Middle Ground - Chapter 1

Middle Ground - Chapter 1

Chapter 1
[Dirty And Left Out]

“…You’d be well advised not to plan my funeral ‘fore the body dies.”
-[Alice In Chains]

There was sand in his boots. But then, that was always the case, wasn’t it?

The town wasn’t large, consisting of roughly a dozen buildings and a tall water tower, but it wasn’t abandoned. Lights had flickered on in a few windows as sunlight began to fade, and he’d seen a few indistinct forms moving across the main street. As was common in towns in the middle of nowhere, it wasn’t paved.

He found himself standing in the middle of the main street extending to the edge of town, reveling in his first sign of civilization in hours. A small, out-of-the-way, very, very rural civilization—but after spending days walking through a desert, he’d take whatever he could get.

The desert wasn’t a sandy, dune-covered desert. It was a barren wasteland dotted with rocks and hills and mesas, coated with a thin layer of dust and sand. Blazing red surrounded the town as far as the eye could see. It wasn’t called the Bloodlands for nothing. Everything was red; dust, rocks, even the sky. The dust, especially, was everywhere. It coated his thick, heavy boots and the hem of his coat, which trailed a scant inch or so above the ground. He’d seen entire business dedicated to cleansing clothes of nothing but red dust. The more dust on the clothing, the harder it was to get out.

He sighed, breathing a thin cloud of smoke from his mouth, a black pipe clenched between his lips. Stepping forward he began to make his way into town, his movements slow and leisurely. Wind rushed past him, swirling around him and hurling more dust and gritty sand at him as if angry that he dare interrupt its flow, but other than the gusts his boots made the only sound. He’d cinched a number of leather bootstraps around both of his boots, and their large silver buckles clinked loosely together with every step he took.

As he walked he took in his surroundings. The structures were all brick, square and block-like. Without the help of Ethereals, it was easiest to construct buildings from brick. Most of the buildings he saw were homes. Some of them were duplexes, each set on a separate floor, and others were smaller apartments, with separate rooms throughout. There was a large saloon in the middle of town, and judging from the lights dotting a few windows on the second floor he guessed that it had rooms for rent. The building next to it was the general store, still open, and next to that was the post office, town hall, and other small places of business that most other little towns like this possessed.

But the last building he noticed was partially hidden behind all of the others, distinguished only by the prominent cross that rose from its slanted wedge-shaped roof. A church. He was gladder for the sight of that single building than any of the others.

Curious eyes peered out at him from a few of the windows, and the few people walking the streets turned to give him peculiar glances. He kept his head down and didn’t meet anyone’s gaze. He didn’t want trouble, but a tall man carrying a katana probably didn’t exactly portray the essence of goodwill. The bullet-filled gun belts crisscrossing his hips probably didn’t help either.

He seemed a prime candidate for heat exhaustion, clothed in all manner of layered black clothing; hat, jeans, boots, collared shirt, buttoned vest—all black. Worn over it all was a heavy, dark canvas duster, with a long mantle that reached almost to his elbows. It was a wonder the man was standing at all, seeing as the only thing he wore that wasn’t black was a red bandana tied around his neck.

But those waiting for him to collapse would be sorely disappointed. He wasn’t uncomfortable in the least. He couldn’t feel the sweltering heat of the desert, a handy quirk if one was going to be traversing through one.

He was almost always thirsty, though, which seemed a decent exchange for heat immunity. Unfortunately his water flask wasn’t bottomless, and he’d emptied it a few hours ago. Of course, that was where his apples came in handy. They were the next best thing. But now that he’d reached a town, he wouldn’t need them for a while.

Hopefully the townspeople weren’t unpleasant to outsiders. He’d visited more than a few of those kinds of towns, but he could never understand the mindset. Being stuck in a tiny town in the middle of the desert with thirty other people, he would have thought they’d welcome as many new faces as they could get.

He heard horses whinnying from somewhere nearby. There must be a stable here. If affordable, a horse would greatly improve his traveling pace. But he would look into that tomorrow. This was as far as he went, tonight. Walking through a desert tended to wear your legs out some, heat or no heat.

Heading in the direction of the church he strode past the saloon, peering into its open door and windows from behind dark, reflective sunglasses. The establishment was already housing a decent number of patrons, and he suspected it would see more by the time he got around to visiting it. What else was there to do around small towns at night besides get drunk?

