The stranger rode into town just after noon. It was a rarity for the town of Westminister to have visitors, so Annie Reid stepped out of the inn, eyes trained on the horse strolling toward them. The sun was bright and the day was hot, but the stranger did not seem to mind as he rode.

  Ephraim Daniels intercepted the man as he rode. He yanked the reins of his horse, a beautiful chestnut creature that snuffed at the dust as it stopped. Ephraim scratched his bald head under his hat. The man was not only as big as an ox, but as dumb as one too, which always made Annie wonder how he ever managed to be appointed to sheriff in the first place. Whatever the case, the sheriff reached up and gestured kindly to the man, though she knew his pig-faced expression was not the most welcoming sight.

  "Hold there, stranger," he shouted, tipping his hat to the man on the horse. "Might'n that be a shotgun on your leg?"

  "It is," said the man on the horse, tipping his hat in turn. "I use it for Indians. The godless heathens will skin you as much as look at you."

  "That they do," replied Ephraim. "But we got rules here in Westmin'ster. We can't have a man with a gun ridin' 'round and scaring good Christian folk."

  "Wouldn't dream of it," said the man, leaping down from his horse with the grace of a bird fluttering from its perch. He reached down and plucked the mare's leg from its place at his thigh, giving it a twirl and offering the handle to the sheriff, who thanked him kindly. Ephraim spat in the dirt, tucking the gun under his arm.

  "What's your business here, stranger?" he asked. "Don't get many people coming to see out little town."

  "My business is that of a theological matter," said the stranger, cocking his head behind the sheriff, who looked to see the sight of the church. It was the tallest building in the town, per the demands of the Priest, standing proud and beautiful in the sun.

  Ephraim nodded, stroking his chin. "'Thera-togical', eh?" he asked, showing his wit. "You a doctor of it, er...?"

  "No," replied the stranger. "Just a student of it." He reached into his pocket. Ephraim was quick to reach for his own gun, but paused when the stranger raised a heavy, leatherbound book. A cross was inlaid on the cover in chipping gold leaf. "My name is John Baptiste," he said. "I've come to make the acquaintence of the Priest here."

  "Father Ruiz?" Ephraim's slack jaw let the name out as 'Royce'. "Tall order. Father's a busy man. Why might you be lookin' for him?"

  "Curiosity," said the stanger called Jean Baptiste. "I've heard word of a man who preachs the pride of humility. I hate to say my home has become over run with Catholics, and a scholar of his repute may be the sort of theologian that might put a quarrelsome soul at ease."

  The words were swimming around Ephraim's head, making him stumble as he tried to make sense of them. Once he had decyphered the words, or had given up completely, he smiled at the stranger. "As I said, the Father's a busy man, communing with the almighty 'n all, but I'm sure he'd like to meetcha at tomorrow's service."

  "I await with bated breath," said the stranger, replacing the bible into his pocket. "Might you have an inn or a saloon I can stay in?"

  Ephraim scowled, startling Annie as she worried the mention would send him into a fit. "'en't no spirits here, but the holy one," said Ephraim. "You do best to remember that, son."

  "Happily."

  Ephraim pointed him to the inn, startling Annie further as she hadn't realized how invested she had been in the stranger. He tipped his hat again, and led his horse to the hitching pose where he effortlessly tied the reins. Anne quickly took up her place behind the bar, though it was now more of a station of office rather than a functioning structure. The stranger stepped inside with a calm pace. He seemed unbothered by the heat of the day and took a seat at the counter. Annie greeted him with a smile.

  "Pleasure to meet ya, stranger," she said, taking in the details of the man's face. "Annie Reid, at your service."

  The stranger, John Baptiste, was an interesting figure. He was tall and slender, with dark eyes that seemed black under the shadow of his hat. However, as he took it off, revealing a mess of black hair, they seemed soft and kind. He had some bum fluff on his chin, though the main point of interest sat below his hooked nose, where a heavy moustache sat, carefully styled despite the weary look of its traveling owner.

