Blood of the Lamb
Copyright Stephen W. Cote 2004
Published at Smashwords
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About the Author
Hello and thank you for reading. My name is Stephen W. Cote. I am a Software Engineer and Consultant, a United States Marine, a martial artist, and an author. You can find more information about my early creative writing and ongoing open source projects on whitefrost.com. I enjoy writing hard and whimsical science fiction, adult fantasy, and poetry. As an early advocate of Creative Commons licensing, many of my short stories and poems have been available online since 1996.
If you enjoy this story, or my other free stories, you may also be interested in my short story collections available on Smashwords, including Nothing Like Heaven., or my fantasy novel, Harlot's Eight.
If you would like to learn more about my writing, open source projects such as the Hemi JavaScript Framework, or inquire about unpublished manuscripts and shorts, please contact me at whitefrost.com.
Thank you for taking the time to read my work and I hope you enjoy it.
Part 1: Broken Wheel
The oldest dream always comes first: his brother attired in the turned-out cloak of an Arabian peasant, only his head and shoulders are visible. A scenic mountain vista halos his brother’s crown; hues of spring soften his complexion into alcohol-blurred gold. For a moment, unfiltered altruism pours through his brother’s eyes for the object of his attention. The halo darkens and a colorless mass blots out the visage of his brother’s head. This dream frequents his restless sleep.
And by Cain’s namesake he always arrived at the same meaning.
But the most recent dream he knew to be true. As John Hardin rose to prominence in Texas, he already had left his own legacy. No matter what fiction historians may concoct, Cain was the last traveler to visit settlements with the Ghost Town moniker. And his method was brutally simple: Kill every living creature.
Cain never remembered his brutality and only knew of his activities by the odd places he found himself. And, murderous dreams haunting his slumber. He never stole anything, priding himself in preserving one commandment. Unless murder qualified as the theft of life. Possessions, those he never stole. Not from the living.
Though he had no coherent memory of his past, he believed in the fragments and regularly slipped into daydream-dialogues that circuitously supported those beliefs. Riding across a wind-tilled field, his mind wandered with the rhythmic canter.
He was having a heart-to-heart talk with Hardin, as though the two had been tight.
Before words were exchanged, Hardin sauntered up to the bar while Cain drowned trail dust with whiskey; the trail was always dusty in spite of the weather. Hardin claimed to be able to put a shot through his head before Cain had time to draw. Cain finished his whiskey and begged Hardin to cast his eyes at his lap where his pistol, drawn and cocked, aimed at Hardin’s chin. Both men shared a hardy chuckle and Cain bought Hardin a drink. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, the two men discussed their preferred methods for plying their trade.
In an over-accentuated drawl, Cain said, “I’ve never had a showdown at high-noon, walked down the center of the town’s main street, waited to draw, walked ten paces, or exchanged pithy dialogue. For example,” he extrapolated, “I once poked my head inside a saloon and shot a bastard in his chair. Another time, I walked up and shot a cowpoke while he was chattering with his cowpoke crew.”
“And posses?” Hardin asked.
Cain smiled, bemused. “Ambush ‘em from behind and shoot anyone who looks like they might talk.” He flashed a broad smile, “Which, as it always turned out, tends to be everyone.”
While the two conversed, and the drinks flowed, Hardin grew drunk and Cain detailed one of his most cherished accomplishments. “In eighteen seventy-two, I was the number one cause for Ghost Towns. But, there ain’t nobody left to pin that particular medal.”
Hardin raised a toast to Cain’s accomplishments and bought another round.
In the depths of Cain’s fantasy, Hardin seemed close to passing out and pushed himself away from the bar. He swaggered upstairs and retired with Cookie Batter, or whatever the head-whore’s name was.
With Hardin out of earshot, Cain talked a little smack.
“The Earps are pansies, but I don’t reckon they aren’t able. Everyone thinks Hardin is the end-all-be-all bandit,” and he glanced up at the second floor. He fell silent and looked with a drunken gaze at the door Hardin had entered, belonging to Horse Radish Sue’s room or whatever her name was. “But that’s just it,” he continued explaining to a non-confrontational cowpoke and the bartender. “Hardin’s a bandit. A marauder. A punk. Yes, he is a crack-shot, but then, aren’t we all? At this level,” he gestured towards himself and also towards the door Hardin had entered, “It’s a matter of degree, too. I wouldn’t try to shoot the pistol out of your hand at thirty paces. No,” he leaned closer towards his audience, “I’d shoot at your knees, maybe, then walk up and shoot your hands, and maybe shoot you in a few other painful places. Then, when you were bloodied and writhing,” he envisioned several squirming gunfighters on the perennially dusty street, “I might even kill you.”