A few faces turned to stare back at him as he passed, some scowling, others looking intrigued. Even as he pulled the brim of his hat lower and kept walking, he felt their eyes on him until he moved out of view of the windows. His tattered rucksack hung from his right shoulder, bumping against his back as he walked. His right hand, clad in a black fingerless glove, kept a firm hold on the scabbard of the sword he carried, a katana more than three feet long. The left sleeve of his duster flapped limply in the wind, empty.

His pack and his sword were all he carried besides the clothes on his back. They were all he needed. He’d learned not to carry much when he began wandering. Beside the fact that carrying too much would tire him out quickly, it drew more attention in towns and cities. Out here, “attention” was the last thing he wanted, for more reasons than he could count.

Unfortunately, he was the type to attract attention no matter what. His skin was dark, through no fault of the sun’s, a soft almond brown, and his black hair was worn long all the way to the small of his back. He kept it out of the way in a long ponytail, though shorter strands of hair hung over his face in unkempt disarray. Even he had to admit he wasn’t the kind of person you saw every day.

The lowering sun behind him cast a long shadow before him, as if attempting to warn any unsuspecting citizens of his coming. How many times had the sun set at his back? It should have been a familiar view by now, because one way or another, no matter how aimlessly he wandered, he eventually ended up traveling east again. Yet oddly, it still seemed such a foreign direction to him.

The church he came across was not large, and seemed to be abandoned. Some of the windows lining the outsides were broken or cracked, and the interior was dark. He stopped for a moment, looking the structure over. It held an aura opposite the one most churches usually possessed. This building was dark, unwelcoming, almost malicious, highlighted in the red glow of the evening sun. One came to a church like this for condemnation, not salvation.

Perfect.

He tucked his sword under his arm as he approached the double wooden doors and pulled on the handles. They were locked, but that rarely stopped him. He glanced around for anyone who might be in sight, but the church was behind most of the other buildings. Obviously no one traversed this area much.

Which meant he harbored no qualms as he reared back his foot and slammed the heel of his boot into one of the doors near the handle. The door splintered loudly away from the frame, and he was quick to step inside, shutting the battered door behind him in case someone had heard the noise. He waited a minute, parting the door a hairsbreadth to peer through the crack just to be sure, but no one came. Satisfied, he shut the door again all the way. He hadn’t completely broken the door, so his entry wouldn’t be noticeable from outside unless someone came within a few feet of it. He turned around, surveying the inside of the church.

The light streamed in dimly through the small windows, highlighted shafts of light in which dust particles drifted lazily through the air. The church wasn’t extraordinarily big, but its slanted ceiling was high, and the aisle before him stretched toward the altar at the front of the sanctuary. The rows of pews on either side were old, neglected, many of them covered in dust and dead bugs.

His hollow footsteps and the jingle of his bootstraps broke the stifling silence as he began making his way down the aisle, removing the sword from under his arm. He glanced up at the dirty white cross hanging on the front wall, staring at the once splendorous symbol of faith. A pulpit stood behind the small altar, and as he approached it he saw that it was merely a small table with some candles, a ragged Book, and a tithing plate.

He set his sword down upon a pew in the front row, shrugging the rucksack off of his shoulder and tossing it down as well. Smoke drifted from his mouth to join the dust floating in the air. He reached into the pocket of his jeans, and after a moment of rummaging he pulled out a single transparent coin, a symbol glowing on either side, and flicked it into the tithing plate with a clink.

“So, long time no see, huh?” His deep voice seemed to fill the once-quiet sanctuary, the silence that had permeated the air making practically any sound seem loud. He reached up to remove the hat from his head and then sat down on the pew beside his things, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Course, no one ever really sees Ya, do they? I think Ya should work on Yer public image a tad.”

He plucked the pipe from his mouth, tapping its tip against his chin. The thing wasn’t actually lit at all, yet wisps of thin smoke still curled from the corners of his mouth even as he spoke. He couldn’t do much about it, but he kept the pipe in his mouth in the hopes that no one noticed. Unless you were actually smoking something, constantly spewing smoke from your lungs didn’t constitute as an everyday occurrence.

