beat his girl and not a one of them had had the balls to stop him?
Angel did, his mind whispered.
"Anything happen yesterday that might of lead Fisher to be a little, heavy handed, with her last night?"
Both men shrugged. "It didn’t take much," Mack mumbled weakly.

An hour later, Sharp walked out of the barn and went in search of the sheriff. He found him and the doc over at the well washing the blood from their hands in a bucket water.
As Sharp approached the pair, both men watched him curiously. His stride was long and purposeful, his boot heels kicking up puffs of dust as he seethed inside.
"Doc, you better get out to that barn. That girl needs medical attention."
The doc, and older portly man who wore a dark blue store bought suit, shook his head, "I'm afraid there's not much I can do for a broken heart. We'll just have to wait. She'll come out when she's good and ready."
"A broken heart! How about lashes from a belt? That girls back is flayed wide open."
The sheriff took a step forward, a worried scowl creasing his features, "You mean that woman beat her too?"
Sharp's eyes were hard, "No, the woman didn’t beat her— her father did. Last night. According to Betsy, her mama had told her daddy that she had seen Betsy at the well talking to one of the hands, so he whipped her."
The sheriff waved his hand, "Wait, wait, wait. Just hold up a minute. She told you Isaiah whipped her because she talked to one of the hands? That doesn’t make any sense."
"No, it doesn’t. But if you talk to those men, they'll tell you themselves. They weren't allowed to speak to that girl or her mama. But, if what Betsy said was true, her mama lied. She said she never talked to anybody, but her father whipped her something fierce— until that woman your looking for, stopped him." Sharp could barely contain his anger, he gritted his teeth. "She let me look at her wounds, Sheriff, and I'm telling you both, that if that man was still alive, I'd rip him apart with my bare hands myself."
Zeb, who had joined the group after seeing Sam walk out of the barn, laughed nervously, "Reverend…"
"I'm not a god-damned reverend anymore!" Sharp exploded. "How many times do I have to tell you that?" Spinning back to towards the sheriff and the doctor he pointed towards the barn where the girl still was, "That girl's backside is a god-damn maze of scars, old scars, and lots of them! I've never seen anything like it." Swinging his arm, he pointed at the farmhouse and shouted, "That old man and his wife we're sick, twisted people, and they deserved every god-damned bit of what Gracie gave them— and more!"
Zeb stood in stunned silence, his eyes traveling from Sam to the sheriff as the sheriff asked slowly, "Gracie? Who is Gracie?"
Damn it

. "Nobody." Sharp mumbled as all of his steam left. He spit on the ground, then turned to Zeb, resolute, "I'm leaving."
Zed followed his friend as he marched toward their horses.
"Wait up there! Me and you need to talk!" the sheriff shouted behind them, "Do you know who that woman is that we're lookin' for?"
Sharp threw the answer over his shoulder, "Nope."
The sheriff ran to catch up to them as they mounted, "I said, wait up! If you don’t want to answer my questions, maybe a night or two in my jail will loosen your jaws. I need to know who it is we're looking for!"
Sharp settled in the saddle and reigned his horse toward the sheriff, his eyes grave. "Go ask the girl, Sheriff. She'll tell you who the woman is. She's an Angel… and, from the looks of those people inside, she's also the devil. If you want to keep those men of yours safe, you'll call off that posse. The woman your lookin' for is riding the vengeance trail. She's out for blood, pure and simple, and she'll cut down any man that stands in her way."
The sheriff stared hard at him, processing the words and their meaning. After a moment, he asked, "And what about you? Where do you figure into her plan for vengeance? If what you say is true, aren't you afraid of getting in her way? Aren't you afraid she'll kill you too?"
Sharp's green eyes were flint hard, "I don’t plan on getting in her way, Sheriff. I plan on helping her."
The sheriff stepped closer. Staring up at Sharp, he asked urgently, "Who is she?

"
Sharp knew the answer immediately, he didn’t even have to the think about. From the first time he'd seen Gracie, he'd known it. They'd had an instant connection, a bond that went even deeper than anything. A bond that was as old and ancient as time itself. He couldn’t explain it, but he knew it, he'd felt it soul deep, and it was something that he'd never voiced out loud, until now.
Without batting an eye, he told the sheriff, "She's my daughter." Then he kicked his horse into a lope, heading across the grassy fields without ever looking back.


Chapter

He told Zeb the whole story that night around the campfire. Watching the flames dance and spin in the warm breeze, he came clean.
"It was a long time ago, back when I'd first started drinking hard. I'd rode into this small town in the middle of no where, and sought out the local watering hole first thing, just like I always did back then. I'd ordered a drink and went and sat by the front window so I could watch the townspeople go about their business. I think I was into my third drink when a beautiful young woman caught my eye…

Sharp gulped down the rest of his whiskey, then grabbed the bottle off of the scarred tabletop and refilled his glass. As he picked it up to take another drink, a dark haired beauty caught his eye.
She was walking down the boardwalk on the other side of the street, her round hips swaying in her full skirt, as she peered into various shop front windows. In front of the general store she opened the door and disappeared inside.
Curious, sharp grabbed his drink and walked outside.
Taking a seat on a bench, he sat and waited. When she re-appeared some time later she was carrying an armful of dry goods.
He watched her struggle with the heavy items as she made her way back down the boardwalk. Gulping down the last of his whiskey, he set the empty glass beside him, stood, and started crossing the street.
Once he was on the other side, he quietly fell in line, watching her from behind. She was just as beautiful close up. She had long dark hair that flowed in soft curly waves down her back, so long, it nearly reached her trim waist. He was busy staring at her perfect little ass, swaying back and forth, when she stopped suddenly, shifting the packages in her arms.
Sharp tried to stop too, but ended up running into her backside.
She cursed under her breath as the packages fell from her arms and clattered across the boardwalk, "Shit."
Sharp chuckled, "Excuse me?"
She turned on him like a she-lion, "Yes, excuse you! Look at what you've done!"
Her dark eyes blazed with fury as she stared up at him, waiting for him to apologize, but instead he just laughed.
Outraged, she demanded, "What are you laughing at!"
Grinning down at her, he smirked, "You."
"Why?"
Sam was already feeling the effects of the whiskey he'd been drinking, so he never gave his reply a second thought, he answered truthfully, "Because your cute."
He watched her eyes light up in anger again, "I'm cute?" then her gaze narrowed as she caught a whiff of alcohol, "And your drunk." she accused.
Sam winked, "Not yet, but I was working on it when I happened to see you from across the street."
She studied him a moment before asking, "And you thought you'd come over and ram into me?"
Sam couldn’t help it, her little scrunched up face was so cute, he threw his head back and barked out a laugh as she continued to glare at him. Then, leaning towards her, arching a eyebrow devilishly, he said, "Well, that wasn’t exactly the kind of ramming that I had in mind."
Her mouth popped open at his vulgar suggestion. Sam waited for the slap that he figured was coming, but it didn’t. Instead, she studied him curiously, before asking, "Your not from around here, are you?"
"No, Ma'am."
"Then what are you doing here?"
Sam jerked his head towards the saloon across the street, "Drinkin'."
"Uh huh… And what are you going to do after you drink?"
He grinned at her, "Probably pass out."
She rolled her dark beautiful eyes, "I meant, where are you going after you leave here?"
He shrugged at her odd question, "Don’t know, don’t care."
She arched her eyebrows, "A roamer," she said matter-of-factly, a hint of appreciation in her voice as her eyes traveled down his body, taking in his expensive hand tailored suit. Sharp might've been a drunk, but at least he still dressed well.
"What's your name?" he asked her.
The woman glanced around, making sure no one was near by, but she didn’t have to worry, the streets were practically empty in the mid-day sun. "Loretta. Loretta James."
"Loretta." he smiled, "That’s a damn-fine, sexy name."
Tipping her head, she smiled coyly, "You think my name's sexy?"
Sam leaned in even closer, lowering his voice to a growl. "I think your

sexy."
He watched as a warm glow spread across her cheeks as her eyelids lowered, "What's your name?" she asked.
He recognized the game instantly. Now, this was a game he could play. He was the master of this game. "Does it matter?" he whispered, his eyes smoldering, burning into hers.
Her chest heaved as she shivered in the deep shadows of the boardwalk, her nipples pressing against the thin cotton material.
She wanted him. Wanted him as bad as he wanted her.

Outside of town, they had made love all afternoon under a large oak tree. Its heavy limbs stretched far out above a slow, bubbling creek, the leaves filtering the sunlight shining through the branches, dappled their naked flesh.
She hadn't been shy there— not by a long shot. She had stripped off her clothes like it was the most natural thing in the world, to be buck-ass naked outside in the wilderness, completely unabashed.
The second time they'd made love, she had rode atop him, her back arched, her beautiful breasts bobbing up and down like the tip of a slender willow stick caught in the breaks of the Mississippi River. They started out slow, then quickly worked their way up to a frenzied pace .
She had done things to him that afternoon that would put any professional, paid whore, to shame.
Afterwards, he lay completely sated, on his back, his arms tucked behind head, watching the branches above sway in the late afternoon breeze. The shadows around them began to deepen and stretch as twilight approached.
Loretta lay curled contently at his side, her head on his chest.
When she finally spoke, it was so quiet that he thought he's imagined it at first, "Take me with you." she whispered.
"What?"
"Take me with you," she whispered again.
Sharp tilted his head, trying to see her face, but it was hidden behind her dark hair. Was she serious? He finally decided she was. "No," he answered quietly.
"No?" She asked, he voice tinged with hurt. "Why not?"
"Because."
"Because? That’s not an answer," she pouted quietly, then lifted her head suddenly, looking him in the eye, "Why wont you take me with you?"
Sharp rolled his head to side, then tried to sit up, but she leaned on him, trapping him beneath her naked body.
He took her gently by the shoulders and moved her off to the side, "Because, I ride alone."
Her eyes suddenly blazed as she spit, "You ride alone

? You didn’t ride alone

today, did you?" Then, just as suddenly, her eyes softened again as she snuggled back up to him. Lowering her voice to a soft purr, she begged, "Please," she murmured, nibbling at his ear as she ran her soft slender hand down the hard plain of his stomach. "Think of all of the fun we could have." she whispered huskily as her fingers touched his manhood.
Knocking her hand away, he sat up and started looking for his pants.
Behind him, she was quiet.
Sharp dressed quickly, he was just pulling on his second boot when her hand appeared out of nowhere, her fingernails raking down the side of his face, drawing blood. Then she was on him, her tiny fists doing their best to beat the hell out of him.
Once he was finally able to throw her off, she covered her face, weeping into her hands.
He stood there, breathing hard, as he watched her warily to make sure she was done attacking him.
From behind her hands, the words came in gasps, "You’re the devil!" she accused him.
Sharp sighed, feeling guilty, "I'm not the devil, Loretta. I just cant take you with me."
"You are the devil!" she'd screamed, looking up. "You ride into town and you seduce a perfect stranger, a married woman at that, and— and then you just up and leave!"
He stared at her incredibly. "What! Your married? You never said you were married!"
Her face was the perfect picture of rage and resentment as she held up her left hand, a thin golden band twinkling in the light, "Then what do you call this!"
Sam blinked, stunned. "I- I- I swear I never seen that before." And he really hadn't, until just then.
"Please," she begged, throwing herself at him again. "Please take me with you. If I stay here on that farm I'll die!" she sobbed, buying her face into his shoulder.
Sam watched her thin, bare shoulders, shaking as she sobbed uncontrollably.

"She felt so small and frail," he said, looking across the fire at Zeb. He sighed, "I felt bad

."
Zeb shook his head, "Tell me you didn’t, Son."
"I did." Sam said miserably. "I told her that she could go with me. I told her that I would go and fetch my stuff from back in town at the hotel, and then I would come back for her."
"And you didn’t."
"Nope. I rode out of that town as fast I could without looking back. And I've felt guilty about it ever since. You know, the funny thing is, if I had met her in another time and place, I would've taken her with me. Lord, she was quite the woman." Sam smiled at the memory, "She inevitably became my measuring stick."
"She was yer measuring stick?" Zeb asked, puzzled. "I don’t git it."
Sam grinned, "After that day, she was the woman that I used to measure all of the women that I met. Were they as pretty? Were they as sexy? Were they as passionate? I've never met anyone that could measure up to Loretta. They all fell short, in one way or another. Can you imagine that? A woman that I barely spent five hours with, ended up being the love of my life? Well, until Libby, that is."
Zeb whistled slowly, "She must'a been some kind of woman. Is that why you went back there after all those years? To be close to her again?"
"No." Sharp shook his head. "Back when I was drinkin', all those small towns looked the same to me. I hadn't even realized that I had been there before, until my first Sunday Service, when I watched her walk up the steps of the Church house."
Sam leaned back against his saddle, folding his hands behind his head, "Zeb, it was like she had jumped straight out of my memory. The woman hadn't aged a bit, she was just as beautiful as I remembered, only, as she got closer, I realized that there was something different about her— this girl, whoever she was, looked like Loretta, but she had my eyes. And they were mine, are

mine. It wasn’t Loretta, it was her daughter, Gracie.
"Holy shiiit." Zeb breathed, running a hand down his face. "You an her made a baby? Holy— Did Gracie's pa know?"
"Boy, I thought he did that first day. When he walked up the stairs behind her and went to shake my hand, he stopped and stared right at me, like he was trying to place me from somewhere. But then he went ahead and shook my hand, introducing himself. I found out a few weeks later, that he had recognized me. Apparently he had met me some years earlier down in Texas. Back when I was still fighting with the Indians and the Mexicans."
"But those first few services were hard. I tried my best to ignore them both, but every week they'd sit right up in the front pew, and there were times when I'd catch Gracie smiling up at me, and it'd knock the wind right out of me. I'd get lost and forget what I was saying. She just looked so much like her momma."
"Didn’t Loretta ever go to church with them?"
"Nope. Not once. She never even came to town, that I seen."
The men sat in comfortable silence for awhile, watching the flames as they did their fiery dance, making the shadows around the men flicker and jump in the orange glow of the firelight. They listened to the occasional snap and pop of the dry wood as it slowly burned down, and the sound of a lone owl as it called to its mate, somewhere out in the deep timber. It sounded lonely and sad.
"After Ben left for the war," he finally continued, "I watched Gracie change. She steadily went from being a, happy-go-lucky girl, to a quiet, withdrawn young woman. I began noticing that during our silent prayer time, that she had begun praying extra hard. She would squeeze her eyes shut tight and her lips would move along rapidly with the thought in her head. She was distraught about something. At first I thought it was because she missed her pa, but then she began showing up in church with dark circles under eyes and uncombed hair. I knew I had to talk to her. That’s when she told me that her momma was sick with the milk fever, and her brother and his friends had been starting trouble out at the farm, so I started staying out there. I made myself a room in the barn and started helping her out around the farm as much as I could. I was then, that I saw Loretta."

Sam dumped a bucket of slop in the hog pen, watching the pigs fight over their dinner meal. Setting the slop bucket down, he grabbed the water bucket and headed for the well.
As he neared the house he could hear screaming coming from within. It sounded like someone was being tortured. Dropping the bucket he ran for the house.
He checked himself at the door, and raised his hand to knock, but before he could, it was thrown open.
Gracie stood in the doorway, her eyes wild. Behind her, from a back bedroom, Sam could hear a woman shrieking.
"Is she alright?"
Gracie shook her head, tears glistening in her eyes, "She's— fine. Just a bit addled today. She doesn’t know what she's doing when she's got the fever."
Worried, Sharp asked, "Would you like me talk with her? Pray with her, perhaps?"
Gracie shook her head wildly, "No! No, Reverend, she wouldn’t want company right now."
From the back room, there was more screaming. This time, he could make out the words. "You Fucking demon! Get out off my house! Your going to burn in hell for the things you've done!"

Startled, Sam looked at Gracie, "Is she talking to you?"
Tears slipped down the girls face as she bowed her head, embarrassed by her mothers behavior. It was then, that he noticed the big red scratches running down Gracie's forearm.
Grabbing her arm, he looked at the welts more closely. Welts left by fingernails.
"Did she do this to you?"
Gracie didn’t answer, just slowly nodded her head, affirming his suspicion.
"Is she abusing you?"
"She doesn’t know what she's doing when the fevers got her. She gets such bad headaches, she just goes crazy."
Letting go of her arm, he told her, "Go outside, Gracie. I'm going to go and talk to your mother."
"You cant!" she pleaded desperately. "She doesn’t like strangers. She wouldn’t like you in her bedroom. And, and she'll blame me."
"She ain't blaming nobody, now go wait outside for me."
Gracie reluctantly did as she was told, leaving Sam alone in the house.
Following her sounds from the back, he made his way to the bedroom.
Pushing open the door, he stood in shock, staring at the woman he had once loved. The woman that had bore his child.
Loretta was lying in the middle of the bed, staring up at the ceiling, mumbling incoherently. She looked nothing like he had remembered.
The woman's eyes were sunken in, her face gaunt and her complexion sallow. She resembled a skeleton with paper-thin skin stretched over it.
Reverend Sharp had seen milk fever before, and this wasn’t it. The headaches, the weight loss, acting insane, if he were to stab a guess, he'd guess it was brain tumors.
Loretta must of caught a glimpse of him, because her eyes rolled towards where he stood.
Her glassy, bloodshot eyes, carefully looked him over.
Stepping further into the room, he said gently, "Loretta?"
A slow smile spread across her thin face, "You came back," she whispered. "After all these years, you came back."
Sam stood in mute silence. He didn’t know what to say, he was shocked that she remembered him.
Slowly sitting up in bed, Loretta ran a thin, pale hand, through her once lustrous hair. "I must look a'fright. I wish I'd a known you were comin'. I would have made myself presentable," she mumbled.
Mustering up a smile, he told her, "You look fine, Loretta, just fine."
Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, she attempted to stand. The first time she tried, her thin legs collapsed under her, dropping her back onto the mattress.
Sam hurried over to help her. She clung to his arm as he helped her up.
Raising a hand, she pointed to her vanity. Guiding her across the room he helped her get settled in the old cane backed chair.
Looking into the mirror, Loretta picked up a hair brush and began running it through her hair, talking to her reflection. "Loretta James, how do you expect to land a man looking like this." She scolded herself.
Sam stood behind her, watching the brush as it combed through her dry, brittle hair.
"How will you ever leave this dump behind, unless you find a prince to take you away? You were made for better things. Expensive gowns and ballroom parties, men in fancy dress falling at your feet. Everyone basking in your glorious beauty."
With each stroke of the boar bristled brush, it pulled away big clumps of her hair, the desiccated locks falling from the brush and dropping into her lap.
"Some day you'll live in a faraway castle, married to a rich and powerful man…"
Her eyes caught his in the mirror and locked.
Her face went from dreamy to distraught, scared.
The hand holding the brush shook as her eyes rounded. Then, without warning, she opened her mouth and screamed.
Sam jumped back as the scream reached its peak, then began falling, until the noise resembled that of a whimpering dog.
"Loretta? Are you alright?" he tried to ask, but was cut off when she began screaming, "Get out! Get out, get out, GET OUT!"
Shrieking, she threw the brush at the dusty mirror, shattering it, the glass shards tinkering to the wooden floor.
Reverend Sharp stood watching her thin back, as it heaved, her breath coming in gasps.
After a minute her breathing slowed, returning to normal and she began to rise, grasping the edges of the vanity as she stood.
With her legs under her, she turned. "You came back." She smiled again. "I knew you would. I told myself that everyday— that’s how I've managed to survive all these years."
She began walking towards him, but tripped at the last moment, falling into his arms. He tried to stand her back up, but she shoved against him with alarming strength, the momentum pushing him backward until his legs caught on the edge of her bed and toppled them both over, Loretta landing on top of him with a grunt.
Sam stared at her, his eyes round.
"I know what you want, " she sang, her warm fetid breath washing over his face, assailing his nostrils.
He fought the urge to vomit and begged her, "Loretta, please."
"Please?" she asked, smiling. "You don’t have to beg. You can have me all you want, any way

you want."
She began grinding herself into his pelvis. "Come on, Cowboy, I need to feel your big cock," she breathed.
"Loretta!" Turning his face to the side, he tried to escape the rotten smell of her breath, "Loretta, please get off of me," he gritted. "Your sick. You don’t know what your saying…"
"Momma? Momma!" Gracie yelled as she ran to the bed. She spoke in a rush as she began trying to pry her mother off of him. "Oh, Reverend Sharp! I'm so sorry! You have to forgive her, she doesn’t know what she's doing!"
As soon as he was free, Sam rolled to the edge of the bed, and jumped to his feet. Smoothing his clothes in an effort to collect himself, he assured her, "It's alright Gracie. I know she's confused."
Gracie got Loretta back into bed, her head propped up on the pillows, then went to stand next to the reverend, at the foot at the bed.
Loretta watched them both, her eyes glossy, moving from one to the other, then she smiled, her lips pulling back from her teeth in a half-snarl. "Well, well, well. What do we have here?" she crackled. "The devil and his spawn, together at last."
"Momma…" Gracie warned.
"Don’t you momma

, me, Demon." Loretta spit. "I aint yor momma. I wasn’t nothing but a vessel for the Devil to grow his seed."
"Please, Momma. Don’t do this." Gracie begged.
Loretta's eyes locked with Sam's. "You’re the devil," she accused, then she went back to Gracie. "Your both the devil," she spit.
"Momma…"
Your both the devil!" she shouted again, "Your both the devil! Your both the devil!"

