Blood Justice
by: J.N. Duncan
copyright: Jim Duncan, 2012
Smashwords Edition
A Note to the Reader
For those of you who may be picking up this short story and wondering just what the heck it is, here's a little background. The main characters in this short are from my Urban Fantasy series, Deadworld. It details the original confrontation between the hero in Deadworld and its villain. I suppose you could call this supernatural-western, given the time period and elements involved, but in essence, this bit of story is of the, "This is how it all began," variety. It stands on its own, meaning you don't have to read Deadworld to make sense of anything here. I do hope, however, that if you enjoy this bit of history about one of the main characters and the villain from my series, that you will give the series a try.
For those of you who have read Deadworld, this is that bit of backstory that I wish I had taken the time and page count to put in originally. I regret now that I short-changed this element. I believe this would have made a great prologue to the series. So, for those of you who wished to know more about Nick's history, here it is. This is how it all began.
For everyone, thank you for picking up this short piece. I hope you enjoy the read.
J.N. Duncan
Blood Justice
A bright, white flash of lightning illuminated the broad, squat dome of Hanaford Hill, tracing the low slung clouds with a luminous glow. The scrub and leafless trees jumped out in stark, black relief, a shifting, swaying army, hunkered down against the biting wind and rain, awaiting their assault. On the crest of the hill, a single, dim square of light winked at them, a great, lurking evil inviting them to their doom. At the base, five horses shifted restlessly on the muddy tracks of the road leading to the house.
Sheriff Nick Anderson listened to the spatter of rain against the brim of his hat and watched the thin rivulets dribble off on to the back of his horse. Mother nature was conspiring to make this wretched situation even more miserable and dangerous than it already was. His wife, Gwendolyn, had pleaded, actually insisted he find someone else to take up this task. "Everything tells me that nothing good will come of this, Nicholas. Everything. Let Reggie take him out. You don't need to do this."
He had watched her lay out her cards, painted with their strange symbols and figures, in a pattern that made sense only to her. Nick found the tarot deck fascinating and curious, but little more. It was far too easy to manipulate their symbolism into what one wanted to see, and it came as no surprise that Gwen would want to see something that would keep him from going out on this night, to take down the man who had come to reside in the old Hanaford house and killed five of the people living within the bounds of his protection.
Nick knew the moment Reverend Cornelius Battencourt, if that was his true name, rolled into town on his covered wagon. If only he had followed his gut reaction when the man stepped into the Sheriff's office and politely removed his black, short-brimmed hat and tapped off the rain against the gray, wool overcoat, and asked for permission to raise his revival tent on the edge of town. It had not been the eyes, the usual, tell-tale sign of mistrust, since they stared at him behind the dark veneer of wire-rimmed spectacles. It had been in that thin-lipped smile, a knowing, sardonic twist of his mouth when Nick had told him that any man of God was welcome in his slice of the prairie.
If anything, Cornelius Battencourt was no man of God, but one of the Devil's own, a soulless, inhuman monster wrapped in flesh and bone. Even when his suspicions had been aroused, and he had managed to corner the man's wife and son during the aftermath of one of the Reverend's revival meetings, they had put him off with a complete lack of fear. Men like Battencourt did not inspire devotion out of love, but chained you to him through fear of violence and death. It was only when some of the townsfolk had begun to elicit similar feelings toward the man, in spite of the growing number of dead in town, that Nick realized there was some sort of trickery afoot. The awe he inspired was completely disproportionate to his actions.
When he finally approached the man to demand that he pack up and leave town, and realized later while enjoying Gwen's stew at supper that he had no recollection of any kind of response or how he had even got home, Nick knew that they were in serious trouble. In one month, the town had buried five of its own, more than the previous year combined, and while there was no direct link between the man and the victims, Nick knew that he was dealing with a killer.
"Sheriff," Reggie said in a hoarse whisper. "I realize this is serious business, but you don't suppose this can wait 'til the rains ease up a bit? He's not going anywhere tonight."
The other deputies grumbled in agreement. Nick had cursed the weather too, but it would prove a detriment to Battencourt as well. There would be no fleeing the law under these circumstances. He hoped the man would realize his situation and return to town peacefully, leaving his wife and son in the relative comfort of their cabin. A gunfight would only put them at risk of injury or death, and Nick assumed the man had enough soul in him to want their continued survival.
"I'm sorry, gentlemen," he replied, "but we can suffer this man's presence in our midst no longer. He has refused my order to leave, and we will have no more townsfolk dying at his hand."
Deputy Palmer, a good man, if a bit too heavy with the trigger finger, slid his Remington rifle from its saddle holster. "We trust your gut on this, Sheriff, but we still got no proof he's our man."
Nick watched him lay the gun across his lap. They were here because he had ordered them to, but the reticence lingered. On the off chance he was wrong, the result would not sit well with his people. Too many had been swayed by his diabolical charm, cloaking his malicious intent in the words of God. The Marshals might be paying him a visit as well. They did not look kindly upon lawmen who took innocent lives.
"I have no doubt that he is the source of our current woe," Nick replied. "Let him warm his backside on the chair for a couple of weeks, and we shall see peace in our town again."
Reggie chuckled. "No warmth to be found there." The lone chair in the town's single jail cell had provided many with a cold, hard reminder that Sheriff Anderson did not suffer well, the violations of Wyoming law.
"Speaking of warmth," Palmer said, "Sooner we take this preacher in, the sooner we're in front of a fire sipping whiskey.
The rest murmured in agreement. Nick could not agree more. The rain was becoming more insistent in its effort to swamp their excursion, and wet, shivering men did not react well to volatile responses. He swung off of his horse and hopped to the ground, boots splashing in the water-filled ruts of the trail. "Let's get this done. We walk from here. I don't want him to know we're coming."
