Out of a shadow Isaac emerged, paused. His furtive gaze went around the street. Cassidy stepped back into a shadow with a frown. With a quick, furtive step Isaac moved across the hard pan. Beside the church, someone had set up a donation box for widows and orphans of the area. The slight man scurried from shadow to shadow to slink up to the building. Amused, he saw no one had bothered to install a lock on the lip. An ugly laugh escaped him. He cast back a glance, and then opened it.

Cassidy frowned, hard smile full of cold rage. Fury set his hand upon the revolver. Like all such low men, Isaac stilled, before he turned back. Small, beady eyes found Cassidy, who stopped, eyes widened.

From the shadow of the church, the Shootist emerged. Blind eyes fell upon the ratty man. Isaac recoiled, eyes like tar grew big. Color drained from his face. Mouth agape, he drew in breath to shriek. In a clean draw, the Shootist brought up the knife. Through the lower jaw into the brain, it sheared off the tip of Isaac's tongue. It fell to the dirt.

Cassidy drew the pistol, yet the Shootist held Isaac off the ground between them. The blind man faded away with the newest victim. So deep the terror struck him, Cassidy felt the world gray at the edges. He holstered the revolver, numb. Mouth dry, he wiped at it, and stroked his beard. Again, no one noticed the murder. As the fear relaxed, his eyes returned to the saloon.

Johnathon stood at the bar with a bottle of whiskey. When the batwing doors opened, his eyes flicked to the glass. Cassidy strode across the room, yet looked about the deep shadows. The ghosts of blood, whiskey, and tobacco hung in the air, like memories of the patrons. Light shivered at him, excited and playful.

"Someone is taking out your men," he said.

"Pardon," Johnathon looked at him.

"I saw Izzy and Isaac get killed by the Shootist," he confessed, "and I don't know how no one heard it!"

He studied his eyes, "There are only women and that mad priest here. You aren't suggesting that feeble old man is killing my men, are you? They are very good at what they do."

"Call your men, I'll help you."

"Alright," he said slowly, "but you'll be unhappy, if this is some sort of joke or trick."

"I'll be relieved," he retorted, for he felt the world had gone mad.

They set about the saloon, and retrieved what remained of Johnathon's men. Basil, Izzy, Isaac, and Benjamin were gone. Cassidy helped them search the town, but even the women were gone. Anthony, the priest was asleep on a pew. He muttered of sins and justice.

"What is happening?" Johnathon tapped the revolver's butt.

"I told you," he grinned, "that Shootist is killing your men."

"You said nothing of Benjamin," he countered.

Atop the saloon, he sat against the facade. Benjamin had left all his possessions on the horse. This whole deal seemed a bit much for revenge, in his opinion. Why go to such lengths? It was better to just get some dynamite, and just blow them up. A lot lesser effort, it put on a good show. He particularly enjoyed the rain of blood and chunks. They wanted everyone to see them, so all would think them tough. Benjamin preferred to just wait, be patient, even if they thought him slothful.

Below, to him they called, but he ignored them. Cassidy had wasted his time already. Basil was with a girl, or the remains of one. He shuddered. Odd smell drifted over the air of frankincense and myrrh. This earned a shrug, and he went back to the dynamite. Moonlight made the work easier, yet a shadow passed over him. Dismissed it as a cloud above, he looked up.

The blind man looked at him, large revolver dangled in one hand. Benjamin scrambled backward, but struck the facade. In the darkness of the barrel, he saw all those who he murdered. Pistol boomed like a cannon. Past him the bullet flew to the dynamite with a scream.

A flash, like lightning from a clear sky, dazzled from above the saloon, yet it was untouched. All turned towards the light, though no sound came to them. Johnathon dashed for the saloon, others followed. For a moment Cassidy paused, felt ice trail down his back. Part of him wanted to take his horse, and ride until the light of the sun saved him from the dark. The woman at the church, who had the likeness of Caroline, lingered in his heart. Thought of the Shootist harming her or one of the other ladies steeled his resolve.

Atop the saloon they found nothing of Benjamin. Cassidy caught the frankincense and myrrh that lingered upon the air.

"That was Ben Palladius's dynamite," Johnathon said to the night, "we should have felt the explosion. Silent as the angel of death," he looked over the street.

"I told you," Cassidy looked at the others, "there is a Shootist after us!"

"Nonsense," Stephon snapped in a harsh rasp, "there is no ghosts, no God, no Shootist, but I haven't seen any of those women! Where are they?! No way one man, spirit or not, could do all this!" Darkness crept into his eyes, moonlight glittered in them.

"So great for you to lead us into a trap, Johnathon," Rufinus laughed, sneered. Their fearless leader was so much like his father.

"I'm taking care of this," Stephon turned away. "There is no God, and I'm the only Devil!"

Johnathon turned with a curse. Dark laughter escaped Rufinus, like the night he had killed his father. Cassidy took after the scarred man with death in his eyes. The look had been in his eyes, when after an outlaw of particular villainy.

Hung in the star dappled sky, the moon made the town alive. Lanterns hung, twin candles with colored flame set, but moonlight turned all shadows beyond their light into an abyss. Adrift in this Stygian night, the town was alone. Stephon Damascene emerged onto the street. Never had he shot a man, woman, or child in the back. He wanted them to see it coming. Assassins were cowards to him. Before day broke, all of the town would be laid to rest, heads on spikes. Beneath the bandanna, the ruined mouth drew up in a smile.