  He nodded to her, offering the name she had heard him before. John Baptiste. "Like the bible?" Annie asked, unsure if she had heard it right.

  "Exactly that," said the stranger. "My father was a God-fearing man. Wanted to be sure I had a name that fit it."

  "A good man, I'm sure," replied Annie, narrowing her eyes. "With a fancy name like yours, I guess you're from Texas. All the fancy names come from Texas."

  "Close," replied John. "New Orleans, but the city's been overrun by the Vatican." He shook his head. "Worshipping the words of a man rather than the Lord above. It'll make you cry."

  "Hear-hear," said Annie as she reached below the counter. From a pitcher, she poured a glass of water for the visitor. "Apologies if you were hoping for whiskey. We can't allow it in town."

  "The Devil's water," John replied, holding up the glass as if to toast. "Turns good men into demons. Good riddance, I say."

  "Amen," replied Annie enthusiastically. "I'll assume you'll be needing a room if you're hoping to meet the Father."

  "I am." John scratched his chin, and looked back through the window of the inn. "No disrespect, Ma'am, but what else would bring someone so far out into the territory."

  "Used to be there was a gold rush on," explained Annie. "The town was set up to house the people panning for it."

  "Any luck?"

  "Some," she said. "My papa helped build this inn. Used to be this place was awash with whores and libations."

  "But no more?"

  "No,sir," Annie replied proudly. "The Father put an end to that. Put the fear o' God into the local rabble, and cleaned this place up nice. Used to be there was a knife fight every night. Now we have peace and quiet all the live long day."

  "Seems it gets borring."

  "Not with the Father around." Annie nodded to a window, framing the hill on which a sizable manor. It stood like a glowing monolith, surveying the valley below. "He's like our shepherd, keeping us from strayin'."

  "Sounds like quite the man," John said, twisting his moustache. "Might I ask if there's a way to speak with him? I've traveled a long way, and I'd like to make his acquaintence."

  "The Father speaks when the Father wants," Annie explained. "He's very strict about his meditations. Says to interupt a man while in congress with God is akin to taking his name in vain. We are firm in our commitment to that."

  John the stranger nodded, understanding. He looked at the window longingly. Annie could sense the man's disappointment, and quickly added, "Service will be tomorrow at dawn though. Seating'll be tight, since the whole town'll be there, but the Father will be happy to talk to any new comers."

  John smiled at that, showing white teeth beneath his dark moustache. Annie half-expected them to be yellow, as most who traveled her were fond of tobacco in some way. Perhaps this man was as genuine as he seemed.

  After he had his drink, he marched up the stairs to a room at the end. He disappeared inside and remained there through the day, not even coming down when offered a section of rabbit. John was content, admitting to a fast he had been partaking in for the last few days. It was his end of a bargain to the Lord to see his success into town. Annie didn't question it, but was genuinely curious about the man, as she peered through the peephole. In the light of the lamp, he sat with his back to her. She could make out the edges of the bible as he twisted, turning the pages. She could make out the sounds of him muttering, likely reading along to himself as he went. She knew Ephraim would do the same, if he could properly sound things out.

  To which, the sheriff made himself known as the townsfolk gathered into the one-time saloon. It had become a de facto town hall; a place of gathering since the Father strolled into town, clearing the refuse from the populace like a cleansing stream. The townsfolk were still keen to socialize there, though they would do so without the company of their once beloved liquor.

  Many whispered about the stranger in the room at the end, and Ephraim himself seemed curious as he leaned against the counter. He wondered what Annie could divulge, though that was too big a word for the lummox.

  She explained that he said little, but kept to himself. He seemed as pious as he seemed, which would let him blend in perfectly with the people of Westminister. Ultimately, she could only get so much from a man of few words.

  Ephraim seemed more surprised that the man hadn't made a pass at Annie, who dismissed the notion. The brute had been pining for her for years, only to be thoroughly disappointed at every turn.

  "With yellow hair done up like that," Ephraim smirked. "I'd think he'd be 'smittered'."

  "Smitten."

  "'S what I said." Ephraim smoothed what remained of his hair. "Less you got your eye on someone else."

