Death sighed, the most sympathetic noise Jacob had heard from it yet. “Do not blame the beast for its function, son of Adam. You would have brought it anywhere. New Damascus was just unlucky.”
Jacob felt his legs give, and he only managed to save face by clinging onto his horse's mane. The beast didn't seem to mind the pulling, snorting hot air against his face. Famine suddenly broke from the other riders, trotting over and grasping Jacob's arm. With an impossible strength, that felt completely effortless, he pulled Jacob up into the saddle. He hissed, “Do not fight it, preacher.”
Jacob sat atop his horse and felt stronger. Taller. Unlike before, he now felt completely at ease with his horse, who seemed to move and shift underneath him like it could read his mind. The other riders looked on with approval, and Jacob nodded at them.
“Welcome, brother,” Death said, gathering his reigns in a triumphant swoop.
Jacob smiled. “Thank you, brother. I wait only for when you collect me.”
His reigns clutched firmly in his hand, Jacob suddenly dug his knees into his horse and it trumpeted and leapt forward. Its hooves thundering into the ground, Jacob pressed himself flat against its neck and urged it forward, faster. He heard the angry, bestial screams of horse and riders behind him, but the wind was already sweeping him away, outrunning Death. The desert swallowed him up and hid him amongst the swirling sand and never ending horizon.
***
“I’ve been searching for the end of that story. I’ve heard a couple. Some would tell you the riders caught him and forever he rides behind with a chain around his hands binding him to death. Others will say he’s still out there, the American desert his hiding place and he roams like a ghost.”
The man struck a match across the saloon counter, lighting a cigarette before crushing the match underfoot. His face was mostly hidden underneath his wide-brimmed hat. The saloon owner stared at him rapt, hanging onto his every word.
“There’s at least one man, an Apache chief no less, who’ll tell you he’s seen him out in the desert. And all the preacher man wants now is a way to get back his death. Strange things follow him around in the desert too, because he can’t help the way he is. He’s marked. Like Cain. I think he might have a different purpose than that, but that’s as far as the story goes.”
The saloon owner absently wiped his counter, still staring at the stranger with wide eyes. He leaned across the counter and whispered, “And he can’t never die?”
The stranger shrugged, amused. “So they say. There may be a secret to it…one with no answers yet, stamped on a bullet he always keeps near his chest.” He drained the last of the whisky in his glass and placed it down in front of the saloon owner, gesturing for it to be filled again. “So…do you know any men around here who might be able to tell me how this story ends?”
The saloon owner poured the last of the bottle into the stranger’s glass. “I sell bottles and stop fights over card games. I wouldn’t know too much about ghosts.”
The stranger took a long drag on his cigarette, the ash glowing red and the light almost reaching up to his eyes. “Heard this town had some trouble a little while back. Man went and carved out his own eyes with his hunting knife…right here in this saloon.”
The saloon owner’s face darkened and he gripped the stranger’s arm, pulling him in closer and hissed, “Where did you hear that?”
The stranger stared levelly back with eyes that reflected no light. “I’ve been following a trail of some dark misfortunes that aren’t fit for telling. So far, they’ve lead me here.”
The saloon owner hastily let go of his arm and began to wipe his counter again, distracted. He sighed, but lowered his voice so that they couldn’t be heard over the din of the saloon. “I might have heard a story similar to yours. Only it ain’t New Damascus I heard of. A different town, near a river. Same kind of troubles, only it was a farm hand who hung himself from his barn and woke up three days later even with his neck snapped. They say he roams around now, hiding himself in fields like a scarecrow. There’s a whole slew of towns now that talk about a walking scarecrow. Cattle dying, wells drying up for no reason and hail as big as your head.”
The stranger’s cigarette sat motionless between his lips, his eyes glowing out from under his hat. Drawing out a tendril of smoke, he asked, “What’s the name of that town?”
“Antioch. It ain’t around anymore.” The saloon owner poured himself a drink and quickly knocked it back. “You a bounty hunter or something? That sound like your preacher man?”
The stranger threw his butt to the ground and crushed it underfoot. “No, it doesn’t. He isn’t a preacher anymore. And I think the last thing he wants is someone else drawing the attention of the riders.”
The saloon owner looked cautiously at him, but still couldn’t make out a face from underneath the hat. The stranger threw down a wad of bills and got up from his stool. He bowed his head, lifting his hat from his crown for a brief second where a small crater-like scar adorned each of his temples.
Whistling to himself, he passed through the doors of the saloon, swallowed up by the bright noonday sun.
END
Thank you for taking the time to read my book! The story continues in The Fifth Rider: Antioch, which will be coming out soon.
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The cover art for this book was created by the lovely and talented Thirteen Colours. Please check out her website and her other body of work.
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