“You remember me, dontcha?” He glanced up at the cross as he spoke in his rustic drawl, crossing one ankle over the other. “Brigg, y’know? We ain’t spoken in ages, so I weren’t sure.” He cocked his head to the side thoughtfully, glancing at the ceiling. “Course, ain’t like Ya never say nothin’ anyways, so I guess it’s jus’ me speakin’. Which is fine wit’ me.” If anyone should have happened to peer into a window to witness the one-sided conversation, he would have appeared quite mad. Maybe he was.

“So how are Ya? Yer all-powerful, so’s I’m guessin’ pretty damn good.” He flashed pearly teeth for a moment before his expression sobered again. “Me, I’m… doin’ as well as can be expected, I guess. Don’t expect Ya think much o’ me, but then ain’t shit I can do ‘bout that.” He coughed once, a raspy, grating sound, and pounded on his chest with a fist to knock it out. “Lookit me, cussin’ all up in Yer house ‘n all… Sorry fer the smoke too. I’d put it out if’n I could.” He shrugged helplessly, and was silent for a second or two. “Actually, no… No, I wouldn’t.”

Craning his head back, he rested it on the back of his pew and stared at the ceiling, sighing heavily and stroking the rough stubble covering his jaw. “Where should I start this, huh? I never know how t’ begin.” He tapped his foot loudly, throwing his arm over the back of the pew, simply sitting for a few silent minutes, breathing smoke out into the air. If not for the movement of his foot he might have seemed as if he were asleep. “Sixteen… No, seventeen.” He stopped tapping his foot. “Since last time. I done killed seventeen people.”

Voices drifted in from outside, causing him to lift his head from the pew and glance over his shoulder at the church doors. The voices came from behind them, hushed and urgent. A normal person wouldn’t have been able to pick it out. But he was lucky that he was far from normal. Through the crack he’d splintered near the handle he could make out dark shapes blocking out the sunlight from outside. Movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention, and he shifted his eyes in time to catch a vague figure disappearing from one of the broken windows. This didn’t bode well.

Brigg stood to his feet, slipping the pipe into his duster pocket and grabbing the katana beside him. He brought it to the belt around his waist and buckled it there with practiced dexterity, until he was able to let it hang freely at his right side. Resting his hand on the weapon, he turned his eyes to the doors and stepped out into the aisle, waiting there in silence.

He didn’t have long to wait. There was a rasp of steel and then the door he’d kicked in swung slowly open. Three men cautiously entered the dark church with swords drawn, immediately spotting him standing boldly in the aisle. Two of the men were large, both several inches over six feet. One, sporting a crew cut and a sleeveless shirt, was heavily tattooed on his arms and neck, and the other was bald with a prominent nose.

The third man was the smallest of the room’s occupants, shorter even than Brigg’s six feet and an odd inch, but he carried himself with such a confidence as to seem almost as large as his two companions. The shorter man was neither arrogant nor prideful, but merely aware. He strode into the sanctuary like someone who believed they were in control, who believed that they had absolute power over the outcomes of their situation. With a head of curly brown hair and a boyish face, he didn’t appear very intimidating, but the manner in which he walked told Brigg everything about him.

Brigg met the man’s calculating blue eyes while the two other men pounded their fists together with a smirk and spread out to the edges of the room, slowly advancing. Brigg kept tabs on them but his attention remained on the one in front. He remembered seeing these three through the windows of the saloon as he’d passed. He hadn’t thought that anyone in this lonesome town would recognize him.

“Evenin’,” the smaller man called to him, his voice laced with a light Irish accent. He sounded almost cheerful, but his face betrayed no such expression. He wielded a pointed shortsword, a gladius, in his right hand, handling it with the ease of someone practiced in its use. His two companions held longswords, but judging from their grips they seemed somewhat amateurish.

Receiving only a brief nod of acknowledgement from Brigg, the Irishman continued. “I trust ye know why we’re ‘ere.”

Brigg heaved an exasperated smoke-filled sigh, tilting his head to one side. “You religious types are strict… It’s the smoke, right? Is it the smoke? ‘Cause look, I’m sorry, but I really can’t put it out.”

The Irishman snorted. “Oh, a funnyman, are ye? Clever… but no.” He stopped only a few pews away from Brigg, as the other two men reached the front and halted on either side of Brigg, boxing him in. “You’re Brigadier Mortensen, no?”

Brigg tapped a finger on his sword impatiently. “It’s Brigg. An’ I don’ take autographs.”

