A savage gust flew across the hard pan. Flame of the lanterns darkened, before lights reignited. The Shootist stood across from Stephon, head tilted down. Both regarded the other. Stephon's hand hovered over the revolver. Whispers came to them of all the scarred man's victims. Shades at the edges were the memories of them, ready to greet their slayer in death.

His hand dipped for the revolver, grin wide. Boom of the Shootist's shot eclipsed Stephon's grunt of pain. The scarred man snarled, raised the pistol, but a bullet tore another chunk of flesh from him.

"Curse you," Stephon barked, "I'll kill you!" Though the gun shook in his hand, it rose.

The third boom struck his heart, but the scarred man's fierce grimace of absolute hate never faltered, even in death. Cassidy stood at the saloon's batwing doors. He felt the Shootist's gaze upon him. Away into the darkness the blind man faded.

Atop the saloon, Johnathon stood. Stephon died in the street like he lived, in pure rage. Now, he was certain the others were gone, and saw that the scarred man's body disappeared. Curious such ill fates befell his men, when Cassidy joined their gang.

"I knew you lead us to our deaths," Rufinus cursed, but he saw the proud face of his father surprised in death, pride gone. His mother's eyes were there, wide and terrified. Envious of their love, he was a better man than his father. A hand withdrew the pistol, "We wanted no part of this. All so you could have your revenge."

"The problem with you, Rufinus," he held the holdout gun, but listened for the hammer on his gun to cock, "you talk too much, and think too little. You run your mouth, but assume no one repeats your words."

"Sure," he let out a nasty laugh, "and I know when a man is talking to buy time." Eyes of his mother cursed him, full of tears and shame. He had taken what he wanted from her, but love was denied. The hammer cocked.

Johnathon whirled, but his heart dropped, hand numb. Rufinus blinked at his speed, and frowned at the sudden lenience. Over his shoulder his gaze lingered, so Rufinus turned as the aroma of frankincense and myrrh came to him. The Shootist seized his shoulder, rammed the long blade in his guts. Blind eyes went to Johnathon, as the knife went from the envious man's gut to heart. Upon the floor all his entrails poured out. Johnathon turned, jumped to the front porch roof, and slide off to the street below.

Cassidy watched top of the saloon for the Shootist, "He got Rufinus?"

"Gutted him," Johnathon said, but kept his eyes on him. He walked backward.

"What do we do?" he asked, but looked about the street.

"I'm afraid that there is a change of plans."

"I think we'll be lucky to get out of here alive!"

"I don't know how you done it," he said, confused yet impressed. "No one has ever been left alive to give a description."

"What are you talking about?" he scowled, turned.

"Come on," he smiled, "I don't know how you planned all this, or who you hired to perform such tricks."

Cassidy saw his hand on the revolver, "I had nothing to do with it."

"Ah," he grinned, "so, all of this is just coincidence? You've been looking for Parson's Raiders, and when you find them, they just start dying?"

"What," he blinked, but a dull rage built, "you're Parson's Raiders?!" The question fell to a mad whisper.

Johnathon's brow furrowed, "Well, I guess you're too dull to have plotted this." His eyes grew distant, but returned. "After I make you pay for what she did," hand went below the belt, but he moved it to the buckle instead.

"You," he said, and the world was tinged in red.

"Let us see how fast you are," Johnathon smiled.

Cassidy drew the gun, click. He scowled, pulled the trigger again, yet only heard another well-oiled click. From Johnathon's hand tumbled six cartridges.

"You're fast," he drew the gun and fired. The bullet struck Cassidy who struggled to stand, but his knees gave out. "You should never hand your gun to a stranger," he raised the pistol.

Lanterns of the street flickered with a sudden gust of hot wind. Frankincense and myrrh lingered. Johnathon blinked. Sweat turned to ice, though the heat still clung on. Shadows parted to unveil the Shootist, who stood next to Cassidy. Every breath tasted of burial spices. Once again, the Shades returned, although these followed Johnathon. Savage murmurs came to Johnathon's ear, and heard Caroline's laugh at his loss of manhood.

"Everyone in this pit dies," Johnathon's coolness cracked, "after I end you!"

Before he could raise the revolver, the Shootist drew. Two booms rung out over the street, roars shook the world. The first shot removed Johnathon's gun hand. Guts spilled from the second wound, and he fell to his knees. A satisfied smile played across the blind man's lips. By the neck he seized Johnathon, who screamed in terror. Away they faded into shadow.

Cassidy had crawled over to the church, rested against the wall. Though Parson's Raiders were gone, the emptiness remained. After his family's death, all he had was revenge. Now, only empty days stretched out, loved ones gone.

A shimmer rose from the earth, like heat from the midday sun. Ghostly, dried smell of flowers lingered, but also faded. A steel gray ate into the edges of his vision. Ruins of the nameless town remained. Full moon lit the night. It had been destroyed a long time ago by Parson's Raiders. Cold spread over him, and his hard grin returned, for soon he would see them again.

Out of the darkness the raven haired beauty walked towards him. Whatever misery she planned, he was sure, Cassidy deserved for failing to protect his family. Lovely features shifted ever so slightly back to Caroline. He smiled. If any should take him home, he was gladdened it was his love. Raised hands meant to embrace her, yet she stood just beyond them.

"Are you taking me to see them?" he dared hope. Maybe, he would see them again.

Caroline smiled, though eyes saddened, "It is not time, yet. You still have life, so must go on."

"I want to be with you!" he pleaded. "I'm lost! I'm so…lost."

"I love you," she nearly stroked face. Ruthie and Bart stood behind her, smiled and waved. "You'll see us again."

Cassidy looked at his children, "Come here Ruthie-Girl, I missed you so much!" His daughter grew sad, but would draw no closer. His eyes, like dawn over a desert, turned on his son, "It's me, your Pa. I missed you boy, please, come here. I can't…please, just please come here." Bart stood behind his mother, eyes sad. Never had anyone made Cassidy beg, even with torture or threat of death. "Please," he hung his head, "don't leave. When you died…I lost everything. I miss you all so much! I'm nothing. I'm lost."

"It is okay," she drew close. "No circle is broken. We are still with you, and we wait for you at the end of your course." She drew back, as a bell tolled two-thirty in the morning.

"I love you," he said, gray turned the world listless.

"I love you," Caroline smiled, though faded with the last toll of the church bell. Cassidy looked down at his palms, gray turned to black.

Brilliance pierced the glass behind the hollow cross, like a star burst. Cassidy blinked. For the first time, since he lost his family, there was no hangover. Hardwood of the pew under him creaked. Tears had dried, but the sorrow of their source had also eased. Blood of the wound gone, he saw he was unharmed. Dream, his mind clamored to explain away the events of the night.

"Awake my son," Anthony said with good cheer.

"Yes, Sir," Cassidy sat up, but a cold finger trailed down his neck, "uh, where am I?"

"My church," he grinned, "you were lost, but now, you're found."

No pain greeted Cassidy, when he stood. He froze. Among the life size dolls modeled after former townsfolk, there were seven new ones. The clothes and gear of Parson's Raiders adorned these strawmen. Wounds wrought by the Shootist marred them. Towards the door Cassidy walked slow, felt the icy caress turn to frozen iron. Frankincense and myrrh came to him to sink into the guts. Beyond the door, he fled the blind man.

"Let your heart never grow dark," the priest spoke in good cheer, "or you'll find the vengeance of heaven."