Sam stirred the fire, "I grabbed Gracie by the arm and drug her out of that room as fast as I could. The next time I saw Loretta, I was burying her."
Zeb didn’t know quite what to say. He felt completely exhausted just listening to Sam's stories. "Maybe we should hit the hay. We should probably git an early start tomorrow, anyway."
His thoughts still a thousand miles away and years behind him, Sharp mumbled, "Yeah. That sounds good. G'night Zeb.
"G'night, Son."

Sam had a dream that night. In it, he was sitting on the back of his old horse by a creek, under the branches of a giant oak. The sun was just starting to set, and the western sky was streaked in various shades of purple and pink.
From somewhere behind him came a familiar voice. "Oh," she cried, "You came back! I was so scared I'd never see you again!"
"Loretta?" he turned, watching her run out from behind the tree. His breath caught in his throat as he watched her run towards him. God, she was beautiful thing he'd ever seen. And to think, he had almost left her…
She stood at his knee, smiling up at him, her cheeks rosey, her dark hair like smooth waves of chocolate silk.
Sam climbed down out of the saddle, and as his boots hit the ground, her lips were already pressed into his. Her kiss was deep and passionate, drawing an immediate response from him. When he was finally able to pull away to catch his breath, he noticed tears shining in her eyes.
"Why are you crying?" he murmured, suddenly worried.
She smiled through the tears, "I'm just so happy. I was so worried that you wouldn’t come. I was afraid you'd skip town and that I would never see you again." Her eyes became serious, "I would rather die than have to return to that farm."
Sam felt his heart squeeze in his chest, "How could I ever leave such a beautiful creature behind?"
She laughed again, happy and relieved, and when she kissed him for the second time, she let him know just how happy she was.
They couldn’t get each others clothes off fast enough, their hands shaking and hearts pounding, they laughed.
Sam held her out at arms length and let his eyes roam her magnificent body. She stood proud, without an ounce of shyness, and let him look for as long as he wanted. If he could have studied her for a century, he wouldn’t have found one single flaw— she was perfect.
The shape and swell of her breasts, the flat plains of her stomach, the perfect flair of her round hips, the shape of her long legs…
When his eyes traveled back up and met hers once again, they were filled desire, longing.
Scooping her up, he took her back to their spot under the tree and laid her in the grass.
They made love more slowly this time, taking the time to get to know each other, to discover each others bodies fully.
Sam lay on his back, watching Loretta as she moved above him, listening to her moans of pleasure as she rode them both to the edge, and then over the brink, until they were both tumbling, lost in desire.
Afterwards, they lay in a heap, both satisfied, both completely exhausted.
Loretta was on top, her face nuzzling in his neck. Sam smiled into her hair. He couldn’t remember ever being so… happy.
"You were incredible," he whispered.
He felt her sigh against his neck, "You too… Daddy

."
Sam jerked. Grabbing her shoulders he shoved her away so he could look at her face. It was Gracie's eyes that smiled down at him, "What's wrong, Daddy?"
"What the fuck," he choked, pushing her even further way as he scrambled to get away from her.
An evil laugh came from the tree behind him.
Spinning around, he watched Gracie, Angel

, dressed all in black, walk out from behind the giant oak.
She laughed again, her black eyes sparkling, enjoying her herself immensely, "You humans are too easy," she said. "The look on your face— that was priceless," she cackled.
Sam turned back to where Gracie had been just moments before. The spot was now empty.
Frantically, he began searching for his clothes, only to discover he was already fully dressed.
"I'm sorry." she chuckled, "That was mean, but I just couldn’t help myself."
Jumping to his feet, Sam spun on her, "You! What do you want." he spit, mad and confused all at the same time. His dream had went from wonderful to wicked in a split second and he was still reeling.
"What I wanted, Reverend

," she smiled, "was to know exactly how it was, that you, were Gracie's father. And now I know."
He didn’t know how, but Angel was obviously controlling his dream. He realized that now, that it was just a dream. His thoughts were flying inside his head, but he quickly caught up speed. Narrowing his eyes, he asked, "If your really in Gracie's body, wouldn’t you already know how I'm her father?"
She was still smiling, her dark eyes flashing in the last rays of sunlight, right before sunset. "And how would I know that, Reverend, when she didn’t know it herself?"
Angel walked toward him, the edges of her black duster fluttering in the gentle breeze.
Sharp was finally starting to feel like himself again— and he mad. If she really was responsible for what had just happened, it was a sick, cruel, joke.
She stopped before him, watching him curiously. "Why didn’t you ever tell her?"
Sharp's face was a mask of stone. There were times, like now, when he himself wasn’t sure if she was still his Gracie, or just some being that looked like her. For the time being, he decided to play along. "Because it wasn’t my place. She had a daddy who raised her, loved her."
"And yet… you loved her also?"
"Yes. Yes I did."
Angel cocked her head. "You wanted to spare her feelings," she said matter-of-factly.
"Yes."
"Interesting," she murmured.
He was fully in the present now, and he had questions of his own. "Why did you kill those people back there at that farm?"
Angel shrugged her shoulders, "You seen the girl. What would you have done?"
"Probably the same thing."
Angel smiled as she studied his eyes, "Yes. Yes you would have."
"But my question is, why did you? If your so hell bent on getting the men that killed Gracie and her father, why would you take the time to help that girl out?"
Her black eyes blazed in the sunset light, "Opportunity. And because they were killing her. Not just physically, but mentally. I could feel her pain from miles away, it was like a beacon of sorrow in the night— that's what drew me to that farm. To her. Every day she dying a little more at the hands of those, monsters." She smiled once again, "But I saved her. And they will never be able to hurt her again."
Now this was something that Sharp could understand. But he still had questions.
"There's something else I've been trying to figure out."
"And what is that, Reverend?"
"What are you?" he asked sincerely. "Are you a demon? Are you an angel? The last time I saw you, you said that you were Death. What does that mean exactly? Who's side are you on?"
She laughed, "Side? I'm not on anyones side. You know, you'd get along in this world a lot better if you'd only realize that everything is not just black and white. The world is full of grey, and even in that grey, there are varying shades. You think of white as God, and black as the devil. Well, I am somewhere in between. I guess you could say that I am grey."
Sharp studied her, taking in what she said. "I see what your saying, but who created you? Who created the grey? Where did you come from?"
"Do you really want to know? "
"Yes. I really want to know."
Mist began swirling around their feet, swirling and spreading until everything was a grayish white.
"A long time ago, God had a favorite child." Angel began, "She was beautiful, modest, kind, and as pure as the driven snow. The devil also had a favorite. A man. The evilest, most vilest man to ever walk the earth. Then, one day, the two met by chance. The man stole the little girl and took her high up to the top of a mountain to his cabin, and began doing what he did best— torturing her. God was angry. As angry as he had ever been, and the devil was delighted..."
Through the mist, Sharp could see the outline of a tall mountain in the distance. As he watched, a dark storm gathered over the top, lightening flashed, searing the sky with purple jagged bolts. He could even hear the faint rumble of thunder.
"God's presence was in that cabin. He held his child's hand while she screamed in pain and called out his name, day in and day out.
But the devil was there also. Whispering dark things in the man's ear, urging him on, giving him new ideas on ways to torture God's favorite child. While outside, God's anger and the devil's delight combined, creating the perfect storm.
As the days stretched on, the storm grew in strength and mass, flooding the lands below, far and wide. Thunder and lightening crashed as the waters rose above their banks filling the valley's for as far as the eye could see and beyond.
For forty days and forty nights it went on, until finally, the girl succumbed to her injuries and she died."
Sharp asked incredibly, "Are you talking about the Big Flood? Noah's Ark and all of that?"
"That’s the one."
"Holy…" he breathed. He tore his eyes away from the picture being played in the mist, "But, where do you come in?"
"I come in right there,"she said, pointing to the swirling black clouds. "I was created in the eye of that storm, and I grew, fed by the storms energy. By the time the girl died, I was there, ready to take her place.
God left, taking her soul with him and turned his back on the man, the devil, and me."
"And you killed the man?"
"Yes."
"So, you were created by God, to seek his revenge?"
"Nooo. The storm was created by both sides, I was created by both sides. A new shade of grey."
As Sharp looked down at her, his eyes softened, "The Grey Angel."
She smiled and rolled her eyes, "I suppose so."
The fog instantly lifted, revealing the tree once again.
Looking past Sharp's shoulder, Angel nodded, "That one right there, was the worst, you know."
Turning, he saw that Loretta was back. She was muddy this time, her clothes ripped to sheds, and she was tied to a post, rooted in the ground.
"Loretta?"
"Yes. She tortured Gracie from the moment she was born."
Something in Angel's voice made Sam's throat go dry and the fine hairs rose on the back of his neck. "What's she doing here?" he whispered.
"Lets just say… Someone owed me a favor."
Loretta's face was a mask of fear. Her eyes wild, tears streamed down her face, soaking into the rag that bound her mouth. She was scared. Scared to death

.
Sharp shivered. His voice barely a whisper, he asked, "What are you going to do to her?"
Angel smiled, her lips curling at the corners, "What I do best, of course. What I was made

to do."
Sam wanted to run away. Everything in his gut, said to turn and run as far away and as fast away as he could. But his feet were planted in place. They felt like they weighed a thousand pounds.
He watched Angel advance towards Loretta. Above them, the clouds churned, turning from a fluffy white, to a pitch black boiling mass.
He couldn’t see Angel's face, but Loretta's reaction told him that her appeance had changed.
Loretta's eyes went from scared dumb, to complete terror as she fought frantically against the ropes that bound her.
Angel stood before her for a minute, then she leaned forward to whisper in her ear.
Loretta's head started shaking, slowly at first, then faster and faster, the longer Angel spoke.
Sharp watched tears of blood, well, then course down her cheeks, staining her delicate skin a violent red, down to her throat where it met the red rivers that poured from her ears.
When Angel was done talking she stood, positioning herself in front of Loretta. Raising a clawed hand, she sliced her fingers down and across Loretta's abdomen.
The tear in her stomach slowly turned black with oozing blood, then spilled down the front of her. With one sickening, squishy tearing sound, her intestines spilled out onto the ground. Then Gracie stepped forward and jammed her arm into Loretta's abdomen, ramming her fist upward. In one lightening fast motion she ripped her arm back out, a beating, quivering heart, filling her bloody hand.
She turned just then, showing Sharp her razor sharp teeth when she smiled at him.
She turned her head again and sunk her teeth into the still beating heart.
Sharp screamed, sitting bolt right up in his blanket.
His heart was hammering in his chest, and his head ached from all of the terrible images trapped inside it.
From above he heard a deep rumble.
The dark sky churned above them and lightening lit the sky, washing the camp in a strange electric purple color. In the light, Sharp caught a glimpse of Angel, standing not to far away beneath a tree. Jumping instinctively, he grabbed for his rifle that lay by his side, but when he trained a bead at where she had been… she was gone.


Sam threw his cards on the table. "I fold."
Zeb smiled as he raked the pile of matchsticks towards him. "Boy, if these were dollars, I'd be rich."
Sam stretched, working the knots out his shoulders, "And I'd be in the damn poorhouse. How is it you win so many hands?"
Zeb chuckled, shuffling the cards for another round. "It aint nothing but the luck of the mountain men."
"Oh really? And here I always heard that the mountain men weren't very lucky."
Zeb shook his head while he passed out the cards, "We aint very lucky when it comes to some things. Love being one of them," he laughed. "They just don’t make women hearty enough to withstand the solitary life of a mountain man."
Sam frowned over his crappy hand, "I thought you said you were married before. To a few different women, I believe."
"Oh, I was. To squaws. Really ugly squaws, as a matter of fact." He scratched his grizzly beard, then grabbed a card off of the pile in the middle of the table. "But I always wanted me a white women. One that dressed all pretty, with frilly bows and ruffles, and a smile as wide as the Mississippi River and cleavage as deep as a mountain gorge. One with creamy, white, soft skin that smelled like lilacs' on a spring morning'. One that a man could make love to with the lights on." He absently rearranged the cards in his hands while he spoke. "But, no sir, there ain't no woman like that, that wants to live her life with a grubby old mountain man, wondering across the hills and valleys with no particular place to call home." He slapped down a full house.
"Oh, your breaking my goddamn heart." Sam growled as he threw his useless hand down on the table. "I give up."
Zeb chuckled sadly, "Yeah, me too."
Sam looked around at the newly constructed saloon. The brass around the bar gleamed in the sunlight that poured through the clean plate glass windows that overlooked the boardwalk. The huge mirror behind the bar, housed in an ornate gilt frame, showed very few men.
At this early hour, everyone in town was up working the creek bed, all of them trying to strike it rich in the town of Striker. But come sundown, this place would be packed to the rafters, just like it had been for the two long weeks that him and Zeb had been here.
"I'm gettin' all stoved up jes' sitting here. You wanna take us a stroll?"
Sam smiled at his old friend, "Sure. Sounds good to me."
They hit the boardwalk and headed North. The streets were jam-packed with wagons and riders. People were showing up at an alarming rate as word got out that the creek north of town was full of color.
The smell of fresh cut cedar, mixed with the smell of horse an ox droppings, permeated the air as they walked. A saw mill had been set up just outside of town, and all of the buildings in town were brand new.
As they approached the northern end of town, three riders came whooping up the street, sliding to a stop in front of the essayers office.
"Ooh—eee!" one of the riders hollered, holding up a dirty white cloth, its four corners twisted together to form a make-shift pouch, "We hit the mother load today, boys!"
Curious and excited townsfolk drifted their way, anxious to see what the riders carried. As the men entered the essay office, people from the street followed behind them, many of whom had just rode into Striker, with golden dreams of, what else, striking it rich.
Curious too, Sam and Zeb followed the small crowd into the building.
Once inside, they politely moved past people, making their way to the front.
Sharp had been hearing about the vast quantities of gold taken from Jordan creek up yonder, but he had never actually seen the gold.
Him and Zeb waited curiously while the men made a big show of unwrapping their newly found treasure.
With the flick of the mans wrist he opened the pouch, reveiling four big pieces of gold.
The crowd ooohed and awwed at the size and quality of the golden nuggets.
Sharp and zeb looked at each other, both frowning.
Another man in the crowd had the same look on his face, but he made a deadly mistake when he growled, "Let me see that," and swiped at the gold in the prospectors hand.
A loud shot exploded in the tightly packed room. The shot was deafening and had everyone grabbing their ears. In the ringing silence that followed, they watched the man sway, then topple over, with a bullet hole right above his left eye.
The essayer stood stoically behind the couter, a smoking gun in his hand.
"Give me that before I have to kill anyone else."
The prospector turned toward the man slowly, and handed him the gold with an unsteady hand.
Next to Sharp, Zeb whispered, "I think we've seen enough. Lets the hell out of here."
They fought their way back to the door and exited.
Back out on the boardwalk, they turned and headed back south. Once they were a safe distance from the essayers office, Zeb spoke quietly as they ambled along.
"What do ya suppose that's all about?"
Sharp tugged at the edge of his hat, pulling the brim down low over his eyes. "I'm not sure."
Beside him Zeb hissed, "I've seen gold pulled out of streams before, and that gold didn’t come from no creek bed."
"No, it didn’t. That was pure bar gold. It looked like it had been chipped straight off the bar with a chisel."
"So, someone's been putting all of that gold in the creek for the placers to find, but why?"
"I'm not sure. What do you say to a ride? I'd like to get a closer look at that creek up yonder."
"Lets go git the horses."

They rode up north of town, the steep hill gradually giving way to the wide valley at the foot of the mountain.
Jordan Creek ran straight through the middle, its wide rocky banks, packed full of miners. Some of the men were panning for gold, while others had built large sluice boxes and were busy loading them with shovels full of gravel. There was a general feeling of euphoria in the fresh mountain air.
The two men rode north for two miles along the ever widening creek, without seeing as much as five feet of creek shore unoccupied by men, with visions of hitting the mother lode, dancing in their eyes.
Having seen enough, they headed back towards town. Along the way, they stopped along the steep ridge that overlooked the town of Striker.
"We still don’t know why somebody would go to all the trouble of faking a gold rush."
Sharp studied the bustling town below.
Word had gotten out, bringing people in droves to the small town. The main street running through the middle of town was packed full of newly arriving wagons and men on horseback, and the line waiting to still reach the town stretched as far as the eye could see. There was also a line at the essayers office. People waiting to buy their stake for a claim. The line was so long, Sharp couldn’t even see where it ended.
Someone was making a lot of money selling fake claims, and he had an idea who it was.
"I think we do."
Zeb frowned, "We do?"
"Look at all of those people down there. All of those people will be needing supplies. And it's pretty much guarenteed that any of the gold that the men will find, will be spent in that fancy saloon on booze and girls. And they got to eat. Money will be spend hand over fist at the Royal by the men and their families celebrating their victories. Not to mention, all the business men coming into town. And I'll bet that they're charged a small fortune to buy a lot in town, plus a hefty portion of their profits for taxes. In either case, all of the gold will pour back into the town, plus a lot more. I'm thinking that the man that owns that town is going to be paid back at least triple the amount of gold that he padded the creek bed with."
"George Jarvis." Zeb muttered, "That sneaky son of a bitch."
"Yeah, he's the son of something, alright."
"When do you reckon that girl of yourn is gonna show up?"
"Any day now I suppose."
"I shore wish she'd hurry up. I can't wait to be shut of this hell hole. To many people makes my skin crawl."
"Well, you never know, maybe one of those good-smelling, all laced up girls will come into town. You might find the woman of your dreams down there."
Zeb leaned over a spit a thick brown stream of tobacco onto the ground. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he grunted, "Yeah, and the only way I'd get her to come with me, is if I clubbed her on the back of the head and drug her off."
Sharp smiled at his friend, "All that gentlemanly charm, I'm surprised the women aint falling at your feet."
"Well, if they were… it'd be because I clubbed 'em on the back of the head."

The next day proved to be interesting.
Sharp and Zeb had just finished filling their bellies at the Royal, after winning a lucky hand the night before in Jarvis's saloon. Taking a seat at an empty bench in front of the Grand Hotel, they each pulled out their cigarette makings and went to work. They had both just lit up, when a buggy came barreling up the street, completely surrounded by men on horseback, armed to the teeth with shot guns, long rifles and pistols.
The buggy skidded to a stop in front of the hotel, creating a thick cloud of dust that drifted towards them.
Zeb took his hat off and fanned the dusty air, "What a prick. Don’t that driver have the good sense to slow down in town?"
The door to The Grand Hotel opened and Jarvis walked out, flanked on each side by men packing as much lead as the men escorting the buggy.
He crossed the boardwalk and met the man just stepping down from the carriage.
Both men were well dressed, in fancy tailored suits. Jarvis was a good head shorter than the other man, and he had the lean, wiry look, of an ex-cowboy or owl hoot, someone who had spent a lot of time outdoors and looked to be in at least his fifties. His compadre, on the other hand, had the pasty pallor and soft body of a bank teller.
Jarvis stuck out his hand, his weathered face grim. "Adams."
"Jarvis." The serious faced men shook hands.
George Jarvis turned, walking back into the hotel, Adams and his wary-eyed men following suit.
"Now, what do you suppose that's all about?" Zeb asked, after the door closed.
Sharp shook his head, "I don’t know, but it cant be good."
"You ever see a man with that many guards?"
"The president maybe. But he aint no president."
"I counted sixteen men, how many did you git?"
"Thirteen, including the driver."
Zeb grumbled, "I never was any good at figurin'."