  "'Fraid not," replied Annie quickly, dismissing the sheriff. She'd be lying if she didn't get an ounce of excitement from seeing him deflate some as she stepped away.

  "But why not?" asked Ephraim, for the hundredth time. "I can make ya real happy with a mess o' children."

  Sure, Annie thought, lamenting the image of the man, already forty-plus years her senior. It wasn't that he was a brutish figure that would likely crush her in her sleep, nor was it the idea of his children being born as simple-minded and hardheaded as their father. It was also that, despite their shared faith, the man seemed to think himself the apostle Peter, often at the elbow of the Father. When he was given the tin star on his breast, something inside him inflated. Even though the man was as illiterate as they came, he spouted his verses with pride, hoping others would see him as the mighty hammer of God's messanger on Earth. Instead, the town knew that he had only memorized them from the Father's sermons and often said them wrong. He was a prideful man, and Annie had to wonder what had convinced the Father to keep him around for so long. Was it his stubborn loyalty? The unshakable nature that made him a good guard dog for the people of Westminister? Was it the way he was always there, front and center for every sermon?

  Annie had to wonder, but for now, replied that she was not interested in marriage quite yet, and that when the time came, the Lord would deliver a sign. That seemed to quench Ephraim's ego for a time, as he was quick to shy away from arguing with the will of God. He walked away, leaving Annie with blissful space illuminated by the sound of Daniel Donoghue, whose fiddles and hymns caused for small outbursts of dancing.

  She remembered what had been, when the town was still young. Kitty Booth sashayed with her husband, the elderly Edwin, who struggled to keep up with her. Annie remembered how the woman had hollered at the prospectors, luring them into the inn with the globes of her bosom. Edwin had been one such man who was eager to make an honest woman of her when he struck it rich. The riches never came, but she saw the two in church quite often, repentent for their lust and greed.

  Jeremy Bush, once a rascal keen to break the windows of any building with his trusted slingshot, was now an off-duty deputy, once wild hair having been long since combed and orderly.

  Sandra Thornton, the daughter of the vicious "Bulldog" Thornton was dressed in white, no doubt waiting for her day with the Father, being bound to Edward Edridge in matromony. The legacy of the Bulldog was now an echo of what it had been. A vicious drunk whose knife was as keen to taste someone's blood as he was to taste the cheapest hooch. It had been the murder of Ethan Edridge that had earned Bulldog the rope, and now it seemed they would put whatever ill-will they had behind them. Looking at the two now, joining in Daniel's rendition of 'Rock of Ages', she could tell they would have some handsome children.

  But there was a pang as well as she wondered after those that had been cast out under the Father's command. The Eastons, a kind Mormon family that wouldn't surrender their devotion to John Smith and his idolitrous Golden Plates. Or perhaps Ezra Merrick, a stray child of Israel who had hoped to find a place for his people, but found a rival in the Father's teachings. Though a chosen child of the Lord, he strayed away from his teachings as he left in the dead of night, leaving nothing behind.

  For a moment, she thought of Colm McCollough, the sheriff that preceded Ephraim, who had once been his deputy. She stopped herself from thinking of his boy. Poor Ike, left to die alone in the wilderness.

  She heaved a sigh and shook her head, stepping away and marching up the stairs to the stranger's room. She knocked, curious if John would be interested in socializing with the public. He had asked for water to bathe, and perhaps he had planned to make his appearance. Instead he kindly refused

  "I'm afraid I am in the midst of meditations," he said with a smile. "There is much I'd like to discuss with the Father, were he to give me the time, and I must study on this matter."

  He thanked her for her hospitality and cautioned her not to fret as he was a simple man that needed very little. She supposed it made sense, and apologized profusely for the interuption as she could see the bible lying on his bed. She backed away and allowed him his silence. The night passed without incident, though the townfolk were still disappointed that the stranger would not reveal himself. They did their best to keep rumors at bay, though they still let the odd one slip from their lips, wondering if the man was a wayward Mexican or an Indian looking to civilize himself. One even wondered if he was some lose Chinaman, looking for work after the railroads had been built. Annie put them to rest as she assured them they would meet the man himself at the service tomorrow.

