For a long moment, Captain Lee studied the bounty hunter, "What are you searching for, Bullock? I know a lost man, when one comes to…Lamp Light."

"I saved you."

Again, Captain Lee studied him. "What happened to Parson's Raiders?" he countered, though every word drained him.

"They're dead."

"Did you find any resolution in their deaths?"

This time, he paused for a long time, but Barnabas only waited. "No, Sir, I still…feel no better," he glanced at the woman, her boy and girl.

"Ask me what you really want to know," he commanded, now tired.

"I saved you," he pressed, though his heart felt impaled. "Was it…right? Often, my mind goes back to that day, and I dream of it."

"I screamed, until I could no longer speak. Days, weeks, passed in a fog of agony so deep, I thought I died and went to Perdition. My life, my existence, was only pain," he paused, panted. "Since that…day, I've felt agony, though there were little islands of respite," ruptured eye slid away but returned. "If you've come for answers, forgiveness, or absolution, you've wasted your time. I gave you an order, and you disobeyed; yet, I was to suffer the consequences of your actions, your…admiration." Captain Lee turned away, and Cassidy was grateful the hateful gaze released him. The wide brim hat lowered, "Leave, Bullock, run until you can no longer flee the sound of the cannons, smell of smoke and blood, just run."

"I didn't come," he said to the Captain's back, who paused, "because I was running." Barnabas swept away without a glance back. Out into the street his former commanding officer flew. "I won't run," he added, and marched out into the air.

Captain Lee was gone. Eyes, blue as the dawn over the desert, searched the street, old Cimarron beyond. What happened to Barnabas? The question rose, as he thought of the officer's odd gait.

He rolled a cigarette without thought, so often had he performed it. Little was its comfort. Strange town lingered in the tobacco smoke, visage obscured. Nerves settled though mind grew more troubled. Abandoned, its houses were in perfect order. He drew in on the tobacco. Thunder rolled over the town, stormed loomed, wind grew. Silence called. He stepped off the porch, held his hat, before it could be ripped free. A devilish gust dashed grit against his face. Somewhere, in the abandoned houses, a door banged closed. Haze of shadow passed, gleam of pale skin, Cassidy frowned, and pitched the end of the cigarette, pocketed it for later. Lightning flashed, distant though closer, its light a temporary reprieve from the gloomy murk. Shadows that lurked out of the sight of the day stilled.

The town of Cimarron was older than the gold mine, which had made it grow fast. With the flow of money, its residences enjoyed amenities of much larger municipalities. Gambling prohibited, it never developed crime other such places grew to tolerate. When the station was built, they expected it to be big as cities back east, just as cosmopolitan. Homes were as lavish as their people, architecture beautiful. Though such games of chance were outlawed, it became decadent. Opulent parties were extravagant, past propriety's boundaries. At Cimarron's height, they struck a vein of gold, which turned business men to barons.

As with most things, the lucky strike was not a herald of good times ahead, but death of an era. Like ghouls with all meat gone, or thieves sensing no more plunder, they departed the town. Those, who reaped much less good fortune, were left the bones as comfort; mine drained of its value.

"Must've been something," Cassidy breathed, scratched stubble.

At one end, the Church of Cimarron waited, half burned yet remained bold. Cassidy decided that he would begin at the opposite side, so he could work back. Storm drew closer, but he'd sunk his mind into the strangeness, loathed to let go. Anything was better than Captain Lee's dismissal of him.

Nestled opposite the church, far from its grace, where it could easily be overlooked among fancy houses was a small home. Little more than a hovel, it was built from nothing except wood; joints fused using a dark matter as adhesion. A lamp hung beside its alcove entrance, light still burned. Inside there was only a bed, which was just a row of sticks. Cassidy winced, and mused the ground would be more comfortable. One of Lamp Light's crosses was in the single room's center, though it had a human skull with eye sockets smoothed over using the strange adhesion. It felt bone-like under his fingers. Only other company the occupant had was flyers. They contained Leviticus's speech with the symbol of his faith. On its back, a location, likely secret, was set for meetings.

Outward from the primitive home, gray husks were throughout the homes. Though they grew sparser closer to the church, none were in the light. Similar to the lamps, Cassidy wondered if they inspired the design. They had the same bone-like consistency of the dark adhesive. In the cellars nestled in corners were much larger husks that were equal in hardness. In one cellar, a box of dynamite was stored, and the bounty hunter wondered if the home's owner was a fool. He left it fast, but took some for himself. Flyers were spread throughout, along with the strange crosses. After the abandonment by its wealthy, the town's hope started to dwindle. Cassidy reckoned, which was perfect for a man such as Leviticus. When things took a bad enough turn, all people had was hope and faith.

Some of the homes, where there were no crosses or posters, there were odd marks. Slashes dug through wood. If there had been blood, he supposed, by time and sun it had been removed. Throughout the town of Cimarron, he found no corpse or grave, besides the local boneyard. Without the odd gouges, he would think they'd just left the town to its newfound religious fervor.