Jarvis sat behind his hand carved, dark mahogany desk, a bottle of bourbon and two tumblers in front of him.
Picking up the crystal decanter he filled both the glasses, then slid one across the desk to Adams.
Adams grabbed the glass, his fancy gold rings clinking against the sides, and swallowed the amber liquid in one large gulp. Setting the glass back down on the desk, he reached into his breast pocket, producing a folded piece of paper.
"This is the one I got." He said, handing it across the desk.
Jarvis took the paper and unfolded it, reading the telegram out loud.
"Your men are dead…. Stop…. She wanted me to give you a message…. Stop…. She's coming after you…. Stop…. And she said to say…. Stop…. That she's bringing hell with her…. Stop."
Reaching into the top drawer of the desk, Jarvis pulled out an identical looking piece of paper. "This, says exactly the same thing."
Adams scowled, "Oh, this is perfect."
"Oh no, wait, it gets better." He smiled, waving his hand with a flourish. "I sent a reply back with the messenger. I told him to send another telegram to the sheriff in the town where this one came from. I wanted the sheriff to find the man that sent this and detain him, because I had questions that I needed answers to."
"And?"
"And you know that’s it a good five day ride to Soda Springs and their telegraph machine, so it took awhile to hear back." Pulling a second piece of paper from the drawer, Javis opened it and began reading.
"Dear sir…. Stop…. The man you are looking for…. Stop…. Was found dead shortly after he sent you the telegraph…. Stop…. He died from a self inflicted bullet to the temple…. Stop…. Sorry…. Stop…. But that makes him unavailable for further questioning…. Stop."
"The sheriff has a sense of humor I see."
Jarvis slammed the palm of his hand on the desk, "I don’t give a good-goddamn about the sheriff! I want to know who this woman is, and how she managed to kill all of those men!" He jumped to feet and began pacing, "Those men were hand picked to be the meanest of the lot. They spent the whole entire war raping women, and taking and killing whatever and whoever they wanted. They were untouchable. So how the fuck did they manage to get themselves killed by a woman?"
Adams sighed. Jarvis had always been a bit on the theatrical side. The smallest thing could send him into a tizzy. He could rant and rave for days over the stupidest thing. But not Adams. He prided himself on being able to stay calm, cool and collected, even in the harriest situations.
Maybe that’s why they made such good partners. They balanced each other out.
Adams watched his partner with calm eyes, "Lets start at the beginning, shall we? Do you have an idea who this woman might be?"
"I don’t know. How in the hell would I know who she is?"
"Why don’t you sit down. Lets have another drink and try to figure this out."
Jarvis paced a few more times, then finally sat, grabbing the bourbon and pouring then each a healthy sized glass full.
"Okay," Adams began, "the last time we seen the men, they had just finished the Ben Walker job. Now, according to them, it was only Ben and his daughter at the farm, remember."
Jarvis nodded in agreement.
"And, according to them, they killed them both, right?"
"Yes."
"But, what I was thinking was, maybe he had a wife somewhere, or perhaps another daughter that wasn’t home at the time. Maybe they were staying in town or at a friends house."
Jarvis nodded, starting to calm down. "That makes sense."
"Okay. Now, what we don’t know is, how she killed those men. I'm thinking that she probably didn’t go at them head on. She wouldn’t have stood a chance."
George nodded his head thoughtfully, again. "What are you thinking then? Some sort of ambush?"
"Maybe. But it would have to be something that would kill the whole lot of them at the same time. I was thinking dynamite. Some sort of explosion, or an avalanche."
Jarvis leaned back in his chair, smiling. "Your right. I don’t know what I was thinking. Of course she didn’t just ride in and kill all of those men at one time. That would be impossible. But I'm sure they weren't expecting an ambush. And why would they? They didn’t know anyone was after them."
"Exactly. And you know what else? We got this telegram from Texas. And there's a whole lot of fucking territory between here and Texas. A whole lot a rough terrain, and a whole lot a Indians. I'd bet you ten thousand dollars, that the bitch doesn’t even make it this far."
Jarvis visably relaxed, sinking into his over stuffed chair. "I never thought of that." He studied his partner across the desk, and when the thought came to him, he had to ask, "Then why did you come? If you don’t think she's a threat, why would you travel all the way here? Why wouldn’t you just send a telegram? And why do you have all of those hard cases riding with you?"
Adams smiled, "The truth is, I was bored. I hate Oregon. There aint nothing there but trees and farmers. I was thinking… that after this little gold rush of yours, that maybe we should take our fortune down to California. Open us a fancy gambling house in San Fransisco. There's big money to be made down there."
Jarvis frowned, "I thought that the whole point of this, was to stay away from those places. Hide up here in the country where there ain't no law, and no one knows us."
Adams smiled, "I think we're in the clear, my friend. Look at how many months its been, and we havent heard anything. We havent seen any wanted posters. Nothing. Besides, there's literally tens of thousands of people in San Francisco, we'd blend right in"
"I don’t know…"
"How much longer is your gold rush going to go on?"
"Hell, it just got started," he smiled. "I'm making money by the barrel. This was the best plan you ever had."
"Exactly. It was my plan. I figured I'd stay around and see how this thing pans out."
Jarvis frowned, "You want in on it."
"I think its only fair. I had to leave Oregon before I even got started, so I could come here to be with you."
Jarvis thought it over for a second, then smiled, "It'll be fun having you here, and there's more than enough to go around. We'll run the town together." Until I kill you, that is.

Sam stood at the egde of the boardwalk in front of the Gold Rush saloon studying the sky.
The clouds above, churned and boiled over the town. They ranged in color, from pitch black, to a light steel gray. The warm wind had picked up and it pulled at his clothes, the light gusts lifting the hair at his collar.
Zeb came out and joined him. "That’s some storm heading this way."
"That aint no storm, Zeb. It's her."

George Jarvis awoke from a nightmare. The only thing he could remember was something had a hold of his ankles, dragging him towards somewhere he did not want to go. He had clawed at the ground, frantically trying to stop, screaming at the top of his lungs.
Shivering, he hunkered further down into his warm quilt.
He was almost back asleep, when he heard a voice call, "George… I'm here George."
His body froze, his heart hammering, he listened in the dark. But the only thing he could hear was the storm outside.
The wind screamed through town, tearing at signs and beating against shutters. The noise was almost deafening.
He was busy trying to convince himself that he had been dreaming, when a light breeze touched his face. It was as soft and warm as a lovers breath.
He sat up, looking around the darkened room. Then the breeze came again, only this time, it was everywhere.
Squinting against the dark, he could see that one of his windows was open.
"Shit." He muttered as his feet hit the floor. "I could of sworn I had closed those."
At the window, he grabbed the frame, getting ready to slam it back down, when a huge bolt of lightening lit the sky, followed by another, and then another.
He froze, the hair standing up on the back of his neck.
Directly across the street on the rooftop of the Gold Rush, a lone figure stood, highlighted against the glowing sky.
The lightening was coming so fast now that it was continuous, and the buildings shook with the loud claps and big booms of thunder.
He could see her perfectly. Her clothes were all black, covered by a black duster that flowed out around her in the wind. A black hat was pulled down low over her eyes, shielding her face.
Jarvis wanted to run, but he was frozen in place. He wanted to scream for his men, but his mouth wouldn’t open.
As he watched, the woman slowly lifted her head, her eyes blazing like hell-fire. Raising her arm, she pointed at him accusingly, then with the same hand, made a slashing motion across her neck, as if to say, Your dead.
Finding his feet again, Jarvis flew across the room, jerking the door open and running down the hall towards the stairs.
As he ran past his partners room he banged on the door, screaming, "Adams! Get up! She's here! She's heeeere!"
He bolted down the stairs yelling for his men. By the time he hit the bottom, they were pouring in through the front door, guns drawn.
"Boss? What is it!" Coulter asked, alarmed.
Jarvis grabbed his shoulders, "Did you see her? She was across the street on top of the Gold Rush. Did you see her?"
Coulter frowned, "She was on the roof?" looking around at his men, he asked, "Did anybody see her up there?"
His question was met with grumbles and head shaking.
Jarvis was insanely scared, so he took it out on the men, "How the fuck could you not see her!" he screamed. "She was right across the fucking street! What, do you all need glasses?"
Coulter frowned, "If she was on the roof, Boss, we probly couldn’t see her from our angle down below."
Just then, Adams joined the men, "Of course you couldn’t," he told Coulter. Taking over the situation, he told the men, "Ten of you get across the street and look for her. The rest of you get back outside to your positions. Let us know if you see or hear anything."
Once the men had left, Adams turned to his partner, "Tell me everything."
Jarvis glared at him, "Well, for starters— you owe me ten thousand dollars."


When the men finally returned two hours later, they told the pair that they had searched the whole town, and they hadn't seen hide nor hair of any woman.
Javis and Adms stared at each other, then Jarvis told the men, "Tomorrow, spread the word. I want every man in this town in front of The Royal at noon. We're having a town meeting."

Sam and Zeb were in The Royal having a breakfast, when two of Jarvis's guns walked in.
"Can I get everbody's attention!" one of them shouted.
The diners all turned to look at the men.
"There's a town meeting at noon, right outside here. Mr. Jarvis wants every man-jack in town to be there." As an afterthought, he added, "And Mr. Jarvis doesn’t like to be disobeyed, so spread the word."
After the pair walked out, Zeb asked Sharp, "What do you suppose the meetings about?"
Sam shook his head, "I'm afraid to even ask."

At noon, the street was jam packed with men. Miners and businessmen alike.
The storm hadn't let up one bit however, and the wind howled through the streets kicking up dust, making the men's eyes water with grit. And most of the people in attendance, wore handkerchiefs and scarves tied around their heads, protecting their noses and mouths from all the dirt. it looked a whole town full of train and bank robbers, which amused both Jarvis and Adams.
Jarvis attempted to start his speech again, but the noise from the storm made it impossible for anyone to hear him.
"Oh for god's sake!" he shouted at the wind. "Will you stop!"
As the words died on his lips, so did the wind. Like the storm itself wanted to hear what he had to say.
In the absolute silence that followed, the men down in the street all looked at each other, confused and bewildered.
Jarvis looked at Adams, but Adams just shrugged.
Turning back to the crowd, he began, "There's a woman in town. She dresses like a man, all in black. I want her brought to me, dead or alive."
Murmers went through the crowd.
Zeb leaned toward Sam, "Now, where have we heard this before?" he asked wryly.
Sharp frowned and shushed him.
"This woman is dangerous, and want her found immediately! I want every building checked and re-checked. I want every tree and bush for ten miles, scoured— and I want that bitch found!"
Beside him, bored, Adams took a drink of his whiskey.
"I'm paying ten thousand dollars to whoever finds her!"
Adams choked on his drink. Sputtering, he turned to his partner, "Ten thousand dollars? Are you insane?" he whispered loudly.
Jarvis shrugged, "I want her found." To the crowd, he yelled, "Now, go find me that bitch!"
A low pitched whistling noise filled the street, steadily growing louder, until it sounded almost like a deafening in-human scream. Then the wind hit with a horrific BOOM, the percussion shaking the ground and shattering store front windows. The men who weren't quick enough to stop it, had the hats ripped from their heads and watched helplessly as they sailed down the street.
The big sign above the Gold Rush was torn from its hinges and flung across the street. It sailed over the crowd, spinning sideways, heading straight for Jarvis.
By the time Jarvis seen it coming, it was spinning so fast that the edges were blurred, making the rectangle sign, look like one of the big sharp blades down at the wood mill on the edge of town.
He didn't even have time to scream, he just threw himself sideways at the last moment, landing on the boardwalk with a heavy grunt.
Behind him he heard the object crash into the wall where he had just been standing.
Down in the crowd, Sam was still clutching his hat with both hands in an effort to keep it on his head. Turning towards Zeb, he stopped.
Zeb was standing there with a stunned look on his face. The shock of white hair on his head stood up straight, all over in a crazy mess. "My hat," he moaned weakly.
Jarvis rolled over, laying flat on his back, trying to catch his breath.
Adams came and stood over him, seemingly unconcerned. "Your lucky. That sign just about cut your fucking head off." Lending him a hand, Adams helped him up.
Once he was on his feet, Adams looked from the half burried sign, to Jarvis who stood next to it, gawking. Reaching out, he lined the edge of his hand up with the edge of the protruding wood, then followed a straight line over, right to Jarvis's adams apple.
Angry, Jarvis knocked his hand away, then rubbed his neck, gulping. The image of the woman from the previous night filled his head. The way she had motioned with her hand… "Come on," he snapped, "lets get back to the hotel."
He had only taken a few steps when he stopped, the skin on his scalp prickling. He listened hard while this eyes scanned the dusty street, then he heard it again. The soft sound of a woman's laugher, floating on the wind, mocking him.
"What's wrong?"
"Did you hear that?"
Adams frowned, "Hear what?"
Jarvis listened a moment longer, then shook his head, "Nothing. Lets go."
Sam and Zeb joined the crowd of people that were heading south towards the edge of town and beyond. They split up, Sam taking the right and Zeb taking the left, they searched every nook and crannie in town, then joined back up at the edge of town.
"Any luck?" Zeb asked.
"Nope. We'll have to start checking the woods.
They spent the better part of the next two hours beating the brush. They looked high and low, but in the end, they both came up empty handed.
Zeb grumbled on their way back to town, "I cant believe we didn’t find it. I've had that hat for twenty years or better."
Sam smiled down at his gloomy friend, "Yeah, and it smelled like it too. Every time it rained, I thought we were being followed by a pack of stinky skunk-sprayed coyotes."
"Hey," Zeb scolded, "Don’t ya know yer not suppose to poke fun at another man's hat. That’s jest bad manner's, Boy."
Sharp laughed, then after a moments thought, grew serious again and asked, "Have you ever seen anything like that Zeb?"
Zeb grunted, "You mean that storm springing' up so sudden like? Not in all my living years."
Sharp frowed, "That's what I thought."
"That was like a god damn explosion. For a second there, I thought somebody lit off a hundred pounds of dynamite right in the middle of town."
"I know. Hell, it blew all of the glass right out of the windows."
"Ya know, I've heard of spinners. They happen over in Kansas and Nebraska. They're huge clouds that come down and run along the ground, spinning like a top. They chew up everything in their path, pulling trees out of the ground by their roots and rolling giant boulders the size of houses around like a kids marbles. They can rip a full grown man and his horse off of the ground and throw them through the air like rag dolls."
Sharp frowned, deep in thought, "I don’t think it was a spinner."
"Hell no, it wasn’t. Remember how hard the wind was blowin' before the meeting, then all of a sudden it stopped? It was like someone had put up a wall, damning the wind off."
Sharp nodded his head, "And did you hear that strange whistle right before it came back?"
"Yep, like the damn was getting ready to break. I bet that’s what happened. Something was holding the wind back, but all of that air built up pressure, then Bam…" Zeb's next words sent a chill down Sam's spine, "Well, whatever it was, it weren't natural, that’s fer sure."

Adams watched Jarvis pace the floors, much like he had been doing all day. I made him tired just watching.
"I cant believe they haven't found her yet," he muttered.
Adams sighed, "Well, we know one thing for sure— she aint in town. Those men scoured every inch of this place. Hell, two different groups of men even went as far as to crawl under all the buildings. They started on one end of town and worked their way to the other. One old boy got stuck under the dry goods store, and it took five men with shovels and rakes, three hours to dig him out."
Jarvis rubbed his eyes. They were bloodshot red and burned like the dickens. "I'm tired. I think I'm ready to call it a day."
Adams stood, stretching the muscles in his back, "Me too."
On their way up stairs, Adams slapped his partner on the back, "Don’t worry, they'll find her tomorrow."
"You think so?"
"There's a ten thousand dollar price tag on her head, George. If she's within a hundred miles— they'll find her."
As tired as Jarvis was, he spent a good hour, tossing and turning. He had finally fallen into a restless sleep, when a knock sounded at the door.
Instantly awake, he grabbed the loaded pistol off of his nightstand. "Yeah, what is it?"
Tom Coulter's muffled voice came through the door, "Boss, there's something downstairs that I think you should see."
Jumping out of bed, he yanked his pants on, thumbing his suspenders over his shoulders while he shoved his feet into his boots.
Jerking open the door, he asked, "Whats going on? Did they find her?"
Tom looked worried, his eyebrows drawn together and his mustache curving down more than usual, "Um, I think you'd better come see for yourself."
Jarvis followed Coulter downstairs and out the front door.
In the street, backed up against the steps, a wagon bed with a sheet covered body lying in the back, was parked. Next to that, a man stood with his horse, a dead body draped across the saddle.
"What's going on here?" Jarvis demanded roughly.
The man with the wagon stepped forward, his hat in his hands, "I got her, Mr. Jarvis. I got that woman that you wanted."
"No you didn’t— I did!" cried the man with the horse.
Jarvis glared at them both, but his pulse quickened, "Let me see who's in your wagon."
"Yes sir." The man grabbed the edge of the sheet as the man with the horse stepped forward to get a peek. The sheet was thrown off, reveiling a plump woman in an old faded black dress. One side of her head was missing where a bullet that had passed through her brain and had exploded out the other side.
"That aint the woman he's lookin' for! That’s your wife, you dumbshit!" the other man cried. "I just done seen you in town with her today!"
The mans face reddened in anger. "Well, lets see who you got!" he yelled stomping over to the horse. He grabbed a hand full of dark hair and yanked the womans head up. "And this is your wife, you dumbshit. I've seen you with her before!"
The man with the horse threw the first punch, then they were both on the ground, rolling back and forth, pummeling the shit out of each other.
Jarvis grabbed his pistol and fired a few rounds into the air. Both men ceased their fighting and looked up at him from the ground.
"Your both dumbshit's! You men killed your wives?" he asked incredibly. "What in the hell is wrong with you two?" Out of the corner of his eye, he saw another man ride up, stopping about twenty feet away.
"You three pass the word!" he shouted. "The next man that brings me their dead wife, gets a bullet right between their fucking eyes!"
The man who had just rode up, slowly began backing his horse away.
Jarvis shouted, turning on him, "What in the hell do you want?"
"Uhh, nothing sir. I was just stopping to see what all the fuss was about." he laughed nervously.
"This ain't no fucking peep show! Now get the hell out of here!"
The man gulped, "Yes, sir."
When he turned to leave, Jarvis caught sight of a woman thrown over the ass end of the man's horse. A shock of wheat colored hair flowed almost to the ground.
"God damn it!" he shouted, stomping his foot. "What in the hell is wrong with you people!"
Adams chuckled behind him. He had just walked out the front door, but he'd heard everything through the open door on his way down the stairs.
"This aint funny!" Jarvis exploded. "Now we got men killing their own wives just to get the reward!"
"A, ten thousand dollar, reward." Adams reminded him. "Money makes people do crazy things, George." he smiled, then laughed again.
"What in the hell is so funny?" Jarvis demanded.
"What's so funny is— if the tables were reversed, we would have been the first ones to try that trick."
Jarvis wanted to stay mad, but he couldn’t. His partner was right. They would have been the first ones, and they probably would have gotten away with it. They hadn't gotten this far in life by being stupid, just greedy.
Smiling, he shook his head. "You men get those women out of here."

Sleep didn’t come easy again. Jarvis tossed and turned for the second time that night. He was watching the black night slowly lift as the sun started to come up, when he was finally able to drift off again.
A knock sounded at the door, bringing him slowly out of his sleep. Grogily, he rolled over, trying to ignore the annoying sound. When the knocking grew louder and more insistent, he grabbed a pillow and stuffed it over his head.
When the person on the other side started banging on the door, Jarvis kicked off his blankets in a fit. "What! What the fuck do you want now?"
"Umm, Boss? I think you should come down stairs."
"Again!" he yelled. "What is it time? Dead whores? Dead men dressed like women?"
"No, but I think you should see it. People are gathering in the street. We need to do something quick."