“Jesse James,” Cain said with a smile and smacked the ‘M’ in James. “Jesse got caught up in believing he was some kind of hero, but at first he admitted he was just a no-good thief and murderer. I suppose you could say I like the fellow for that honesty.”
“Who do you admire?” A card-shuffling shopkeeper or shifty-eyed squatter asked. He didn’t see which one talked. Normally, he would never admit it, but happened to be drunk enough at that moment. “There is one man I think identifies the era of history in which we live. And, that man is Jeremiah Johnson from Montana. Ol’ Liver-Eatin’ Johnson. A decent man, I suppose, until Indians up and killed his wife and daughter.” Cain leveled his eyes at a squatter who was listening intently. “Yes sir, Jeremiah knew how to exact revenge, and he knew how to exact it over and over. I like to think that I live my life the same way that Johnson lived his. Figure out what really gets to the heart of humanity, and keep it up. Genocide works for me.”
Cain drifted from the bar to the street where he encountered some young pup. He imparted his wisdom as though his audience begged for his words, flakes of heavenly manna, to fill their bellies.
A simple boy with saucer-wide eyes listened attentively. “I’ve never worn a cowpoke’s sombrero,” Cain said, flipping the brim of the boy’s oversized hat, “or any hat at all unless the weather is so foul that Noah starts building another big canoe. And, I immediately remove my spurs when I dismount because they make too much ruckus and slow me down. I don’t wear a pistol belt or stitch holsters to my clothes. Instead,” he patted his trousers, “I keep them here, against my thighs, or sometimes against my chest. Keeps them from freezing-up, and folks aren’t as jumpy if they don’t see a man walking around with pistols. And,” he said with a cautionary and booze-soaked tone, “I never drink whiskey, or smoke tobacco, or fornicate with prostitutes or women of lowly social status.” He smiled and his chest swelled. “Have pride in yourself, boy, because that may be all you’ll ever have in the world.”
The boy muttered something about the local prostitutes, and Cain remarked, “In the past I’ve taken women by force when the time and place were suitable to my inclination. But, there are so many virtues that it’s hard to remember all of them.” The boy smiled and Cain elaborated. “I’ve never robbed a train, a bank, a stage-coach, or a cashbox, but sometimes I’ll pick the pockets of someone I killed because it couldn’t be stealing if they were already dead, right?”
“But,” Cain warned, “if someone shoots at me, I’ll shoot anyone and everyone else after I’ve done in the shooter because, the way I figure it, they’ll might come for me next if they didn’t have the decency to warn me. And, if someone warns me, well, I have to shoot them on principle because they could have just shot whoever was aiming to shoot me in the first place.”
So went his fantasy. He couldn’t differentiate memory from dream, and didn’t remember doing any of it. Except one recent event.
Savannah Cline. Their love had been pure and complete. A love, she had said, whose bonds would only be broken in death. Cain had always assumed it would have been his death or hers, but apparently it applied to other deaths as well. All he knew was that at one point they had traveled to Little Rapids, Wyoming, and, one night as he slept, she left without a word. A year later, he returned to Little Rapids and found most of the townsfolks’ possessions strewn about, but no townsfolk.
Cain didn’t know what happened at Little Rapids, but his one memory of actually being in a gunfight involved Savannah Cline. They had stopped at a small mining town, taken a drink and some victuals at the shack decorated with a sign identifying it as the bar, and some lanky kid sauntered in. He reckoned Cain was the infamous gunfighter out of Texas, and Cain didn’t consider at the time that perhaps the kid confused him with Hardin. The kid had an itchy trigger finger, everyone could tell, and when Cain brushed him off with a smart quip, the kid made an unflattering remark towards Savannah.
Cain knew the kid wanted to gun him down, and at that moment knew the kid would draw in Savannah’s direction just to get him to draw. His mind raced and his hands started to shake. His entire body palsied with epileptic reaction to everything around him and his senses became sharpened as though he might cut down the kid with a mere thought. Cain’s pistol was in his hand and pointed at the kid as though the kid had become frozen in the intervening seconds. The kid had enough time to form a horrified expression, realizing he made a mistake. Then Cain fired.
Tales of self-defense were good only in wholesome parlance because the stories usually involved no wrongdoing on his part and offered appropriately meted justice. Such stories reminded Cain of his oldest dream.