  That seemed to ease their minds, though their excitement was just as palpable when John Baptiste stepped into the church that Sunday morning. All eyes turned to him, eager to behold the young stranger. He took off his hat and bowed to the people shaking their hands as he entered, bible in hand.

  Dorothy Wingham fanned herself, smitten by this moustachioed man with his long black coat and scarlet shirt. Michael Bell jumped at the man, holding his hand like a pistol. How he learned it, Annie was unsure, but the visitor threw his hands up, going with the game of 'Sheriff and Outlaws'. The man collapsed theatrically, as little Michael shouted , "BANG!"

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  "I'm kilt!" shouted the man, tumbling into the aisle. He tucked his body and rolled, landing flat on his back. "Lord have mercy, for I've been kilt by this here lawmen!" He exaggerated his death, sticking his tongue out at the boy, pulling a gaggle of laughter from the others, as he sprang up, smoothing his moustache.

  He flashed a smile at the pianist. Harlon Foley took his hand with a squint. "I know you, friend?" he asked.

  "'Fraid not, sir," replied John with a grin. "'Less you found yourself in Louisana."

  "Who's your daddy?" asked Harlon, certain of the visitor's familiarity. "I know him, I'm sure."

  "Collin Baptiste, may God rest his soul."

  "He Irish?"

  "Only half, sir. Other half's Cajun."

  "Can't tell which is worse."

  "Neither could he." Harlon hooted at the remark, only silenced by the presence of Ephraim, as he clapped a massive paw on John's shoulder.

  "Quick to make friends, ain't we?"

  "Of course," said John. "Proverbs 27:9. Words to live by."

  "Right, right..." Ephraim smiled. "Yeah, alright." Annie knew that the verse said that 'like perfume and incense, a sweet friendship refreshes the soul', but of course, the big man would have trouble knowing that if he could read the good book. She broke into the conversation, assuring Ephraim that the service would begin soon and that she had saved a seat beside her. John was happy to take it, though she could see the dagger in Ephraim's eye.

  John only smiled and his eyes widened as a booming voice filled the hall. It ordered the parishoners to find their seats. They listened obediently, eyes focused on the front, where the Father stepped forward.

  The Father, Oscar Nepomuceno Ruiz was a striking figure in his vestments, his broad shoulders holding the stole with pride. His hair, iron colored and shiny was combed back away from his face. His own moustache was modest and neat, while there was no sign of hair on his cheeks. His copper skin made him look like a statue, sculpted with regal elegance by some Renaissance artist of Rome. His long elegant fingers prompted Harlon to tickle the ivories, letting out a low rendition of 'Amazing Grace'. This was followed by 'Holy, Holy, Holy' and 'Just as I am', until he allowed the church to sit.

  "My children," he said, his voice rich like honey. "I welcome you into the house of God." The people clapped. He continued, eyes scanning their numbers until Annie shivered as he looked at her. His smile never faltered, but his focus was intense and powerful. It was as if he was staring right through her, until she realized he was focused on the visitor. John nodded to the Father, smile stretched across his lips.

  "There are some new faces here," continued the Father. "And I hope the hospitality has been to your liking."

  "Never better," replied John cooly, offering a small bow.

  "Do not neglect hospitality," added the Father, hands on the podium. "For through this some have entertained angels and not known it."

  "I'm no angel," called John. "But beloved you are doing a faithful deed in for these brothers and sisters, who are strangers to you."

  The Father grinned his nacre smile. "Well said."

  He turned to address the congregation. Annie nodded to John, who did not take his eyes off the Father, staring with an intense focus that made her wonder if he had been consumed by some spirit.

  It seemed appropriate as the sermon had focused on the words of 1 Corinthians 15:33. He warned his listeners to not be misled, as bad company corrupts good character. The Father spoke with fervor and authority, making the room seem to shrink around him as his voice grew spirited. Eyes were focused. Ears were open. The man spoke with such vigor that as he slapped the podium to emphasize his point, one would have thought he had called forth a clap of thunder.