Jarvis and Adam's stood on the boardwalk in front of The Royal, their mouths open in shock.
"Are those men the ones I think they are?" Adams whispered.
"Yeah, I believe so."
Out in the street, six foot tall stakes stuck up out of the dirt. Mounted on the top of each, were three severed heads.
The townsfolk had all gathered, and they were all staring in awe and horror at the macabre spectacle, too.
"Who would do that?" Adams whispered beside him.
"It's that woman, I tell you."
"What do you suppose is on that piece of paper?"
A white piece of paper had been tacked to the post in the middle, right below the severed head of the man who had owned the wagon.
"I don’t know. Why don’t you go read."
"I'm not going to read it. You go read it. It's your town."
Jarvis frowned, "Thanks a lot."
Descending the stairs, he slowly walked out to the poles. The edges of the paper fluttered in the wind. At least the huge storm seemed to be over, all that was left now was the grey clouds and a strong breeze.
The townsfolk tracked him silently, their eyes glued, watching his progress. Jarvis couldn’t bare to look at the severed heads, so instead, he trained his eyes on the far side of the street. All the windows had been boarded up, and would probably be boarded up, for quite sometime. Glass was hard to come by out here. It would take months to order it and have it delivered this far into the wilderness. That pissed him off. How could he build a nice huge town with no store front windows? No windows in the resturant, or saloons either. Charlie had some in the store room at the back of the general store, but it wasn’t enough to fix all of the damage, not enough by half.
Angry now, he ripped the paper from the post, while trying not to look at the mans face above it.
He read the paper once, then read it again. Smashing it into a ball, he threw it down and ground it into the dirt with the heel of his boot.
Adams came down and met him out in the street. "What did it say?"
"It said, 'These men were killed because they were greedy bastards, just like you. Your next.'"
"Oh, that’s wonderful."
"Yeah, and you wanna know something else? It was written on a piece of paper taken from my desk— it had my letter head on it."
Jarvis turned to the crowd, "I've just upped the bounty. Twenty thousand to the man who finds that woman!"
Jarvis ground his teeth together. That bitch would pay… eventually.
That night, after a long stressful day, Jarvis sunk gratefully into bed. As an afterthought, he wished he would have sent for one of the women across the street. Preferably the red head— now she was a looker, and a pleaser. Plus, it would have been nice to have a warm body to snuggle up with.
Yawning, he thought, oh well. I'll send word first thing in the morning, so tomorrow night she'll be ready to go. Closing his eyes, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
He woke up the next morning feeling well rested. There had been no knocks on the door in the middle of the night, no men bringing their dead wifes in an effort to claim the reward.
Stretching, he rolled over, his face brushing something on his pillow. Without opening his eyes, he felt with his hand. When he touched it, it crinkled beneath his hand. Dragging his eyes open he lifted his head to look.
A dirty piece of white paper lay on his pillow. The paper had been crumpled at one time, but now was smoothed flat. His letter head was on the top, and beneath it was the threatening words, scrolled elegantly across the paper.
"Awww!" he said jumping from his bed to the floor as if the paper was a coiled rattler, poised and ready to strike.
It was the same piece of paper that had been tacked to the post in the middle of town, that he himself, had balled up and smashed into the dirt. Who in the hell would have taken that paper and then put it on his pillow?
He got dressed quickly, then headed for the door. He'd been doing some thinking. It must have been Adam's, playing some sick trick on him. He had probably went back yesterday and got that piece paper, just to scare him with. That bastard. He was always so calm, nothing ever ruffled his feathers. So he probably thought it was funny that Jarvis was scared shitless.
Grabbing the doorknob, he mumbled, "I'm going to ring that fucker's neck," when a scream sounded from down the hall.
Swinging the door open and grabbing for his pistol at the same time, he ran out into the hallway.
The two guards that they had posted outside of their bedrooms, were already rushing through Adam's door. Jarvis ran too, running into the backs of the men just right inside the doorway where they had stopped.
"Goddamn it, get out of my way!" he shouted, pushing past them.
Adams was standing in the middle of the room, his eyes wide, his face pale, staring at his bed.
Like some crude headboard, three hearts had been pinned to the wall with knives. Above the hearts, were five names, written in blood.
Above the first heart it said, Fox, above the second and third, it read, Reed and Doyle. The next two names were written above empty spaces. They read, Adams and Jarvis.
Behind them, they heard more of their men pounding up the stairs, brought by the sound of Adams's scream.
They filed into the room, all staring at the same grotesque sight.
Beside him, Adams whispered in a quivering voice, "She was here. She was in my room."
Jarvis growled, "She was in mine, too." Turning to their men, he yelled, "How in the fuck did she get past you!" Glaring at the two men that had guarded their bedroom doors, he screamed, "You two fell asleep, didn’t you! How many fucking times do I have to …"
Above them, the ceiling creaked loudly. All eyes went to the ceiling, as the noise slowly moved along the length room, like there was someone up there tip-toeing around.
"What's up there?" Jarvis whispered.
Tom Coulter sided up to him, "I think maybe its an attic, Boss," he whispered, "Or a crawl space. I've never been up there."
"I think I know how she got in here. Get someone up there, right now. "

Johnny Belks eased himself up the ladder, poking his head into the attic. It was pitch black up there, except for a small window way down at the very end, that let in very little light.
Leaning back down he looked at all the men gathered in the hallway. "I need a light," he whispered, "It's as dark as a witches cunny up here."
One of the men ran to the other end of the hall and grabbed an oil lantern off of a side table. Lighting it, he passed it up to Johnny.
Setting the lantern in the attic, he crawled up inside. The roof was low, so he had to crawl on his hands and knees, keeping the lantern in front him with one hand, and hold his gun in the other.
He hadn't seen anything down by the little window, he so started crawling towards the other end, into the inky black darkness. He crawled past stacks of leftover lumber, laying here and there, haphazardly, and a few piles of extra cedar shake roofing.
Behind him, a dark shadow passed by the small window.
Johnny heard a noise off to his left, and swung the light on that direction.
Glowing eyes caught the light, and below them, the bared teeth were needle sharp.
Johnny cried out, his whole body tensing, then relaxing as he watched the intruder turn and run off.
One of the men down below, called out, "What is it, Johnny? What's up there?"
Hanging his head in relief, he yelled back, "It was a fucking raccoon."
Below, he heard the men grumble, then start to move off, all of them heading down stairs. Probably to have some coffee before they had to deal with the mess in Adams's room.
Sighing in relief, he turned back towards the hatch.
Johnny saw a new set of eyes catch the light. This time they glowed a brilliant red, and right below them, needle sharp teeth flashed again, right before the razor sharp blade of a knife slashed out, cutting his throat before he had a chance to scream.

It was barely eight o'clock in the morning, but the two men were already sharing a drink.
Adams grabbed his glass of whisky, his fancy gold rings chattering on the glass as his hands shook. Throwing his head back, he drained the glass in one big gulp.
Jarvis stood over next to the fireplace, leaning against the mantle, a small smile on his lips.
"What in the hell are you so happy about?"
"Nothing. Just enjoying the fact that your just as scared as me now."
Adams frowned, "I'm not scared."
"Yes you are, and you should be. I told you that woman was something to fear. Whoever she is— she aint fuckin' around."
Adams shivered as he remembered the human hearts pinned to his wall, "No, shit."
"Well, now that your properly frightened, how about we try to figure out a way to catch this bitch, or at least a way to keep us from fucking getting killed in the mean time."
Adams nodded, already deep in thought. "She got past our men, I don’t know how, but she did. What we need is more guns. I say we hire some of those miners to walk the streets at night. That way, we can keep all of our men right here. We'll put some in the front, some in the back, a few downstairs, and a few upstairs. Hell, we could have one right in our rooms, guarding our beds so we can sleep without getting our god-damn throats cut, if we want."
Jarvis smiled, suddenly feeling better than he had in days. "Now your thinking. I like it. Lets have our guys go round some of the men up."
Before they could summon Coulter, they heard shouting, then the sound of boots running, pounding across the wooden floors in the foyer.
"What the fuck is it now?" Jarvis spit, as he and Adams ran for the door.
The men were all gathered at the top of the stairs above them, watching a dark red stain, spread across the ceiling.
Panting hard at the top of the stairs, Adams asked the men, "What is that?"
"I think it's blood, sir."
Jarvis was horrified at the sight. Frowning, he asked, "Where's Johnny? I'm going to fucking kill him, for killing that raccoon. Look at the god-damn mess it's making!"
"Umm, I don’t think that’s from a raccoon, Boss."
Jarvis frowned, "What do you mean?"
Looking around at the men, Coulter shrugged, "Johnny never came back down."
"What!" Pushing his way to the ladder, Jarvis shouted, "Johnny! Are you still up there? Answer me god-damn it!"
Absolute silence followed as the men all held their breath.
"Answer me, Johnny!"
Coulter spoke quietly beside him, "I don’t think he can, Boss."
"What? Why not?"
Coulter nodded at the stain, "Because… I think that's Johnny."
Jarvis and Adam's blinked at each other. Neither could believe what was happening. One of their own men, killed right in the hotel. Right in broad daylight.
It was maddening. "What the fuck are you all doing standing here? Get up that fucking ladder!"

Sam and Zeb were sitting in front of the Gold Rush, when the front door of The Grand Hotel opened across the street, and Jarvis' and Adams' men poured out. They split up, each group running along the front, then down the sides, towards the back. They all had their guns drawn.
"Now, what do ya suppose those idiots are up to?" Zeb asked.
Sam frowned, "I don’t know. But somethings sure got them all stirred up."
They were still sitting there a while later, when a body wrapped in a bloody sheet was brought out the front door and thrown into the back of an awaiting wagon.
Two of Jarvis's men happened to look up, spying them crossed the street. The two exchanged a few words, then started walking their way.
Stopping in front of them, the tall one asked, "You boys been sittin' here long?"
Sam shrugged, "For a while, I guess."
"Did either of you two happen to see anyone sneaking around the hotel? A woman perhaps?"
"No." Zeb answered.
The man frowned at his partner, then eyed their gun belts, "You two any good with those irons?"

That night, Sam and Zeb stood guard at the southern end of town.
"Can you believe those jackasses are paying us twenty dollars a night to stand out here?"
Sam smiled, nodding, "Something must of spooked them awful bad."
"Boy, I'll say. Them two'd have to be scared spitless to pay ten men, twenty dollars a night to watch the town. How much is that?"
"Two hundred dollars, I believe."
Zeb whistled softly. "Boy, if we could git that girl a yours to hold off awhile, we could make a fortune here."
Sam chuckled, just as a woman's voice sounded from the woods, "No such luck, Old Timer."
They watched as a woman materialized from the dark shadows of the trees.
Angel walked towards them, a small smile playing on her lips.
Beside Sam, Zeb drawled, "Well, speak of the devil." then immediately regretted his choice of words.
Angel read it on his face, then chuckled, "That’s alright, Zeb. I know what you meant. Here, I found this for you."
"Hey! My hat!"
Sam studied her for a moment. For the first time ever, Angel, seemed happy. That was something he hadn't seen on her before. Perhaps because the end was near?
He whispered worriedly, "You shouldn’t be here. Jarvis has got the whole damn town looking for you."
She smiled, "I bet. After our little 'heart to heart' this morning, he and Adams are probably shitting in their pants." Then the smile disappeared, replaced with seriousness, "But the games are over now, and the funs about to begin. That's what I came to tell you. I want you to take Zeb and get out of town. After tonight, the bloods gonna flow."
Sharp frowned, "I aint leaving. I didn’t come all this way to turn tail and run now."
"Me neither." Zeb piped up.
"I came to help you, and that’s what I aim to do."
"Me, too." Zeb nodded.
Angel stared at them both. "I don’t want neither of you to get hurt."
"We wont."
"Nope, we wont."
Sharp rolled his eyes. Zeb was bound and determined to be a part of this. Sam wanted to try and talk him out of it, but he knew he'd just be wasting his breath. "I guess we'll both be careful."
"Yes, we will."
Angel sighed, "Just stay out of my way when the time comes. And what ever you do, don’t touch Jarvis or Adams— their both mine." Angels eyes flew past Sam's shoulder, "Grab your gun and shoot at me." she whispered urgently and turned to run.
A few seconds later, the sound of several hammers being cocked pierced the night…

"Boss, Ike here, seen these two men talking to that woman yer lookin' for."
"Yeah, I seen them talking to her out on the edge of town and went to go get the men, but by the time we got back there, she was gone."
Jarvis turned murderous eyes toward the man, "You seen her and you didn’t shoot her!"
The man frowned, stuttering, "Th-there was three of them," he whined, "I couldn’t take them all by myself!"
Jarvis strode over and grabbed the man by his shirt front, "You didn’t have to take all of them," he ground, "You only had to take her, you fucking coward." Jarvis shoved him backwards and turned, walking towards Sam and Zeb.
Stopping in front of them, he glared, "Who is she, and why is she after us?" he asked evenly.
Neither man said anything. The long seconds ticked by on the Regulator clock on the wall as they all glared at each other.
Losing what little patience he had, Jarvis screamed, spittle flying out of his mouth, "I said, Who is she!"
Coulter spoke from behind him, "They ain't saying nothing, Boss. We already tried to git them to talk, but they clammed right up as soon as we got the drop on them."
From across the room, Adam's said dryly, "I'm sure we can think of something to loosen their jaws."
Jarvis looked from one man to the other. The younger of the two was about his age, but he was a huge man. Tall, and built as sturdy as a tree. The old man standing next to him was small and frail.
He glared at Sam, "Answer me."
His question was met with obstinate silence again. Furious, Jarvis clenched his jaw. Dropping his shoulder, he swung his arm around, his clenched fist shooting past Sam and coming down on his right, smashing Zeb in left eye.
"Arrgh." Zeb cried as his head snapped to the right and his knees sagged. He would have fallen from the force behind the blow, but the two men that held his arms, kept him on his feet.
"Zeb!" Sharp cried, as he struggled to free himself from the hired guns that held him.
Smirking, Jarvis said amused, "So you can talk."
Sam swung deadly eyes back to Jarvis.
In that split second, he became Sam Sharp, once again. All the furry and raw rage from the past ignited inside of him; the burning desire for justice and retribution was like a hot poker, slicing right through his core. His adrenalin ramped up, then shot through his veins like a bullet fired from a buffalo gun. The fervent craving to kill.
Suddenly, he dropped his weight, and using the two men behind him for leverage he brought both legs up and kicked straight out and up with the right, catching Jarvis on the tip of his chin with the toe of his boot.
Jarvis's head snapped back and he stumbled backwards, as the two men holding Sam fell too, taking him with them.
On the floor, Sam rolled to his right, pinning the gunmen beneath him. In one lightening fast move, he raised his fist and delivered a savage blow to the mans jaw, feeling the heavy bone crack under his knuckles.
His arm continued to circle around, and he grabbed the gun at the man's waist. Jerking it up it up, he cocked it at the same time, and pointed the barrel at the gunman. He fired off a rapid shot, the slug taking the man in the middle of his forehead.
Swinging the gun to his left, he cocked and fired again, hitting the other man in the throat. The man dropped the gun he had just pulled and grabbed his neck, his eyes bulging, as warm blood poured through his fingers.
Sam cocked the .44 again, intent on spinning around and taking out Jarvis and Adams next, when Coulter calmly stepped forward and planted one on the side of his head with the thick stock of his rifle.
Sharps mind exploded with pain, and a second later everything went dark.

Sharp awoke sometime later, laying on a hard flat surface, his head splitting. Groaning, he rolled from his back to his side as fireworks exploded behind his eyes.
"Glad to see yer awake, Boy. I was staring to get worried."
Sam spoke, his throat and mouth feeling as dry as cotton, "Zeb. Where are we?"
He heard the old man sigh, "We're in jail."
"Is it dark in here?"
"Wall, hell ya it is. Them bastards wouldn’t leave no lights on fer us."
Groaning, he said, "Good. For a second there, I thought I was blind."
Zeb was quiet for a moment, then he said, "Ya know, that was a stupid-fool thing ya did back there, standing in a room with twenty armed men. I'm surprised they didn’t shoot ya."
"Thanks."
"Naw, thank you. I know you's jest tryin' to protect me."
Sharp shivered. He was freezing. "Is there any blankets in here?"
"Nope. No blankets, no cots, not even a pisser. Just the floor."
"Great." Sharp groaned as he tried to sit up.
"Don’t worry, Son, we aint gonna be in here fer long."
"Really?"
"Nope. They plan on hangin' us tomorrow at noon."


"What!" Sam yelled, then grabbed his head as a sharp pain threatened to knock him out again.
"Yeah, Jarvis was pretty pissed when he woke up. He said they were gonna hang us from that big oak tree at the edge of town, so if there were any others like us around, they'd get the message."
"Like us?"
"Yep. What was that he called us… double eagles? Or something' like that. He said cause we were workin' fer him, and spying fer her at the same time."
Sam groaned, "I think you mean, double agents."
"Whatever."

They sat in the dark, each contemplating what would take place the following day, and the turn of events that had brought them there.
Sharp wasn’t as upset about hanging, as he was about Zeb hanging right along with him. He should have tried harder to get him to quit, to pack it up and get the hell out of town.
"Zeb?"
"Yeah, Son?"
"I'm sorry you got mixed up in all of this."
"Wall, I aint. I've been thinking' about this, and I wouldn’t trade one minute of what we've been through together, for all the planted gold in that creek up yonder."
"How can you say that? You should be working for the railroad right now, shooting Indians and buffalo and collecting a paycheck, instead of sitting in this jail cell waiting to die."
"Shit, Son, I've been on my way to dying since the day I was born. Everybody is, we all gotta go sometime."
"But not like this."
"Why not like this? It sure beats the hell out'a the alternative."
"What alternative?"
Zeb snorted, "Dying of old age. Boy, I'll tell ya, getting old's a bitch. Everything you once had, is in the process of leavin' or stoving up, or it jest plain ol' don’t work anymore. Your body hurts, yer bones ache, yer eyes and hearing goes. That aint no way to die. But, this here? It leaves a man his dignity."
Sharp didn’t know how much dignity could be found twirling at the end of a hangman's noose, but he figured Zeb was just trying to make him feel better.
He heard a deep sigh in the dark, just a few feet away, "You remember that first night when I rode into your camp? And I told you I was headed up north to get a job with the railroad?"
"Yeah."
"Wall, I sorta lied 'bout that."
"What?"
"The truth is, I had just come from up north. The men at the railroad laughed at me when I tried to get myself hired on. They told me I was too old to be of any use to them. When I seen your campfire that night, I was probly at my lowest yet. I figured that if I talked to you, told you my stories, that maybe I wouldn't feel like such a loser. I wouldn’t feel so worthless.
Sharp groaned, "Your not worthless, Zeb. And those men at the railroad were fools to pass you up."
"Well, anyway, I just wanted to thank you for taking me in and letting me tag along. I know'd you didn’t want me with you at first, I know'd it when you kept trying to shake me off. But at the time, I kept tellin' myself that you needed me, needed my help. But the truth was, Son, I needed you a hellofa lot more than you ever needed me."
Sam was glad it was dark, he didn’t want Zeb to see the few tears that welled up in his eyes, it took a moment to answer
"Zeb, your one of the finest men I've ever known, and it was an honor to have you ride with me."
Zeb sniffed in the dark, "Your just saying that."
"Because its true,"
"Oh please— You guys are breaking my fucking heart."

