Light-hearted clouds danced across the heavens. Ponderous, they flew, yet unsullied was the aqua-blue sky. Gentle beams of the golden sun rained down. It banished the night’s chill, and it only grew pleasant. Comfort of the light lightened Cassidy’s heart, weight of dark gone. Lazy breeze, constant though low, guarded against heat. Cactus flowers carried a subtle sweetness that uplifted. Taste of a good breakfast and stout coffee lingered. Furtive desert creatures muttered in good cheer at the blessed day. They sang. Pure were the notes. He raised his voice with theirs, a hymn of salvation.

The horse, constant noble steed, glanced back. Surprised at her master’s happy mood, she stepped at a lively trot. Woes were left in the dust. Misery of worse days faded away. Though the nights in unforgiving desert were fruitless, he felt better for the time; despite the madness of strangeness endured. After the decadent darkness had been dispelled, he felt the urge to leave. Happiness, thought the feeling nearly forgotten, dared to filled the stone garden of his heart, where the unsettled dead were entombed in memory. The loved and hated that past out of this world had a grown quiet, at least since San Oscuro.

Away, he knew was the next step. Into the North West, the urge crept into the very bone. Dreams of the Rockies, tall and unbroken, played through sleep. Much younger than the Smoky Mountains they were less worn by time. Wild and free, a man could get some peace among the great silences and verdant forests. It was a different beauty to the desert, but welcome was a change. Shifting of locale never undone any problem; yet, the hope of such was persistent. Perhaps, he dared to muse there was some nameless piece of himself to been found. That part of his heart called out to be filled. Somewhere under the heavens was an answer, which would fill his core, as his family had done. Forgiveness or redemption, these phantasmagorical landscapes of the soul changed fast as one gripped them.

Before any hope of grace could be seized, he’d needed money. Adept hunter and tracker, work had been fruitful. Such a trek from South West up north would take time, and supplies, after cash in hand. Time would pass; maybe, once boots tread in snow, he would find peace or blood, but only the journey would reveal it. Tomorrow would be the first step into the next part of his search. The next waystation, he was assured, would have everything a man needed to be on his way.

Over the road, with song and smile, he listened to the wind. No shadow had moved in the long nights. Crows’ cackles had silenced. Last night he’d slept through to dawn without gun in hand. The malady of the mind or soul had lifted, respite from chaotic bedlam. Even the bottle of bourbon, fine Kentucky liquor, was left unopened in his saddle bag. The absence of alcohol made the morning clearer, and without the pulse in his skull, like a manic fiddler, he felt a bit eased. Hope, the virtue nigh forgotten, had bloomed once again in his core.

Into the town, whose name he ignored, Cassidy rode. A young lady passed, youthful and vibrant. He tipped his hat to her smile, for the cheer of the strange was bright. When an old-timer stopped to let the bounty hunter pass, he was given a jaunty salute. Among the civilized, he roamed in search of a dry goods store, where the supplies he needed could be gathered. They greeted him, though an outsider, as if the dawn of a new day, hopeful and open. Suspicion, born of seeing men’s depravity, seemed absent, he mused with surprise, so enjoyed the company. Most went about their lives, blissful in ignorance of the dark. A crowd murmured ahead, where the object of their marvel was hidden by the gathered mob. He smiled, curious, and thought to see the source of the commotion. More came as he dismounted the horse, who flicked ears in confusion. Mutters about the people seemed confused as much as intrigued, and the bounty hunter frowned as he moved through them.

Cassidy drew the revolver, lips wide in a snarl. Townsfolk fell back, as if a rapid wolf had slipped amongst them. Women screamed and men cursed. More than the gun, it was the gaze that dispersed the crowd. Ghastly eyes, blue as dawn over the desert, seized the words. A growl boiled out of his guts. The gun trembled. Once bright countenance fell away with a shiver, only the gloom remained. Temporary was the reprieve from madness. Visceral, righteous wrath clawed through him.

On the old wall it hung. Gun rose to it. Down he forced the murderous, adept hand, which rose up again. Through savage grin he let out a ragged breath. Hand obeyed. Once the revolver was holstered, Cassidy clenched it for he feared lead would soon fly. Clenched fingers approached the flyer, opened into a claw. After a moment to steady it, from the wall he tore the linen paper. Lips curled at the touch, and he denied the urge to throw it upon the earth to stomp it.

The flyer was emblazoned with a tree, whose boughs ended in points, a Tree of Pain. In old script it invited all to a Revival, one of the Carnisvale. All sins could be forgiven. No one was outside grace. Every man, woman, and child was welcome to be set free of their iniquity. Obadiah Mather was to preach the good word in the town of Sulky Hills. The very name sent a shiver through Cassidy, who felt light-headed. Gray ate into the edges of his vision. As a curse he mouthed the words.

“Back,” wheezed the bounty hunter, “false preacher is here!”

Face of Obadiah, ghastly and grim, swam into his mind with a knowing grin. He shook his head, dispelled the horrid visage. Another image, just as horrific, just as gutting, unveiled itself in the cemetery of his heart. The Langston place was modest in the best of charitable light, decrepit in rational assessment. Far from town or others, the father had set up his pathetic tyrannical kingdom. After some searching, Cassidy found that the men of the local municipality had left a pile of stones on his porch. One for each to beat him, it was a warning, which had caused him to retreat to a more secluded area. A place to terrorize his family, the bounty hunter had been sickened by tales of his despotism.