  Once, as Annie tore her eyes away from the Father to check on their guest, she was curious at his gestures. He sat with his eyes closed and head pressed to the bible in his hand. His lips moving in silent reverence. His grip on the book turned his knuckles white, and she could see the muscles strain in his arm. He seemed focused on every word.

  She understood his response. She remembered the ill repute that went on in the town of Westminister. The violence. The greed. Lives lost and ultimately ruined by little flecks of gold. Even the old sheriff had trouble controling it, but even as the Father came to town, washing it free of its sin, he seemed so adamant to keep it as it was, rejecting the word of God to embrace the crooked laws of men, perpetuating the cycle of chaos. Her chest tightened, as she thought of his son, how he had fallen for his father's pleas without question, and for it, he had to be cast out. Cain betraying his father, forever marked for his sin.

  She pushed the thought from her mind and looked ahead. Come the end of the service, she could hear John breathe once more under the applause of the congregation. He cheered and shot up with an ovation. The Father bowed, humbly shooing their praise. He descended the podium and called the parishoners to approach. John marched past Annie, startling her with his swiftness, despite the small space.

  He approached the podium like a man possessed, eyes focused with an energy that seemed to scare even Ephraim, who could stare down wolf if need be. He moved to intervene, but paused as John threw out his hand to shake the Father's.

  "A speaker on par with the Lord himself," he said eagerly. "If I could speak half as good as you, I'd die a happy man."

  "You humble me, sir."

  He paused as the stranger introduced himself, eagerly speaking with an intensity that seemed to rival even the Father's. It seemed to impress the preacher himself, as he caught himself several times growing invested in John's words. Annie couldn't make out much of the conversation, but she could tell that John had impressed the Father, earning a final handshake before John turned, strolling toward the door.

  "It went well, I take it," she said, meeting him at the door where the noise was the quietest.

  "He has invited me to speak with him in his home," said John, a smirk on his face. "An honor if ever I saw one." This amazed Annie. She had only seen a few people be invited to the Father's house, even fewer ever seemed to stay for much longer. She wondered what John had said to impress the Father so.

  Following the service, Annie found herself following John, as he walked. His eyes wandered around the town, taking in as much as he could. He stroked his chin.

  "I've been meaning to ask," he said after several minutes of silence. "What's the story behind this here town? What brings a man like Father Ruiz to a place like this?"

  "It's sin," replied Annie, before catching herself and explaining. It had been the sin that both built the town and led the Father there, but one came before the other. She told him that there had been a surge of people, called forth by the promise of gold deeper into the valley. A town was built to house them, and it was named by the first preacher, a Brit named Worthington, who quickly fled when a nugget of notable size appeared in his pocket. The wild nature of the town had been so chaotic that sheriffs would come and go as easily as the breeze, until one stepped forward to take the reins.

  Colm McCullough was an Irishman, fresh off the boat before he caught wind of the promises of gold in the west. He and his wife, a woman named Esther, made haste for the hills of Californina. She would die of a fever en route, but their son, Isaac would survive the travel with his father. Annie remembered Colm, a stoic with a strong jaw and an even stronger grip. Though he was alright with a pistol, it was the sheer fearlessness of this small Irish man that kept people from really picking fights with him. He had the sort of glare that even Ephraim would back down from. He and Annie's papa, Marcus, were fast friends, meaning that she and Isaac, whom she called 'Ike' were just as close, though that was complicated when the Father made his entrance.

  The town was at a perpetual state of ebb and flow, with the feuds and animosity would only subside long enough for another one to flare up. Colm did his best to calm the hysterics, but things escalated quickly when the bankers and blue bloods that had funded the gold rush in the first place were quickly swept up in the violence, having been swiftly murdered when the prospect of them leaving the savages to themselves were whispered. With their livelihood on the line, they acted swiftly, and just in time for the Father to hear their cries.