Chapter

"Gracie?"
Outside the small barred window in the back, they heard her sigh, "Yeah, I guess that’s me." she grumbled, allowing the slip-up. "I just wanted to tell you two not to worry. You got friends coming, Sam Sharp. They'll be here by dawn, and they wont let either of you hang. And neither will I."
"Friends?" Sam asked, rising from the floor and making his way to the back of the cell, towards her voice. "What friends?"
"That’s for me to know, and you to find out."
Great, he thought. That’s all he needed, to put more of his friends in danger.
As if Gracie had read his mind, she said, "Their coming of their own accord, Sam. Just like Zeb. When are you going to let go, and know that everything is as it should be?" When he said nothing, she lowered her voice, "And when are you going to figure out, that your not responsible for anybody's actions except your own."
Sam frowned in the dark, "What are you talking about?"
"You know exactly what I'm talking about, Sam Sharp. All the guilt and burden and shame you've been carrying around all these years. They're not your own. Let them go. The woman's scream that still haunts your nightmares. The little boy you couldn’t save. The men and that baby— Let it go. You did everything you could."
Sam rocked his forehead against the wall in agony, "It wasn’t enough."
"It's never enough."
From across the cell, Zeb asked, worried by the anguish in Sam's voice, "What's she talkin' about, Son?"
Angel whispered, her voice as soft and gentle as an August breeze, "Tell him, Sam. Tell him and then let it go. Before it kills you."
And then she was gone.
Sam walked slowly back to his spot. He leaned heavily against the wall, then slid down till he was sitting. He could feel Zeb's eyes on him even in the dark, and he knew he was waiting to hear the story.
Sighing, he began.
"I was down in Mexico, fighting in the Mexican-American war, after I'd been made an offer I couldn’t refuse. I'd been in about two years when we received word over the wire that there was a renegade band of hostile Indians, attacking settlers up near The Big Thicket. I joined up with Lt. William Bradford and his men and we rode for Sour Lake Springs.
It was just north of there, that we first cut the Indians trail. The trail led us to an Indian village, just north-east of there. I went in by myself an spoke with people. Come to find out, the renegades had been through there, just a few hours ahead of us. Excited that we were so close to them, I went back and told the lieutenant. I wanted to jumped on their tail and follow them right away— but Bradford had another idea."
Sam's mind was transported back in time, as the images he had tried so hard to drown in whiskey for so many years, came back to him like a long lost enemy…
Sharp had watched in disgust as the cocky lieutenant rallied his troop and advanced down the hill towards the Indian village. The man’s stupidity dumbfounded him. Only an idiot would take his men into that stirred up bee’s nest down yonder. But there was nothing Sharp could do, except sit by and watch. He had been dismissed.
A hundred feet from the edge of the village, the troop stopped, halted by Bradfords raised hand. As one, the men all pulled their guns.
"What are those god-damned idiots up to?" he mumbled to himself. Tapping his horse's ribs, he rode a few feet down the hill to get a better look.
Bradford had turned, speaking to his men, but Sharp was still too far away to hear the the words. Then the lieutenant spun his horse back around, facing the village, and stabbed his rifle in the air.
As one, the men kicked their mounts into a lunging gallop, screaming and spreading out, they hit the unsuspecting village already firing their weapons at the stunned villagers.
On the hill, Sharp screamed, "No!" and drummed his heels hard, into his horse's flesh.
When Sharp reached the village, he kicked his feet out of the stirrups and hit the ground running.
All around him, panicked Indians were shouting, women were running and screaming, and the air was thick with smoke.
Bradford's men were slaughtering the people left and right and setting fire to tee-pees.
For a minute, he tried to get the men's attention, running and screaming, "Stop! Stop it!" But they all ignored him.
Standing in the middle of the chaos, one of the squaws caught his attention. She was clutching an infant to her chest and running around in circles, obviously in shock.
Sharp ran to her and grabbed her arm. "Come on," he hollered, "I'll help you!"
His intention had been to lead her away from the village and hide her in the woods, but she didn’t know that. All she seen when she looked at him, was the white of his skin.
Screaming, she tried to break free of his grasp.
"No, no, no! I want to help you!" he pleaded, pulling on her.
Without warning, she bent, and sunk her teeth into his arm.
"Arrgh!" he cried and let go, clutching his injured arm. Blood seeped out from between his fingers. The bite was deep.
He watched helplessly as she turned and ran. Bullets whizzed through the air like a swarm of angry bees, and a second later, she stopped short. Staring down at the bundle in her arms, she cried out. Then throwing her back, she screamed.
It was scream to shatter glass. Even there, in the midst of all the commotion, it was so loud and long at it seemed humanly impossible.
Running to her side again, he spun her around.
The blanket in her arms was soaked in blood, and the infant wasn’t moving. It was dead.
Trying to ignore the blood curdling screams coming out of her mouth, Sam scooped her up in his arms and started running for the safety of the trees. He was half way there, when she stopped screaming and sunk her teeth into his shoulder.
He screamed again, and dropped her onto her feet.
He grabbed his shoulder and yelled, "God-damn it!" as he spun away from her. Through the pain in his shoulder and arm, he felt a tug at his waistband.
Spinning back around he seen his gun in her hand, and it was like everything stood still. In that moment, the fighting ceased to exist around them and everything was deathly quiet.
He watched her slowly pull the hammer back, the muzzel pointed at his chest. Then he looked at her face. Her eyes were unfocused as she stared past him. To late, he realized what she was doing.
As she turned the gun towards herself, he screamed, "No!" as she bite down on the black cold steel. He lunged for the gun just as she pulled the trigger, blowing the back of her head off.
She fell in slow motion, her long black hair billowing around her face, her eyes wide and unseeing, her body bouncing a little as she hit the ground.
In shock, Sam stared down at her lifeless body. The infant had tumbled from her arm when she fell and it lay a few feet from her outstretched fingers. Slowly, he bent and picked up the small still bundle and placed the baby back in her arms.
He couldn’t believe that any of this was happening. All around him was the sound of screaming and gun fire. What little resistance the Indians had mustered had been cut down in a bloody hail of soldiers bullets. All around him, people were dying, and it was all his fault.
He stood by, watching helplessly, when his eye caught that of a little chubby boy. He was sitting behind one of tee-pee's, his knees pulled up to his chest, scared tears leaving muddy tracks down his little cheeks.
His heart leaping, Sharp took off in a sprint, running towards him. He couldn’t save the woman and her baby, but this time he wouldn’t fail, he would save that little boy.
He was half to the tee-pee when Bradford came riding out of nowhere, heading straight for him. Sharp glanced over just in time to see the man swinging his rifle like a club. Then his his world went black.
When he came to sometime later the camp was much quieter. Just a few random shouts and shots, here and there. Dragging his eyes open, he could see the squaw and her baby a little ways across the field. Bradford and one of his men stood there also.
He heard Bradford ask, "Is it dead?"
The man on his right brought his leg up and stomped on the infants head, crushing it beneath his boot. "It is now," the man laughed.
Then Sharp's vision swam and he was out again.
The next time he woke up, Bradford and his men were gone.
Ignoring the pain in his head and fighting the urge to vomit, he sat up and looked around at what was left of the Indian village.
The tee-pee's were all burned to the ground, black smoke still curling into the air from the ashes. Bodies lay scattered everywhere. Men and women, old and young alike, babies, toddlers, the little boy he had tried so desperately to save— all dead. He hadn't been able to save one single person. He had failed.
Hanging his head, he sobbed openly. He had caused all of this death and destruction. He alone he lead those killers to this peacefully camp. And now they were all dead because of him.

In the dark, Zeb sighed, "Son, its no wonder the Indians hate us, but that’s a whole lot of guilt your carrying around for something that wasn’t yer fault."
"Weren't you listening to the story? Of course it was my fault! I lead those animals right to that camp, and as a result, all those people were slaughtered."
Zeb was quiet for a moment in the dark, then asked, "Do you think that if they had taken a different scout along, that those people would have been spared? That someone else, besides yerself, would have been able to stop those men from doing what they did?"
His questions were met with silence.
"God-damn it, Boy, answer me! Do you think a different man would have been able to stop it?"
"No! No I don’t. But it wasn’t somebody else, it was me! I was the one, and I should have been able to stop it."
"The only way you could have stopped it, would have been to kill all of those soldiers, and that would have just added to yer guilty concience."
Silence ticked by the seconds, then Sam whispered, "I did."
"Huh? You did what?"
Sharp was quiet for a moment as he screwed up the courage to say it. He had never told a single living soul, what he was about to tell Zeb. Taking a deep breath, he let it out, "I killed all of those men. I killed Leuitenant Bradford and every last one of his soldiers, but the damage had already been done. I couldn’t save those people, but I could get revenge for them. I killed them for that woman and her baby. I killed them for that scared little boy that was beaten bloody before he had his throat slit." As Sharp talked, the anger rekindled inside of him, "I killed them because they deserved to die."
Across the room, Sam heard a sharp intake of breath, "Jesus Christ. You kilt over twenty men by yourself?"
"No," Sharp admitted, "not by myself. I had help."
"What? Who?"
"After I bandaged myself up, I did what I had went there to do. Bradford and his men had taken my horse and all of my weapons, so I tracked down that renegade band of hostiles on foot. For some reason, they had left me alive. Probably figured I would have never made it out of The Big Thicket alive. But they underestimated me. It only took me a couple of hours to find them because they hadn't went very far after they had raided that village. When I walked into their camp, I told them about what the soldiers had done to the people in that village, and that they had done that as a warning to them. I told them that they would be next."
"You walked into a renegade camp unarmed? Boy, you must have balls the size a watermelons. I'm surprised they didn’t kill you on sight."
Sharp laughed mirthlessly, "I actually figured they would, but I also figured I deserved it. All I wanted was enough time to explain what had happened and to set them on the track of Bradford and his men. I knew that they would take care of the rest. But, not only was my life spared, they thanked me for bringing them the information. The leader of the band asked me what I wanted in return. I told him that the only thing I wanted, was my horse and guns back— and I wanted the satisfaction of watching every single one of those sick, sons a bitches, die for what they had done."


Across town, George Jarvis was awakened by the storm raging outside. Crossing the room he stood by the window, staring down into the empty street. Lightening lit the sky every ten to twenty seconds, so when a lone rider rode through town, the intermittent light made the figure below look like it was lurching down the street like a marionette, the strings being manned by a drunk . It was surreal to watch— and kind of creepy.
Shivering, he grumbled, "God-damned Idaho."
He'd never been anywhere where they had so many late summer storms. The weather around this place was ridiculous. He might have to re-think the amount of time he was planning on spending here. There were a lot more areas in the territory where he could profit from a gold rush or two. And there was always the possibility of trying their hand down in California, like Adams had suggested.
Jarvis turned when he heard a thump at the door. "Yeah, what is it?" he hollered.
His question was met with silence.
"I said, what is it?"
When there was still no answer, he crossed the room. Jerking open the door, he yelled, "Why the fuck arent you—"
The guard posted outside of his door fell into the room, landing on the floor with a thud.
Jarvis scowled down at the sleeping man. He paid these men handsomely to protect him, all he asked is that they stay sober, stay awake and do their job. How hard is that, he thought angrily.
He nudged the mans back with his socked foot, "Wake up, you lazy bastard! I don’t pay you to sleep."
When the man still didn’t respond, Jarvis bent down and grabbed the man roughly by the shoulder and jerked him onto his back.
The guards eyes were closed and his face was lax, like he was in the midst of a deep slumber, but the red line slashed across his throat told another story.
"Aww, fuck!" Jarvis choked, as he jumped back.
In a panic, he ran to his nightstand and grabbed his gun belt, flinging it around his waist over his long johns. He buckled it as fast as he could with shaky, unsteady hands.
As he headed for the door, he had another thought. Stopping, he jerked the colt from his waist and pointed it at his bedroom window. He fired off two quick rounds, breaking the glass and making enough noise to hopefully bring the men out in the street running.
Then, gun still in hand, he ran out into the corridor. Down the hall he seen the guard posted outside of Adams room, slumped against the wall, a huge red stain spreading across the front of his shirt.
A high-pitched scream split the air, making the hair rise on the back of his neck and a shiver run down his spine.
Jarvis was cemented in place as he listened to the horrifying screams coming from his partners room. They were wild, high-pitched shrieks and screams, the likes of which Jarvis had never heard before.
The sound of his men pounding up the stairway finally shocked him back into action. Running down the hall, he held his gun with one hand and turned the doorknob to Adams' room with the other, shoving against it with his shoulder.
The thick wooden door didn’t budge. Turning the handle again, he rammed against it again. Nothing.
Coulter was the first to reach him.
"Get this door open!" Jarvis shouted above the screams still coming from inside.
Coulter pushed by him and tried opening the door without any luck. Turning, he searched the crowd of men, "Diego, get over here."
Diego, a huge Mexican with a pock scarred face, pushed his way to the front. "Senior?"
"Get this god-damned door open, pronto."
"Si."
The Mexican turned the knob and threw his weight against the door a few times, without success. Backing across the hall, he ran full bore, crashing into it with all of his weight.
The men heard a loud crack, followed by Diego's own scream.
Clutching his dislocated shoulder, the big Mexican danced around.
From the other side of the door, he could hear Adams screaming, "Don’t open the door! It's a trap! Don’t open the door!"
Jarvis looked around at him men, "She's in there! Get this goddamn door open— and kill that bitch!"
Inside, Adams lay on the floor completely naked. He had huge metal spikes drove through the palms of his hands and into the floor to keep him in place, while the back of his head rested on the sharp, glinting, cold steel tines of a bear trap.
One half of the trap, the part under his head, had been nailed to the floor to keep it stationary. Above the tripping mechanism in the middle, a large rock had been tied with a small gauge rope and ran up through the candle lit chandelier and over to the door, its end wrapped around the doorknob.
If they opened the door, the rock would fall and spring the trap, effectively cutting his head in two.
"Don’t open the door! Get away from the god-damned door!" he screamed, tears running down his face mixing with the sweat that dripped off of the back of his head and neck.
"Oh dear jesus," he cried. "Help me, help me, help meeee!"
He eyes flew to the door as he heard a big thump against it.
"Stop! Don’t open the door, you'll kill meeee!" he screamed, his vocal cords straining in his neck.
Thump. "Listen to me!" Adams kicked his legs, his body dancing with adrenaline, "Stop, you bastards!" He felt one of the sharp teeth on the trap rip into the back of his head, "Awwwhhh! Fuck— STOP!"
In the hallway, he heard two quick shots, the bullets splintering the wood next to the doorknob.
His body jerked as his heart jumped in his chest, hammering. Screaming, he strained against the spikes in his palms, sliding his hands towards the top of he spikes. "AWWWWWW—"

Coulter slipped his left gun back into its holster and stepped forward, still gripping the right, and kicked the door open—
Jarvis was right behind him, gun in hand, ready to kill the bitch on sight.
As the door shot open, they watched a rock drop from the ceiling and land right in the middle of a bear trap. The trap jumped as the jaws snapped shut, cutting through the middle of Adams's head, and cutting him off in mid-scream.
"Fuck!" Jarvis strangled, stumbling backwards and tripping over the men behind him.
On the floor, he scrambled to his feet and backed away from the door, and the grisly sight of his partner laying there with his head half way ripped off. The sound of the mans skull crushing still fresh in his ears, he jumped up and down. "Fuck, fuck! Oh, Fuuuuck!"
One of the gunhands peeked passed Coulter's shoulder, then turned around and threw up in the hallway.
Coulter stepped back out of the room and slowly closed the door behind him. He faced his boss, his normally calm expression, replaced by shocked disbelief and was chalk-white. "I guess that’s why he didn’t want us to open the door."

Back in his room, Jarvis paced the floor unable to sleep, while Dean Harris watched from his chair by the bed. In fact, he wondered if he'd ever be able to fall asleep again.
The image of his dead partner flashed through his mind and he shuttered.
One thing was for sure— she was one crazy bitch.
The sounds of men shouting down below drifted up from the floor.
"Oh, what now?" he muttered as he and Harris headed for the door.
Downstairs, they found Adams' men faced off with his own.
"What in the hells going on here?" Jarvis demanded.
Coulter was his usual laid back self as he answered, "Adams's men are leaving."
"What?"
Cyrus Greenly, leader of Adams's guards stepped forward, "Our boss is dead. We aint got no stake in this anymore, so we're pullin' out."
"What? You cant leave now." he cried, "Don’t you want to get the bitch that killed him?"
Cyrus stared at him, his eyes hard. "We worked for him because he paid us to, not because we liked him."
Jarvis stared at the group of men incredibly. What a bunch of heartless bastards, he thought. If he didn’t need their help, he would have thrown them out of there himself on principal alone, but as it stood, he did need them.
Stepping forward, Jarvis told Cyrus, "Whatever Adams was paying you boys, I'll double it if you stay."
"No dice." The big man shrugged, "We talked it over, and we're out."
Panicked by the thought of loosing thirteen gunmen, Jarvis blurted out, "I'll triple it. Whatever he was paying, I'll triple it."
Syrus sighed, then turned to look at his men in turn. He met each one in the eye, taking a silent vote. Each one of them gave the consensus with a slight shake of their heads. It was unanimous.
He shrugged, "Sorry, the answers still no. Now, if you'll kindly have your men back away from the door, we'll be taking our leave."
Jarvis stood there, his arms folded, his jaw clenched.
It was Coulter that finally turned to his men, "Move away, boys. Let 'em through."
Amidst grumbles and protests, Syrus lead his stoic men out the door.
After the last mans boots stepped off of the front stairs, Jarvis turned to Coulter, "Wait twenty minutes, then take your men and head out."
Coulter frowned, "Boss?"
"I want every single one of those deserting cowards dead by sunrise."
He spun on his heel and headed for the stairs before Coulter could argue. It had been a long night.
Coulter spoke from behind him, "Boss, you want us to leave you alone to go after those men? And leave you here; unprotected?"
Shit. Sighing, he conceded, "Never mind. Let 'em go."
"One more thing…"
Jarvis stopped at the bottom of the stairs and turned, "What is it, Tom?" he asked impatiently.
Tom Coulter stared at him, his eyes hard. "You offered to triple those men's pay. I take it the same deal goes for us."
Behind Tom, his men grouped around him, their arms folded, their eyes daring him to refuse.
Jarvis felt cornered, a feeling that didn’t set well with him, but they had him over a barrel. Forcing a smile, he told them from between gritted teeth, "Of course. You and your men are well worth every penny." You heartless bastards.

Sam and Zeb sat beneath the giant oak tree on the backs of their horses. Their hands were bound behind their backs and each had a hangman's noose wrapped around their necks. The men that had strung them up had argued over the type of knot that they would use. They had finally decided on a noose knot, which would slide down and slowly strangle each of the men, as opposed to a hangman's knot that used thirteen coils designed to slide together, snapping a mans neck and killing him instantly.
A large horde of miners had gathered before them, and off to the side, a small group of church women stood by nervously.
Jarvis sat his prancing mount, the large stallion arching his neck and chewing at the bit.
Beside Sam, Zeb spoke out of the side of his mouth, "Wall, I guess yor friends arent gonna show up."
"Guess not. Sorry, Zeb."
"I done tol' ya last night, theres nothin' to be sorry fer."
Satisfied that all of the people who were planning on attending, were there, Jarvis addressed the crowd, "These men have been found guilty of treason." he shouted. "And they've been sentenced to hang by the neck until dead. And the same will go for anybody caught conversing with the enemy. In this town, I am the judge, jury, and executioner!"
"He forgot, Grand Prick and Royal Hind-ass." Zeb whispered loudly.
One of Jarvis's men who was holding the reigns of Ol' Ugly, stifled a laugh.
"I own this town!" Jarvis continued. "I own that creek bed, and I own all of the businesses in town…"
"I wish he owned a sharp knife and would use to cut his own tongue out. Somebody needs to shove a sock in it, and get this party started already. His little speech is killin' me faster than this god-damned noose." Zeb grumbled.
Sharp couldn’t help himself, he laughed and so did Jarvis's men who were standing close enough to hear him.
Jarvis heard the laughter and jerked his horse around. "You think this funny?" He pointed to the church women, queing their part in this sick little neck-tie party.
"Swing low, sweet chariot…" they all sang, their voices warbling in nervous fear. They sounded worse than a gaggle of geese, all squawking off key.
"Oh, Jesus Christ! Yer killing me over here!" Zeb shouted. "Get on with it Jarvis, before my ears start to bleed."
Jarvis smiled at his own genius. He had thought up this little number last night when he couldn’t sleep. He threw his head back and laughed joyously, waving his fingers in the air like a conductor waves his wand. He wished Adams were here to see this.
"Faster!" he told the women. "And put some heart into it!"
The women obliged fearfully, tickling him pink. He sang along, his voice booming gleefully. "Comin' for to carry me home…"
As the song came to an end, he signaled his men, "Let 'em swing, boys!"
Zeb called to Sam. "See ya on the other side, Amigo."
Sharp was about to answer, when his horse jumped beneath him, and took off, running side by side with Ol' Ugly.
Sharp struggled against the rope as the noose jerked tight against his throat. His feet kicked in the air, unintentionally swinging him around so he was facing Zeb.
Zeb's legs kicked wildly in the air, his face turning red and his eyes bulging as he stared back at him. His left eye was bruised black and swollen from where Jarvis had hit him the night before. If Sam could have done one more thing before he died, it would have been to take that asshole out.
The sight of that old man doing a death dance at the end of the rope, broke Sam's heart. Zeb deserved to die better than this…


chapter
From between slitted eyes he watched as an arrow pierced through the rope above his friends head, slicing through the fibers. Slowly the rope unraveled, then broke, dropping Zeb onto the ground.
Sam was vaguely aware of people screaming and running, as several arrows flew through the air, and Indian war cries rose above the sudden chaos .
On his feet, Zeb struggled to get his breath. The noose, once tightened, didn’t loosen easily, and with his hands still tied behind his back, he was only able to get little gasps of air by flexing the muscles in his neck.
Staggering over to Sam, he ducked, shoving his head through Sam's legs, so that he was sitting on Zeb's shoulders. His legs shaking, Zeb tried to stand to take the weight off of Sam's rope.
Sam was so heavy, however, that Zeb was only able to hold him up for just a few seconds at a time. Crying out in exersion, Zeb heaved Sam up again, while in his mind, he cursed his old, frail body.
Above him, Sam gulped in a mouth full of air while he could. But he knew that his time was short lived. Poor Zeb wouldn’t be able keep it up for very long.
The rope slowly tightened around his neck again as Zebs shoulders lowered, then disappeared completely from beneath him. He knew the old man would feel guilty for not being able to save him. He wished he could tell him that it was alright. That obviously it was his time to go, and he was okay with that.
Sam's vision was starting to grow dark, when another set of shoulders replaced Zebs. Strong shoulders that could easily bare his weight, lifted him high into the air.
Suddenly a spotted horse appeared out of nowhere, sliding to a stop beside Sam.
Buffalo Hump grimaced as he reached an old gnarled hand out and cut the rope above Sams head with the flick of his bone handled knife.
Free from the hangman's noose, Sam dropped to the ground. As soon as he hit, there were hands there, untying the rope that bound his hands and slipping the noose from around his neck.
In utter exhaustion, Sam collapsed.
"You don’t listen, White Worrior. I told you, that if you came, you and your friend would die. It is good that I had another vision after you left my village."
Still breathing hard, Sharp asked him, "And what was in that vision?"
"This." he heard the Indian chief say. "Me saving you."
Struggling to his knees, Sharp grinned up at the old chief, "Well, you sure took your sweet time getting here."

