“Ma’am,” Cassidy tipped his hat, but the gesture earned a frown, “I’m glad to meet you, Miss?” Her striking looks felt familiar.

“Tabitha Griffith,” she replied interested though eyes went to the Covenant Tree’s rotted heart, “I’m Theodore’s twin sister.” She grew still at the name, but lovely eyes returned to him.

“Your brother is in charge around here?” Cassidy said doubtfully.

“Yes, he is the oldest man of our house,” she said, forlorn. An ice crept into beautiful features, “Arnold rules the other Elders, because my brother is too gentle and Griswold…is too old.” Oldman’s name passed her lips, spit as venom. Thoughts of the old man made her want to talk to Angels.

“I am an outsider, so forgive my intrusion,” he smiled, “you have a lovely community here, though it is afflicted with some decay.”

Tabitha nodded, “oh, yes, we call it the Blasphemy in Sulky Hills. It is the wrath of God for our breaking of the Covenant. It was our sect’s law, which would shield us from the world’s evils.” She looked down in thought, whispered, “All was lies, darkness lives in all.”

“Did something happen here?” he fought the urge to hold her, and tell Tabitha all would be well.

She opened her mouth, closed it, and then back at the ancient oak. “We must hold to the Covenant,” lamented Tabitha, yet a strange gleam sparked in her eyes. “An outsider can never understand our ways, unless the Elders instructed them. Underneath the veneer of righteousness, there are secrets.”

Light azure eyes studied hers, “Yes, every small town has them, open secrets.”

She nodded, spark of hope, “I was to marry Dermot Todd,” Tabitha’s teeth flashed like a cat, quick then gone; “Griswold’s son, the old holy man.”

Cassidy recalled the ghostly figure, “I met him briefly.”

“Well, he was Sulky Hills’ preacher, but grew too old, too…stern,” she measured the words. “You’ll want to speak to him, privately, so Arnold will not interfere.”

“Ask him about what, Ma’am?” he saw others listened.

“Dermot was promised to me; we were to wed,” she said, yet a tremor ran through the words. “Many women were jealous, for he was a pretty man, kind but headstrong,” wistful words grew distant. “They found him, one year ago today, dead,” eyes sparkled, “he used the scarf he wore. Theodore has it now.”

“This happened a year ago today,” Cassidy said, as a chill coursed up his spine.

“That day,” she stopped, blushed, but straightened, “there was a terrible storm. The Covenant Tree was struck by a bolt. All of Sulky Hills heard it.” Delicate hands laced together, as if she would fall on her knees in prayer, “I knew something was wrong. God had judged us!” She glanced at the townsfolk of the township, “The rot, our Blasphemy began that night.”

Cassidy rubbed stubble, and looked at her. Regret and sorrow made her angelic, “Is that when Obadiah came?”

“That very night,” she frowned, struck by his words. “He came to us, honeyed words sweet,” she said but sour tone cautious, “he knew much, and promised salvation, release.”

“The Revival of Carnisvale,” he said though smile grew wolfish.

“Yes, it would deliver us from our evil,” she said, but eyes slid away, “But I don’t believe such can wash sins away. Only the truth and the fortitude to face it, that is the way to find redemption.” Lovely eyes wondered away, “I have no idea what a cage has to do with redemption.”

“What do you mean?” Cassidy’s brow furrowed.

“He had us built a jail cell,” she shrugged, “but we never needed it before, and it remains unused.”

“I know it will only be used for ill,” swore the bounty hunter.

“The true illness is at the heart of Sulky Hills,” she lamented, “and you should also speak to my brother Theodore.” Darkness, quick a raven in the night, flew through her eyes, “And…you should speak to Griswold, Dermot’s father.”

“If it’ll get me to the heart of what Obadiah has over Sulky Hills—”

“IT will,” she said, steely words cold as iron, but pressed lovely lips together, so no more could escape. Tabitha told where the Elders lived, and Cassidy nodded. The Covenant, meant to save them, had become oppressive, rigid and dogmatic, thought Cassidy. Away from the bounty hunter she moved, as townsfolk scowled at her. Before she could disappear, back to him she mouthed, “Dermot.” To herself she added, clenched her forearm, “I’ll Talk to Angels.”

He was no priest, but the conversation felt close to a confession. Deep constraints and shame born of pedantic dogma devoured her. Troubled was Cassidy, and he wondered what lied beneath the inflexible religion. Thought of her lingered, as he walked to where Arnold Morgan lived. Web work of this place loomed, and Dermot seemed to be at its center.

At the town’s highest point, the House of Morgan stood above the rest. A lot of boys stayed away at the rotting timbers, which seemed to suffer from Sulky Hills’ Blasphemy. Nervous tremors moved through them, jumped at every noise. Despite the constant pervasive rot, it was kept to near perfection. Though built in the drab, conservative manner of the rest, it was a bit grander. The property allotted to the Morgan family was larger, but cleverly hidden by the trees and lay of the land. For a community set on chasten modesty, he mused, some were above others. A door lead down to a cellar with the word Penance emblazoned in the wood. Cassidy felt a chill, heart sunk.

Cassidy nodded at the boys, who jumped at his presence, but calmed fast. They were intrigued by the bounty hunter. He stepped to the door, raised a hand to knock, and the kids dashed back to their work. Each strike was brisk, but snaps came from deep inside the wood. “Not as solid as it looks,” he muttered.

“God will provide,” countered Arnold and Cassidy whirled, hand dipped for the revolver. Lethal hands forgot the gun was gone.