Exorcism in Desolation

Rumbling thunder bounced off the surrounding hills, lying underneath the long mournful whistle of a long black train that tolled a dirge whose ebony clawed fingers from the abyss clutched at William Carson’s soul. The howl of the engine hurt his ears as its brakes squealed. Steam boiled out of it with a thunderclap following a bolt of lightning striking the ground nearby, leaving a taste of ozone in his mouth.

Drops began to strike his face, tap tapping on the roof of the station, and plinking off the train itself. Two ladies opened their umbrellas with a click, to be followed by small hammer strikes of their heels on the deck boards as the wind crescendoed and drove them back to the station house. William grabbed his hat, holding the rough material to his head. His ear rubbed the scratchy material as the timpani booms growled through his bones.

He took shelter beside the post holding the roof over the walkway up, the dry dusty boards drinking the water pouring out of the skies, a roiling froth of cloud and dark dreams that froze the breath when William contemplated it. And then as sudden as it began, the storm paused, holding its breath in a moment that William found himself sharing.

A lone figure exited the train, a man, whose long obsidian coat reached beyond the tops of his onyx colored boots. The faded storm drenched light drew itself into him as his spurs jingled on the damp boards, the tinny adding to the dread approaching him. There was no color beyond black on him, save for two spots. The first, the tip of his cigarillo, glowing red as chicory and brimstone smelling smoke billowed out of his mouth, flowing around his wide brimmed bolero hat, curling behind him as he drew the air with him walking. The second, a gleaming white circled star around his neck. U.S. Marshal.

His black eyes reminded William of a shark’s, a predator who cared for nothing, lived to kill, and stared into one’s very soul. The marshal repositioned his cigarillo to the side of his mouth, and a gravely whisper emerged, causing William’s knees to knock. “Boy, can you tell me where I can find Bill Holden?”

Bill “Bronco” Holden and his gang had come to Desolation not five days ago. They immediately took up in the Lucky Dice and Inn, driving out any decent folk. They whored, drank and played faro. They even found the time to shoot lawmen Biggs Dawson and his five man posse dead in front of the saloon. It made the total for Bronco six men. William’s voice cracked, “They...they be down at the Dice, sir. They just killed a posse that came to clear them out. There’s no telling what they will do if you go in there.”

The cigarillo rolled around in the marshal’s mouth. He swept back his coat, exposing a pair of white handled six shooters, the blued steel reflecting the little light that broke through the clouds so strongly that William’s eyes pained to look upon them. “Well, I mean to find out, boy. Stay clear, now you hear, they might not like what I have to say.”

William tilted out of his way, offering a path to head into town, which the marshal strode through. While his father would never approve of it, there was no way William was going to miss this. As much as he feared this man, perhaps he would be the one that could deal with Bronco. He had never seen a man killed, having been at the homestead when Dawson died. Fortunately, this day his father sent him to town to get some nails, and the train whistle drew him to the station. A train that wasn’t scheduled according to the station manager.

It was not difficult to follow the marshal. He could do so, even if he were blind. That sickly sweet smell, combined with the hellfire electrified his body, from top of his head to the bottoms of his feet. William inhaled that smoke, staying far enough away to avoid notice, but keeping him in view, to the exclusion of all else.

He reached the main road through town, getting closer and closer to the Dice when a strong hand pulled him back with the scruff of his neck, the rolling Wells Fargo stagecoach passing inches from his nose.

“William, my boy, you nearly got yourself into real trouble there!” Father Dyson’s boisterous voice was as jovial as ever. He had ruddy cheeks, and a barrel for a gut. He had come to Desolation ten years ago, with a wagon train that the way he told it, came all the way from Maryland. “You got to watch out for yourself. I won’t always be there to save you.”

William liked Father Dyson. “I’m sorry Father. There is a marshal here, to bring Bronco down! I’m going to watch.”

Father Dyson crossed himself. “My God have mercy on us all. We don’t need more bloodshed in this town, even in the name of justice.”

William rolled his eyes in his mind. “Of course Father. But they are bad men, somebody needs to avenge Biggs Dawson.”

Father Dyson scowled. “Vengeance is but the Lord’s,” William could swear that he winked, “but he does his good works through us. Which way did he head to?”

“I told him where Bronco is holed up. We should always help the law, Father.”

“Quite right William, quite right,” Father Dyson then spied the marshal walking towards the Dice, and his nose scrunched up, “Run along William, there is going to be trouble indeed.”

Father Dyson started walking briskly towards the Dice. William followed, making sure to not be spotted by either man who told him to stay away. Both of them strode towards the same destination, their paths different. Father Dyson greeted and returned greetings from those he passed, excusing himself when townsfolk stopped to talk to him. He grew more and more breathless, a faster pace even with the distractions that William had ever seen him do before.

