“First things first,” growled the bounty hunter. His horse, use to its master’s odd habits, flicked an ear. Such a move required money, which he had just enough to live. Beside the road a sign pointed in various directions. Light azure eyes flowed over the words. “San Oscuro,” Cassidy said, “it sounds so familiar.”

Under the gaze of the moon, face a death’s head, rode the bounty hunter. Whispered pleas followed his trail. “Just the wind,” whispered Cassidy, “nothing more.” Hollow gaze upon him seemed to condemn. More of madness than the grave, these Dark Watchers, thought the bounty hunter. Like a preacher’s cross or pagan’s symbol, disbelief warded him from the darker pondering. Deny, diminished, and discarded, they rebuked all attempts to refuse their truth. He shook his head at the remonstrations.

Deep in his mind he rode, until the light of San Oscuro repelled the lost shadows. A waystation, it was a main point where travelers passed. Such places where often plagued by bandits, in Cassidy’s experience. Often a lot of money could be made in a town beset by any criminal element.

Atop his horse, he pondered the black besieged office of the Sheriff, heart dark and thoughts darker. Out of the inky heavens came a bolt of umbral jet. To the sturdy timbers it dropped, as a fountain pen dabbed in water. Over, in, and around it splashed, only to blast with its dreary power. Gloomy eyes of Cassidy, light azure, grew blacker still. Hand guided only by his forlorn heart withdrew the bourbon to take a deep swig. All awash in darkness, this gloomy assault turned even the brightest a dusky benighted mourner. Even in the bulwark of flame’s glow the Dark Watchers had wretched grasp.

Crows cackled nastily from hidden shadows, beaks full of deadly wisdom. These beastly emissaries cried out haunted laughter upon the night. What secrets do they know, a downcast voice explored inside. Grim prophecy to speak in words unknown, which only the angels, devils, or mad could truly pierce. In the clamor, bedlam’s tumult, they beckoned, “Cassidy.”

“Only the night,” accused the bounty hunter, “just the rasp of the land in response to yonder ocean, only the night.” Despite the cold proclamation, a whisper to be released of this strange illusion passed his lips.

Upon the office of Roy O’Cathain came a knock, severe and resounding. Through the wood it echoed, prophet of fate. A gust of wind battered the office, so threw it open wide. Inside the frame, silhouetted against the night, the wraith-like figure was bold in contradiction of the light. Clutched in one hand, like a drowning man on flotsam, was the bounty of the Highwayman. Behind the Sheriff the woman fled by the sight of such a frightful visage. Law Man leaped to his feet. Cassidy regarded them for a moment, under the slouch hat, and they wondered if he believed them to be real.

“Highwayman,” rasped Cassidy, licked his lips, “I’ve come to hunt your…outlaw.” Eyes moved to a window, darkness beyond, and the crows who still called in cheerless titters.

“This is fortuitous,” drawled the Sheriff in a thick Irish accent. “Who may you be, stranger?” Over a shoulder the bounty hunter glanced, as a wolf ready to rend flesh from bone. Roy O’Cathain shifted in the regard of this spectral figure washed ashore his office.

“Bullock,” he returned.

“Oh…You’re Cassidy Bullock,” he said, and it wasn’t denied. “You’re no Grieve Lebel, but not many are so prodigious in their accomplishments.”

To this Cassidy gave a stony grin, “Where is the Highwayman? I expect payment, when deed is done.”

The Highwayman was wanted dead. Sheriff Roy spoke as a command, instead of a suggestion. Every Law Man always had a story, but upon the crows’ dire exclamation his mind returned. Lantern’s glow pushed away too deep shadows.

Across this part of the United States, the Highwayman was as much myth as legend. Verisimilitude was set aside to make men or women taller, shadows longer. Daring acts became unparalleled valor or villainy, which grew with every telling. Yet, as the truth of such desperados, reality of the exploits rarely matched tales told. When the Sheriff came to the New World, and settled in these parts, the Highwayman beset stagecoaches with a greedy wrath. Roy had brought him to justice, gallows’ food for the carrion birds. End of the first gave way to another to take up the mantle. All dressed in the clothes of the almost mythical thief to keep their identity hidden.

Cassidy head lowered; his words washed over him, but all his mind went to the waiting dark. Confused by the indifference of the bounty hunter the Sheriff pressed on.

To the identity of the newest Highwayman there was no doubt. Lass of particular venom and fire, she went by the name of Kathyleen Midhir affectionately known as Hellcat. Obsessed, she had taken the last name of Sean Midhir, local hard working cowboy. She’d followed him around, even back in Ireland. Troubled girl, who was always quick to anger, went insane when the man was to be hitched to the beautiful heiress Alejandra Alou. Passion seized the girl, though Sean tried to calm her.

At this Alejandra practically swooned, fell into Roy’s arms. Sweet Southern words lilted of love lost, Sean’s pure heart. Surely the Seraphim of Heaven had grown jealous of their love, so called her gentile lover home. Never would she give her heart to another. To this Cassidy heard little, ready to be free of the aristocratic histrionics.

Under the assault of their theatrics, Cassidy finally stood ready to be shed of this place, its infected shadows. Roy seized his wrist. In his eyes real fear preyed. The newest Highwayman had found a particular hideout, where no one dared pursue, even the daring Sheriff.

The bounty hunter stilled. Before San Oscuro was a hub for travelers, a tribe lived somewhere near. To dark spirits they prayed, bargained. A terror was released upon the land so horrid that other neighboring tribes joined together. The Battle of the Four Winds was malicious slaughter, unyielding cleansing, until the village was only a gory ruin.