The two large men chuckled, but the Irishman didn’t grace that particular comment with a reply, to Brigg’s disappointment. “Never thought I’d see the Arsonist ‘imself in a backwater dump like this, eh? Much less that I’d be the one t’ bring ‘im in.”

Brigg regarded him evenly. “They ain’t proved nothin’, yet, y’know. An’ the jury’s still out on that second one, Seamus.”

“Seamus” narrowed his eyes slightly, and his eyebrow twitched. “Is it, now? Way I see’s it, we got ye outnumbered, Mr. Mortensen. An’ cornered t’ boot. How convenient of ye t’ siddown ‘n wait for us outta the way where no one else can see.”

Brigg shrugged. “Numbers ain’t everythin’.” He gripped his sword’s scabbard and pressed a thumb against the circular guard, pushing it out slightly and loosening it from the scabbard. “I ain’t got on the most wanted list by fartin’ in public, bud.”

“We been at this four years,” the Irishman replied. “We’ve taken on all kinds, even an Arcanus. We Gifted ain’t nothin’ t’ be laughed at. Together, ain’t a mark alive escaped from us once we set our sights on ‘em.” He didn’t sound particularly prideful, but more like he was simply reciting facts. Brigg believed him. But he was more than a simple statistic.

“Sorry t’ put an’ end t’ yer streak, then,” Brigg said, moving his hand from the scabbard to the hilt. “You’d ‘ave a hard time of it even if you were usin’ yer guns.” The men all wore firearms holstered at their hips, but showed no signs of reaching for them.

“I’d prefer this t’ be quick ‘n quiet. Folks hear gunblasts goin’ off, they’re bound to investigate. An’ I won’t ‘ave wit' someone tryin’ t’ steal our bounty.” The Irishman raised his gladius and stared at it fondly, turning it as light dazzled over the blade. “I’d say the three o’ us’ll manage jus’ fine, what with yer missin’ arm ‘n all. Hadn’t heard ye’d lost it, y’know. Got careless, did ye?”

“Why dontcha jus’ try yer luck?” Brigg gripped the hilt of the katana, drawing it slowly from its scabbard. The curved blade, at least three feet long, was black save for the silver razor edge, which gleamed as it caught a stray beam of light from the windows. The sword was of Japanese make, or so he’d been told. He held it loosely at his side, spacing his feet apart in a relaxed but alert posture. “An’ I’ll show ya how ‘careless’ I am.”

The first signs of a smile graced the Irishman’s face, and he lowered himself into a relaxed stance, holding the gladius in front of him. “If we’re lucky, ye’ll only lose yer other arm. Yer only worth ‘alf as much dead.”

“Aw, I’d hate t’ cheat ya outta yer money’s worth.”

The two large men on either side of Brigg, whom he’d dubbed Crewcut and Baldie, clasped their weapons in both hands, taking a few shuffling steps closer. Brigg eyed both of them cautiously, a smirk playing on his face. He waited a few silent moments, but no one made a move.

Crewcut spoke up at last. “You want first go, man?” Unlike his partner his voice held only a slight rural drawl.

Baldie shrugged. “Nah, go ahead.”

“You sure? I bagged the last one.”

“Eh, it’s fine. You need the practice anyway, softie.”

“Psh, whatever.” Crewcut turned his head to the Irishman. “How ‘bout you, ‘Seamus’?”

“Call me that again, I’ll feckin’ gouge yer eyes out.”

Brigg chuckled and flashed a cocky grin. All eyes rested on him. And then he darted to his left without warning.

He closed the distance between him and the tattooed man in a single brief moment, the startling swiftness causing the man to strike out at him defensively. As Crewcut swung the double-edged longsword at his head Brigg ducked under it, slashing at the man’s exposed belly. A “normal” human wouldn’t have had the reflexes to avoid the attack and likely would have been killed. But as the Irishman had stated earlier, like Brigg, these men weren’t normal. They were Gifted.

Crewcut hadn’t swung with his full strength like an amateur might have, and was able to recover from his miss fast enough to tip the point of his sword towards the floor and catch Brigg’s incoming blade, a speed belying the size and apparent weight of his weapon. Both swords connected loudly, stopping momentarily, and then Crewcut pushed Brigg’s katana away forcefully.