Men stopped crossing the street in front of the marshal, standing back several paces to either side. They all looked at their boot tips as he passed. The women scooted back when they found themselves even nearby him. Their whispers and furtive glances clawed at the presence amongst them, cast back into the shadows with each puff of the cigarillo.

He reached the swinging saloon doors, standing at the threshold for a long moment, smoke rolling down his shoulders mixing with the drips of rainwater beading off his bolero. It allowed Father Dyson and William to catch up, the priest not twenty paces behind when the marshal stepped in.

Dyson lingered at the doorway for a moment as well. He crossed himself, and ducked in. William crept up to doors, and peered inside.

The Dice had its usual crowd of gamblers, whores and drinkers. Two miners drunk off their gold dust loudly slapped the poker table, drawing a few eyes towards them. Every other eye was on the marshal.

“I’m looking for Bill Holden.”

A few chairs scraped, Crash Howard stopped tinkling the ivories, and Lucky Jack put down the mug he had been wiping with a bar rag.

“Who wants to know?” Little Mike “Skippy” Whine, Bronco’s toady and least frightening member of the gang, slurred his words. He did have a vile temper, and displayed cruelty to all around, but only with Bronco nearby. He threatened anyone who called him Little, but everyone did underneath their breath even with Bronco in the same room.

Word had it that he gave Doris Clearborn two shiners when she laughed after Skippy dropped his pants upstairs at the Dice the first night the gang arrived. She still laughed afterward, and Bronco’s boys pulled him off of her after he pulled out a knife. He hadn’t visited any of the other ladies since.

Bronco must be real close, because Skippy sounded like he was Will Bill Hickok. The marshal’s only response was a cloud of smoke. “You, you there, are you looking for Bronco?” He stood up off the bar-stool, and took a few steps towards the marshal.

“Yes.”

Skippy smiled. “Get outta here. Bronco ain’t going to want to see you. Go, before I give you the back of my hand.”

Father Dyson emerged from the side of saloon. “Mike, you better tell him what he wants to know, he isn’t a man to trifle with.”

“Shut up you grass-bellied papist. When I want to hear you yap, I’ll tell you. Now, stranger, you better get gone, or I’ll make you gone.” Skippy stumbled towards the marshal.

The marshal let him get close. In a blur of motion, he took one of his pistols, and whipped it across Skippy’s face, dropping him to the floor with a whimper. “Now, you best stay down above the snakes where you belong.”

Three members of the gang stood with their chairs rubbing against the floor, the noise silencing Skippy’s cries. “You son of a bitch! I’m gonna make your teeth so crooked you can eat corn on the cob through a picket fence, and then I’m gonna shoot you!” Skippy tried to stand up, but a sharp kick to the groin, and then to the gut when he was on the ground ended any fight in him.

“Stranger, I hope God is with you, because you about to open a whole bottle of trouble,” cautioned Father Dyson.

“Father, its no trouble at all when you are sent to do a job. Its a job needing doing, and I’m the one needing to do it. Now, don’t interfere in this work. The Lord approves, I assure you.”

Father Dyson bowed his head, and backed away. The gang members walked from around their table, their hands on their pistols. A voice called down from the balcony. “So I hear you are looking for me. And abusing my friend in the process. Tsk tsk. That’s no way to introduce yourself.”

Bronco walked down the stairs, shirtless but both of his holsters carrying his famed black steel Colts. Two more of his men stayed up on the balcony, one with two ladies hanging off of him, the other grim faced with a Winchester held in both hands. Those who wanted no part started slinking out the back, and clearing out the room. “I’ve come for you Bill. Its time for you to face justice for what you have done.”

Bronco stopped, and laughed. “For I, the Lord, love justice…”

Smoke curled around the marshal’s head. “When justice is done, it brings joy to the righteous but terror to evil doers.”

Bronco shook his hands, “Oooh. The law is paralyzed, and justice never prevails. The wicked hem in the righteous.”

“God will bring into judgment both the righteous and the wicked,” Father Dyson’s jovial tone was gone, replaced by steel.

Bronco turned to Dyson, “Well said fat man. You wish to spar with us with your wit, as I see you are otherwise unheeled here.”

Father Dyson took a step forward, “I’m here to save souls for God, and to pray that there is no blood shed today. Salvation is still possible for you Bronco.”

Bronco’s mouth curled into an evil grin, “What is impossible for men, is possible for God. But one has to be willing, and I’m having too much fun.”

The marshal’s voice scraped against William’s ears, “When he had opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth living creature saying, “Draw near me and see!” And behold, a pale horse. And he who was sitting upon it was Death, and Hell was following him.”

Bronco’s raised one of his hands above his head, a finger pointing into the ceiling. “For the great day of their wrath has arrived. And who will be able to stand?”

