Ransom

Status
Not open for further replies.


Tarr remained in his coffin for a moment after being pushed into the corner of Boxcar 18. Silence had drenched the room after the sliding door of the train was closed on him. There was no steps or voices, but the man wanted to make sure he wouldn't be on the receiving end of any snags. The whole operation was enough of a gamble. He didn't need to risk any more on the mixed rumors of the dead rising in one of the storage holds. He had almost decided to take his leave when the unmistakable sound of the door assaulted his ears. To his surprise however, the steps that followed were not the heavy boots of the rail workers he was familiar with. This was something else.

“Sh-Should we be in here? We’re supposed to board the train come morning.” The voice was that of the Gunsmith, the same woman who had given him that brick of a revolver the night before. But what was she doing here?

Another pair of footprints echoed lightly within the box, but the sound of the woman's Dog was no where to be heard. John thought on taking his exit with the sound of the familiar voice but decided against it. Until he knew the Identity behind the other pair of feet, he'd stick to playing dead. A good decision considering it wasn't more than a minute before the strained sounds of struggling rattled within the space. “Aint good for much, are you?” The second voice was that of the Hessian. An almost gentle tone echoed from his lips as the exchange took it's course. "Reckon no one'll ask if I say you ran away."

Felicia attempted a scream but it was muffled. The sound was almost lost within the confines of the car much less to anyone lucky enough to hear it outside. Even from within a pine Box, it didn't take a doctor to understand how this exchange would play out. The Irishman considered his options. For a fare bit more than a glancing thought, he considered on leaving the woman to her fate. She was sickly sweet, innocent and far too often stupid. Always giving the damned the benefit of the doubt and ignoring her greater instincts to the tune of good graces. If she were to walk this path, she would have to callus over. If those scars happened sooner rather than later, she might yet survive. "I'm gonna eat you alive..."

Then again, the Hessian might just kill her here and save everyone the witness. After all, who'd believe the testimony of the dead?

Placing a finger along the edges of his teeth, the Irishman tasted blood against the tip of his tongue. The clasp that held the lid was a simple mechanism and it took but a drop of crimson to unbind. The well oiled hinges of the Undertaker's work shifted silently as the box was opened. He had made his decision. The Irishman had enough problems sleeping at night without the prospect of being haunted by something like this. The scarred outlaw cycled the action of his Winchester and leveled it at the head of the Hessian. Unlike the opening of the coffin, the unmistakable chime of the weapon echoed audibly against the confines of the rail car.

"Reckon no one would mind if I put a hole in your face..."
 

<img src=http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l81/Asmodeus1845/Stories/chri.jpg width="150" height="225" align="right" style="padding:5px;">Hal's daddy once told him that in the city of the demons there is one called Mammon. He spends his days upon the hellstone floors of those infernal hallways, licking at the cracks. For though the demon built that city, when Lucifer first commanded him, there nags in Mammon the notion that he might have dropped something, those millennia ago. A coin; a rare metal. And that little gem, for all he knows, might be sitting in the cracks and waiting for discovery.

By this we have the lesson that Hal's father lived by as missionary and drifter: that only fools do not see beyond money.

For the pride of saying he had seen the Stranger up-close, and for the value of a hand-written exorcism to be used on pigs, the undertaker's apprentice had gifted Hal a ticket to Faustus.

A dead man's ticket.

"Ol' Dancy gets invites all the time, on account o' his business," said the boy as he watched the preacher disembark. "But he ain't one for the arts. Most times I use the tickets m'self, but I gotta tell my girl Mary that I seen the Stranger! I reckon she won't be holdin' back on embracing me tonight!"

Hal's deadpan stare met the boy's grin as the ticket was handed over. "Be sure you make an honest woman outta her, boy."

Remembering himself, the apprentice lowered his head and took up the reins. "Why, surely so Preacher. I didn't mean nothin' like that."

A smile tugged, unseen, at the corner of Hal's face. "Be on with yer."

The wagon rolled away, with the boy tucking the pig exorcism instructions down his shirt. And as the dust cleared it revealed the Zeus Theatre once more. The three arched columns still hung with posters, which flapped like ashen tatters, stirring memories of his nightmare. The burning man, amidst the pyre. The pediment, where the word ZEUS was carved in marble, seemed almost to glint with the vestige of flame.