They pulled their horses off into the brush beside the trail, tethering them to a gnarled, old Lodgepole Pine tree. His men checked their weapons, and Nick stared up the hill at the lone, flickering slit of light. It vanished for a brief moment as someone walked by the curtain, and he wondered if someone might perchance be peeking out into the rainy darkness.
"Gentleman," he said, listening to the ominous cocking of their rifles, "let us have reluctant trigger fingers tonight. His wife and son reside within. I do not want them harmed if it comes to that."
Reggie sited the house along the barrel of his Remington. "What are you thinking, boss? You think it will come to that?"
He withdrew one of his revolvers from its holster, feeling the cold weight of it hanging from his hand. "We're dealing with a remorseless man whose hands are soaked in the blood of many. Let's hope what soul he may have still holds love for those bound to him."
Palmer snorted. "I wouldn't want to be rolling those dice."
Nick pulled his hat down lower over his eyes. "Nor would I, gentlemen. Nor would I."
They marched along the trail, five wide across the muddy, rutted road, guns hanging loosely at their sides. This marked only the fourth time Nick had needed to gather his men in the three years he had been Sheriff in this part of Wyoming. Twice they had been required to use their weapons; once had been to take down the Sampson brothers, who had decided Nick's town was a safe haven from the Denver authorities who were after them for robbing a pair of banks, while the other had involved an unfortunate blood feud between two bickering families when a son in one family had gotten a daughter in the other with child.
In both cases, Nick knew quite clearly what he was getting into. Tonight was a great unknown. The preacher had shown no outward proclivity toward violence, but his arrogant demeanor and soulless eyes belied that calm exterior. But it was his ability to charm virtually everyone to meet his needs that disturbed Nick the most. There was something clearly unnatural about the man that left him unsettled, and he had the uneasy feeling that this situation was not going to resolve itself quietly.
At the crest of the hill, where the rutted road blended into the trampled down grass and mud encircling the house, Nick raised a hand to stop his men. In a hushed voice, he said, "A broad arc across the front of the house. Reggie, Randall, to the right, and make sure one of you has view of the back. I don't want them fleeing before we even get to the door. Palmer, you and Tim go left. Use the wagon over there as cover."
Reggie nodded. "And you'll just be going and knocking on the door then, boss?"
Nick hefted his .45. "Something like that, yes."
"You think that wise, Sheriff?" Palmer asked. "Why don't you just call the bastard out?"
"Because he will know it's more than just I if we do that. Wise or not," Nick said, "I want him believing that it's just the Sheriff come to pay him a visit. Now go, before we're swimming in our boots."
He waited a few seconds for his men to spread out and then began the slow walk toward the front door. The ground out front was little more than trampled prairie grass pressed into the mud, twenty yards of bare, open ground that left him unprotected, should the good Reverend be inclined to bring this confrontation to a quicker and deadlier conclusion. Twenty feet from the door, the dark drape of curtains wavered in the window. Someone passing by or did Battencourt already realize he had unwelcome visitors?
Nick paused, focused on the sliver of light bleeding through between the curtains. They stilled, and he continued forward. At the door, Nick stopped, listening intently for sounds from within. There was only the insistent patter of rain thumping against the brim of his hat. This could be either good or bad. He laid his right hand on the butt of Colt and knocked on the door.
"Battencourt? It's Sheriff Anderson. I'd like a word, if you please."
Silence. He made a quick glance to the sides and could see Tim perched against the wagon, his Remington resting on the corner. Reggie had found cover against the trunk of a leafless tree. Randall and Palmer were too far away for him to see. He raised his fist to knock again when he heard the faint knock of boots across floorboards. Nick's fingers eased around the grip of his revolver. With the sun gone down, a man in his boots was not a man settled in for the night. The bolt on the door rattled and clunked against its stop, rusting hinges creaked, and a wedge of flickering lantern light swept across Nick.
Cornelius held the door in one hand, the other loose at his side, empty. The light at his back cast his face in shadow, his mouth a black crease of darkness. Those soulless gray eyes had a light of their own. "Sheriff. Grim night for a social call." His eyes scanned the yard beyond for a brief moment before settling on Nick's hand at the revolver. "What brings you out to my hill?"
My hill. Nick forced his face to remain still. No movement could be seen beyond him in the house. No interest in who the stranger knocking at the door was. Where were they? "I've come for you, Battencourt. Your reign of terror in my town is at an end."
"Ah, friend." That black smear of mouth curled into an evil, half-moon grin. "Terror is it? Yet my tents are filled with your people."
"And five of them are now dead," Nick said. "I believe, friend, that your tents are no longer welcome in my town."
"The word of God inspires, Sheriff. Your people may disagree with your assessment."
Nick offered him a humorless smile. "The word of God does not deserve to be coming from your corrupted mouth."
To the left, Nick heard the faint creak of metal. Someone had eased open the window a crack.
"Harsh words for a man of the cloth," Cornelious said. The eyes began to burn with the specter of death. "Why don't you take your men and leave, Sheriff? It would be best."
Nick let go of the revolver. Those eyes bored into his, cold, deep graves from which skeletal fingers reached out to squeeze the will from his heart. This was a mistake. They were going after the wrong man. Nick sighed and turned away. "Reverend, my apologies. I think I've got the wrong--"
He turned away and found his gaze sweeping across the front of the cabin. There in the window, through the dark split in the curtains, the barrel of rifle inched out through the narrow opening.
"Gun!" The shout came from behind. Palmer, Nick realized. The grip of Cornelius released.
