"The Iron Monger," his eyes rose to them.

"Yes, the very one," he leaned on the table with a broad smile, and while on a raid, they left a man alive. He told me, where to find them, or at least, where to start."

He nodded, "How much does it pay?"

Johnathon's eyebrow raised, but his grin grew, "Ten percent of the total, for the combined bounty."

"As long as I get to kill their leader," he countered.

"He is worth more alive—"

"He is worth more to me dead," his hard grin was stony, eyes flat.

Johnathon considered, looked at his men, and then back, "Deal, we ride now; however, so we can catch them. These are my men Basil, Izzy, Isaac, Benjamin, Stephon, and Rufinus." He spoke with a flourish, but his men smiled like wolves.

"Long as they don't get in my way," he relaxed the hammer on his revolver.

Johnathon bought supplies, while Cassidy finished the meal. They left the nameless town as it was found, only a stop. The Painted Desert nipped at the edges, and swallowed up the travelers. Above them hung a full moon, bloated and bright, with silver moonlight. Star dappled sky shimmered with constellations, each twinkled. No clouds marred the beauty, and let the world become ethereal in the glow. Tall cacti rose up, like hands thrust up to the boundless heavens. Unease crept through the riders, as if they crossed over some ethereal line. This imperfect heaven was the closest to paradise Cassidy had seen, since the loss of his family. Abundance of life held darkness deeper than the night. All the dusty red hues of the distant mountains became a gritty hue of blood. Cluster of vibrant green brush turned into blots, and he imagined men humped over like beasts.

Johnathon rode up to an old busted sign, which had been half eaten by time and the desert. Almost illegible, he seemed to recognize it. Back to his horse, he retrieved a lever action rifle, and motioned for Cassidy to dismount.

Cassidy's hand went to his revolver, "There a problem?"

"I have to see my men shoot," he smiled as a man, who just recalled a crucial chore, "pistol and rifle."

He looked at the others, who appeared bored, "If you know my reputation, then you know my skill already."

"Talk is just that…talk," he looked at him for a long moment, "or you can take your horse, turn around, and leave Parson's Raiders to me, your choice."

Eyes like the dawn over the desert flicked between them. "What do you want me to shoot?" Cassidy asked, hand on the butt of the revolver.

"Yonder cactus," he gestured, "See if your reputation is accurate."

Cassidy dismounted. He turned, drew, and fanned the hammer. Gun smoke drifted from the barrel, and hung in the air. All turned to see the hole, where a man's heart would be, on the cactus.

"Ha," Rufinus pointed with an annoyed chuckle, "one hit out of six, we have a dead eye here!"

The men laughed, except Stephon Damascene. Face covered, scars were visible on what little skin was visible. Flat, black eyes flicked from the cactus to Rufinus, then back. "No, you fool," he managed in a labored tone, "all six shots went through the same hole." None dared counter this assertion from the man.

Cassidy reloaded the revolver with a smile, as the men took stock of his speed and accuracy. He watched Stephon, who had his throat badly cut one, he was sure. A man ends up with scars like those for a reason. "Is that good enough, or do you require another demonstration?" He asked, but holstered the revolver.

"Yes," Johnathon said a little impressed, and held out a hand for Cassidy's pistol, but also to give the rifle. He studied him, so he turned, fired, and put a bullet through Cassidy's.

He handed over the pistol for Johnathon to inspect, and took the rifle. "The head, this time," he announced, and put the bullets through where a man's brain would be.

"Army, well," Johnathon said as he examined the revolver. He looked where he had fired, casually, "you're better than your reputation." He handed the gun over butt first, and Cassidy returned his rifle.

"Satisfied," he said, holstered the revolver.

"Yes," Johnathon patted his pocket, looked around to check the sign one more time, and then mounted his horse. "I think the raiders have met their match," he smiled, and the others laughed.

The men traveled with Cassidy in back. Whispered across the still air, voices called to him. Quicksilver light of the moon made shadows mercurial. Below the smell of Johnathon's men, a perfume played, which tugged at the heart, Caroline's own. Grin faded. His eyes wondered about this silver bathed, lesser heaven. Thin silhouettes, feminine in form, flew between rocks' shadow, made deeper by the moon. Cassidy hand went to a clammy brow. Dry heat still baked up from the hard pan, but a shiver coursed a trail down his back. Mouth dry, he swallowed, but tasted only the liquor. A hand slipped down to his gun, though the others noticed nothing.

The lights of the town ahead burned in the night. Johnathon slowed, and his men muttered to each other. Like the last settlement, there was once a sign that proclaimed its name, but time had scoured it clean. All but Cassidy recognized the church, though it felt a passing recollection. Dark haired women came to see the strangers of all manner of shape and size, yet all had locks of blackest night. Cassidy looked around for the men folk, saw none. Each carried two candles with colored flame. Basil leered at one of immodest dress, who appeared to appreciate his gaze.

At the town's center, the Scetes Church of Desert Fathers was the only shabby structure. Poured through the open door, candle light danced out to greet them. "Scetes," Johnathon said slow, looked at the town, "must have missed the road." For a long moment he looked about, but motioned to his men to dismount. Cassidy lingered, eyes caught a broad shadow that faded away.