  Oscar Nepomuceno Ruiz had been a Jesuit in Mexico. However, his brothers had quickly cast him out when he showed that he would not abide by the rules of men who worshiped an idol figurehead over the one true God. He was cast out and wandered until he found the town of Westminister, a single step away from drowning themselves in their own blood. He arrived and offered a place of sanctuary in the church, creating a congregation that would fight to retain control of the town. He would purge the greedy of their wealth, casting it aside as to keep the desires of the avaricious from them. He tried to keep the fire from the savages, but his efforts were for naught, as he saw resistance in the one place he didn't expect: the Law.

  Colm protested the Father's teachings, arguing that the Father was nothing more than a charlatan, a man using pretty words to fool the people as a false prophet to benefit from their greed. He himself had been a proud Catholic, denouncing this "radical protestantism".

  This led to the night he tried to fight the Father himself. His gaze, like that of Satan attempted to scare the Father, but he remained resolute. He did not back down, and instead put forth a challenge to fight for it. The town would elect their champion. Were it God's will, the winner would show that their way was truly aligned with the will of the Almighty. It had been Ephraim, Colm's own deputy who would be the one to strike the man down, his bloodied body splayed out over the dirt of the street.

  It had been he who had been the false prophet, and it was he that had lose the favor of God.

  "And the son," asked John. "Ike?"

  "He fled," replied Annie. "Saw his daddy in the dirt and tried to fight Ephraim. Grabbed his pa's gun and tried to shoot the Father, but I..." She paused. "I stopped him. I threw a bottle from my papa's saloon at him. Hit him right in the mouth."

  She tapped the left side of her upper lip.

  "Split him bad," she continued. "He was a bloody mess as the people set on him. I tried to stop them. He was just a kid, little younger than me, but my papa made sure to grab me before I ran into a stampede. The townsfolk chased that boy to the end of town and into the dust."

  "He died..."

  "I like to think he survived," Annie said. "And I hope he finds peace. No boy should see their daddy like that. We buried him Christian-like, and I pray for them both sometimes."

  "A fine gesture," John said as they reached his door. "You're a good woman, Annie Reid."

  He stepped into his room and was quiet for a long while, until her he tapped her shoulder for water to shave that evening. He had just realized his appearance and was eager to scrape the fuzz from his chin for his meeting with the Father. She pointed him in the direction of Donald Sweeney's Barbershop, though John only trusted himself when it came to a sharp instrument to his throat. She supposed she understood, having neither grown a beard, nor had a shave. And so, she got him what he asked for. He thanked her and did not reappear until later that night.

  It was eight o'clock when he emerged from his room, marching fervently and with purpose. Annie was surprised, as not only was his stubble gone, but his moustache as well. It was only a flash of a clean shaven face, but there was something in his proportions that drew Annie to take a closer look.

  In the doorway, Annie watched John leap gracefully atop his horse, effortlessly turning it into a lively trot. She went to call out, but paused, unsure of what to ask. Was he so eager to meet the Father? Perhaps, but there was something in the look in his eyes that told her a different story. It was not a look of civility. It was dark, hardened. Was he late? Was he in a hurry? Curious, Annie walked back into the inn and up the stairs.

  There was an unusual chill as she pushed the door open. She did not know what to expect, but it seemed normal enough. The man had brought only meager belongings, but they sat there on the floor, discarded and unmoved. The tools of a man's shave sat in front of the mirror. A bowl of water sat, with faint ripples of the man's departure being the only disturbance. A razor sat unfolded, gleaming eerily in the light. A rag sat beside that, dotted with small spots of blood.

  Annie cocked her head and glanced back at the bed. The sheets were only disturbed by an indent where John had evidently sat for many hours. Beside the indent was his bible, sitting open and pages down. Had he forgotten it? No, he had carried this so fervantly and devoutly that something seemed wrong. She reached for it and gasped as she turned it.

  Inside, the word of God had been carved out, leaving the outline of a small pistol. Her eyes widened. Her breath caught in her throat.

  John. He had snuck a pistol into town. He had hidden it in the Holy Bible and now, with it in his possession, he was riding toward...