They were in Buffalo Hump's camp, about a mile away from town, sitting in front of a small fire.
Zeb sat huddled, a wool blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Sam looked worriedly at the black bruise around his neck. He had also noticed that Zeb hadn't turned his head since they were cut loose from the noose.
Reaching over, he gently squeezed the old mans shoulder, "How are you feeling, Zeb?"
"Fine as frogs hair." he croaked, his voice hoarse.
"Our medicine man, Waters That Fall, is making you a poultice for your neck and eye. It will help with the pain and bruising."
Zeb nodded his head, the slight movement causing him to wince, "I'd be much obliged."
Sam frowned, "I sure wish you and your men would of killed that crazy bastard, Jarvis."
Buffalo Hump shrugged, "We could have easily. But we were given strict orders not to touch him, White Warrior."
"What! By who?"
"By me."
Sam turned, watching Gracie stroll out of the forest and make her way to the fire. Somewhat amusedly, he also watched all of Buffalo Humps finest, bravest warriors and a couple of squaws, run to the opposite end of the camp, their eyes fearful. Only Buffalo Hump remained where he was.
Once Gracie was seated, Buffalo Hump chuckled, "You make my men run like girls. But I will forgive them, because you are a strange one."
Gracie, or Angel, ignored the comment, getting right down to business. "Don’t worry Sam, Jarvis will be dead before sunrise tomorrow."
Sam studied her dark eyes. He never thought it would happen, but he was getting sort of used to them. They were completely black, the surface shiny and tinged with a metallic dark blue, almost like the back of a black ground beetle.
"So tonights the night."
"Yes. I left word in town for anybody not wanting to be killed, to get out of town by sundown."
Sharp didn’t even want to ask how she managed that one. But he was curious about something… "How come your calling me Sam, all of a sudden. You always called me, Reverend."
She looked at him curiously, "You don’t know?" Turning, she asked, "What about you, Buffalo Hump. Can you tell?"
A smile appeared in the cracks and creavices that lined the old Indians face, "Yes, I can tell. The reverend is gone, and the old Sam Sharp is back."
Staring at the ground, he mulled over their words. Was it true? Was he really back to his old self? He remembered the night before, when Jarvis had hit Zeb— he had felt it then, in that moment. But what about now?

They spent the day in Buffalo Humps camp. Zeb received the poultice and after only an hour he was able to move his head freely from side to side again, but the bruise had grown considerably, it looked like he was sporting a new black scarf around his neck.
After their short conversation earlier, Gracie had gone to the edge of the camp and sat by herself. She had been sitting with her back to them, staring into the woods in a deep trance ever since.
As the late summer sun began to set in the sky, dark clouds rolled in from all directions. As the wind picked up, Buffalo Humps warrior's began preparing for battle. Their long black hair was braided by the few squaws that had accompanied them on the trip. Feathers and beads were placed strategically along their thick braids, while black and white war paint was applied to their stoic faces.
Once all of the men were ready, more wood as added to the fire in the middle of the camp. As the flames reached the height of a full grown man, Buffalo Hump was escorted to the North side of the pyre to take his rightful place and begin the ceremony.
The buffalo robe was thrown from his shoulders as he raised his arms high in the air and began chanting, "Aaahhee haatahhee oohhoowah."
Inside the circle of the camp, the wind died down and was still, but outside of it, the wind picked up, tearing through the trees, making the tall cedars along the edge of the camp, swing and sway and dance along with the rhythm.
The medicine man, Waters That Fall, sat on a piece of downed log, and began beating on a rawhide drum, while the women stood and danced in place, their leg rattles keeping time with the beat.
The warriors took their places, and slowly started to dance around the large fire in an age old war ceremony. They held their weapons in hand, often holding them up in the air, as if they were asking the Great Spirit to bless and guide them on their journey.
The whole performace was captivating to watch. Sam and Zeb sat cross-legged in the grass, tapping their feet along with the beat and drinking fire water from dried gourds.
But Sam found himself looking over at Gracie quite often. She still sat with her back to them, facing the wind blown trees. If she knew there was a ceremony taking place behind her, she didn’t acknowledge it. She looked lonely sitting by herself, and Sam wondered what she was thinking about. Was she preparing herself for battle like the Comanche were, but in her own way?
The tempo slowly escalated, picking up speed as the flames from the fire rose higher and higher. The music and chanting seemed to get louder also, like they were performing inside of a cave, the beat pulsing and the singing bouncing off hard rock, the air around them vibrating.
Outside the protected circle, the trees blew fiercely, their branches whipping through the air faster and faster, and the trunks swaying crazily, but still, no wind touched the inside of the camp.
All of a sudden, an animal-like scream ripped through the night, shattering whatever force had held the wind at bay, and echoed off the hillsides. The fire in the center of the glade exploded, sending flames and sparks shooting a column of fire high into the air as the wind tore through the camp.
Sharps eyes snapped to where Gracie sat. He watched her rise, as if pulled to her feet by invisible strings, then she turned and stode towards the fire, her head tipped, her hat shielding her face. Her long dark hair billowed back at the sides and the long black duster she wore was ripped open by the wind. As she walked, she checked her guns one by one.
The double pistols strapped to her sides, their barrels as big a cannons, came out, then she spun the cylinders and shoved them back in place. Reaching behind her, she drew a sawed-off shot gun from the thong behind her back. Breaking open the barrels, she checked the cartridges then snapped the action shut and replaced it. Next, she moved her hands toward her lower back and pulled out two more guns; .36 caliber navy cap and ball revolvers.
Beside Sam, Zeb whistled, "Jesus, if she aint loaded for bear…"
As she approached, Buffalo Hump spoke a warning to his people in a calm manner, but his words made Sam's skin crawl. "Stay where you are, and don’t make any sudden movements. The demon is with her."
As she reached the inner circle of the camp, she lifted her head. Her eyes glowed in the dancing firelight, the flickering flames illuminated in the deep black pools. The features of her face seemed more angular and harsh, like they were chiseled out of stone, and when she spoke, her voice was hollow and rang with a timelessness, "It is time for them to die."
One squaw, who was already quaking with fear, cried out as she stumbled backwards.
Sam watched Angel's head snap towards the woman, as she pulled her right pistol with blurring speed, pointing it in the womans direction.
"No!" Sam shouted.
Angel's attention shot back to Sam.
"She's not the enemy." he said evenly.
Sam's heart seized as she smiled at him. Her teeth were pointy and razor sharp. "I know who the enemy is, Sam Sharp. And I know where he is. The people in that town were given proper warning, and any soul that still remains, is fair game as far as I'm concerned."
He swallowed and nodded, "Fair enough. Lets ride."

"Indians!" Jarvis cried for the hundredth time that day. "Where in the hell did those god-damned Indians come from!"
Coulter was so tired of listening to his boss rant and rave, he'd been at it all day. Running a tired hand down his face, he said for the hundredth time, "We're in Idaho, Boss. There's god-damned Indians everywhere."
"We're in Blackfoot and Flathead country. There aint no god-damned Comanche in Idaho!"
Coulter shrugged, "One Indians the same as the next."
Jarvis exploded, "Any fucking moron knows that the Comanche aint no regular Indian! Their a bunch of god-damned, blood thirsty, killers."
Coulters face hardened, he'd just about had enough. "If I were you, Boss, I'd be real careful about the way you talk to me. I might be the only one that stands between you and her."
Jarvis plopped down into his leather easy chair. Waving his hand, he told Coulter, "Oh, don’t mind me. I'm just strung out."
Scared shitless, is more like it, Coulter thought.
"It's just that everything was going so well before they showed up and ruined it."
Coulter assumed that he meant the hanging party, cause lord knows, nothing else was going right. So far, the woman had managed to kill seven men, including Adams, without a single solitary person actually seeing her. Except for Ike, who'd only seen her briefly and from far away. Whoever she was, he had to admit— she was good.
Jarvis was reclined back in his chair, running a finger around the rim of his glass thoughtfully, "You know that red headed gal over at the saloon?"
"Ruby?"
"Yeah, that’s her. I'd like you to go across the street and invite her to spend the night with me."
Coulter frowned, "I would, but she's not there."
"What!" Jarvis cried, sitting up looking at Coulter. "Where is she?"
"Where everyone else is— spending the night up on the hill."
"What are you talking about?"
"You remember that warning we got earlier? The one attached to Ned Grey's body? It said that anyone not wanting to be killed, better get the hell out of town before sundown." Looking past Jarvis to the darkened window, he nodded, "It's past sundown."
Standing, Jarvis crossed to the window. Normally at this time of night, the street was brightly lit, and there were people everywhere, walking here and there, a general boisterous mood in the air, but tonight the street was dark and deserted. And where loud noise and laughter usually drifted through town, now there was only silence, and the sound of the god damned wind.
Turning from the window, Jarvis raged on, "They all left! They let one little warning run them clear out of town?"
"I don’t know if it was the note, as much as it was Ned's mangled body."
Jarvis shivered as he thought about Ned's horse walking slowly through town on its own accord, its head hung low. It's rider was stone dead, and a bloody god-damn mess. "What do you think happened to him?"
Coulter sighed, spreading his hands, "Near as I can tell, he was skinned."
"Jesus Christ." Walking back to his seat, he asked Coulter, "How many men do we have left?"
"Fifteen, counting me."
"Fifteen! What happened to all of the miners I was paying?"
"All but two quit this afternoon."
Enraged, Jarvis picked up his tumbler and threw it across the room, the thick glass shattering against the stone fireplace. "Fuck! Fucking god-damn son's a bitches! Worthless, cowardly bastards!"
Coulter, who rarely got excited, rolled his eyes. Jarvis reminded him of a giant, cussing three year old, throwing a temper tantrum. Standing, he stretched the muscles in his back.
"Where are you going?" Jarvis asked him fearfully.
"Outside to check on the men."
Standing, Jarvis straightened his suit, "I think I'll go with you. I need to make sure the men know where their going to be positioned tonight."
Turning, so Jarvis couldn’t see him, Coulter rolled his eyes again, "Suit yourself, Boss."
The town was eerily quiet, except for the ever present howling wind. The men were arranged strategically around the building, with four standing sentry on the rooftop. Their job was to watch in all four directions, and to fire off a warning shot should anyone approached town.
Standing at the rail next to Coulter, Jarvis motioned to the hill beyond town. Campfires burned brightly along the ridge, setting the trees up yonder aglow. Large tents had been erected by the townsfolk to shelter themselves from the elements.
"Look at those bastards. Their probably up there right now taking bets on how and when I'll be killed."
Beside him, Tom Coulter remained silent. He figured Jarvis was right.
"How much do you want to bet, that those tents up there are really make- sift bars, serving my whiskey and beer to the cowards that deserted me?"
Again, Coulter said nothing.
"Their all waiting for me to die." Jarvis said out loud, but more to himself. "Everybody wants to see a powerful man fall. Just because we have the knowledge and the ambition to make something of ourselves, everyone wants to see us dead."
Coulter ground his teeth together, knowledge and ambition? More like greed and cold-blooded ruthlessness.
"Look at them. Their like a pack of wolves circling a wounded elk. Their all just waiting for me to fall, so they can swoop down and feed off of my dead carcass. Well, they can kiss my rich ass! Once this is all over, they're all going to be sorry. I'm going to raise the taxes around here so high, they'll all be coming to grovel at my feet. Oh please, Mr. Jarvis, my family is starving. Wont you please give us small break on this month's taxes so we can buy some food?"

Jarvis laughed. "I can tell you what the answers going to be— Fuck no! Starve you miserable pieces of shit!"
Coulter, who was normally a pretty laid-back fellow, gripped the rail to keep himself from slapping the shit out of his boss. What a conceited, self-centered asshole, he thought.
Lightening pierced the sky, striking the old oak tree at the end of town, where Sam and Jeb had almost met their demise just a few hours earlier.
Glaring at the sky, Jarvis muttered, "I hope they all get struck by lightening." Then he turned and walked back into The Grand, with Coulter following reluctantly on his heels.
Down the street, flames bloomed in the old oak tree. Within minutes, the whole top of the tree was ablaze, bouncing off of the low clouds, lighting the sky.
It was certainly a sight to see. All four men on the rooftop of The Grand, stood and watched it.
Behind them, on the opposite end of town, riders approached veering off the main road and cutting behind the buildings on the other side.
Pulling up behind The Gold Rush saloon, the men and Angel dismounted and pushed open the back door.
The place was dark and deserted. Striking a match, Sam lit one of the oil lamps on the wall. Since the plate glass windows in the front of the saloon had been blown out in that weird wind storm, they had been replaced with temporary plaking, so the wood protected the light from being seem from the outside.
Taking the lantern with them, they climbed the stairs to the bedroom that overlooked the main street. Setting the lantern outside of the door they made their way over to the window, its glass still intact.
Sharp pulled a looking glass from his back pocket and trained the scope on The Grand.
"There's four men on the rooftop, and three more below guarding the front, and I see at least two in the alleyways on either side."
"They got that place sealed up tighter than a thirty year old virgin," Zeb whispered behind him.
Sam smirked in the dark, "Looks that way. Anybody have any ideas on how we should go about this?"
Ringing silence followed the question.
"How about you, Angel? You got any ideas?"
When there was no answer, Sam turned, looking at the people around the room. Angel was nowhere to be seen.
"Did anybody see Angel?"
All he got for an answer was a bunch of blank looks.
Down below in the street, gunshots blasted in the night, echoing through town.
Whipping his face back to the glass, Sharp seen a figure marching across the street towards The Grand.
"Gracie! Angel! Shit!"
Sharp jumped up from the floor and took off towards the door, shoving men out of his way.
"The fats in the fire now, Boys. Let git ta cookin'!" Zeb hollered as he followed Sam.
Sharp took the stairs two at a time, and headed for the front door. Beyond them, out in the street, gunfire sounded at a rapid pace.

Coulter followed on his bosses tail as the man ran upstairs. Once they were in Jarvis's room, Coulter slammed the door as Jarvis dove for cover on the far side of his bed.
Studying the layout of the room and its contents, Coulter had an idea.
"Hey boss, come out here for a second."
Jarvis's wide eyes peeked over the top of the bed.
"I think I got an idea that just might work."
"What is it?"
Pointing to a large trunk against the wall, Coulter said, "I think you should hide in your traveling trunk, and I'll sneak down to Adams's old room. I can watch the hallway, and if she gets by our men, I'll cut her down before she even gets close to your door."
"What makes you think she'll even look in here?"
"Because she already knows the layout up here. I'm sure that once she see's your not downstairs, she'll head for your room."
Jarvis slowly stood, clutching his quilt in front of him, "Your sure you can get her."
"Yep, all I gotta do is hide in his room and watch out the keyhole. I'll wait for her to pass, then I'll step out and take her down."
Jarvis mulled the plan over while he eyed the old dome-topped trunk. "Okay. That’s as good a plan as any, I guess."
They quickly emptied the contents of the trunk, throwing everything into the top of the armoire. The bottom, however, was lined with thick bars of gold that they left inside. Climbing over the edge, Jarvis stood in the trunk.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a brass key. "Just in case, lock the trunk after I'm in. That way if she makes it this far, she'll check the room and see that I'm not here, and if she tries to lift the lid it'll be locked, so she'll assume I'm not in here."
Coulter looked skeptical, "I don’t know…"
Jarvis shoved the key at him, "Just do it!"
Below their feet, inside the hotel, came the sound of gunfire and men screaming.
"Alright, get in there."
Jarvis folded himself into the trunk and Coulter closed the rounded lid, locking it and putting the key in his pocket. Turning, he ran for the door.

Sharp pushed through the saloon doors, running out onto the boardwalk. Angel was still walking towards The Grand. She had a gun in each hand and was trading fire with Jarvis's men. Bullets kicked up dirt all around her.
Sharp, followed by Zeb and the Comanche, ran down to join her.
Three men lay dead on boardwalk in front of the hotel, another lay in the street, his head bent at a strange angle after his fall from the rooftop.
Angel seemed unconcerned with all of the bullets flying around her. She had her eye on the front door of The Grand and was steadily making her way to it. Up on the rooftop, another man screamed as he took an arrow in the gut.
Down at the end of the street, the old oak tree stood alone, fully engulfed in flames that cast an eery orange glow over the whole town.
Sharp was concentrating on the alleyway to the left of the building, firing off shots as fast as he could to keep the men there at bay. Zeb fired into the alley at the right, while the Comanche shot volleys of arrows up onto the roof.
As Angel mounted the stairs, she motioned for everyone to stay back.
She stood in the middle of the boardwalk, staring at the front door as she slipped her pistols back into the holsters on her hips.
Zeb and Sharp exchanged a quick nervous glance, and when they looked back, she was drawing out the two .45's from the small of her back, cocking and firing them both at the same time.
The bullets hit two of Jarvis's men as they each rounded separate corners of the hotel, blowing the men backwards like rag dolls, their bodies hitting the walls of the buildings next to the hotel and bouncing off.
Swinging her arms in front of her, she cocked and fired again, shooting at the front door. Stepping forward, she kicked the door open as she fired again, hitting two more men, waiting just inside of the doorway.
As she walked into The Grand, Sam and Zeb ran up the steps to join her.
Once inside, she strode for the stairs that lead to the second story, her back straight, determined. Behind her, Sharp and Zeb fired at more gunhands as they poured out from the backroom.

Coulter waited behind the door to Adams' old room, his mouth dry, he licked his lips.
Down below, shots continued to echo through the building.
With his eye pressed to the keyhole, he watched as a dark figure passed by the door.
He listened to her slow, steady footsteps as they faded down the hall. Then, counting to ten, he quietly opened the door and stepped out, his guns ready to fire.
But the hallway was empty.
Cursing under his breath, he tipped toed towards Jarvis's room. He could see from where he was, that the door already stood open. She was in there.
Sliding along the far wall, he edged his way towards the door, expecting at any moment for her to come walking out after she discovered Jarvis wasn’t there.
He passed first one door, and then another, not taking his eyes off of Jarvis's for a second.
Coulter stopped as the fine hair on the back of his neck rose. A low squeek sounded behind him as one of the doors slowly swung open. Turning, he expected to see the woman jump out to take him by surprise, using his own trick against him, but all was quiet.
Slipping back down to the open doorway, he peeked inside. The room was empty. Letting out a quiet stream of air he had been holding, he turned back around, and came face to face with pure evil.
She smiled briefly, then plunged the bowie knife in her hand into his stomach, clear up to the hilt, lifting him completely off of his feet, like he weighed no more than a child. Wide eyed, he stared her as he reflexively fired off a shot, the bullet plowing into the floorboards a few feet away. Then she let go of the knife, dropping him to the floor, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.
Turning, she walked down the hall and into Jarvis's room.