Palmer fired and glass exploded a few feet from Nick's head. A scream rang out from inside, the door slammed shut, and the flare of muzzle fire erupted before his eyes.
Revolver in his hand, Nick faced the door again, raised his booted foot, and slammed the spurred heel into it beneath the handle. The wood splintered and the door burst open. "Drop your weapons!" He was greeted by the blast of both barrels of a shotgun. Expecting such a greeting, Nick leaned toward the doorframe and missed most of the unwelcome hello. Splinters of wood flew at him and the right arm of his coat shredded apart from the spray of shot, a dozen wasp stings peppering his arm. A bullet from behind whipped the hat off of his head. A crossfire was not the healthiest place to be standing.
The door slammed shut. Nick turned and put his back to the wall beside the door, but not before the whoosh of air from the closing door brought a familiar scent. Burning oil. The lantern inside must have been broken by gunfire. Nobody would be putting any fires out with bullets flying about. He needed to call off his men while there was still a chance of this ending without everyone being dead. That chance ended a moment later with a simple cry.
"Papa!"
The barrel of the rifle poking out the window vanished. A woman screamed, and the calm, sarcastic voice of Cornelius issued forth something far different. "Beverly? No!"
It was not a voice of warning. Surprise, perhaps, or shock. Shots continued to fire and Nick realized they were all now coming from outside.
"Hold your fire!" They did not seem to hear. "Hold, I say!" Three more shots rang out before finally quieting.
Thunder rolled over the hill, but it did not mask the sounds of a young boy's cries. "Mama, Mama!"
Nick called out. "Battencourt! Get them out of there."
Three seconds of silence, then, "Papa? Papa, what are you doing?"
He gripped the revolver tighter. That innocent question was filled with alarm. Were they looking to leave out the back perhaps? Nick looked over at Tim and waved him toward the rear of the house. Behind him, what was left of the window exploded outward along with a body, which thumped to the ground at Nick's feet.
"And there you are, Sheriff," came the enraged response. "Care to take my boy with you too?"
Did he truly mean that? "Just wanted you, Battencourt. You're the only one who needs to pay for these crimes."
"Bit late for that my friend," he replied. "Do you love your wife, Sheriff?"
Nick looked at the crumpled body lying in the mud, face half-submerged in black water. The rain splattered away and diluted the blood that was running across her cheek from the hole in her temple. He decided it would be unwise to answer that question. "Lay down your weapons and come out, and we'll have an end to this now, Reverend."
He could feel the vibration of movement in his back from someone walking across the floor. The acrid stench of burning oil was beginning to mix with other things. The square of light on the ground danced with the flickering shadows of fire.
"An end." The tone of his voice held a smile, one of those sorts Nick had seen on the faces of men who knew the game was up.
It was the kind of smile he had seen on Paul Samson's face when he had finally cornered the man in Ed Thompson's barn. It said, "Howdy. I reckon these are my last few moments on this good, green Earth, so I'm going to do my best to see that we walk that ever-after road together."
"This is not the end, Sheriff." Nick heard the undeniable sound of a loading shotgun. "It's merely the beginning."
Reggie shouted from behind his tree. "He's holding the kid."
Nick raised his gun to the window and began to back away. Tim was no longer in sight. Reggie had a good line on him, but where was Palmer? He kept retreating, heading for the cover of the wagon, boots slurping in the mud. The rain was heavier, a steady drizzle thickening into dense waves.
A shotgun blast rang and part of Reggie's cover disintegrated in a shower of chips and bark. He staggered away, shielding his eyes. Palmer should have had a dead on shot to the window, but a quick glance over did not reveal him to Nick. Damn. Three on one now, and Tim is watching the back. He hoped the boy had sense enough to check the door. All they needed was a moment's distraction to get a clean shot off on the bastard priest.
The rifle eased through the window once again followed by the double barrel of a shotgun and a revolver. Cornelius had his boy standing against his chest and he did not have the frightened look of a boy held hostage. He had the look of a killer.
The revolver fired off in Reggie's direction, while the shotgun and rifle turned Nick's way. He ducked down next to the wagon wheel just as the wood on the corner splintered right where his chest had been. Nick had to give them credit for one thing. They knew how to shoot a gun.
Nick shifted to the other side of the wagon. His angle on the window gave him no clean shot inside, but he had to provide some distraction for Reggie, who was now pinned behind the tree, and give Tim a chance to get to the door. He leaned around the corner and a squeezed off two quick shots, blowing apart a section of the window frame. The boy leaned backward, but the barrel of the rifle still thrust through the open window. Nick steadied his aim and fired off another shot, striking the metal of the rifle. The boy yelled and dropped the gun.
That should be the signal. Tim should have heard that, should be moving in on the door. Should was a difficult feeling to run with, but Nick realized it had to be now. He did not give a damn about Battencourt, let the bastard burn, but the boy did not deserve such a fate. He had a chance at living a life free of evil, and that chance was now or not to be.
Nick ran to the other side of the wagon, took a step and dropped to a knee. Fate perhaps was on their side, after all. He heard Tim's voice yelling over the thunder and rain.
"Drop it, preacher!"
The boy had dropped to retrieve his rifle, and Cornelius turned at the sound of Tim's voice, giving Nick a solid profile to shoot at, a black silhouette against the flames that coated the inner walls. He raised both revolvers this time, squeezing off six shots in rapid succession. The first struck Battencourt in the cheek, snapping his head to the side. A dark spray of blood fanned out from his head. The turn of his head made the next shot miss, but one caught him in the shoulder and the three remaining buried themselves into the right side of his chest.