But Hal was not looking at it. His gaze was fixed back down the road from whence he came. The train yard, where he had shipped Six Fingers Tarr off to his fate. The Preacher wondered how the man was faring - how hot and starved of air he had become in that death-box, how dark his eyes had drowned, and what fears were plucking at his heart. In his years of travelling the Preacher had seldom stopped to meditate on the bodily pain of others. His was the business of the heart and soul. But what should men like Tarr, so clear in conscience, feel when the body is consigned to torment? Does it touch them so? Do they feel as the god-fearing and civilian, or is agony itself a notion sharpened in the weak of heart?

He hoped Nathan was not suffering. His son felt things so sharply. He always had.

And so the Preacher, Half-Cut Hal, was stood within a reaper's triangle. Beyond him the devil's dancer Johnny Tarr was rattling through the unknown in a coffin. Behind him the theatre was like a mausoleum holding ghosts and fire-phantoms. And somewhere... far from here... his son was captive to uncertain fate.

Paths of life and death. A pilgrim's tightrope.

He joined the last of the queues, handed over the dead man's ticket, and within five minutes was seated at the back of the theatre, settling as the curtain lifted.

 
The Stranger did not answer right away. Both men knew one another well enough to recognize a lie when they heard it. Lies were the only thing Stranger's tongue told when it moved too fast too soon. Rushing honesty with threats only worked on those who feared death. For a man who had died more than once. . . that fear had long since passed away. Along with quite a hefty amount of his humanity. Although the thought of twenty men gunning him down at once certainly sounded like a worthy test of his abilities. In the end, truth only came with trust in time from such a hardened killer. Unfortunately the days when he trusted Crow were more than likely in the past.

"Artists from all around painting my portrait, eh? How much is one of them going for these days? I'd wager you got one hanging on your wall at home if they're that popular."

Changing the subject was nothing new to either of them. Anyone with eyes could see the bandaged gunslinger was wasting time. Or buying it for someone else. Not many instances of him just shooting the breeze ever came to pass and old acquaintances were no exception. The fact he was spouting nonsense made it all the more obvious. Something that would make Crow nervous in his weakened state given his experiences with the Stranger's cunning. For a reason that most men would not imagine, the Stranger tried to recall where the wanted board in St. Clare was located. After all those things were subject to movement. Years had passed since his last visit to the town that had his memories resting in an open grave. Silence enveloped them until he recalled seeing it on his way into town before all the trouble started. At last he decided to talk again before his captor chose to send him into a cell.

"A group of seven is too big for my tastes, Crow. Hardly enough room to draw a pistol without bumping into somebody. I'm just passing through town. But if you're hungry for me to confess a sin I guess I've got one for you."

Spurs jingled with every step he took closer to the desk, stopping just close enough that his voice could stay nice and low.

"I found a girl all on her own on the way here. Just her and a mutt. Told me her father was killed by Blackheart. So I gave her a ride to the nearest town. Just so happens it was yours. You going to arrest me the one day I choose to have a heart?"
 
“Sh-Should we be in here?” Felicia asked Hessian, swallowing the lump that had suddenly lodged its way into her throat. “We’re supposed to board the train come morning.” The sound of Macguiver howling outside made her even more nervous. She knew there was something wrong here...something horribly wrong.

Felicia could not see the Hessian, but she could smell him. It did not do her much good, as she blindly felt around for the exit, squeaking in fright when he curled his fingers through her short black hair. It was almost instantly that his disgusting hand covered her mouth, stinging her lips with his calloused digits. A horrible, primal shreik muffled into his dirt stained palm as the young womans hands and legs burst with a panicked energy, wasting away as she met his hardened body and recoiled.
To her own thigh, her hand retreated, only to be pulled away and smashed agianst the side of the box car. Her gun was sent to the floor with a heart dropping thump, finally sparking the reaction of tears.

Once more she tried to kick him, this time between the legs, but nothing happened. The Hessian was determined and so seemed his body.

“Aint good for much, are you? Reckon no one'll ask if I say you ran away..." Felicia felt her knees weaken, shaking with a fear that she had never know before. She wished so badly to feel the cold steel of her gun between her fingers, so she could fight back, do something to get free.

“I’m gonna eat you alive.”

The gunsmith sobbed into his hand, easily giving up to what fate had left her with, hearing nothing but the creaking of the car, her dog barking and the sound of her own clothing being torn from her body.

As if she were temorarily deafend, the girl jumped when she suddenly realized they were not alone. Not only that but the Hessian had a gun to his head. Was it the Stanger? The man who had stood up for her before and offered to ride with her? No...It was the Irishman.

"Reckon no one would mind if I put a hole in your face..."
There was no time for thank you's, it was only silence.
 
Status
Not open for further replies.