Brigg pivoted on his left foot and swiftly spun to his left, briefly revealing his back to his opponent as he brought his blade around to attempt to score a hit from Crewcut’s opposite side. But he was blocked from that side as well, and he could see that Seamus and Baldie were both rushing in his direction.

Quickly he shifted and thrust his shoulder into Crewcut’s torso, knocking him off-balance, and then breaking away to the side he stepped up onto the foremost pew nearby, avoiding Seamus and Baldie by leaping from the back of the pew and clearing three entire rows before landing hard on a pew four rows back. His momentum nearly tipped the pew over.

“I got ‘im.” As he steadied himself atop the pew he saw that Baldie had followed his example and jumped from the front row of pews, already hurtling through the air at him, his sword raised and mouth open in a rumbling bellow. There wasn’t much time to move aside, and Brigg raised his sword above his head as the man came down on the fallen pew in front of him. Though he’d bent his knees to absorb as much of the attack as possible the inhuman power behind the strike sent shivers through Brigg’s arm, forcing his sword back a few inches, and the wood of the pew beneath his feet cracked from the force, the long bench buckling.

He was straining slightly as Baldie leaned into him, putting more pressure on his sword with a sneer. But only slightly. He gathered power in his arm and legs and shoved forward, surprising Baldie with a sudden burst of strength and shoving him backward with one sweep of his sword. As their blades disengaged Brigg slashed the katana at Baldie’s face, and while the hook-nosed man blocked the attack he was thrown off-balance by it and tumbled backwards from the pew.

He heard the Irishman laugh briefly. “Nice one, ye clumsy oaf.”

With Seamus and Crewcut hopping over the pews and closing in, Brigg ran sideways along the broken pew and hopped over the aisle to the next row, his empty sleeve flapping as his duster trailed behind him.

He heard eager footsteps pursuing him, which was exactly what he wanted. He kept moving forward to the end of the pew, leaping up and planting a foot on the wall for a moment and then turning and pushing off in a short jump that sent him into the air heading back in the opposite direction.

“Watch it!” he heard Baldie caution one of his comrades. But it was too late.

He saw that Crewcut was closest to him, coming to a stop on the pew as he saw Brigg coming down at him. Brigg swung his sword down, and though it was blocked the momentum he’d gained added to the blow’s power and was enough to swat the longsword aside and throw Crewcut off for a split-second. And that was all he needed.

He jabbed the hilt of his sword into Crewcut’s nose, snapping his head back, and then impaled him, the blade stabbing through his midsection and up into his chest. Crewcut stiffened with a grunt, and as Brigg pulled the blade out, the large man clasped a hand over the hole in his abdomen, a pained expression on his face as he took a step towards Brigg and toppled over onto the floor. Brigg flicked drops of blood from his blade and gave the man one last somber glance. Eighteen.

Baldie let out a strangled cry, tripping over himself and bracing himself against a pew while the Irishman stumbled to a stop in the aisle. Together they stared blankly at the fresh corpse lying on the floor beside Brigg, blood pooling beneath it. They froze, gawking in silence, a mix of pain and anger written on their faces. But Brigg was neither patient nor courteous, and he didn’t plan on giving them time to grieve.

He ran along the pew towards the aisle, his eyes on Seamus. The Irishman saw him and took a step back as he prepared to meet the advance, but Baldie roared in furious rage and stood to his feet, rushing out into the aisle and attacking Brigg. Brigg jumped aside, leaving Baldie’s longsword to bite into the wooden bench as he landed in the aisle a few feet away.

Seamus rushed at him, murder written on his face as Baldie wrenched his sword out of the pew, eyes moistening with tears. Brigg almost felt sorry for them. He batted aside a thrust from Seamus’ gladius and then parried two more slashes. Seamus fought like a fencer, wielding his sword with one hand and darting in for swift attacks—but he was overzealous. As he lunged in for another thrust Brigg moved aside and let him pass, and then kicked him in the back to send him stumbling.

Hearing Baldie’s approach Brigg turned and intercepted a powerful blow from the man, this time stumbling to one side, unprepared for its force. His thigh bumped into a pew, and he recovered in time to jump backwards onto it and avoid Baldie’s blade. It sunk nearly halfway into the back of the pew. Yelling out loud again, Baldie shoved at the pew with his foot and pulled his sword free to go at Brigg again.