George Jarvis hunkered down in his trunk, his heart beating wildly as he tried to control his breathing. When he heard the slow, heavy footsteps walk across his bedroom floor, he covered his mouth with a sweaty hand. Moving his head to the left, he looked through the keyhole of the trunk.
She stood just a few feet away, staring right at the trunk.
Jarvis bit down on his lower lip to keep from crying out.
The woman had a murderous look on her face, "I know your in there, Jarvis."
He pulled his head away from the keyhole, and squeezed his eyes shut.
"I'm disappointed," he heard her say. "I expected you to put up more of a fight."
He heard her sigh, "But I guess this will have to do."
He listened to her as she walked across the room toward his bed, then make her way back. He couldn’t help himself, he looked through the keyhole again and froze, his blood turning cold. She was standing in the same spot again, only this time— she was holding his kerosene lamp.
Down below them, all hell was breaking loose. The sound of gunfire and men shouting or screaming, echoed inside the walls of The Grand.
Slowly unscrewing the top of the lamp, she told him, "Around here, Jarvis, I'm the judge, jury and executioner. You've been tried for crimes against humanity, and you were found guilty. Do you have anything to say for yourself?"
Inside the trunk, Jarvis squeezed his eyes shut again, rocking back and fourth.
"No?" she asked. "Then I hereby sentence you to death."
"No!" he cried out, unable to remain quiet, "I never killed your pa, it was Russ Conner's and his men!"
"True," he heard her say, "But you’re the one that hired them to kill Ben Walker and his daughter. Your men, under your orders, took turns raping that girl right in front of her father and then shot her in the head before they hung him. The blood of the innocent stains your hands, the same as it did theirs."
Terror stuck, he was confused, "So, your not Ben's daughter?"
He heard her laugh, "No, I'm not his daughter."
"Then who are you! And why are you doing this!" he cried.
"Don’t you know? I'm a child of God— and the devils Daughter."
Jarvis cried out again as he heard her begin to pour the oil out of the lamp, sprinkling the liquid out onto the floor around the trunk.
"Those who choose to live by the fire, die by the fire."
Jarvis opened his mouth, screaming, "Let me out of here!" as he began trying to fight his way out of the box. It was useless, the trunk was to sturdy. "Listen! This trunk is full of gold, if you let me out, its all yours! I swear it! You'll be rich!"
Angel squatted down and spoke quietly into the keyhole, her voice filling the inside of the trunk like she was right in there with him. "I don’t want your gold, Jarvis. I want your soul."
"Noooo!" he screamed.
"Actually, they want your soul. They're waiting for it."
A new sound filled the trunk. It sounded like a howling wind, accompanied by a thousand angry voices, whispering all at once.
"Look, Jarvis. Get a peek at what's waiting for you on the other side."
There was a giant whoosh, as she lit the match and threw it on the floor, igniting the kerosene.
Looking out, he screamed…
All around the trunk, there was a circle of fire, and in the flames there were twisted, evil faces. Demons, leering at him.
"Let me out of here!" he screamed. "Let me the fuck out!"
"Have fun in hell, Jarvis. I'm sure you'll fit right in."
"Fuck you, you fucking bitch!" he screamed as he frantically beat the inside of the trunk, trying to break out.
Angel turned and walked out the door, relishing his screams of terror behind her.
Out in the hall she stepped over the still body of Tom Coulter, and walked toward the stairs.
Sam, who'd just ran up the stairs, met her half way.
He stopped, catching his breath for a moment. Looking beyond her, he watched the smoke rolling out from the doorway at the end of the hallway. From inside the room came a man's high-pitched, frantic screams.
"We took care of all the men downstairs." Nodding, he asked, "Is that Jarvis?"
"Yes."
Sharp was glad to see that Angel's face had returned to normal, everything except her ebony colored eyes. "So, that's it then. We're all done here?"
Angel regarded him with darkly troubled eyes, "Not quite." she answered sadly.
"What, why? Who's left?" he asked, quickly going over everything in his mind, trying to figure out if they had missed something. He couldn't think of a single thing.
Angel's brows furrowed above her forlorn eyes. "I'm sorry Sam," she whispered, "But it has to be like this."
Fear skittered along his spine, "Like what?"
He watched her eyes harden and her shoulders stiffen and a second later, two loud gunshots boomed in the narrow hallway.
Sam flinched twice, his eyes rounding.
He slowly lowered his gaze in shock. Blood flowed freely from the two open wounds. "Noooo!"

chapter


Angel tipped forward and fell against him. He grabbed her around the waist with his left arm and pulled her tightly against him as he jerked his pistol with his right. Cocking as he brought the muzzle up, he fired two rapid shots, back to back.
The first bullet pierced Tom Coulters left cheek, and the other caught him at the base of his throat. The smoking gun in Tom's hand fell from his grasp as he hit the floor one last time.

Sam scooped Angel up into his arms as he raced for the stairs, screaming for his partner, "Zeb! Zeb!"
Sharp took the stairs as fast as he could without jostling her around to much. "Zeb! Zeb!"
Zeb came on the run, meeting him at the bottom of the staircase, gun in hand. When he saw Sam carrying the girl, he stopped, his expression instantly worried. "What's wrong? What happened to her?"
"She's been shot. I need you to ride up the hill and fetch me the doc. Tell him to hurry!"
"I'll try, but you know he's always passed out drunk by this time."
Sharp cursed. He knew Zeb was right. The town doctor was also the town drunk. He fixed people up just fine, as long as it was before noon. After that he was useless. Come four O'clock in the afternoon the man couldn't see straight, by six, he was wetting in his pants, piss drunk, and by seven thirty— he would be passed out cold.
"Shit. Just ride up there and get him anyway. Sober him up anyway you can!" Sam yelled as he started for the door.
"Sam…"
Sharp spun on him, "God damn it, Zeb, just do it!" He looked down into her pale, drawn face. Her eyes were closed and her breathing seemed shallow, "She's dying! We have to do something!"
"White Warrior!" Buffalo Hump called from the parlor. Behind him stood his braves. Even in that dire moment, the scene struck Sam as odd. There were more than a dozen, half naked Comanche warriors made up for battle, wandering around the fancy library parlor. A few of them stood behind their chief, stoically watching him, while all the others roamed around the room, stopping to touch this or that. It was all strange and new to them. "I will send for Water's That Fall. If anyone can save your girl, it is him."
Sharp nodded, "I'd be much obliged." Motioning with his head, he told the chief, "You and your men take what you want, but hurry, there's a fire upstairs."
The chief turned, scowling at his men and spoke to them sharply in their own tongue. The men who had been browsing the room reluctantly stopped and went to stand by their chief dejectedly. They had obviously been told to leave the things alone.
Buffalo Hump was notorious for shunning the white mans ways. While other cheifs had taken to wearing the white mans clothes and adapting to the white man's ways, it was not so with Ol' Buffalo Hump. He was proud of who and what he was, and he expressly forbid his people from lowering themselves to the white mans standards.
Buffalo Hump walked towards the door, motioning for Sam to follow him, "Come, White Warrior, and we will try to save your girl."

As they crossed the street towards the Gold Rush saloon, the chief and his men went for Waters That Fall, who was waiting just outside of town.
Entering the saloon, Sam carried Angel over to the large Faro table in the far right hand corner of the room. Zeb rushed ahead and cleared the table in one long swipe, the dealers box and cards scattering across the wood planked floor.
Sam eased Angel onto the table, "Zeb, get those lanterns lit." he called as he stripped his shirt off and began tearing it into strips with the help of his bowie knife.
He spoke to Angel as he worked, sounding a lot more confidant than he felt, "Just hold on there, Girl. We're gonna get you fixed up good as new."
He cast a worried look at the blood stains spreading on the front of her shirt. One bullet had pierced her shoulder blade, the blood seeping through the black material, several inches above her left breast. The other wound was on the same side, right above the swell of her right hip, in the fleshy part of her stomach.
With his shirt in tatters, he paused. Zeb had brought the lanterns, and was standing on the other side of the table, looking worriedly back at him.
He stared at Angel's shirt. It didn’t seem right to just strip her bare, right here in the middle of an empty, cold saloon. The place smelled like stale cigar smoke and old beer that had been spilled and seeped into the grain of the wood floor. He thought that the surroundings would make the act of undressing her seem cheap and dirty. He wished they would have taken her down the street to the doctors office.
Cold fingers grasped his hand.
Looking down, he seen that Angel was awake and watching him. Her features looked pained, but she tried to smile, "It's alright, Sam, it's just skin." The smile slipped off her face as told him seriously, "You need to stop the bleeding." When she seen he was still hesitant, she said, "Don’t think about it, just do it."
He wasn’t sure exactly when it had happened, but he no longer thought of her as Gracie. He also wasn’t real sure if he believed the whole, 'Grey Angel' theory either, even though he'd seen her do things that no human could possibly do, it all still seemed so surreal. But, one fact remained, whoever she was, he still loved her like a daughter— and he had to save her.
"Zeb, turn around," he ordered his friend. He knew he had to undress her, but he could try and spare her some dignity in the process.
Once Zeb had turned away, he went about trying to get her arms out of her duster, which was almost impossible.
"Use yer knife," Zeb instructed over his shoulder, "It'll be easier on her."
Sam slid his bowie knife out of its sheath again, and the sharp blade made quick work of removing the material. Once he had her naked from the waist up, he could see that the bullet that had went through her shoulder blade was just under the surface of the skin, even though there was a large hole there that leaked blood. The wound in her side was the same.
Frowning, he gently rolled her over, ignoring the growl of pain that escaped her lips. Stuffing the rags against the small entry wounds, he rolled her back over, so that her own weight would help stop the bleeding there.
Taking a large strip of material, he laid it across her chest, covering her breasts. With the rest of the material, he wadded it up and held it firmly over the wounds.
Behind him, he heard the batwing doors push open.
"Okay," he told Zeb, "You can turn around now."
As Zeb turned, his old eyes widened, "We got trouble, Son."
Sam spun to look at where Zeb had indicated with a thrust of his head.
Buffalo Hump stood just inside the doors with two of his men, each holding an arm of the chief's Medicine Man.
Waters That Fall looked scared and defiant, all at the same time. The mans eyes were wide, but his brow was furrowed, and his lips were pursed together tightly. The skin around his left eye was turning purple, and the corner of his mouth leaked a small trail of blood.
"What in the hells going on?" Sam demanded.
"Waters that Fall, is being difficult," Buffalo Hump said angerly, "He's refusing to help the devil woman."
Sam was about to start yelling, when Angel grabbed his hand again. He turned back to her as the Comanche all started arguing behind him.
"Sam, I need to tell you something."
He voice was so weak he could barely hear her above the shouting behind him. "What?" he asked, as he bent closer.
"I need to tell you something. It's very important." she breathed.
Her breath washed over him, making his nose tickle and the skin on his head tingle as his head started to swim. Her breath smelled unlike anything he'd ever smelled before. It was a weird mixture of lillacs blooming in the summer sun, and something he could only describe as…how the feeling of home would smell, if it had a smell, like pure goodness. The feeling it gave him was almost euphoric, like he was standing in the presence of something holy. He wondered briefly if it was always like this between a father and a daughter. A magical bond or connection, that joined them together forever.
"I lied to you," she said. "I lied when I told you that Gracie was dead."

Chapter.

He stared at her incredibly, "What?"
She smiled, her pained eyes glistening, "I lied about Gracie. I just wanted you to go home. I didn’t want you mixed up in all of this. She didn’t want you mixed up in all of this."
"I don’t understand."
"Neither do I, really. It's never happened before."
Sam stared at her in confusion, his mind reeling at her words and his heartbeat speeding up just a little. Could his Gracie still be alive in there? He still held onto the concept of Angel being some sort of alter ego created by a girl who had suffered through unbelievable torture and trauma— and the mind-bending loss of the only man she had ever known as her father. His heart beat faster still, as he thrilled at the idea that she could snap out of it at any moment, and become his little girl once again.
"Let me explain," she whispered, as everything going on around them fell away, leaving just the two of them.
"When I'm pulled to help someone, I enter the persons body as they leave— which is what I did. Only, this time, as soon as I entered Gracie's body, she popped back up. As it turned out, it wasn’t her time to go yet, but I was already in there. And, let me tell you, she was pissed." Angel smiled at the memory. "That girl has quite the temper once you get her riled up. She demanded that I get the 'hell out of her body'. She can be very… persistant."
Sam grinned, tears welling in his eyes, "That sounds like my girl."
"Yes, she reminds me a great deal of you. And to tell you the truth, those first couple of days, she just about drove me bat shit."
Sam's heart swelled, "Can she hear me?" he asked hopefully.
"No." Angel shook her head, "That first time I met you, after I slipped you that sedative, she went absolutely ballistic. She was furious that I did that to you, so I had no choice but to shut her up for awhile."
"What?" he asked, his eyebrows knitting, "Is she alright?"
"Oh, yes. She's fine. I tucked her into one of the far corners of her mind, and gave her a sedative of her own. She's been sleeping this whole time."
Sam frowned, "When will she wake up?"
Angel's eyes turned as dark as her troubled expression, "That’s the problem. I've never encountered this before. The bodies are always vacant when I take them over. But I've been thinking about how to go about this. You see, normally once I've done my job, the body must die in order to release me."
"What!" Sam cried, his panic rising to the surface. "You cant die."
Angel grabbed his arm, squeezing hard, "That is why you have to save me. Save her."
Angel's urgent words snapped him back into the present. Spinning towards the Medicine man who was still struggling with Buffalo Hump's men, he grabbed his knife on instinct.
With his Bowie in hand, he ran across the room, taking the medicine man by surprise when he grabbed him by the throat with his free hand, running with him backwards, until he rammed into the wall, his head bouncing off of the wood.
Raising the knife in the air, Sharp screamed, "Aaahhh!" as he brought the huge knife down, stabbing the wood next to the frightened Indian's head, burying a good three inches of the blade into the solid wall beside his ear.
Sam snarled over his shoulder, "You tell him that if he doesn’t save her her, I'll cut his fucking heart out." He turned back and screamed in the man's face, "You tell him that if she dies, he dies!"
Buffalo Hump spoke rapidly in Comanche, the medicine man listening to his warning. When he was finished speaking, Waters That Fall spoke slowly, spitting his reply, while his eyes skittered angrily between the two.
"He said, he will help as much as he can, but he will not touch her. He will instruct you on how to save her yourself from afar. That is the best he can offer."
Sam glared into the defiant Indians eyes. Sam could tell by the look on the mans face that he wasn’t going to change his mind, "Alright, lets get started."

"Let him see the wounds." Buffalo Hump told him.
Zeb, who had taken up Sam's spot when Sam had ran across the room, moved the rags, revealing the gunshot wounds, then moved out of the way.
"Now, roll her over, let him see the back."
After Sam had showed him her back, the Indian grunted, then spoke.
Buffalo Hump translated, "He said, you must remove the bullets."
The medicine man spoke rapidly again, then started walking away.
"Where in the hell is he going?" Sam demanded.
"He must get some necessary items."
Sam watched the Indian, escorted by Buffalo Humps braves, walk towards the doors.
"Tell him that if he doesn’t come back, I'll hunt him down and kill him."
The Indian raised his arm, "Aeeh." he said, making a swatting motion.
Sam looked back at Buffalo Hump, who just shrugged, "He knew what you said. He will be back."
Sam grabbed his small, razor sharp boning knife, and after dumping whiskey over the blade, he held it over the shoulder wound taking a deep breath.
"You can do it, Son." Zeb urged quietly. "Jest keep yer hands steady."
Sam frowned at the knife shaking in his hand.
"Here," Buffalo Hump grunted, handing him the bottle of whiskey. "Take a drink of that. It will help."
Sam looked from the bottle to Angel, "Go ahead," she sighed weakly, "It cant hurt."
Reluctantly, he grabbed the bottle and took a long swig, feeling it burn all the way down. As an after thought, he took another, and then another, before he handed the bottle back.
Taking a deep breath, he steadied his hand, which was a lot easier to do now that the warmth of the alcohol was spreading through his veins.
He had positioned the tip of the knife at the opening of the wound, when Angel cried out, "Wait!" scaring the bejeezes out of him.
"What!" he cried back, startled.
"Get me something to bite down on." She shrugged, "It's the body's natural reaction to grit it's teeth. I don’t want her teeth to break— or her jaw."
Sam frowned at the image he had of her teeth shattering, or hearing her jaw break while he was trying to dig the bullet out, "Zeb, find her something."
The old man looked around, spying the cards scattered on the floor. Bending down, he scooped up a big pile and arranged then neatly before handing them to her.
Angel frowned, but bit down on the stack anyways. Once she had a firm bite, she nodded for Sam to start.
He slowly worked his knife into the hole, feeling the bullet hit the tip, he began to work his way around it.
Angel's body stiffened, but she didn’t make a sound. It took him a good five minutes before he picked it out and plinked it into a glass nearby.
On the table, the cards fell from Angel's lips, a huge bite taken out of them. Turning her head to the side, she spit the rest of the deck out onto the table.
"Jesus Christ!" Zeb exclaimed."Would ya git a load a that!"
Sam ignored him, stuffing one of the rags over the hole. It was bleeding worse now, the blood running down her side and pooling on the table.
Just then, Waters That Fall returned.
He spoke to Buffalo Hump for a moment, then handed Sam what he had collected. As Sam took it, he noticed that the Indians hands were covered in drying blood.
Holding the stuff in his hand, he examined it. It appeared to be a strip of white pliable material, and as soon as he tested its strength, he knew exactly what it was— it was a piece of tendon.
"Clean that with the whiskey, then cut it in half and stick part of it in the hole you just pulled the bullet from."
Sam did as he was told.
"Now, use your knife to push it in as far as you can."
Glancing across the table, he told Zeb, "Find her something else to bite down on."
Zeb looked all around from where he was, then grabbed a nearby chair and broke one of rungs free from its back, handing it to her.
While Zeb was doing that, Sam cleaned and cut the piece of tendon that he held in his hand, wondering where the medicine man had gotten it. It's not like there was a bunch of animals roaming around at this time of night, so how did he get a piece of fresh tendon? Then, feeling a little ill, he remembered all of the dead men laying right across the street.
As soon as she was ready, he pushed the piece of tendon as far as he could into the hole. He could hear the squeak of her teeth biting through the wood as he worked, but she held her body rigid. When he had finished, he noticed that she had broken into a sweat, persperation beading up on her forehead, and dampening the hair aroud her face.
"Take this and pour it into the hole."
Sam turned and caught the leather pouch that Buffalo Hump threw at him.
Undoing the leather string at the top he stared at the contents.
"Pack the wound well, then light it."
Sticking his nose to the bag, he sniffed, frowning. Gun Powder.
"It will stop the bleeding and keep it from getting infected."
Shit, he thought as he poured the fine black grains into the hole in the front of her shoulder. He wasn’t looking forward to doing this. He couldn’t imagine how much pain this was going to cause her.
Angel reached up re-adjusted the wooden rung in her mouth. The bite marks she had already left were deep.
Taking a deep breath, he lit the wooden match and touched it to the packing.
There was a small pop as the powder ignited, followed by Angel's muffled scream, her eyes bulging as she bit down hard on the piece of wood, snapping it completely in half.
Then her eyes drifted shut as she passed out from the pain.
"Work quickly while she's away, White Warrior. It'll be easier on both of you.
Sam gratefully took the opportunity and did as he was told, working as fast as he could. Before he knew it, both wounds had been cauterized and packed with a special poultice that, Waters That Fall, had prepared, and dressed with clean bandaging that Zeb had found upstairs in one of the working girl's bedrooms.
Buffalo Hump stood across from him, wetting rags and patting her sweat slicked forehead. "Now, we wait."
The old Indian chief stayed with the girl as Sam And Zeb stepped outside.
The street was bathed in a orange glow from the fire across the street.
The Grand was almost totally engulfed in flames, and the buildings on either side of it, had small fires smoldering on their rooftops. It wouldn’t be long before the fire spread to include the whole block, if no one stopped it.
They each rolled a cigarette as they watched the building burn.
"Ya know what?" Zeb asked. "I'm plumb tired." he said wearily.
"Me too." Sam admitted.
They were quiet as they smoked, each thinking back on the events of the past few days.
Zeb finally broke the silence, "You reckon she's gonna make it?"
"I sure hope so."
"Wall, which ever way it turns out, ya did the best that you could."
Sam knew that the old man was just trying to make him feel better, but if she died, he'd never be able to live with himself. That thought alone brought out a powerful thirst deep inside of him, and when he went to take a drag off of his cigarette, he noticed that his hand was shaking.
"She knew that he was going to shoot her, and she didn’t do anything to stop it."
Zeb, who had taken up a seat on the bench against the wall, looked up at him, "What?"
"Up in the hallway— she knew. I seen it in her eyes just moments before he shot her."
Zeb frowned, "Why would she let him do that?"
Sharp shrugged, "I don’t really know. She just told me in there, that it has to happen like this. That she has to die in order for her to be released from the body." He looked at his friend with a deep sorrow in his eyes, "I don’t know what to think, Zeb. I thought I understood her motives in the beginning. Revenge, its not something that we're unfamiliar with… but this whole dual personality, or whatever you want to call it, I just don’t understand it. She claims that Gracie is still alive in there, locked in her mind somewhere."
Zeb nodded grimly, "You think she's insane, and that she wants to die."
"Yes. Yes I do."
"The mind is a strange and powerful thing. You could be right though. It could be that everything she's been through, might' a broke her for good. But, what if what she claims is true? You seen her back at Buffalo Humps camp. She looked like something that stepped straight out of a haunted man's nightmare."
Sam shrugged, "It could have been a trick of the light."
Zeb snorted, "You seen her, same as we all did. Her face, wasn’t her own. Crazy or not, no person has the ability to that."
Sam shook his head, it was all just to much to think about.
"Son, lets jest see how this thing plays out. We aint got nothin' but time."
"White Warrior," Buffalo Hump spoke from the doorway, "she's awake and asking for you."
Sam flicked his cigarette into the street and hurried into the saloon, Zeb following on his heels.
He rushed over to where she lay and bent, looking her over.
Her eyes were barely open. She had not an ounce of color in her face, and her lips were turning blue. He'd seen this look before. She was on the verge of dying.
"Angel?"
Her blue-grey lips parted in a half smile, "Sam. It's time."
Sam looked across the table, meeting Zeb's eyes. The old man smiled grimly, shaking his head, before he turned and walked to the bar, to give them a few moments alone.
Sam blinked back tears as looked into the face of his daughter, "Don’t say that, Angel Girl, your not going to…"
"Die." She finished for him. "It's okay, Sam. I've been through this many, many times, and death is nothing to fear."
For some reason, her words angered him. He felt the fire ignite in his belly and spread. Slamming his fist on the table, he yelled, "Stop it! Just stop all of this nonsense! I cant take it anymore!" Grabbing her shoulders, he squeezed hard, making sure that she looked him in the eye. "You are Gracie Ann Walker, your not some, some 'grey angel', you’re my angel. You’re my daughter and I love you, goddamn it, and I aint gonna let you die!"
Tears welled in her dark eyes, spilling past her lashes and running down her face. "Sam—"
"Fine!" he interrupted, "You said it yourself. Gracie's in there somewhere. Now I want you to wake her up so I can talk to her. If your not willing to fight for her life, then she will. I know my daughter, and she does not want to die!" he growled.
Sam felt her slim shoulders sag beneath his hands as her eyes drifted shut, "I'm sorry," she whispered, "But its to late."
"It's not to late!" he sobbed in anguish. "Its not to late, do you hear me!" he shouted.
But it was to late. He felt her breath leave her body as her head slumped to the side.
Releasing his grip on her shoulders, he stared down at her, unable to believe that she was really gone.
Throwing his back, he screamed in sorrow. In his own voice, he recognized the voice of another, it was a sound that had haunted his dreams for many years. It was the sound of that Indian woman's screams as she held her dead baby in her arms. It was a sound that only someone who had lost a child could make. It was the sound of a human heart breaking.
Sobbing, he bent over and cradled her in his arms, rocking her gently.
Between his cries, he heard Buffalo Hump in the background start to sing, his voice low and full of sorrow.
Zeb had walked back over and now placed a loving hand on his shoulder, patting him as a father would pat his son. The action brought a fresh round of tears.
Beneath him, he felt a hiccup, then he heard a big sucking sound as his daughter took a deep breath.
Pulling away from her, he looked down into her face as he blinked back the tears.
Startled green eyes stared back at him.
"Gracie?" he choked.
He watched her face crumple as she cried out, "Ohhh, it hurts!"


