An empty saloon at night was never a good sign.

If there was one thing Merrick had learned from his journeys through the American west, it was that. An empty saloon during the day could simply mean that everyone was busy having a job, but at night? That was usually when everyone would drop by to have a drink. An empty saloon at night either meant that the town was on the verge of collapsing or there was something dreadfully wrong with the town. For Paradise, Merrick reckoned that it was the latter. The three people he had spoken to since his arrival all spoke of paranormal activity around the town, though their exact words often involved mentioning 'hell' and 'devils'.

As far as religion went, Merrick was a non-believer, but as he walked down the deserted main street, he had to admit that he felt an inexplicable sense of unease. It was nothing like he had ever felt before, even if he factored in the intense guilt he felt every time he closed his eyes to get some rest. It had been six long years since the massacre and still he remembered every detail. He saw the same scene every night, the screams of the unarmed people as they were gunned down, the pleadings of the women and the cries of the children. What hurt the most was the memory of himself just sitting on his horse, motionless and his mouth hanging open in shock as he watched the supposedly disciplined and honourable United States Army carry out the atrocity.

Merrick shook his head. He could not risk going down that path, at least not now. The mayor and preacher of the town had put out a call for help from anyone who could carry and use a gun. They had offered a sizable amount as payment, but Merrick was not concerned with the money. He just hoped against hope that this would be the job that would finally put his conscience at ease. It was a fool's errand - trying to make amends for his actions, or lack thereof, at Wounded Knee - but Merrick had to give it shot. It was not as if there was anything else for him to do besides moping around until he eventually took his own life.

He stopped in front of the church and looked over his own clothes one last time to make sure he looked presentable. He pulled his face mask up to cover more of his nose. It had initially been just a way to prevent himself from inhaling sand, but now he had his face covered simply because it made him feel a lot more comfortable. Satisfied that at least his clothes were in order, he tightened his shoulder and waist belt to prevent them from sagging from the weight of all his equipment. Shrugging his right shoulder to bring his weapon, the almost archaic Snider-Enfield, further onto his shoulders, he walked into the church.

The church was a small building, and so it did not take long for Merrick to find the preacher pacing back and worth in front of the raised platform. Merrick cleared his throat and marched forward at a quick pace. "Good evening, preacher." He said politely with a nod, his accent extremely prominent even with such a short phrase. "Merrick Sheridan. I heard that your town needed help."