After Savannah left him, Cain tried to think about everything he could remember from Little Rapids and his own proclivity for gun slinging, but couldn’t fathom her reaction solely from those two potential causes. Then, he thought more about himself and his own daily habits and began to realize that, perhaps, he had a problem.
He did. Besides not remembering things he apparently was supposed to remember, he had a more functionally and obvious problem. He couldn’t concentrate. The more he tried to think about why Savannah left him, the more he realized that he couldn’t think about it because mere seconds passed before his mind began to wander. Then he would become angry without knowing why he was angry, or what he had been thinking about.
Whether it was a subconscious pursuit or happenstance, Cain had found himself in Liberty, Washington, a young mining town. There he remained for four years and, at some point and for a time, his problem was solved. In those peaceful years, he developed strong bonds with the Palouse tribes, and once more found love. However, the tribes were not receptive to the influx of settlers and soldiers, and animosity grew between the tribes, settlers and soldiers. Cain suspected his respite in Liberty would end.
Cain sat bareback on and astride Mescaline, an ornery Appaloosa, and he looked over a valley from a craggy ridge. A Palouse tribe encampment dotted the Western bank of a narrow river that swung northeast to southwest through the valley. His pistol quickly came to his hand, and he thrust the muzzle under a man’s chin before the man’s fingers made contact with his shoulder. The man sat tall on his horse and Cain held his pistol at an awkward angle.
Cain had not heard a horse approach, reacting to some phantom presence.
The Palouse warrior slowly raised a small doeskin pouch.
Cain withdrew the pistol, tucked it under his shirt, and took the pouch. He weighed it in his palm and looked forlornly at the formidable warrior. “So little,” he remarked with a sad tone. He smiled gamely, and then recognized the face and the trials both behind and before him. “John Bear.”
“My English name,” the warrior replied, appearing as though he expected Cain’s reaction.
Cain guided Mescaline around to face the warrior. “And your real name,” he said, struggling to recall. He knew that if he ingested the medicinal contents of the pouch he would remember and once more enjoy a simple and wholesome life. The kind of life he had in Liberty with Genevieve. Mescaline neighed and turned his head to nip at the pouch; his horse certainly knew the contents.
John Bear reined in his steed and pursed his lips. “In the years of our friendship, you could never pronounce it right. You always said something that sounded like Moon Tree, which isn’t accurate.” He narrowed his eyes, “Not all tribal names translate into a conjunction of nature.” A tight smile crossed his lips. “If you couldn’t get it right when you were thinking clearly, you won’t get it right now. John Bear will suffice.”
Cain observed John Bear’s stature as a soft wind bristled the fringes of his long black hair. Glancing down at his pistol, and with fragments of his memories becoming cohesive, he asked, “What goes through your mind when I draw my pistol? You had time to fire an arrow, or draw one of those knives in your belt, or even your own pistol. Why did I even get a chance to draw?”
John Bear pointed across the valley and in the direction of the breeze. Apparently, he had answered this particular question before given the way he rattled off his reply. “It is like looking at a strong wind. No matter your intent or convictions, the wind will avert your gaze. So is it with trying to raise an arm to you. If I had tried, my arm would be pushed away by with an insurmountable force.”
“I always thought I was just fast,” Cain said.
“Do not confuse your abilities with the inequities of others,” John Bear said. “You have an uncanny ability in your trade. There is also some other spirit that fights alongside you.”
“Your English has improved,” Cain said. He then recalled a time when John Bear’s English wasn’t spoken so well. “I guess I’ve already told you that.”
Looking at John Bear, Cain recollected why his English was well spoken. Cain had taught him over the previous four years, and John Bear had spent time scouting and acting as liaison to the Nez Perce for the Union troops garrisoned in Spokane and Walla Walla.
“Colonel Wright’s troops are now holding Liberty,” John Bear said, changing the subject. “And it is becoming clear to us that the Palouse tribes will be overrun, just as the Nez Perce is being overrun and just as the other tribes on the far side of the land have been overrun.” John Bear looked out over the valley and fell silent, then removed two knives from his belt and offered them to Cain.
Cain took both, one large and one small. “One is for Genevieve,” he said and then remembered in Genevieve he again found a love like he had experienced with Savannah.
John Bear nodded. He affixed his eyes to Cain’s hands and said, “It pains me to see you suffer, and I am,” he paused to search, Cain thought, for the right words, “I am pleased you honor our bonds of friendship, and exact vengeance in the name of my people.”