The three riders rode down the red street of Red River Station at sundown, drawing their horses up in front of The Red River Saloon.
Sam Sharp smiled at his riding companions. Gracie sat on her big black horse, a white sling holding the arm of her injured shoulder tight. By some miracle, or perhaps it had been a gift from a certain Angel, Gracie had awoke with some of her memories intact. She knew of the relationship between her mother and Sam, and instead of being upset by it, she was thankful. Thankful that she still had one parent who loved her, and thankful that after all of these years, she finally understood why Loretta had treated her so bad. Not that it made it all right, but at least she knew now that it hadn't been her fault. She really hadn't really been an evil child, like her mother had always accused her of being.
Zeb smiled from the back of Ol' Ugly, "I figured we were headed here."
Gracie looked between the two men, her father giving Zeb one of his famous fake frowns. She watched him climb out of the saddle and tie his reigns to the hitching post. There was something going on here that the men weren't telling her.
"Why are we stopping here, Grandpap?"
Zeb grinned, his cheeks heating. He loved it when she called him that. "Yer pa's got a sweetheart."
"Pa?" she asked, but he ignored her, climbing the stairs up to the boardwalk.
Sam had just reached the top step, when he heard a familiar voice, "Well,well,well. What do we have here? You come all the way back here to get yer ass whooped again, Sharp?"
"Howdy, Bob." Sam tipped his hat to the big man. "I aint looking for any trouble, but I got some business to take care of here."
The man stepped in front of him, blocking his path to the saloon— and his true love waiting just beyond the batwings.
"I'm gonna tear—" Bob's words were cut off from the source as Sam threw his weight behind his punch, his fist catching the big man right in the throat and dropping him instantly.
Sam stepped over the writhing man, "It was nice to see you too, Bob." he sang, as he pushed the swinging doors open.
And there she stood, leaning against the bar, looking just as beautiful as he remembered.
Their eyes met, and after a moments shock, she smiled. "Hey there, Cowboy." she called, her voice sultry and sweet.
Marching across the bar, he ignored all the stares he was receiving from the clientel, intent on only her.
She met him half way, throwing herself into his awaiting arms and crushing her luscious lips into his.
Her kiss made him dizzy with desire and he almost forgot his plan, until she smiled up at him with tears in her eyes, "You came back."
He smiled down at her, his heart swelling in his chest. Her beautiful face had never been far from his mind on their bizarre trip up North, and in his spare moments, he had thought of little else. "Of course I did. And I'm here to stay, if you'll have me."
Stepping back, he laughed nervously as knelt down on one knee. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a diamond ring, his hand shaking, "Will you marry me, Libby? Will you be my wife?"
Behind him, just inside the batwing doors, stood the two people that loved him more than anything in the whole world. Each of of them held their breath in nervous anticipation as they waited for her to reply.
Libby gasped, her large blue eyes blinking in disbelief. She didn’t even have to think about it. In their short time together, she had fallen head over heels in love with this complicated, yet simple man. She had witnessed a gentleness that belied his rough and tough cowboy exterior, besides— he had a smile on him that made her toes curl, "Yes!" she cried. "Yes I will!" as she threw herself into his arms, knocking him backwards, both of them sprawling to the floor as she kissed him hard on the mouth.
Shouts and wolf-whistles' erupted in the saloon, while Sam and Libby rolled around on the floor.
Zeb smiled, his blue eyes twinkling with happiness, "Well, Gracie my girl, looks like we'll be staying on a while."
"I think perhaps your right, Grandpap."
As Sam and Libby hauled themselves off of the floor, laughing and dusting themselves off, Zeb and Gracie joined them.
Sam had his arm slung around Libby's shoulder, "Libby, I'd like you to meet my family. You've met my friend, Zeb, but I think of him more like a father. He don’t know it yet, but I adopted him."
"Hells bells, Boy! I'm the one that adopted you."
Sam chuckled, "And this," he said, pride evident in his voice, "Is my daughter, Gracie."
The two women looked each other over. Gracie's eyes shy and a bit untrusting. So far, she hadn't had much luck on the mother front, but Libby's eyes were open and friendly, and when she looked at the bandage wrapped around Gracie's arm, her eyes needled with genuine concern, "Oh, my dear girl, are you all right?"
Gracie blushed, "Yes ma'am, I'm fine."
Libby waved her answer away, stepping forward and wrapping a gentle arm around the girls shoulder, "Nonsense. You come right this way and have a seat, I'm gonna go in the back and fix up some steaks. You all look like you've been to Hell and back."
As she turned away, Sam grabbed her by the waist, "Your not fixing anything, Sweetheart. You don’t work here anymore, remember? Now, take a seat while I go talk to the bartender and order us all a steak."
Zeb rubbed his hands together, "Our first meal as a family. I'm lookin' forward to that."
Sam had only taken a few steps when he heard Zeb's comment and turned back to the table.
He looked at all the people gathered there. Zeb was smiling at Libby, who was already doting over Gracie, brushing the girls dark hair back away from her face with tender, loving fingers. Gracie was blushing, but Sam could tell that she like it.
A calm, happy peace, fell upon him as he smiled, his eyes misting. He had lost his family back when he was only thirteen years old, and finally, after all of these years, he had one again.
Rolling his eyes heavenward, he whispered, "Thank you. My cup runeth over."


Prologue.


September 1865
Utah Territory


Frank Hillbrand watched the girl as she scurried behind the bar, collecting dirty glasses and plates to wash in the back.
"Molly, you hurry up now! And after your done washin' those, get started on that floor in the back."
The girl, her eyes down cast, mumbled something that Frank couldn’t hear from his table in the far corner, before she hurried into the back, her skinny, bare arms full.
Across the table, Bug rubbed his crotch, "Yessiree, I'm gonna git me a piece of that right there."
Frank followed his eyes to a huge fat squaw across the room, setting drinks down at a table where the men were playing poker.
"Jesus Christ, Bug. She's as big as a barn. I bet she out weighs you by two hundred pounds."
Bug smiled, reveiling a mouth full of rotten teeth, "You know that’s how I like 'em. All soft and squishy. A man could sink into all that fat like snuggling into a feather bed."
Frank grimaced, "That’s nasty."
"I know!" Bug cackled, throwing his head back and howling with laughter.
As Frank emptied the last of their bottle into his glass and tossed it back, Bug started going into detail of what he had planned for for the fat Indian— but Frank didn’t hear one word. Instead, he was watching the girl behind the bar. She had another arm full of glasses, clean ones this time, that she was stacking on a shelf right below a huge painting of the desert. Frank wondered briefly why the owner would pick that picture to hang in his saloon, when all a person had to do was walk out the front door and see the same thing from the boardwalk.
Bug had signaled the big beast of a woman to their table and was dickering with her for a roll in the hay. The two finally came to an agreement and Bug bid him a goodnight, as they strolled away, arm in arm, the buffalo and the stick bug.
Frank pushed away his empty glass and stood, making his way to the bar.
The barman was a chubby Irishman, with thick red mutton chops and a cigar stub clenched between his teeth. "What do ya want?"
"That girl, the one that’s cleaning, how much is she?"
The barman frowned, "She aint fer sale."
Frank smirked, "Everything's for sale— for the right price." He had a ten dollar gold piece, burning a hole in his pocket, that said so.
The big Irishman shook his head. "When I bought her from her daddy for the price of a jug of whiskey, I promised him that I would keep her pure until she was twelve. Come back in a year and we'll talk."
He was getting ready to walk away when Frank slapped the ten dollar gold piece on the bar, "Then I take it her old man aint around. So who's gonna tell him?"
The bartender stared at the gold piece thoughtfully, while chewing on the stub of his cigar. He squinted up at Frank, "I'm usually a man of my word…"
Frank slid the money closer to the man, "Ten dollars is a lot of money for something that your eventually gonna charge… what? Two dollars for?"
The bartender was still trying to decide when Frank slapped another two bits down, sliding it along the scarred wood to rest beside the ten.
The man looked up from the money, staring hard at Frank, then without taking his eyes off of him, he yelled out of the side of his mouth, "Molly! Git on out here!"
While they waited for the girl to appear, the bartender leaned across the bar, speaking quietly, but conveying the seriousness of it with his eyes, "You better be gentle with her." Then, he punctuated his next words with short jabs of his index finger, "If I hear any screaming coming from up there," he turned and pointed to an express gun hanging on the wall behind the bar, "I'll come up there and blast your dick off."
Frank smiled, drunken excitement lighting his eyes, "I'll treat her good." he promised, his dick already hardening in his pants.
Down the bar, Frank watched as one of the two remaining pleasure girls casually walked up and leaned on the end of the bar, but he could tell that she knew something was going on, and was just trying to get closer to hear what was going on.
Finally, the back door swung open and the girl walked out. Her big brown eyes looked fearful as she walked to the bartender.
"Y-yes, Mr. Collins?
The Irishman looked at her gruffly, but his voice had taken on a softer quality, "Molly, you need to go with this gentleman here."
Her huge eyes appraised Frank fearfully, "W-why?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Frank smiled at her, trying to ease her anxiety, but her eyes only bulged more, and took on a shiny quality as tears brimmed to the surface.
The bartender bent and whispered into her ear.
Frank watched her gasp, as the tears spilled over her lashes and trailed down her face. Finally she nodded and slowly walked around the end of the bar, her head down.
Frank grabbed her hand and started toting her toward the stairs and the rooms up above.
As they neared the far end of the bar, the easedropping whore, pushed off from the bar and blocked their path.
She smiled up at Frank as she ran a hand along his chest. "My friend and I," she tipped her head indicating another girl lounging at the bottom of the stairs, "would like to offer you a little 'two for one' deal. Baby, we would do ya real good."
Even as she smiled, purring against him, he seen the fear deep in her eyes. And his suspisions were confirmed when the whore looked down at the little girl. She was afraid for her.
"Get out of my way," he growled, pushing her aside as he continued toward the stairs.
The redhead there smiled nervously and tried to block his path also. "What does a big strong man like yourself, want with a little girl like her? She aint nothing but a child, but Rosie and I could show you a real good time."
The whore smelled like she had bathed in a vat of old wilted roses. The smell was overpowering and made his eyes water. Wrinkling his nose against the stench, Frank brushed by her, mounting the stairs. Halfway up, he heard one of the pleasure girls turn on her boss, "What the hell, Ed! She's just a child! How could you!"
Frank listened for a reply, but the air was filled with silence— guilty silence. He squeezed the little girls hand, "Molly, is it? That’s a real purty name, for a real purty girl."
A sob escaped the girls lips, as she hung her head even lower, her little hand trembling in his.


Morning light filtered through the sheer curtain covering the window.
Frank groaned and turned his head into his pillow to block out the light.
His head was pounding and his mouth was so dry, he couldn’t even muster up enough spit to swallow. The air inside the room was stifling. He threw the covers off and rolled onto his back, one arm thrown over his eyes.
As he lay there trying to cool off, images from the night before flashed through his mind. The big injun that Bug shacked up with, the burly bartender and his two whores, and lastly, the little girl with the dark hair and big brown eyes.
What was her name? Missy? Maggie? No, it was Molly. Sweet little Molly.
She had been so scared. All she had done was cry, sobbing in his ear, making it hard for him to concentrate. He remembered having to clamp a hand over her mouth to keep her quiet.
"Hey," he nudged her with his elbow. "Wake up."
He had paid twelve dollars for her and he planned on getting his monies worth. Hopefully she wouldn’t be as scared this time, all that crying…
"Molly, wake up."
Frank turned his head and looked at her. She was laying on her back also, her head turned towards the far wall, but he could see enough of her right eye to know that she was awake and her eyes were open.
Rolling onto his side, he shook her, "Wake up, damnit!" he growled harshly.
There was still no response. She was playing possum, and Frank didn’t like it. He shook her harder, rocking her little body.
Her head rolled on the pillow towards him. Her eyes were open, but unseeing. They were glazed over. She was dead.
"Oh, shit!" Frank whispered. His heart stopped, then started again, beating wildly in his chest, then it leaped again as a knock sounded at the door.
It was one of the whores. "Molly, honey? Are you awake?"
Frank panicked as he watched the knob jiggle. But thankfully, the door was locked.
"Molly?"
Frank grunted, "Go away! She's busy."
There was silence from the door, then her voice came again, irritated but concerned, "Molly? Are you okay?"
"I said she's busy! Now go away so I can concentrate!"
When the whores voice came again, it was cold, "Ed wants to see her downstairs. You have twenty minutes."
Rosie backed away from the door, a frown lining her tired face. Something wasn’t right, she could feel it. She had lied about Ed wanting to see the girl, the slob was still fast asleep downstairs, but not for long. Rosie planned on going down and banging on his door until the lazy bastard woke up. Then she would insist that he come up here.
Walking towards the stairs, she stopped and pressed a hand to her stomach. Her belly gurgled. She would have to wait to wake Ed up, right now she needed to get out to the outhouse— and fast.
Frank listened to her footsteps fade as she walked down the hall.
Turning back to the girl, their faces inches apart, he tried to remember what had happened. He remembered holding his hand over her mouth because all of her crying annoyed him, and because he was afraid that Ed would hear her crying and come on the run with his scatter gun. But she had still managed to make noise as she struggled underneath him, so he had wrapped his hand around her neck, squeezing just enough to silence her completely.
Obviously a little to completely.
"Shit," he whispered, his mind racing. How was he going to get out of here before anybody discovered the girl? Then he remember seeing an outside staircase on the side of the building. He needed to find that doorway.
But what was he going to do with the girl?
He couldn’t help staring into her eyes. They were so wide, and the way they caught the light from the window…
He reached out with two fingers and lowered her eyelids, but as soon as he let go, they popped open again. He tried a few more times, before he finally gave up. Her body was already stiff, the flesh stuck, inanimate.
But then as he watched, her eyelids began to close by themselves, until they were completely shut.
Good, he thought. Her eyes all glazed over and staring back at him, it was creepy.
But in the next moment, they popped open again.
"What the hell…"
As he watched, the pupils in the middle of her eyes began to expand, increasing, until the brown of her eyes was completely black.
Frank slid his head back an inch on the pillow, frowning as he studied her face.
He sucked in a quick breath as he watched a thin, silver band of light pass across the black of her eye, then she blinked.
"Jesus Chri…" his words were cut short as the arm furthest from him, swung around, a heavy silver candle stick that had been sitting on the bedside table was clenched in her small hand. As it swung down, it smashed into the side of his skull.


When Frank came to, his head was ringing and his hands and feet were tied to the bed, and a rag was shoved deep into his mouth.
He rolled his eyes around the room, until he spotted her.
She was standing at the window, humming, as she looked down at the street, her back to him. Outside a storm raged, pelting dust and dirt against the window. Thunder boomed and cracked in the sky above, and even from inside the room, he could hear the sizzle of lightening as it streaked through the sky
Without turning around, she spoke, "Oh good. Your awake."
Her voice sounded much different than it had the night before. She no longer sounded like a little girl. The voice sounded much older, and it echoed, like she was speaking from inside of a well, or a cave. Hollow.
Turning from the window the girl moved toward the bed, her black eyes glittering with a weird light. She looked similar to the girl who had spent the night in his bed, but she was much paler, like all the blood had been drained from her body, and her lips, he seen as she drew closer, were a bluish-purple.
Her head was bent at a funny angle too, like she was having a hard time keeping it straight, and her movements were jerky, like her limbs didn’t want to bend. Almost like her body was being ran by an invisible puppet master. She looked unreal. She looked dead.
Frank tried to cry out, struggling against the ropes that held him, his heart threatening to explode in his chest. The closer she got, the further he tried to scoot away from her.
"What's the matter?" she frowned, "I thought you liked to play with little girls."
Franks eyes bulged as he tried to scream around the rag in his mouth.
"Sorry about the gag, but we cant let anyone hear you scream. We wouldn’t want Ed to run up here with that gun of his. That would ruin all of my fun."
Slowly, jerkily, she climbed up onto the bed and straddled him.
Frank bucked wildly, trying to throw her off, but she strong. Much stronger than a mere child.
She brought her right hand up, a shiny set of silver shears clenched in her small fist. She worked the handles, snapping the scissors open and closed in front of his face.
"So, you like to play with little girls, huh?" she smiled. "What is it you like to do with them?" She gasped in delight, "I know! You like to touch them, don’t you?"
Leaning across him, she worked one of the blades between the fingers of his clenched fist.
Frank screamed behind the gag, swinging his head from side to side, as she worked the blades, sawing and cutting, until she worked her way all the way through his index finger, cutting it off.
Picking the bloody appendage up off of the bed where it had fallen, she wiggled it in from of his face. "Oops, I guess you wont be touching them with this anymore," and she tossed it onto the floor.
Frank was crying now, the cords in his neck flexed tight, sweat pouring down his face.
She tilted her head, "What else do you like to do with little girls? Hmmm, I know! You like to look at them."
Frank shook his head, his eyes bulging as he mumbled behind the rag.
"What is that you say? You don’t like to look at them?"
Frantically, he tried to tell her that she was right, but she scowled at him, "Your lying." she accused, her voice hard. "You do like to look at them. But we can fix that too."
On the bed Frank went wild, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to buck her off again, but she held tight and grabbed his forehead with one hand to hold his head fast, and used her thumb from the same hand to pry open his eyelid. She worked the sharp points of the scissors into his eye and slipped them underneath and behind his eyeball. With a small snip, the eyeball as dislodged from the socket and it rolled down his cheek, onto his pillow."
"There." she smiled, "That takes care of that."
Blood poured from his empty eye socket and soaked the pillow beside his head. He fought the urge to vomit, and thought for a moment that he was going to pass out from the pain, but, unfortunately for him— he didn’t.
She leaned down until their faces were inches apart.
"Shhh," she cooed, "Can you hear that?
Past the beating of his heart, his labored breathing, and the storm that raged outside, Frank heard a new sound in the room. It was the sound that wood makes as it burns. A snapping and crackling sound— and then he seen it. Black smoke rising up around the bed.
"There's a special spot reserved just for you… in Hell."
Beyond her face, orange flames shot up, licking towards the ceiling.
"Their here," she whispered. "And their waiting for you, Frank. They've always been waiting for you."
The flames seemed to come alive, dancing and flickering to and fro, as a thousand chattering, wailing voices filled the room.
Satisfied with the terror in his eyes, she sat up. "Now, what is it that you like to make little girls do?"
With his one good eye, Frank watched her smile, her black eyes glittering with pleasure. "I know!" she sang like a child playing a game, clapping her hands. She slid down his body, explosing his flaccid penis. "You like to make little girls suck your dick, don’t you, Frank."
The entire bed was surrounded by flames now, but that wasn’t what terrified Frank the most. What terrified him the most, was when she smiled down at him again.
Frank screamed, his whole body going into shocked spasms.
Her teeth were razor sharp.
"Is that what you want? You want me to suck your dick, just like you made poor Molly do last night? If I'm remembering correctly, you slapped her when she gagged. Well, you wont have to worry about that with me—" She ran her tongue along the sharp edges of her teeth. "I don’t gag," she purred.
Her faced changed, her features hardening, as she growled,—"I swallow…"

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Publication Date: 06-22-2011

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