The dust in the room held still in the beams of light coming through the windows. The storm resumed at that moment, the only sound in the room the rain splattering itself on the roof. William could see Father Dyson holding his breath. All others save the marshal and the gang had skedaddled, even the drunks at the poker table. William looked behind him, and saw the town gathered in the streets behind him, awaiting for it to begin.

At it began with Skippy. He pulled his gun out, still laying prone on the floor and fired at the marshal. It clipped a nearby table, and one of the marshal’s ivory peacemakers spun out of its holster.

He fired two shots into Little Mike, and spun himself around, his coat sweeping the air around him and he faced the three near the faro table. He blasted four shots rapidly as the gang members yanked their smoke wagons out.

Father Dyson dived for the floor as gun fire erupted all over the saloon. Bullets whizzed through windows, hit tables and chairs in all directions, and passed through flesh.

Screams added to the symphony of shots, the marshal in one motion exchanging his now empty gun into his holster and pulling out his other, fanning bullets into the balcony as he moved to the bar.

Bronco’s hysterical laughter added to the cacophony, as he fired indiscriminately into the bar. Owen Mars, one of the bartenders, had taken covered behind it, caught two as he stood and ran away. His head exploded, covering the teak in red.

The marshal knelt down, spun one pistol and then the other, emptying the cartridges and refilled each gun. Shots ricocheting off the surrounding fixtures didn’t appear to hasten the marshal.

William looked around. Only two of Bronco’s men were still up, besides him. They paused for a moment to reload, and then the marshal struck.

He fired two shots to the man at the faro table, who stopped one with his shoulder. As he winced and pulled away, the marshal plugged him three times in the back.

“Not very sporting marshal. Some sense of justice you have there!” Bronco laughed, and fired five shots into the bar near the marshal as he ducked behind it.

He stood up, and returned fire with the other revolver, emptying it at Bronco and chewing through the table that he hid behind. The last shot in the other revolver he fired at the last Bronco man, striking him in the temple.

“And now you killed all my men, but not me! And do you have the bullets to finish this?”

The only answer was the sound of revolver chambers spinning and a rumble from outside.

“How about we settle this like men, marshal? Where is your sense of justice? Mine has a large papist in my sights, and a small lead gift for him.”

A column of smoke behind the bar answered. “What are you terms, Bill?”

“Give me two minutes and meet me outside. We wait for the peal of thunder, and at at twenty paces we draw. Best man walks away, the other, well doesn’t.”

“Agreed.”

Bronco stood up, and smiled. He walked up the stairs and William could hear a door close. The marshal emerged from behind the bar. Father Dyson arose to his feet, “Thank you good sir. But I fear that I failed today.”

The marshal dropped his nearly burnt down cigarillo and crushed it beneath his boot. “Father, you didn’t fail. God’s work is done here, not mine. And I heard the voice of the Lord saying, Whom shall I send?”

Father Dyson let a small grin out, “And I said, Here I am, send me.”

The marshal strode out of the tavern, shaking his head as he gazed on William crouching by the door. Father Dyson came out next, and scowled at William, “Come here William, its time to get away.”

“But should I not see the Lord’s work?”

Father Dyson smiled and shook his head, “In every place, the eyes of the Lord consider good and evil.”

He shepherded William across the street to the undertakers, and put him behind a uncarved tombstone.

A flash ran across the sky and Bronco swung out the doors of the Dice. He had a spotless white shirt on, his trousers a cream color, and his golden spurs jingling as he took his place in the street. He wore both guns, each on a thigh.

“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will not fear you.” Bronco’s grin unsettled William’s heart worse than ever.

Dyson exclaimed, “He called out and said, Lord Jesus, receive my spirit!”

Bronco stared at Dyson and smiled. “You were a worthy opponent.”

The marshal’s right hand rested above the white grip. Water dripped off the bolero, hitting the dirt around him in small puffs of dust.

Bronco looked back at him. “Say when.”

Light flashed, and almost right away thunder rattled the town. Bronco yanked his gun, and fired, and fired and fired.

Smoke curled from the marshal’s gun. A red bloom spread across Bronco’s chest, a smirk spreading across his face.

Father Dyson lay near William, “Unheeled indeed. I guess he gets the last laugh William. I shall pray for him to the Lord. For if we live, we live for the Lord, and when we die, we die for the Lord. Therefore, whether we live or die, we belong to the Lord.” His eyes closed.

Tears welled up in William’s eyes. Behind him spurs jingled.

“For whoever would save his life, will lose it. But whoever will have lost his life for my sake, shall find it.”

The scent of chicory and brimstone filled William’s nostrils and then it faded away. A mournful whistle echoed off the surrounding hills, and he heard the train pulling away.