The cowboy could tell that Baldie was attempting to reign in his anger, but it wasn’t quite working. His ferocious attacks gouged chunks from the pew, driving Brigg back along it as he did his best to avoid them, but they were also sloppy. The large man was crying, losing his composure, and it was only a matter of time before he dropped his guard entirely. And when he did, when he blinked his eyes shut to rid them of the tears clouding his vision, Brigg was ready.

Brigg hopped back to avoid the next careless swing and brought his boot down on the flat of Baldie’s sword as it came down, pinning the blade. From there it was a simple matter to whip the edge of his katana over the man’s neck, slicing open his throat. Baldie placed a hand over the gash as if trying to staunch the wound, blood seeping between his fingers. He stumbled unsteadily, eyes staring at nothing, and collapsed face down on the floor. He twitched for a few moments, and then was still. Nineteen.

Brigg stepped down from the pew, bending over to wipe his sword off on the back of Baldie’s jacket. He’d long since shut off the emotional part of his mind since the beginning of the fight, locking it away behind closed doors in a dark corner of his brain. Killing was never pretty, and unless one wanted to gradually whittle away their sanity they had to be able to control their emotions if they killed a lot. He’d learned that the hard way. Unfortunately for Baldie, it seemed that he hadn’t.

He heard the click of a revolver’s hammer being cocked, an insignificant sound that nonetheless seemed to bring time itself to a screeching halt. When he stood again he found Seamus standing at the front of the church, leveling a handgun at him. The pain and emotion on his face was gone, replaced with a cold emptiness. His moistened eyes betrayed him, but he kept his face blank.

Brigg stared at him for a moment, his eyes obscured by the lenses of his sunglasses. The small Irishman stared back. The cowboy began to walk down the row toward the aisle, and Seamus didn’t stop him. When Brigg did step out into the center aisle the two men faced each other boldly, staring the other down in silence for a long while. Brigg noticed Seamus’ gun hand give an occasional twitch, but he doubted that it was out of fear.

“We gonna wrap this up?” Brigg asked quietly after one or two minutes had passed. “I got things t’ do, y’know.”

Anger flashed across Seamus’ face again, and his finger tightened on the trigger of the gun for a brief moment. “Shut up.” He took a step forward, aiming the gun right between Brigg’s eyes. “They were brothers… The closest two friends I’ve ever ‘ad…” He shook his head slowly, narrowing his eyes at the cowboy.

Brigg didn’t move. “I ain’t started this, pal.”

“No, I did!” the Irishman growled. “We did… An’ I’ll bloody well finish it! I should shoot you right ‘ere, bounty money be damned.”

Brigg sighed, smoke drifting from his nostrils. “Look… I’m sorry. All right?”

The Irishman bared his teeth. “Sorry?? You’re an outlaw! The most wanted man on the planet! Why in the nine ‘ells would you be sorry? About any o’ this??”

Brigg lowered his head, laughing quietly. “I ain’t proud o’ everythin’ I done. Most of it… but not all of it. You wouldn’t unnerstand. But…” He gestured behind him with his sword, pointing to the spot where Crewcut lay. “I’m sorry fer that.” He turned his arm and pointed at Baldie’s body off to the side. “Sorry fer that.” He looked up at Seamus over the top of his glasses, and a golden glow emanated from behind the darkened lenses. “An’ I’m sorry fer this.”

A shot rang out, loud and abrupt, but it wasn’t the Irishman’s gun that had fired it. Instead the Irishman jerked back, blood already spreading from the hole in his chest, and he fell to the floor on his back with a look of shock on his face. Brigg didn’t move, watching the dying man as his chest heaved erratically. His mouth worked and tried to speak, but aside from wheezing breaths no words were formed.

Seamus lifted his head as high as he could, his arm moving as he attempted to lift his gun and fire. He pulled the trigger, but the shot missed, punching through a pew to Brigg’s left. His finger attempted to pull the trigger again but the gun slipped from his weakening grasp, clattering to the floor. Defeated, the Irishman then lay his head back and stared up at the ceiling, and Brigg stood and watched until the rise and fall of the small man’s chest slowed and then—stopped.

When silence reigned over the sanctuary once more, Brigg stepped forward and strode over to the body, bootstraps clinking together. He stared at the face of the man he’d dubbed “Seamus”, burning the image into his memory as best he could. It wasn’t too hard. The man had been crying as he died.