Before Cain could remark upon his uncertainty, John Bear continued, “You will understand when you take the medicine.”
“Now,” John Bear said, “I must ride out with my people who make haste to give you a wide berth.”
“Thank you,” Cain said, and then added with an affection he hadn’t been aware he felt, “My friend.”
“And don’t give any to the horse.” John Bear spun his mount away from Cain and rode away.
Part 2: Road To Liberty
How that winter wind howls o’er the Palouse. The pungent aroma of cattle dung whipped into the stinging breeze and gave the evening air a distinct bite. Icy granules were blown into every crevice of fabric. The medicine John Bear delivered brought clarity to Cain’s thoughts, sharpening his intellect but dulling his instincts. He felt sluggish, even in the loose fitting winter cloak a Nez Perce woman had stitched for him some years past.
Genevieve Rauessou rode a spotty little mare, Black Grama. Her pony seemed to take pride in antagonizing Mescaline. Genevieve handled well her mount on their winter ride through the fertile and hilly land, nonetheless restricted by her French-made outfit. Though ill suited for riding and already soiled about the breaches, the indigo-dyed felt looked warm.
With evening setting in, Cain brought Mescaline to a halt near a small river, dismounted, and assisted Genevieve down from Black Grama. When she reached the ground, she threw her arms around his shoulders and hugged him.
“How are you doing?” she asked, her mouth aquiver and shrouded in a billow of condensation.
Cain nodded in reply, and shuffled through the snow looking for loose wood. He found a few large branches and went about making a fire. While he collected wood, Genevieve unpacked two thick hides and two blankets. He fetched a tinderbox from one of the saddlebags strapped to Mescaline and crouched near the pile of sticks and branches. She then crouched near him and put her slender arm, clad in designer fabrics, around his shoulder.
“Are you alright?” she asked, her French accent adding ambient warmth.
Cain chipped flint over a small bit of kindling. “I’m cold,” he said, and patted his balding head.
“I think you’re the only man this side of the country who won’t wear a hat.” She wrapped one of the blankets around his shoulders, and fell silent until the kindling took to light. As the glow of the fire revealed his long and gaunt face, she asked, “You’re feeling well? It’s nice to see you again, even in such forbidding weather.”
“It has been,” he agreed, pulling the blanket across his arms. “But, I don’t have much medicine. I can feel it wearing off.”
Genevieve looked to the far side of the fire and away from Cain. “The tribe hasn’t moved that far away yet. I’ll have to ride out in a day or two if I am to meet up with them.” She glanced at Cain from the corner of her eyes, gauging his reaction.
He put his arm around her and leaned away from the growing fire. “I have to do this.”
Genevieve shook her head and touched his face. “No, you don’t,” she said. “We can ride further west, or go to Montana.”
Cain smirked. “I can’t go back there.”
“I don’t believe that,” she said. “For the years I’ve known you, you’ve never acted like you talk. Now you are riding to Liberty and I’ll never see you again.” She raised her hands in a gesture of helplessness, admitting, “I can’t see you again”
“Have a little faith in me. I may not die.”
She closed her eyes and pulled away from his embrace. “I love you, but I cannot be with you if you design to take life. And all over a matter of horses.”
“Wright ordered the slaughter of eight hundred horses,” Cain said. “They were the lifeblood of the tribe. And, the cavalry has done far worse. The tribe beseeched repayment, and its name is vengeance.”
“And the settlers who were killed for no reason? The scouts who were ambushed? We made our trespasses, but the tribes were killing or robbing from the start.” Genevieve shook her head. “I don’t see how you could owe them this debt.”
She removed a small knife from her pocket; the blade Cain had given her from John Bear. When she unsheathed the blade the polished metal gleamed in the firelight. A blackened horse engraved the flat of the blade and a branch bearing her likeness scrawled the bone handle. “Who am I to receive such tokens? A knife so that I might cut away my heart because I can’t live with you by my side?” She rubbed the scrimshaw. “Don’t think I’m weak. I won’t pine for you, not when you’re forcing me away.”
Cain withdrew the knife John Bear gave him and held it next to hers. “It is for safe passage through the tribal lands. Not because they thought you’re weak, but because they knew I had to make this sacrifice. You have to leave because I am compelled to continue.”
Genevieve set the knife in her lap and held Cain’s hand. “What debt must be repaid with bloodshed? You are genteel, no matter what others claim. But, I cannot be with you if you continue.”