The preacher staggered toward the window, probably the result of Tim's shot. Nick stood to race for the window and grab the boy before he could get his rifle out the window once more, but then the unexplained happened. Cornelius did not go down as one would expect from multiple gunshots to the head and torso. He raised his shotgun and revolver and fired off two quick shots toward the rear of the house. There was a sharp, cutoff cry from Tim.
God damn. How was that even possible? Nick took two steps and lurched to a stop. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Reggie jump out from his cover, rifle bearing down on the window. Cornelius, far from collapsing, was turning to face them again. A dark shadow began to surface above the sill. The boy had retrieved his gun. Nick tried to pivot in order to return to the cover of the wagon, but the mud ground gave away and his feet went out from under him.
"Reggie, get back!"
The mud likely saved Nick's life in that moment. The boy swung the rifle around in his direction and Cornelius fired off a shot. One of them took the hat off his head as his butt slammed to the ground. From his back, Nick emptied the rest of his bullets at the window, relying on gut instinct to let his skill handle the awkward position he now found himself in. The boy jerked to the side, and then fell away to the right, the wrong angle for Nick's shots to have hit him. The preacher's arm swung around toward Reggie by then, squeezing off two shots before Nick's hit him, pushing him away from the window again.
The flames inside were roaring now, and had weakened the structure to the point that part of the roof gave way, taking down one side of the house with it. The top of the stone chimney swayed and then toppled, burying them both in a smoldering pile of timber and rock. Nick lay there, frozen for several seconds, his empty guns pointed uselessly at the house. The roof collapse and pouring rain were quickly dousing the fire. An unwelcome silence enveloped the hill.
Nick called out, "Reg? Reggie, you with me?"
There was no reply. Nick scrambled to his feet and made his way across the muddy hill to the tree, popping open the revolver to reload just in case. He could see Palmer now, crumpled in a heap among the grass. Randall lay prone amongst some scrub behind him, out from the wagon, still holding his rifle, and looking ready to fire, but he made no move to rise. How in God's name had he even been visible to them? Nick could barely see him as it was.
Reggie was slumped against the trunk of the tree, hand pressed over his stomach. Nick squatted down beside him, watching the rain wash the blood away that ran through his fingers. He'd taken one in the gut.
"Sonofabitch, Reg. Of all the places to get hit."
He smiled and coughed, spitting out a mouthful of blood. "No kidding, boss. Head shot woulda been nice. Quicker." He winced and closed his eyes.
"Quiet," Nick said. He reached for Reggie's hand. "How bad?"
Reggie tried to chuckle and managed only to cough and have bloody spittle run down his chin. "Bad enough. Tapped a gusher."
"God damnit. I'm sorry, friend. This whole thing went wrong in every way."
"Get the sonofabitch?"
Nick looked over at the steaming ruin. "Yeah. He's gone. They're all gone."
He groaned. "Hell, this hurts. All of 'em? Tim? Randall?"
"Not sure about Tim. He's out back, but hasn't come out of there yet."
"Shit." He let out a ragged sigh. "Last man standing. Mighty...heroic of ya Sheriff."
"Shut it, Reg. We need to get you out of here," he said. "I'll get that wagon hooked up and we'll get you to the doc."
Reggie reached out grabbed Nick's hand. "Not enough...time, my friend."
Nick clenched on to Reggie's fading grip. "Need to hang in there. How do you expect me to find a deputy as good you?
He coughed and laughed once more, the blood coming out of his mouth running dark. "You won't."
Nick knew his friend was done for, but he couldn't let him die out here in the rain and mud. He deserved more than that. He let go of Reggie's hand and scooped an arm under his legs, putting the other around under his arm. "Come on. You aren't dying in this place."
Reggie groaned when Nick lifted him off the ground. "Just give me a blanket, Nick. So cold."
"In a moment. Let's get you in the wagon." Nick moved carefully, making sure he kept his footing across the soaked, slippery ground. Reggie's head cradled against his chest.
"We..." His voice trailed off for a moment. "Saved lives."
"That we did, my friend. That we did." He wasn't sure though if this was worth the cost. No, he was sure. It wasn't worth it all.
When Nick eased his friend into the wagon and laid him down, Reggie's lifeless eyes stared back at him, a faint smile etching his bloody lips.
"Ah, hell." He reached over and closed Reggie's eyes. "Safe travels to you, Reginald." Nick leaned down and grabbed his hat, shook off the water, and placed it on his head, the front of it split open from the bullet's near miss.
It was going to be a very long night.
TWO
Nick pushed through the smoldering, steaming ruin of the Hanaford house. Two bodies. There should have been two bodies. The boy's lay under part of the outer wall where he had been shot. So where was the preacher? Nick was the only living creature on the hill, other than the crows, who cried at him from Reggie's tree, hoping to pick over the dead flesh that littered the ground.
The sky in the west had gone blue with the rising sun, but the east still clung to the darkness of last night's storm. God had not been with them on this pursuit of justice. It was the hand of the Devil that had scraped its muddy nails over the Hanaford Hill and left a black, corrupt scar.
Nick lifted the edge of the table, partially covered in the crumbled stone of the top of the chimney. There was no body. Could he have crawled out without him noticing? It hardly seemed likely. In the back, there were no signs of anything other than where he had dragged Tim's body over to the wagon, half his brain rotting in the trampled mud. The barn halfway down the other side of the hill still had the two draft horses in their stalls.
He had put enough holes in Battencourt to kill half a dozen men. The man had refused to fall, until finally, the flames had taken him. Or had they? So, where was his godforsaken body?
Flies were gathering at the wagon, ready to feast upon the six bodies lying beneath the blankets. The crows in the tree began to squawk more incessantly, and Nick was half-tempted to shoot them all. He needed to get off this hill of death and return to town. People would be wondering, and Nick wasn't sure how he was going to be the bearer of these ill tidings.