Brigg didn’t blame him. Death was a simple concept to grasp, until you were the one knocking on it’s door. It takes a hell of a person to be strong at that moment, to not fear what lay ahead. But somehow, Brigg doubted that the man had been crying for himself. He’d shed tears for the two companions who’d gone before him.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…

Brigg spun his katana around in his hand and slipped it slowly into its scabbard again, the movement fluid and familiar. He dug into his pocket to retrieve the unlit pipe and place it back in his mouth, and then shoved open the left side of his coat to reveal his other arm that wasn’t really missing at all. He often hid it inside his duster, resting within a loop on the coat’s interior almost like a sling, supporting the arm and at the same time keeping the coat from swinging open and revealing the deception. Never underestimate the element of surprise.

He freed the unused arm and rotated his shoulder to work a few kinks out of it. His left hand gripped the handle of the silver .45 Flyleaf revolver he usually carried holstered at his left hip. The gun was one of the first he’d ever owned. It was the weapon that had shot the Irishman from within Brigg’s duster. The poor man probably hadn’t even had a clue what had hit him.

Brigg strode over to a window looking out onto the town and peered through it, “breaking” the gun in half to reveal the cylinder. The streets were dim as the last light faded away, the sun already beneath the horizon. He was ready to make a hasty escape should anyone show up to investigate the gunshots. But he saw nothing. No one. Loud music drifted over to his ears from the saloon, and he was guessing that everyone was there. He sighed—It was just as well.

Brigg removed the single spent bullet shell from his gun chamber and dropped it to the floor, reaching to his gun belt for another bullet to replace it. After placing it into the chamber he flipped it closed and twirled the gun in his hand before slipping it back into its holster. Familiar actions in a familiar setting. It was strangely relaxing. He walked back over to the front pew that he’d placed his stuff in, heaving yet another sigh.

“I got sand in my boots…” he muttered aloud, as if it were the most reasonable thought for him to voice given the ordeal he’d just been through. He paused for a moment, attempting to regain the train of thought he’d been on before the interruption, and then did a brief bit of math in his head. “Twenny.” He turned to regard the cross hanging at the front of the church. “That’s twenny men I done killed since last time… Bounty hunters, most all of ‘em. Lookin’ fer money, fame… maybe justice, some o’ the righteous ones.”

He began to slowly pace the length of the pew, head bowed. “A few bad seeds among ‘em, sure… but most of ‘em was good folk. They ain’t deserved t’ die, y’know? Jus’ folk tryin’ t’ make a livin’, same as the rest of us. I’m sorry I had to… Simon pure. But it was either me or them. An’ I can’t die… Not yet.”

He took the pipe out of his mouth and began to fiddle with it again, almost nervously. He sounded exasperated, tired. “So’s I’m askin’… Give ‘em a bit o’ consideration, y’know? Think on it ‘fore ya goes ‘n sends ‘em off t’ hell or wherever. They ain’t bad folk… I knows it. Only bad folk’s the one folk what killed ‘em.” The cowboy stopped pacing, looking over at the dead Irishman lying in front of the altar, still leaking blood. “I mean, lookit ‘im… All torn up ‘n whatnot. I hope he’s wit’ ‘is two buddies right now… wherever ‘e is. I surely do.”

Brigg snatched up his sack from the pew, hefting it back onto his shoulder. He slipped his left arm back into the sling, hiding it beneath his coat once more, and then grabbed his black hat. He placed it back on his head, drawing the brim low again, and glanced up at the cross one last time. “May not mean much, comin’ from me, but… give it some thought, will ya?” Sticking the pipe back in his mouth he turned away and began to walk down the aisle to the doors. “At the least I hope someone finds these fellers… Gives ‘em a proper burial.”

He gave a lazy wave over his shoulder as he walked away, leaving a scene of desolation behind him—blood-stained floors, broken pews, and three dead bodies amidst the ruin of what once was sacred. “Maybe next time we talk… I’ll ‘ave somethin’ good t’ say fer myself.”

He shoved the broken church door open and didn’t bother closing it behind him, walking back out into the dusty town streets. The saloon was his next destination, a place of joviality and blissful ignorance induced by alcohol and the close company of others—a stark contrast to his most recent engagement. Killing left a bad taste in his mouth. But then, that was always the case, wasn’t it?