She took the knife from Cain’s hand and set it upon the ground. “What have we taken without payment?” She tilted her head towards the horses. “A crazy horse named for the medicine they give you, and an old nag named for rancid feed? Knives whose blades were machined, and spotty engravings that could be anyone? You paid for these things. You owe them nothing.”
“I’m not saying they haven’t been good to us,” she continued. “Everyone says you are some terror who slaughters entire towns, but I don’t see that in you.”
Genevieve shook her head. “It hurts that you can collect your thoughts to commit to the tribe, but need medicine to love me.”
“No,” Cain said. He took both of her hands into his. “The medicine is the only thing that helps me see the world for what it is. Without the medicine, I don’t rightly know how I’ll make it to Liberty.” He moved one pair of clasped hands to the center of his chest. “This is something I need to do. I wish to honor my debt.”
Debt. Cain considered her claim that he owed none. He didn’t believe that. All he had owed to some ethereal debt. Yet, he couldn’t explain what compelled him to make decisions incurring further debt. In Liberty, he hoped to make payment.
He leaned in to Genevieve and lightly kissed her winter-chilled lips. “I love you, but I have memories and dreams that feel old and worn-out. Debts for old trespasses. Real or imagined, I can’t escape them. If going to Liberty will make it stop, then I must go.”
She cupped his cheek. “Given a choice between me and death, you are choosing death.”
“I choose you,” Cain said. “Death isn’t a choice, it is unavoidable.”
“And you’re riding out to meet it.”
But Genevieve had expressed similar sentiments before, and Cain suspected she knew he would stay his course. In the morning, before the sun rose and while he slept, he expected her to leave. Would he ever see her again? She loved him, but he understood why she could not stay with him.
“Let’s enjoy these few hours,” she whispered and the two lay down in the furs near the fire.
Later that evening, before he closed his eyes to sleep, he whispered, “I love you.”
Part 3: High Noon
Why did Genevieve leave? Cain awoke one morning to discover she no longer slept by his side. He had vague recollections of spending time with her in Liberty, and recalled they lived together for some months or years with a nearby tribe. Savannah Kline, and now Genevieve Rauessou, ceased to be a part of his life.
Liberty. It had been a young mining town. From a distance, nary a soul stirred in town. As he led Mescaline along the main street, he heard whispers of prosperity and the bustle of growth echo from the past. Walking through the center of town, he wondered why he returned.
Dry snow fell from scattered clouds, lending pristine countenance to the entire town and surrounding valley. The fleeting wisps textured blue sky, and sunlight rained pleasant warmth on his shorn head. Liberty itself was small, rebuilt within the last few years. The porch steps didn’t creak and Cain smelled fresh-cut lumber.
Cain tethered Mescaline to a hitching post at the end of town, and walked along the porch of a familiar building. A specter of Genevieve waved to him from a picture window on the second floor. He strung together memories of intimate and clear-minded moments, of being in that room with her. A sound rose and the memories left his mind.
A spinning spur wheel echoed. Cain turned and looked for the source. Across the street, a man stood holding a spur.
Cain walked across the street. He tried to gauge intent and expected the worst.
“Hell of a thing you did with those spurs,” the man said.
Cain recalled no memory or dream involving spurs.
“Half of a twenty-strong company clubbed before they even saw your face, thinking you were a ghost haunting their camp.” The man spun the spur and whistled. “You can pull your pistol if you think -”
Cain’s torso palsied, his senses became acute and taut. He drew his pistol, cocked the hammer, and stopped with the trigger-halfway pulled. As John Bear described, like a wind forcing him to avert his gaze, so was it with his pistol hand. His finger, held at the apex of motion, yielded to an unseen wind. A spirit, as John Bear said, held his finger fast. The man dropped the spur.
“Go ahead. Shoot.” He held out his arms, offering a larger target.
Cain held his aim at the man’s torso, but found himself unable to continue. His finger curled around the trigger, frozen. After trying for some seconds to pull the trigger, he lowered the pistol.
“Who are you?” Cain asked.
The man walked closer and stopped when he was within an arm’s length. “The Marshall.”
“Marshall of what?” Cain asked. “The town is deserted.”
The man shook his head and offered a crooked smile, “Not of this or any town.” He looked around, playing coy his discovery of the missing residents. “Yes, I suppose that is one way to describe it.” Then he said, “Folks were a little edgy when they heard a murderous devil rode their way.”
