Authors: Eric S Brown
The stagecoach arrived in Reaper’s Valley shortly before sundown. Michael hopped down and was gone before Louis even realized he’d left. Mr. O’Rouke was greeted by an important looking man, with two armed gents in tow, that Louis could only presume was the mayor. As the stage driver helped Eliza with her luggage, Louis gave her a shy farewell nod and ventured into town in search of lodgings for the weeks to come.
His quest led him to an establishment called “Pete’s,” which served as both the town’s sole hotel and saloon. Louis hated bars and was uncomfortable in them, but his only alternative was sleeping on the street.
The owner introduced himself as Pete through a wide smile, showing cracked, yellowed teeth. He was a rather crude and smelly fellow that Louis would wager seldom bathed. Yet the rate for a room was well within his allotted budget, so Louis signed into the guest register, paid the lodging fee, secured his key, and headed upstairs as quickly as he could.
Two
Far on the other side of town, Pastor Gregory sat at the desk in his small office with the Bible spread open before him. A single candle illuminated the tiny space, the flicker of its flame dancing on the walls.
Pastor Gregory had moved to Reaper’s Valley a year earlier and had taken over the Lord’s work in this violent and sinful place. He had tried hard to reach out, show the love and goodness that was his Lord, but for the most part, his words fell on deaf ears. His congregation numbered less than three dozen of the hundreds of souls who called Reaper’s Valley home. None the less, for those who did attend his services, he worked long hours preparing the most truthful and moving sermons he was capable of producing. He leaned against his chair, stretching his tired back and arms. The evening was growing late and he had much to do on the morrow. He planned to go visiting his derelict flock and take the word of God to those who refused to come to church.
Pastor Gregory jumped as something slammed into the front door of the church. The noise was so loud he heard it clearly all the way from where he sat in his office, tucked away in the back corner of the church. He sprang to his feet, his heart thundering in his chest, wondering what could have made such a noise. The thumping did not come again, but as he moved into the sanctuary, he heard a much weaker pounding on the door. Then everything fell silent.
Pastor Gregory said a silent prayer to the Lord, steeling himself in the armor of faith, as he walked to the door and opened it. A man stood before him, leaning against the church’s wall to stay on his feet. The man, in his early thirties, was dressed in black from head to toe.
The pastor noticed two things at once. The man wore an elaborate gun belt with the silver butts of what appeared to be twin Colt revolvers protruding from its worn leather holsters, and the man was badly injured. His sleek black clothing was torn and ripped in numerous spots where blood oozed from the holes, dripping off of the saturated fabric to stain the church’s porch. “Father,” the wounded man croaked, clutching a gaping wound which ran across his midsection with a blood soaked hand.
Pastor Gregory took a step back.
“
Help me,” the man pleaded softly, his voice full of pain. For a moment, Pastor Gregory hesitated, staring at the stranger on his doorstep. Finally, he said, “Son, this is a house of God, not a hospital. I don’t know what you were up to, but there’s nothing for you here but forgiveness.”
The man shook his head stubbornly, refusing to leave. “Jesus said ‘what you do for the least among us, you do for me,’ Father. I have nowhere else to go.”
Pastor Gregory was shocked by the man’s reminder of his Christian duty, and hung his head in shame at his initial reaction to someone so clearly in need. He met the stranger’s eyes.
“
Thank you,” the pastor said sincerely. “There’s no such thing as a perfect person, only a perfect God. I hope you’ll forgive me.”
The wounded man nodded.
Pastor Gregory took the man’s arm around his shoulders and helped him into the church. “Let’s see what we can do for you.”
He led the injured man to the nearest pew and helped him ease his battered form onto it. As the man removed the dark-clad stranger’s coat and let it drop onto the floor, Pastor Gregory asked, “What’s your name?”
“
Nathan,” the man replied, wincing.
“
You’re in pretty bad shape, son. Let me get you some water, and then I’ll fetch Doc Henry.”