  ...

  No...

  There was a loud crack, and she ran outside. As she looked into the distance, the shape of John on his horse had shrunk against the hill. On the ground, between her and the visitor was an unmistakable figure. She sprinted toward him and knelt down to see the shocked face of Ephraim Daniels. The brute was wide eyed and terrified, staring into the distance despite the blood trickling from the wound in his forehead into his eyes.

  Annie's shock wouldn't stop there, as she heard another loud pop. She whipped her head at the house on the hill. The lights were on. The gate was open.

  No-no-no, she thought, getting up and hurrying past the roused townsfolk. There was another chorus of snaps and pops, with each one echoing like a distant storm.

  Or a battle, she thought. She could see it now. The flashes of light in the windows of the house. She fought against the fear that ripped into her chest.

  John. What are you doing, John? Had he really been a man of faith?

  No.

  No, he couldn't be.

  As she remembered the look in his eyes, she realized now what he had been. John Baptiste from New Orleans was not a disciple of God. No, he was an agent of the Devil. He was the harbinger of Hell, the embodiment of Satan's will.

  A loose stone caught Annie's foot and sent her tumbling to the ground. The dirt bit into her hands. Her knees ached as they crashed into the hard earth. She looked up in time to see the house grow even brighter, becoming a beacon in the evening shadow. The lights danced as the shape flickered and waved with the wind. The townsfolk stepped out, roused by the sound of crackling and the clap of thunderous pops.

  They gasped as, in a flash, the flames rose from the house in a ball of infernal fire. For a moment, Annie felt her blood run cold as there, in the shape of the flames, she could see the face of Lucifer himself, beaming down into the valley. The townsfolk hurried down the street, though they needn't have traveled too far, as a figure became visible. A tall, beautiful chestnut stallion walked quickly and valiantly toward them. Sitting atop, shotgun held aloft in his hand, was John.

  No, not John. As he approached, Annie shuddered as his hand flipped something shiny into the crowd of onlookers. It was the elderly Michael Tweed, who caught it. It was a magnificant ring, gleaming gold in the low light and sparkling with jewels. His eyes grew rounder, as he looked up, alerted by the sudden noise.

  There were two sounds that startled the townsfolk. The first was the whimpering of some wounded animal. They looked around and cried out at the source. It was the Father. His hands were bound and secured to the back of the saddle by a length of rope. He was almost unrecognizable beneath the coat of dust. Blood poured from a wound in his belly. Even more trickled down his chin, in a ghastly goatee. His hair was a nest of grime and his nose had been broken. With the yelping he made, one could have guessed that the phillistine had ripped his tongue out.

  The second sound was the thunderous clap of a gunshot. John had fired into the air, warning the townsfolk against approaching as they moved toward the Father, hoping to rescue their prophet.

  They were powerless, only watching as the rider moved closer and closer to Annie.

  She dared to angle her face upward as she heard the horse's hooves. She saw John tip his hat upward to show his face.

  No, she remembered this man was not John Baptiste. She saw on his stoic lips a shape she had not seen in a long time. The crescent moon scar that slipped up from the left side of his mouth. The dark eyes met hers, and she watched in horror as he passed.

  No.

  Him?

  He passed silently, spurring his horse along, the whimpering form of the Father dragged behind him like an invalid.

  Annie found her strength, rushing toward Ephraim's body and wrenching the revolver from its holster.

  She raised its weight and squeezed the trigger, firing off every shot from its cylinder. She deflated, as the recoil insured she would not only miss each one, but bend her finger in a way she knew had dislocated it.

  Regardless, she mustered her strength and screamed after the Phillistine.

  "You're the devil, Ike McCullough!" she cried. "I pray you burn in that infernal hell for all eternity!"

  There was a beat, while her voice echoed through the streets. Behind her, the residents of Westminister gasped. Had they heard her correctly?

  They were sure they had as the rider turned his head, calling back to her.

  "Then I'll be in good company, Annie Reid!"

  And with that, he disappeared into the distance.

  He would never to set foot in Westminister again.