“I ‘spect you’re Colonel Wright? Come to clear out the town ahead of me? I’m here to make due for what you did to those natives.” Cain returned his pistol to his belt, under his shirt. Although nervous from being unable to fire the pistol, he kept fear at bay since the man had not yet drawn his pistol.
“I’m no soldier.” He chuckled. “Your woman was right. Genevieve, the French whore? This is a misguided effort at justice, Cain, and no good can come from it.”
Cain held his breath. The man seemed privy to his conversations and knew his name, intimating he either spied on him or somehow enticed Genevieve to talk. He didn’t want to believe it, but he considered Genevieve volunteered the information. “You know my name. And, who are you to say someone like her is whore?” The concept of Genevieve in that line of work unnerved him, but it did not feel entirely false.
“We’ve met before, you and I.” The man paused for his words to settle. “What business does a fair-looking lass have in the wilderness? Without you, this is neither the time or place for the likes of her to act with the requisite independence.”
Cain took a step to the left. “I don’t recall meeting you. I don’t recollect your name. I don’t believe Genevieve told you any of this. And I don’t remember killing any soldiers as you described. Who are you? What kind of hand are you trying to play?”
The man nodded to either side of him, and only then did Cain see the other men. Twelve of them; six men lined up on either side of the street. They wore heavy black coats and wide-brimmed hats, were clean-shaven, and met Cain with haunted expressions. Each held a rifle and had opened their coats to expose pistol belts. None wore a badge, nor for that matter did the self-described Marshall.
“A trap!” He had both pistols in his hands before anyone could react, aimed at the Marshall. With sheer will he curled his fingers around both triggers and unloaded three rounds from each pistol. As the cartridge-smoke cleared, he could see nothing changed. No one moved or returned fire.
Cain expected the men to draw and gun him down. Their rifles remained in their arms and though some had looked to see a reaction from the Marshall, the others remained still. Although Cain fired a total of six shots directly at the Marshall’s chest, the bullets never struck the target.
Standing four paces away, the Marshall called out as though Cain stood across the street. “You can’t kill me, Cain!” He took one step closer and lowered his head so that one of Cain’s pistols aimed at his forehead. In a quieter voice, he said, “Not even like this.”
Anger surged and he fired the pistol against the Marshall’s head. Nothing. A bullet left the muzzle and struck the wall behind him. His arms and hands continued to palsy as they always had in a gunfight, but the tremors became so bad he could no longer hold the pistols. He dropped them to the ground. Uncertainty and fear bore down, personifying a specter of Death in the man standing before him.
The Marshall straightened and touched his forehead, finding no wound with his fingertips. He showed no sign of feeling pain, nor did he appear surprised. “A paradox.”
“A what?” Vertigo accompanied fatigue in his arms and torso.
“You can’t kill me. And, I can’t kill you.” The Marshall gestured to the other men and they dispersed into nearby buildings. “Given neither of us may die, a string of deputies is a wasted effect.”
“Are you,” Cain started to ask, searching for some explanation. Only one concept entered into mind. “The Devil?”
“An interesting question, and, in a way, ironic.”
Cain’s weakness drove him to his knees. He pressed his fists into the snowy ground. “Who are you?”
The Marshall asked, “The question isn’t who or what I am, Cain, but who are you?” Standing over Cain, he looked down and asked, “Do you believe in the Bible, Cain? In God and in Christ?”
Cain offer no response, having given little consideration to such nonsense apart from drawing comparisons between his dreams and the few Biblical stories he knew.
“How about Buddha, or Mohammed?” The Marshall waited for an answer, and when none was offered said, “Even if you don’t, there is an interesting correlation between all religious traditions. Do you know what it is?”
“God is all of them?”
The Marshall shook his head. “No. Each culture has it’s own interpretation of a god, or multiple gods, or lack of a god, or a messiah. What they have in common is a beginning, and a general concept that some group’s or some individual’s actions originated and preceded the need for the dictates of the belief.”
He extended his hand to Cain. Cain studied it carefully before accepting it, and the man helped him to his feet.
“I’m a Holy Trinity fellow myself,” The Marshall said with some pride. “In that context, consider the Ten Commandments, and particularly the sixth. Thou shalt not kill. Any reasonable man would consider this commandment unnecessary unless indiscriminate killing, murder, was a problem. Someone, somewhere in time, set the precedent. By my set of beliefs -”
“You’re talking about Cain and Abel,” Cain said.
The Marshall nodded. “Are you beginning to understand?”
