Cassidy seized the reigns, for he could not shoot a woman in the back, even a murderess. With adroit grace, lithe and sinewy, she tumbled back onto the earth. Cassidy’s horse reared, and she ripped him from the saddle. Lacking her cat-like grace, he rolled, but drew the revolver. Though he had detected no revolver, she drew instead a blade. A flash in the silver light, and his gun flew, but from a spring holster on her wrist the hold-out pistol appeared.

To his shock, she gave a stately bow. Sweet, smooth tones of Irish lass she spoke as the heiress. Aristocratic tone of one broken, she feigned shock, nearly swooned. Derisive smile, ruby-red lips parted, she faked sorrow, terror a mere shame. Away her horse had ran, which she marked with mock sadness.

“Thief,” said the bounty hunter, but she chuckled. “Murderer,” he countered, gladdened to see her mirth disappear. Feline-like eyes were equally hurt and full of uncertainty.

“I think I’ll take your horse,” she said through bravado. “The moon is high and lovely, so you better get walking!” jeered Kathyleen.

Up into the saddle she jumped with ease. With a laugh and a wink, she spurred the horse. Cassidy snatched up the revolver with a whistle. The steed loyal and stubborn as the bounty hunter stopped. Again, out of the saddle Kathyleen was thrown, only to land upon her feet. Emerald eyes rose to the barrel of the revolver.

“No more tricks,” growled the bounty hunter, smile stony and wolfish. He disarmed her.

Furious eyes slid past the bounty hunter, widened. Thunder rolled. Air was as hot breath on the neck, exhalation wet. Instincts screamed; around he whirled.

As above, so below, there were Saints of wickedness. One such emissary stood past the crossroad. They were blessed with unholy grace, mirror to the righteous. If some dove cheek angel were to gaze upon still waters, see them reflected darkly, no virtue would be unsullied and every vice explored. Iniquity is their armor; lies were their shield, and hatred of virtue the sword. Battered, high collar coat hid the face, under a tricorn hat. Eyes gleamed, twin torches of vermillion flame bled from deep in their depths. Gaze fell past Cassidy, possessive and vengeful, to the wild maiden. A hand, cunning in its controlled strength, tapped the butt of a revolver strapped across his stomach.

“I see another wants to find the hangman’s rope,” snarled the bounty hunter. Kathyleen’s mouth worked with eyes wide and blank, and gone was the feral cheer. Cassidy frowned.

To the challenge the Saint of Thieves dismissed. The bounty hunter of wolfish grin was disregarded, for the lioness with vampire’s smile. In the hands of Cassidy, the wild maiden faced the executioner, but damnation was guaranteed by the Highwayman. Instincts guided the hands, which logic failed.

Intent was of the corrupter, hellish gaze marked her for so many darker delights. Tearing away flesh was insufficient. Boring was the snapping of bone. Blood spilled was anguish belated. Corruption of the soul, essence debauched, was the truest of unbound hearts’ corruption. Destruction within the soul made turmoil throughout the world. Every broken taboo or virtue would delight for its ruination.

As some herald or dark prophet, this Saint of Thieves, Hell’s Blackguard, came before a flood of inky black. The night began to prance, shadows whirled and leaped. As crows cackled, dark plumes as pitch, the crossroads were a raucous dervish of Dark Watchers. This grave ballet grew ever blacker, ever deeper, until swallowed up was the crossing. Higher and higher raised the defiled choir, so all was dance and tumult. Through this cemetery sonnet and craven promenade a word was sung by unseen oracles, “Cassidy.”

“No,” breathed the bounty hunter. No more could his mind accept, and a lot of the rationale mind could deny, but all senses screamed true. Priests of the damned, in this word they cursed him, bayed him listen. Again, he whispered, “NO.”

Frozen in horror, hands still moved. An apt student is taught through lesson, repetition, as the lost in Hell. Pupils came to master what they’re taught, until deep inside it burned. Teachers were seared by knowledge, so Cassidy’s hands were educated in the way of the gun. Hot metal was slung precise in its aim to where his heart chose. Unhallowed knowledge left his passion blackened but exact.

From heart to heart, metal flew to the Highwayman, center of his chest a gory hole. At the grievous wound he paused, sinful Saint now heartless. Damage was undone in haste, though, slow was their mounting horror.

A rosary flew, gift from Kathyleen’s grandmother, and wrapped about the Highwayman’s neck. The touch of the holy heirloom burned into the darksome Saint, and melted into hands that struggled to pull it free. Dark liquid of his body, which masqueraded as a man, melted as hellfire eyes found the wild maiden. Less than real, more than shadow, the man turned into black shade. Fast, the crossroads was clear of one foul thing.

Both their eyes held horror. Hers was of disbelief, and insanity made flesh was his. Kathyleen’s hand still raised, it accused the night. Dread grew deeper in Cassidy’s heart, for it all was no megrim or malaise.

“He’ll be back,” she said, eyes filled with tears.

“Cassidy pulled her to the horse, as the once distant storm grew much closer. Back he cast an eye. “MY GOD,” groaned the bounty hunter.

Through clouds of jet and crimson lightning, the coming storm rolled as Hell’s vanguard. Among violent thunder there was the sound of striking steel. Massive hooves of the herd struck bloody sparks against the wind. Their horns were black as onyx, fur blacker still, and with molten eyes they glared in fury. Each breath was hot from massive nostrils that bled eternal gloomy fog. Cowboys did ride at full gallop, hair soaked with sweat. Haggard and gone mad, across the eternal skies they rode. Cursed were they, for in life dark deed they’d done. As a child, Cassidy had heard the tale, and his terror now was as it was then, dread child-like.