He retrieved Battencourt's horses from the barn down the hill and hooked them to the wagon, making one last tour of the stalls and hayloft to be sure no bloody, burned body had managed to collapse there. After retrieving his men's horses, Nick made one last tour of the house and the grounds around it in order to convince his brain that without a doubt, the preacher's body was gone. It defied reason. You didn't walk out of a fire, bleeding from numerous bullet holes and escape an able-bodied pursuer. Even with the time he'd spent with Reggie, a whole five or ten minutes, such a wounded man could not have gone more than a hundred yards, maybe two.
Unless you had help.
Battencourt had no hired help, but that didn't mean someone couldn't have been waiting in the barn when things all went sour. Nick found that hard to swallow. Could one of his own stood against him on this and betrayed justice? Sadly, he had to admit to himself that is was a possibility. Battencourt’s ability to work his charms on people had proven a powerful aphrodisiac. He had experienced it himself.
Nick tied off the horses to the rear of the wagon. If there had been help, then why were the horses still here? Nobody would be going far in last night's storm. If there had been a wagon, he would have heard them. The tracks would have led away in the mud. There would have been a sign of some kind. The circle of thoughts continued while he took the wagon around, hauling the dead toward town.
The finality of the night's events could not be closed, and Cornelius's words echoed in the far reaches of his mind. "This is only the beginning." An uneasy feeling had settled into Nick's bones and it would not be quenched until the preacher's body was found and buried.
The sun had finally cleared the bank of clouds in the east, laying a sparkling veil of water over the ground. The prairie for miles around was set a glimmer, usually the favorite part of a storm for Nick, but today it held no beauty. Today that veil only obscured what might possibly lie beneath, something that ate bullets and absorbed flame and might be waiting in ambush around every bend in the road.
The way was slow going, given the muddy, puddled tracks, and gave Nick's mood more time to settle into dark melancholy. Gwen would have been awake all night worrying, more so if the gunshots had been heard over the storm. From the low rise on the other side of town, she might be able to stand on the porch and see the fading smoke rising into the air. Part and parcel of living with a lawman, but Nick hated doing that to his family nonetheless.
Some of the townsfolk would have heard or been up late wondering and remained so when they did not return as expected. They would be out now, sitting on the stoop outside his office. Gloria would have kept the stove burning in the saloon and had coffee ready for the early risers. They would see him coming from a quarter mile away, a lone man driving a wagon and leading riderless horses. What in God's name would he tell his people? I'm sorry, but everyone is dead, and the preacher is gone?
Sheriff Nick Anderson was not accustomed to this kind of failure. He had let everyone down, but most of all himself. They should have retreated the moment Battencourt threw his wife's body out the window. Bullets and death were the only outcome from that point forward. He'd wanted to save the boy. Sometimes being the hero was the wrong choice to make.
A dozen people were lingering outside of his office and across the street at the Golden Steed Saloon. Most of the buildings and homes were still shuttered from the storm, and perhaps fear of the preacher, should he have escaped justice. Did he tell them to keep the doors locked and windows shuttered? They trusted their Sheriff. His duty was to protect. That trust would be gone now.
Nick eased the wagon onto the hard packed main street, feeling a dark gloom of dread descending over him the closer he approached. They began to walk toward him, to meet him in the center of the town, faces drawn, eyes wide with curiosity and fear. They knew. One woman began to run, her wool dress clenched in her fists so high you could see her undergarments. Her slack-mouthed expression of panic and terror clenched Nick's stomach.
"Where are they?" Betsy Morgan yelled when she got close. "Where's my Tim, Sheriff?"
She stopped ten feet away and let go of her dress, and the hands covered her mouth. Nick didn't have to say a word. The smell of the bodies, particularly the burned boy, made the situation painfully obvious.
"I'm sorry, Betsy," Nick whispered.
She began to shake her head before he finished. "No! Oh, no you didn't. Tell me you didn't get my Tim killed fighting that preacher."
Ed Perkins from the general store sucked in his breath when he lifted the blanket. "Sweet Jesus, Sheriff? Everyone?"
Nick hopped down from the seat. "Best leave that be, Ed." He pushed his hat up and rubbed a weary hand over his face. "Betsy..." There were no words for this, so he opened his arms to her, the simple gesture admitting the awful truth of her fears. She fell into them, sobbing. Nick held her tight to his chest and kissed the top of her head, as much for his comfort as hers.
After half a minute, she pushed away and pounded her fist against his chest, once, twice, and finally a third time. "Damn you, Nick! You promised to keep my man safe. You promised!"
He had indeed. The boy had wanted little more than some action and adventure, the sense of pride one could take from bringing a criminal to justice, to brag to his girl and to the men at the saloon over shots of whiskey. He'd wanted to stake his small claim on manhood, and had his brains spilled on the prairie grass for his efforts.
"He should've been, Betsy. Somehow...it all went wrong." Because somehow, when the moment to fire true had come, he had failed. Even though...damn it all, he had fired true. Blood had erupted from the man's head. The shots to the chest had knocked him sideways. He had not imagined those things.
"I want to see him," she demanded.
"You don't want to look back there," Nick said. "It's not for the faint of heart or weak stomachs. He's dead, Betsy. Remember how you saw him yesterday."
"Alive or dead, he's still my man, Nick Anderson. Don't you be playing that dainty woman bullshit with me." She spun away from him and stomped through the puddles to the rear of the wagon. "Ed, you show me, right now."