“You’re suggesting I’m like Cain?”
“Not like,” The Marshall said.
“Then what?” he demanded.
“By my codex, you are the palpable and pungent sin of man, and the resolute proof that redemption is possible. The essence of your blood poured from Christ’s Grail, for as it was his blood imparted unto man, so was it your blood, in part, his was deemed to cleanse. You are the crucible in which redemption is forged.”
“I don’t believe such stories,” Cain said. He raised his hands from the ground, feeling his strength return.
Moving so quick Cain did not recall seeing him move at all, the Marshall drew his pistol and aimed it at Cain’s forehead. He cocked the pistol hammer and held his finger firm against the half-pulled trigger. The slightest nervous twitch would send the hammer falling onto the primer, in turn igniting the cartridge, and send the bullet through Cain’s head. Perhaps this was the payment he expected to make. The moment he anticipated all of his life. He was not afraid or even surprised, and could see the literal threshold between life and death. Inches away. And it wasn’t so terrible as he had imagined.
“It is not a question of belief, Cain,” The Marshall said. “Not on your part. You are too much of a part of this world’s beliefs for your doubts to matter. No, it isn’t what you believe, but what others believe you to represent.” He rotated the pistol to draw Cain’s attention to the barrel. “The only belief you need concern yourself with is whether or not I am capable of killing you.”
Cain said, “You said you couldn’t kill me.” Could he pull his pistol and shoot the Marshall before the Marshall shot him? His previously failed attempt still burned in memory.
“I think you need to see it.” Then, the Marshall pulled the trigger. The hammer fell. The cartridge ignited. The pistol fired inches from Cain’s forehead.
Cain covered his face with his hands and moved away from the muzzle. But he was too late, and death lurked moments in his future. Except there came no pain or other feeling except hot gas expelled across his face. He rubbed sulfuric smoke from his eyes and gazed into the smoking pistol barrel.
The Marshall fired at one of the buildings. Wood splintered and the sound of gunfire rang throughout the town of Liberty. “I was permitted to pull this trigger, but I am not permitted to kill you, Cain. No one is.”
“Why not?”
“Jesus! Read your Bible, for Christ’s sake!” The Marshall swore, apparently unconcerned with incurring the ire of the very deities he claimed to believe in. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you what it is like to try?”
“John Bear,” Cain admitted. “He said it was like a wind that forces you to look away.”
The Marshall said, “It is no wind, but the wrath of God coming down from Heaven! And such force is more terrible than the fear of any individual. It is one of the oldest and one of the only intractable pacts God made. Actually,” he raised his pistol again and held in Cain’s direction. “It must be a rather significant annoyance to Him to have his wrath evoked every time someone tries.”
“You seem to take disrespectful pleasure doing so.”
“I said I believed,” The Marshall said, “I didn’t say I was his agent.”
“Then,” Cain started but was cut off when the Marshall shook his head.
“It’s not so black and white that if I am not in league with good that I must be in league with evil. My purpose in such chaos is less distinct than your own. My presence isn’t noteworthy or mentioned at all in any surviving texts.”
“Then why are you here?”
The Marshall spread his arms wide and moved his hands to indicate the entire town. “All of this. You were far too comfortable and ineffective living with those Indians. Your role, believe it or not, is one of chaos, disorder, and destruction. I was to bring you here and, with a few well-placed rumors, your reputation preceded you. Especially after the business with the soldiers and the spurs, only the foolish waited for you to show up. Liberty is dead, and you killed it. The townsfolk lay dead around you, the survivors struggling towards some other hospice. Most of them won’t make it in this weather. The women and children will collapse, the beasts will falter, and men will expel their last breaths.”
The Marshall looked around the town, seeming pleased with what he saw.
Cain looked in the same direction. He saw nothing but an empty town and snow-covered ground. “I told you I had nothing to do with any soldiers.”
“You don’t remember events that transpired so recently?”
“Cain,” he said and pointed at his forehead. “The moment you fell from grace, you forgot there was a higher existence attainable by leading a noble life.” His voice became more like a preacher’s when he said, “Love thy neighbor. Can you conceive of how hard that is? How many people feign love and friendship but have no actual belief or concept in what they profess to offer? They lie to themselves and think that is noble.”
“You don’t think I genuinely love Genevieve? Or Savannah?”
“The gun fighter claims to love his neighbor prior to drawing his gun?” The Marshall grinned. “The only faculty most people possess, including you, is the ability to lie to themselves.”
