Cassidy’s bad luck had him in the town, when the son had gone mad. Obadiah, accursed tongue of a devil, had ministered to them for a year. Though the Horse Preacher confessed improvement, the mother and boy had only suffered greater indignities. Some had tried to help Misses Langston, who came seeking help with broken bones more than once. Mister Langston put an end to any outside interference. Meek and mild, she feared him; yet, would never leave the petty despot. By all accounts, the boy suffered much worse.

Like a dog, beaten for its whole life, the boy had snapped. Cassidy had at first believed it an animal attack, when he came to the house. Obadiah had stood on the street for all to see, while the deeds were done. The blood had lingered, afterwards, for it had been everywhere. A lot of it he’d spilled, yet the sight of so much boggled the mind. How could there be so much? Worse was the mutilation: flesh and bone were mush, people reduced to smears and chunks. Only piece left whole were the head, which were impaled on a tree in front of the homestead. The boy had climbed into the oak, and somehow, managed to impale wrists and chest upside down. This demonic crucifixion still came to the bounty hunter, often with thoughts of the malevolent preacher.

Obadiah, far from abashed, was pleased by the outcome. Thought of that smile burned into Cassidy, who gritted teeth in a stony grin. No matter the horror or harrowing truth, the false preacher had never faltered in his pleasant manner. Passionless to pain was Obadiah.

“Mister,” stammered an old man, “are you okay?”

Light azure eyes turned on him, and the ancient fellow recoiled from the haggard gaze, once joyous. “Where is Sulky Hills?” he asked, steel resolve kept him still as granite.

“Sorry, Mister,” he blinked at the fury.

“Where is SULKY HILLS?!” roared Cassidy, who whirled on him.

He pointed, and the rest of the crowd withdrew from the bounty hunter. The crowd parted; none dared to stand in his way. With a growl, he was in the saddle. Only the dust and shock of the cloud remained, as Cassidy rode for Sulky Hills.

Good cheer died in his heart. Hard ride raised sweat like bullets. A crushing weight pressed down. Whatever brief respite he’d been graced, it had rotted at the sight of Obadiah’s flyer. Tormented eyes scoured the road. Beat of his heart raced the steed’s pulse. Clumps of dirt flew. To the limit the horse was spurred. Promise of the day, sweet and delicate, had been broken.

Deep into a dark wood signs told in a begrudged hand that travelers neared Sulky Hills. Sullen grass was a deep green, nearly black. They were slick, and upon the edge of rotting, half dead. Sap resin usually lush and low, held a grave ruin, as if from a gangrenous wound. Mountains flanked the road, which pressed the forest down on traveler; though, it looked traveled. Shadow cast over the land ruled, except when the sun was high overhead. Soon boughs bent. Branches twisted into skeletal fingers. A soured tang lurked beneath sweetness of mountain springs. Stony grin, resolute wrath, melted into a grimace of revulsion. The mixture of tart and meaty pungency turned the stomach. Closer the forest encroached, until branches snatched at his slouch hat.

Just as it seemed the dreary woods would snatch him from horseback, it fell away to unveil Sulky Hills. Rolling hillocks flowed out, nestled amongst the mountains. Dreary fog hung, listless gray of gunmetal. Meticulous fences were decayed, though several men saw to its repair. Simple houses, dark as their owners’ garb, were squat. Eyes followed the rider. Weary were their gazes. They toiled at repairs, which seemed to be endless. Past them Cassidy flew, reminded of Mother’s Scar. Even in the heat, the people of the community wore clothes dark as their homes, inky black, and worked with sweat pouring down from sickly brows. Past a scarecrow the bounty hunter rode. Brief whip of wind tore the arm from the straw man. A young lady walked, basket full of vegetables, which were diseased. Despite their foul odor, she recoiled from Cassidy, as if he was spoiled meat.

Fury somewhat cooled, he eased the horse to a fast trot. Instincts screamed, but no one waited in ambush or even carried a weapon. Unease grew. Cassidy stopped, but any who drew near appeared indifferent. A few saw the gun, curious, but as one ignorant of them. The secluded community seemed oblivious of the outside, Cassidy thought. Even with the revelation of their pacifism, the disquiet only deepened.

Ahead, crowded together as dour judges, the Sulky Hills’ heart moldered. At the center, an ancient oak towered over the structures, it looked down on them with blacken boughs and dark leaves. About it they cloistered, unified in ponderous visage. Each building mirrored the other, so none stood out, but blended into a horseshoe shape. Windows, heavy lidded, glared out over the thoroughfare, condemning all. As even they decayed, men went about restoring them. Rot inside timbers tirelessly dissolved.

Before the tree, like a malevolent Spirit, appeared Obadiah, with hands locked together as a monk. Cassidy’s fury reignited. The false preacher smiled, wooden teeth an uncomfortable shade of caramel. Thin lips stretch wide, gleam of spit sparkled on the horrid satisfied grin. Eyes sparkled like polished glass, and there color seemed to shift from various hues of mud. At the bottom of stagnant pond, Cassidy mused once, would be where to find that color. Under a wide-brim preacher’s hat he watched the bounty hunter’s approach, amused at his fury. Even amongst the secluded religious community darksome village, black of his clothes were of the deepest, starless sky or fathomless pit reserved for fallen angels.

Cassidy leaped from the saddle. His horse ran past Obadiah, who still grinned patiently. The bounty hunter grinned in savage victory. “I FOUND YOU, BASTARD!” roared Cassidy, yet the other’s gaze plucked at his nerves.