Nathan caught Pastor Gregory’s arm in a grip that was surprisingly strong, considering how much blood he must’ve already lost. “I don’t need a doctor. Help me dress the wounds and God will do the rest.”
The pastor relented with a nod and Nathan dropped his arm. “What happened to you?” the man of God asked as he noticed the large stomach wound wasn’t caused from a bullet. It looked as if someone had taken a dagger and dug it into Nathan’s guts.
“
Doesn’t matter, does it? I failed, Father. I rode hard and got ahead of him, though. I imagine he’s still a town or two behind me.” Nathan took the pastor by his shirt and yanked him close. The wounded man spoke loud and clearly. “He’ll be coming. We need to be ready.”
Before Pastor Gregory could ask anything else, Nathan’s eyes closed and he slumped onto the pew, unconscious. Pastor Gregory removed Nathan’s hand from his shirt and appraised this stranger who’d staggered into the house of God. There was no doubt he was a professional killer, but the Lord moved in mysterious ways, and who was he to question Him? The pastor stood tall and hurried to find what he would need to clean up the man and tend his numerous wounds.
It was going to be a long night.
Three
Lee rode into the town of Clay’s Peak as the stars filled the sky above him. He was in no hurry.
He knew his enemy had passed through this town.
He could smell the lingering scent of the man’s arrogant self-righteousness. As he crept slowly along the town’s main street, his eyes were drawn to the light spilling out from the saloon ahead of him. The sounds of music, cursing, and the squeals of excited whores drifted to his ears. He secured his horse and walked into the saloon, deciding he owed himself a drink in honor of the victory soon be his. Every head in the place turned to look at him as he entered through the swinging doors. He savored the attention—his apparel was rather striking.
He liked it that way.
He wore a stark white longcoat over a white shirt and white well-tailored pants. Even his thick boots had an ivory tone, all in sharp contrast to his tanned skin. The black pupils of his eyes were partially hidden from the shadow cast by his small white hat in the saloon’s glow. Greeting the shocked stares with a smile showing off matching rows of perfectly white teeth, he swaggered to the bar where a bald and fat man stood, his stained apron making it clear he was both the establishment’s barkeeper and cook. The man seemed deeply disturbed by Lee’s foppish and effeminate beauty as the man in white took a seat on one of the barstools.
“
Can I help you?” the fat man asked. He tried to offer a smile, but his lips curled up in a sneer instead of a pleasant expression.
Lee set about tugging off the white gloves covering his fingers. “I would like a glass of your best wine, please.”
The bartender burst into belly-shaking laughter.
Lee’s ungloved hand struck like a snake. He grabbed the fat barkeep by his throat and pulled him close, his grip so tight droplets of blood formed where his fingernails pressed crescent-shaped cuts into the man’s skin. “I said I’d like some wine,” Lee hissed.
The fat man struggled to get enough air into his lungs. “Don’t got no wine,” he rasped, his pudgy face turning blue. Lee released the fat man’s throat, smirking when the bartender rubbed his bruising neck with dirty hands.
The man in white felt a hand fall on his shoulder and spun around to see a roughlooking fellow with several days worth stubble on his face. “Don’t know where you come from, stranger, but this is Jim’s bar. You’ll show him some respect,” the cowhand demanded. Lee brushed the man’s hand from his shoulder without a word, offering only a mischievous grin in reply.
“
What are you supposed to be dressed up like that? You some sort of clown or something?” the man goaded Lee, bringing about a chorus of snickers from the saloon’s other patrons.
Lee shook his head and ignored the cowhand. Turning back to the barkeep, he asked, “If no wine is available, what spirits do you recommend, good sir?”
The cowhand shoved Lee from behind.
“
Hey, I’m talking to you, mister!”
Lee was on his feet like lightning. As he stood, he lifted the roughlooking cowhand from the floor by his stubbled throat with a single hand. The cowhand’s feet kicked in the air as his hands clawed at Lee’s grip until, with a fast and effortless flick of his wrist, Lee snapped the man’s neck and let his corpse drop to the saw dust-coated floor of the saloon with a dull thud.