Nick began to protest but thought better of it. She had the right, and if it were Gwen in the wagon, he would see no matter the circumstance. The thought of Gwen turned his thoughts toward home. He needed to go tell them what had happened, that he was alive and well.
"Ed, we'll need six boxes made."
He gave Nick a grim nod. "I'll see to it, Sheriff. What happened out there?" He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Where's the preacher?"
Nick waved his hand toward the hill. "Being feasted on by the crows. We'll have a meeting this afternoon at the church. I'll tell everyone what happened then, but I need to see to Gwen. I expect she's worried herself sick by now."
People were gathering around the wagon now to look, and Nick ignored their cries and gasps. He closed his eyes for a moment when Betsy began a mournful wail. There would be plenty of time later to come to terms with his people. They would need answers and he would have to begin to rebuild their faith in him, as the doubt on their faces was painfully clear.
"This is only the beginning." The words continued to haunt, far truer now than when they had been first spoken. Still, the words ate at him. Cornelius was gone and this was only the beginning. There would be no rest until he was found. Without another word to his people, Nick gathered his horse and rode for home.
It was almost a mile out to his house, sitting on a low rise that allowed a view of the roofs of the town. The top of his barn came into view before anything else, its new shingles shining in the morning sun. It had taken him and his sons a solid week of work that spring to replace the damage done by the February blizzard. This news would be hard on them all, especially on little Rebecca. Reggie had been her adopted uncle, and was one of her favorite people in the world. Gwen would want to go to town as soon as possible. Betsy Morgan was her best friend, and she would want to console her. Would she be angry with him for this? Would he look into those beautiful blue eyes and see disappointment?
As much as he longed to see her and have the touch of her lips wipe away some of the awful residue of the previous night, part of him feared their reactions. Would his boys see him as less of a father for this colossal mistake? For them, he could do no wrong, but now he had crossed an unknown line, territory never before ventured into. Gwen was as likely to slap him for failing to listening to her warnings as welcome him home and be thankful he was still alive. This kind of stress was worse than taking on gun-wielding bad guys, without a doubt.
A quarter mile away, Nick crested a rise in the road and could see the stretch of his property before him. The few head of cattle he had were grazing in the field behind the barn along with their horses. Smoke rose in a dark gray plume from the chimney of his simple, two story house. Nick could almost smell the morning's bread. He realized he was starving. Much to his surprise, the front porch was empty. He figured someone, likely Rebecca would have been keeping an eye out for him through the window, but as he walked his horse closer, nobody came.
"The end? This is only the beginning."
Nick could see that dark crease of Battencourt's mouth twist into a smile in his head. A hard, cold lump formed in his gut. It was a smile born of seeing death around the corner, a knowing smile. If that devil had indeed walked out of that house, then the hill was only the beginning.
Nick urged his horse into a gallop. He yelled. "Gwen? Gwen!"
Mud flew from the horses hooves as he bore down on the house. Still nobody came to the door, and a hot wave of fear washed over Nick. Dear God, he's dead. He is dead!
He leapt off the horse before it had come to a stop and withdrew his revolvers. As tempted as he was to charge and kick the door open, Nick knew that he could be risking all of their lives with such a reckless move. He crouched and ran over to the front corner of the house. The curtains were drawn across the front window, but the side window in the kitchen was usually opened by Gwen every morning for fresh air.
Nick walked past the chimney and leaned around to the window. It was indeed open. He inched over to the sill, guns raised to the open window and cautiously stepped into view of the inside. A dark silhouette stood in the middle of the kitchen. In the shrouded light, Nick saw the telltale sign he had dreaded to see. A pair of softly glowing eyes stared at him. Cornelius's arm raised, gun in hand, and Nick dove to the side just before the glass shattered over the top of him.
"Welcome home, Sheriff," he shouted, his tone the farthest thing from welcoming. "Gwendolyn makes the most delicious bread. You should come in and have some."
Nick caught his breath, unclenching every muscle in his body. Sweet Jesus, what have I done? He moved around to the other side of the chimney for cover. "Let them go, Cornelius. Your business is with me."
"Ah, true enough, friend. I do have business with you," he replied. "Perhaps you would like to come in for a bit of parley? Before this bread gets cold, hmm?"
"Let them go, and we can talk." Before I bury enough bullets in your brain to make sure you go back to whatever hell you came from.
Nick stilled his breath as much as he could. The only sound was the hollow thump of the preacher's boots on his floor, not a word, whimper, or cry from anyone else. He leaned against the chimney and took a deep breath. Dear God, let them be alive. Do not forsake me in this direst time.
"And have you put another bullet through my face? I think not, Sheriff. I believe you stepped over the line of demands when you put a bullet in my wife's head." There was a pause for a few seconds, and this time, Nick did hear a whimpering voice. Gwen. "One could say I owe you a favor in kind."
"No!" Nick spun away from the wall, shuffling over to where he could see through the window. He could see through the kitchen, but most of the living area was too dark for him to see a thing.
Cornelius laughed with his usual dry, jovial tone. "Amusing, eh Sheriff? I might have said the same thing given the chance, but you came bearing weapons, and now I do the same. So, parley or death, my friend. Choose now."
Nick moved away from the window and lowered his guns. Damn the man straight to hell. What choice did he have here? What chance did he have? If the man intended to kill his family, there might be nothing he could do about it, but he would not standby idly while the bastard put a bullet in Gwen's head.
And if he did, Nick had no desire to go on living. He could not stand for breathing on God's green Earth if he let his family get taken from him.
One gun holstered away, Nick approached the front door. He paused for a moment, hand on the latch. There would be only one result once he passed inside and that was death. The preacher would go out in a coffin, he would, or if the previous night's experience was any indication of Battencourt's godless body, they might both be done before this was over. Nick offered a simple prayer. God, give me strength to carry out your justice here today. If my time is nigh, I beseech you to take me along with this devil's spawn and let my family live. That is all this humble man asks of you.
