"Except the church," he looked at the burnt hulk, "I guess Leviticus hates the competition."

To the house of worship he moved, storm closer; thunder rattled the abandoned Cimarron. Raw skin was whipped by grit. Front burned black, the door was still sturdy, and swung open with a perturbed whine. Outside stalked the storm, yet inside was a refuge from the wind's wrath. A cough dispelled fine dirt, which scratched the throat. Burned wood was at the room's front, but the dais, lee, and cross were defiled. Gripped in a zealous fury, the new religion had made the cruciform wood into their symbol; a skull with eyes covered in dark matter hung at its center. A bolt struck near, and the flash pierced the glass.

Cassidy looked upon the burned pews, melted glass, and the chaos. "A last stand," he knelt to touch more deep slashes in the floor.

Back in the storm he stepped, hand slipped to the rolled cigarette. A haze of black was caught in lightning's flash. Pallid, corpse-like face flew between Lamp Light's primitive hovels. Cassidy frowned, but every other local was inside the former saloon. Over the train tracks he moved, though the sun would soon set.

Lamp Light's huts were simple as Cimarron was extravagant. Around the cloistered houses he moved. Bizarre lanterns hung on and in every abode, which gave off wet warmth. Cassidy touched one, wiped the hand. No metal composed its structure, and he was unable to open one. Each home was a perfect replica of the other, which Cassidy could see no difference between the men and women's living quarters. No guns or knives were anywhere. Cassidy paused, checked several houses. Where they kept their food, he was unsure, but bet it was the saloon. Although he searched the entire town, he never found the Captain's quarters. The bounty hunter searched for any husks, yet none were here. With the setting of the sun, lamp glow grew a bloody crimson, which smeared the narrow walkways. Shift inside the strange lamps made shadows crawl.

Outside the cloister of hovels Cassidy stopped. Sunset, all the lamps about the town kept the municipality well-lit. With a low curse, he searched the lightning choked sky, and felt rain strike his upturned face. He closed blue eyes. Thunder rolled, and he recalled cannon fire. What was he after? The Captain, whom he served, was ruined, and lived in agony. Taste of tobacco lingered, and he knew it would be no comfort. Alcohol would numb memory, delay or drown thoughts. Always, after the loss of his family, he felt lost, adrift in darkness.

Joyous laughter and cheerful banter hid among the deafening explosions of thunder. Such good humor felt blasphemous to the bounty hunter, and shame, nebulous yet persistent, washed over him. Cassidy looked out on the desert, and wanted the quiet of solitude. Rain drops fell, fat and bloated; yet, he wanted no part of civilization tonight, even the backwards, primitive Lamp Light. Cigarette alight, he shuffled back to where his horse was lashed.

Tonight, while the storm raged, he swore to drink till the darkness took him. A frown creased his brow. Cassidy looked at the hitching post, where he'd left the mount. It'd torn itself free, and ran away. The bounty hunter smiled, grin stony, and men saw it upon his countenance, when his rage grew to the edge of his control. No one would steal his horse, his friend.

Back into the former saloon, Cassidy dashed. He stopped. All the travelers, except Matilda, ate with reckless abandon, and drank deep, often spilled, from the odd bottles. Smelling no alcohol, the bounty hunter knew intoxication intimately. No amount of food satiated their hunger. Locals, far from disgusted or repulsed, looked pleased to see so much consumed.

Cassidy rushed to Matilda, but the locals were indifferent. "Don't eat it," he said, but none of the food was touched.

"Of course not," she held her children, "these people are insane." Around the room she looked again hopeful, yet her countenance fell.

"I think they're trying to make you crazy as them,' he motioned for them to stand, but watched the townsfolk of Lamp Light.

"The train never came," she stood, pulled her children along, who shook with adverted eyes.

He thought of the schedule, "I think it arrives in the morning, at three-ten."

"In the morning," she repeated. "I thought it was weird a train even still comes here."

"I'll have to try to find the horses," replied the bounty hunter, but held a hand up, when her eyes widened.

Outside the saloon, she checked for her horse, but saw it was gone. "What do they want?" she asked, face set, and he admired her strength.

"I don't know, and I don't want to find out," he glanced about. "You should hide, while I search. You could take the train, if I can't find the horses." He said, but felt an ache in his chest.

One of the houses, which were the sturdiest, set back from the others. It was still close to the train station. None had seen them pass, and all the locals seemed to be indifferent. When asked, Matilda produced a revolver, which she'd kept hidden. Though he was loathed to leave, Cassidy had to find the horses.

Into the sky, the moon heaved itself like the jaundice eye of a dispassionate god. Spoiled silver light died upon the town of Lamp Light and Cimarron. Rich tang of meat led a precession down the streets, accompanied by fresh spring water. Though they pulled at the senses, another smell dragged underneath, low gritty musk. Heat clung to the hard pan, baked up in delirious warmth. If not for the wet air, it would drain all vitality. As the clouds covered the sky, only the lightning and lamps lit the night. Thunder drowned the raucous feast, which emerged between in crazed bursts. Somewhere in the night, a train whistle screeched, and the bounty hunter thought of a man strangling a buzzard. Sweat peeled from besieged skin, chilled by the devilish, gory islands of light provided by pagan lanterns. His heart galloped, as he moved to where he'd lashed his horse. Traitorous pangs of hunger pulled at his guts. Sweetness of pork savaged him, strange yet addictive, but something in it.