Lee watched the saloon’s other patrons shove whores off of their laps and toss their cards onto scuffed wooden tables as they got to their feet to stand against him. “He killed Kaufman in cold blood!” Lee heard someone shout. Another voice yelled, “Get him!”
Guns whipped out of holsters as the saloon became a cacophony of barking pistols. A multitude of bullets smashed into Lee, staining his white clothing with dark splotches of red. Lee staggered but stayed on his feet until the boom of a double barreled shotgun thundered from behind the bar. The force of its slugs ripped into his back and sent him whirling to the floor with a crash.
Lee closed his eyes and listened to the shouts of anger and glee around him, then pushed himself up to his knees. When he stood, the blood from his wounds was gone and his clothes were as whole and spotless as they had been when he’d entered. He drank in the terror, relishing its rich scent. He drew in deep gulps of fear-infused air as he retrieved a single dagger from the sheath inside his right boot.
He twirled the blade in his fingers and laughed. “Oh what fun,” he said in a sing-song voice as he darted into the crowd so fast he became a blur. He slashed a cowpoke’s throat wide, hot rich blood spraying onto him, and he laughed with malevolent delight.
A large man in a brown duster tried to grab the stranger and was rewarded with a strike from Lee’s dagger that pierced his cheek and exited the other side of his face. Lee withdrew the blade and kicked the man, who lost his footing and fell to the ground. He spat out half of his sliced tongue to the floor upon impact.
Bullets ripped into Lee, but he ignored them, lost in the bliss of his macabre dance of death. Soon he stood alone over the bodies of his victims. He bent over the corpse of the nearest woman and drove his knife into the valley between her breasts, then broke open her rib cage and rewarded himself with her heart. He held it in his hand and examined it before he opened his mouth and took a bite out of the left ventricle, squirting warm blood onto his lips.
Lee wiped away the blood with his white gloved hand and walked out into the night.
His horse awaited him where he had left it tied outside. He loosed it, climbed into the saddle and rode on towards the next town. There was so much more fun to be had ahead of him. If Lee remembered correctly, the next town to the west was named Reaper’s Valley. The name was very fitting for what he had planned, and he couldn’t help but chuckle to himself as his horse galloped faster and faster, spurred on by his master’s growing excitement.
Four
Louis doubled-checked that the door to his room was locked before he began to settle into his new, temporary home. The light from the room’s oil lamp illuminated the small padlock on his suitcase as he slid his key into it and flipped it open. Inside, underneath his meager change of clothing and a few personal items, was the manuscript. It was the only copy Louis knew of and it had been like pulling teeth to convince Kramer to allow him to bring it along on his westward journey.
The book still remained in its original hand-scrawled form. The pages were in a loose stack, which Louis carefully lifted from the case and carried to the table in the corner of the room where the lamp sat. He sunk into the chair there and scanned through it, taking great care to keep the pages in the proper order as he went.
He’d read the book from cover to cover, but he needed to refresh himself about the details of the murders and the description of the killer. After only a few pages, however, Louis realized the fatigue from his journey had caught up with him.
His stomach growled and he discovered he couldn’t recall the last time he’d eaten. Locking away the manuscript and shoving the suitcase under his bed, he stepped from his room onto the open area of the hotel’s second floor above the saloon. He could hear that the crowd had dwindled a good bit. Either that or most of the carousers were now so intoxicated they were unconscious at their tables.
A tipsy dancer with shoulder-length red hair and freckles, her shapely frame encased in a frilly gold and black dress that rose high on her thighs, met him in the hallway. She tripped over her feet and caught her balance by placing a gaudy, bejeweled hand squarely in the middle of his chest. Louis felt his cheeks flush red as he awkwardly reached out and put his hands on her sides to steady her. “Careful,” he urged her. She chuckled and the scent of alcohol on her breath made Louis recoil.
“
If I were careful, honey,” she slurred, “I wouldn’t be in this line of work.”