Nick pushed open the door and walked into darkness, the fetid, coppery tang in the air telling him that death had already come to his home.
The change from bright sun to the curtained room put Nick at a significant disadvantage. Gwen was seated at the table, chair facing out toward the living area, and Cornelius stood but a few feet from her, a shadowy figure in the gloom. He started to raise his gun toward him out of instinct, protecting his wife from the evil that presided over her, but darkness had betrayed him. Cornelius had already been pointing his gun at him.
There was a momentary flash from his weapon and Nick felt his revolver jerked from his grip and go skittering across the floor.
"Now, now, Sheriff," he said, waving the gun at him. "Is that any way to begin our discussion?"
Nick itched to draw his other revolver, but restrained himself. Every muscle in his body strained with tension and fear. Where were the children and Gwen's mother? Gwen did not look particularly injured. Her left cheek appeared darker in the dim light and her lower lip had been split open. "Gwen? Are you all right?"
She shook her head and said nothing. Nick noticed then that her split lip trembled.
Cornelius pointed the gun at a chair. "Sit, my friend. I am civil, if anything."
Nick didn't move. "Where are my children?" He attempted to stare Cornelius down, but those soulless eyes bore into his with their devilish charm, and shifted his gaze. The man's face was a warped mass of scar tissue on the right side, his thinning hair gone. Scar tissue. Nick looked closer.. The wound had healed overnight? How was that even possible? No human being could do that. What in God's name was he dealing with here? Cornelius Battencourt transformed before his eyes from a who into a what.
"They are upstairs, resting...peacefully," he said, resting a hand upon her shoulder. "Isn't that right, Gwendolyn?"
Nick had started to move for the staircase and stopped. Gwen still did not say a word, but two single tears now trailed down her cheeks from wide, glassy eyes. His stomach seized in a burning knot. "What have you done?"
The boney hand left Gwen's shoulder and rubbed at his chin. "Taken my life back, Sheriff. As you may recall, you did your damnedest to take it away from me. You are quite the shot, I must admit. You can see I'm still not quite back to form, but a bit more blood and I shall be right fine and dandy. Now, Nicholas," he added, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Sit before I put a bullet in your dear wife's brain."
Blood. What would blood have to do with this? Was this some foul, black magic? Had he used the blood of his children to heal himself? Nick's legs felt wobbly and weak, but he shuffled over to an empty chair beside Gwen. "You've killed my children."
Cornelius looked over at the stairwell, head cocked to one side. "By now, yes. I had hoped you would be home much earlier, so that you could see them die like I watched my Bradley fall to my feet with a bullet through his eye."
Nick laid one hand on Gwen's thigh, the other drifted toward the other revolver. He choked out the words. "You godless sonofabitch."
"Who fired the first shot, eh, Nicholas? You've brought this upon yourself. The question is, how do you wish it to end?"
"With the crows feasting on your innards," Nick's voice grated.
Cornelius's gaze returned. "I see my hopes for polite discourse may have been dashed. My friend, you are an extremely obstinate, willful man. Truly, I do appreciate that. So hard to find."
"You are no friend. One or both of us will be carried out of this door in a pinewood box. I promise you that."
"Did you get a box for my wife and son? Or were they left to be feasted on by the crows as you say?"
"They shall be given a proper burial," Nick replied. "They deserve no less. You, however, do not." He gave Gwen's thigh a gentle squeeze and a moment later her hand rested on top of his. Whatever he had done to silence her, she was still with him.
The thin snake of a mouth curled into a sardonic grin. "You are right of course. I have killed many over the years. A consequence of immortality, my friend, but one I am willing to live with."
Nick's hand froze over the grip of his Colt. "Immortality? What are you saying?"
"Do you not know the term? It's--"
"I know what it means," Nick said, but the reference made no sense. Did the man truly believe he was immortal? That was impossible, though the anxious knot in his gut told Nick otherwise. The scarred face told him otherwise. Perhaps the preacher was the Devil himself, bringing his ruin to God's good Earth. Nick did not want to believe any such thing was actually possible, not in his town at least. If it was, none of them would be walking out of his house alive. "Why are you here, preacher? If this is true, why have you not just killed us all and be done with it?"
"Ah, an excellent question. Why indeed?" He stepped away from Gwen's side out to the middle of the room. "There is nothing special about your little town in the middle of nowhere. It was merely a stop on the road, but then what do I discover but a man with the will to stand up to my...charms, as you say."
"Any lawman--" Nick began.
"No, my friend," Cornelius continued. "Not any lawman. It takes a very special soul to resist the call of death." He smiled, an almost friendly smile, one a teacher might give to a favorite student after demonstrating their skill. "You are not the first lawman to attempt to enforce the laws of their lands upon me, nor shall you be the last, but," he said and shook a finger at Nick, "you are the first to stand firm. I have a great deal of respect for that."
Nick eased his fingers around grip. One slip, one small turn away, and he would have to take his chance. Live or die, he was going to try and get Gwen out of that house, even if he could not kill this beast, Nick knew he could wound him, slow him enough perhaps to get out the door and get them on his horse. They would have to ride, leaving this old life behind, but he could only hope that this thing would follow and leave the rest of his people alone and alive.
Leaving his children's bodies here, bled out on their beds, turned his stomach. It was wrong in every way. He would have to return for them, one way or the other. A part of Nick thought it would be better just to pull the gun now and go down blazing. They would all be dead, but at least he and Gwen would not have to suffer this loss for the rest of their lives. His mind could not even get around the idea of a life without them. It would not be a real life anymore.