Cain refused to believe such rubbish. “I may have trouble remembering some events, but I remember that I loved Genevieve and Savannah.”
“Cain,” The Marshall said, “The very wrath of God is in your wake, and both Savannah and Genevieve, and might I add it strange that you claim to love two whores and equate the act of copulation with love, both of them could see it. And, deep down, they knew they couldn’t be around you.”
Cain picked up his pistols from the snowy ground, tucked them in his belt. “You never told me why you are here.” He held up his hand when the Marshall started to answer. “I mean why are you telling me this if I will only forget it?” He paused, furrowing his brow. “I cannot deny that it is strange I didn’t kill you, or you I. Nor can I deny that I really am not sure where I have been since my mind is not always clear. What I don’t understand is why you are explaining this to me.”
“Because I want you to stay in Liberty. Where would you go from here? You can’t return to your Indian friends since you didn’t finish what you set out to do. You never started. Most of the town is dead because you rode in. You can’t return to Genevieve, and I think we covered why not. You really have nowhere else to go.” The Marshall looked around at the town. “Not bad. You might even get some company in a few months.”
“You want me to stay? Why would I do that?” Cain asked, perturbed that this man would suggest he take lodging in a deserted town for no particular reason.
“If you leave now, you will find no sanctuary. Everywhere you travel through this land invites God’s wrath in your wake. Your Indian friends will lose their lands and lives to the settlers and soldiers. If you stay here, it may be different.” A slight smile crossed the Marshall’s lips.
“You set this up,” Cain said. “I still don’t believe that I killed those soldiers, or any of your banter about me being incapable of love. Whore or not, I love Genevieve. You may know what we said; you could have sent someone to spy on us. But you don’t know what I think or who I love, so don’t presume otherwise.”
The Marshall shrugged but held his tongue when Cain raised his hand.
“I have another choice.” Cain removed his pistols from his belt and dropped them onto the ground, and then spilled the extra cartridges. “I may have done questionable things in my life, but I am not the source of every wrong committed in this world. To suggest I am responsible for so much hate in evil – I won’t believe that. “
Cain shook his head and backed away from the Marshall, moving towards Mescaline.
“Cain, did you not believe me when I told you that the townsfolk were dead?”
Cain continued to back away. “I’m not sure I believe anything that has transpired here, certainly not the words you speak.”
“Even Thomas believed what he saw.” The Marshall took several steps towards a building adorned with signage identifying it as a mercantile. He crouched, clutched a handful of snow, and he held the snow up and asked, “Do you not see the death you have wrought?”
“Snow,” Cain said. “What I don’t see are innuendos and metaphors.” He stopped backing away and grew exasperated. “A bunch of snow isn’t anything more than snow.”
The Marshall’s expression changed and he brushed his fingers through the flakes of snow in his hand. “Cain,” he said, “This is the blood you have spilled.”
Cain kicked the ground with his left foot, then bent and snatched a handful of snow in his right and threw the loosely packed snow at the Marshall. “It’s snow! There ain’t nothin’ in this town but you, me, and snow.”
Cain continued to back away.
“No, Cain,” The Marshall said. “You would deny your accomplishment?” He brushed his hand on his trouser leg, clearing the snow from his palm, then held his hand up. “This isn’t snow. It is the blood of innocence seeping into the ground. The blood of your sacrificial lamb.”
When the Marshall started to walk towards Cain, he continued to back away but allowed the Marshall to close the distance. When he was within reach, the Marshall extended his snow-flecked glove and touched Cain’s bare hand.
Cain pulled away.
“The blood you spilled is on your hand.” The Marshall looked from Cain to the town. “What a waste that you will not acknowledge your efforts. You have changed since the last time we met.”
“I don’t know you,” Cain seethed and turned away. He walked briskly to Mescaline, mounted him, and guided the horse away from the Marshall. Mescaline cantered away from the Marshall, and away from Liberty.
The Marshall called, “How can God accept this sacrifice? You’ve slaughtered your lamb. Will you not look?”
But Cain ignored him. He wasn’t sure who The Marshall was, or what The Marshall sought to accomplish, but the man’s words started to have an effect. He imagined crimson tinged the snow. He could see red earth, and the townsfolk laid out in morbid repose. Cain refused to believe such insane words and thoughts.
Riding out of Liberty and in pursuit of Genevieve, Cain noticed a dark red smear on his hand where the Marshall touched him. He looked at both hands but didn’t see a cut. He told himself it was only dirt, and coaxed Mescaline onwards.