"And I ask again," Nick said. "What are you doing here? If you are getting back at me for the death of your wife and son, why are we having this conversation? Why are you blathering on when you clearly have the upper hand?"
Cornelius chuckled. "In such a hurry to shake Death's hand are we? You appear to be missing the fact that we are not done here. I have suffered a great loss at your hands, Sheriff. My child and wife were shot in cold blood, and like you, I am a believer in justice. Had I killed you already, you would not be permitted to endure the same suffering as I. Your wife still sits beside you, holding your hand and hoping against hope for the best of outcomes. You sit there, waiting your chance, praying to your God that you choose the right moment to draw and gun me down. But then, you wonder do you not? You wonder if I can indeed be killed? You question your life, deciding if you can go on after all of this, if your family is gone, slaughtered before your eyes. Could you live with all of that blood on your hands? Well, my friend?" Cornelius opened his hands in a questioning gesture. "Can you live with that?"
Nick gave Gwen's leg the slightest squeeze, hoping that she understood. Are you ready for this, love? This could be the end. It took only a split second, as he got her response even as he launched himself sideways from the chair, drawing his Colt as he fell. "No."
In critical, life-altering moments, when death is as near to you as life, those moments come into crystal, sharp focus. Every move takes on a clarity, yet before unknown. There is an awareness of every last detail around you, even time, which becomes slower, like a spring winding down to its breaking point.
Nick watched Cornelius's arm swing forward, bringing the gun around. It would have to be the perfect shot, a two-inch square target covering the joint where hand met wrist. He knew the beast would be fast, but the key to this entire gamble was the assumption that he would be expecting Nick to go for a kill shot, a blow to the chest or head. If he did, he would be dead, because one shot would not kill this thing, and Nick knew that even if he squeezed off the first shot, one would be coming his way.
There was no time to aim, to judge the speed at which Nick's arm moved in relation to the beast's. It was only knowing where the bullet must go and having faith that his training and instincts would guide him to fire true.
The weapons discharged simultaneously, and Nick crashed to the floor to the sound of Cornelius's roar of pain. The bastard had missed! He had been a split second faster. The blow spun Cornelius around and dropped him to a knee, a spray of blood arcing across the planks of the ceiling. Nick scrambled to his knees, switching the gun to his left hand and reached for Gwen.
She stared down at her dress, eyes wide, watching a crimson stain creep across her belly. And just like that, the gamble was lost.
Nick turned toward Cornelius, raising his gun. It hit him then, that the shot had not been fired early. The sonofabitch had not even been after him. He knew that Nick would not leave without his wife. The reality of it was, his shot had been a split second slow.
The beast's eyes glowed like a storm cloud laced with lightning. Nick's shot went wild, knocked aside by the blade of a knife that buried itself in his shoulder. A fiery ball of pain exploded there, the force of it throwing him onto his ass. He reached for the gun with his good hand, but never got it off the floor, as Cornelius arrived and planted his boot on top of it. Nick groaned and released his grip on the gun and heard it kicked away across the floor.
"Oh, Nicholas. Our babies! Our babies are gone." Gwen had found her voice.
Nick grimaced. He could only see the handle of the blade protruding from his shoulder, and felt the warm, wet sheen of blood spreading across his chest. Cornelius loomed over him, eyes blazing. The easy, sardonic smile was long gone.
"Bullets before civility, my friend? I believe our parley is at an end."
Nick had turned to speak to Gwen, but the words burst out of his mouth in an agonizing scream when Cornelius reached down and twisted the knife blade in the wound.
"Gwen...darling...so, sorry." Nick managed to get the words out between gasps. His entire right side was on fire, and quickly getting soaked in blood.
"I--I couldn't stop him," she stammered. "They didn't make a sound, Nicholas..." Her voice dissolved into sobs.
"Oh, sweet suffering," Cornelius said with malicious amusement. "Justice is harsh, is it not, Sheriff?"
"End this," Nick said through gritted teeth. "Just end this now." They were dead now, at the whim of the beast. Be merciful, Lord. Take her quickly, I beg of you.
Cornelius laughed, a heartless cackle. "My friend! Do you not recall? I said this was merely the beginning."
"Gwen..." Nick reached over and took the hand that dangled from the chair. Her skin was cold to the touch. "I love you."
She gave his hand a feeble squeeze, her smile glazed with blood. "Always."
"Touching. Truly," Cornelius chided. He waved the bloody knife between them. "Now Gwendolyn, my dear. I do apologize for the egregious wound, but your Sheriff left me little choice." He waved his bloody hand before her, spattering the dress. Nick's bullet had torn a huge chunk of flesh and bone from the wrist. "He has an uncanny aim, I must say. You should be proud."
"Go to hell," she spluttered.
"Actually, I've been there," he replied lightly. "I do not recommend it. Sadly, you will be going there soon by the look of things. Nicholas, my friend, I'm going to offer you the opportunity to avoid the whole, nasty hell thing. For a price of course."
Nick struggled to his knees, and Cornelius shifted the knife out of reach. "What the hell are you talking about?"
He squatted down on the balls of his feet, eye to eye with Nick. "You killed my family, Sheriff, and now, soon, yours shall all be dead too." His smile revealed teeth stained dark with blood. "If you are half the man I believe you are, nothing would soothe your troubled soul more than seeing justice done."
"Going to slit your own throat, preacher?" Nick held on to Gwen's hand even tighter, trying to feed some of the warmth left in his body to hers. If he could only hold her in these last few minutes they had together, he would willingly let all of this slide away into oblivion. At least then there would be peace.
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