Late May, 1888.

The firmament lay bare; a perfect, cloudless night.

Before the day had surrendered to dusk, the sky had been gloriously cerulean. Now past nine o’clock, the hue had deepened into a gorgeous deep-sea blue. This corner of the Earth was no longer smiled down upon by its father star, and was illuminated instead by its many neighbours ‘cross the Milky Way. It was difficult to estimate exactly how many stars blanketed the Texas sky this night, but it was plenty enough to remind a man of his insignificance. As much as the rapturous beauty of the unfurled galaxy could ensconce the soul, it was paltry consolation for the end of the rainy season. Over the last two months, on regular occasion, the heavens would tear themselves apart above Amistad, and a great deluge would let loose without relent, lasting for days at a time. By the turn of the week, June would arrive, and with it, the Texan summer. Life was never easy in the frontier, but the summer months were among the toughest. Scorching sun, immobilising dryness — the kind of conditions that would leave workers dead in a ditch if they failed to keep adequately hydrated. Amistad was lucky enough, though, as ever since it had acquired town status a few years ago, it'd experienced some of the cooler summers in recent memory. The people were drought-ready, of course, with an emergency water tower sitting pretty on the edge of town; but its contents would have to be rationed if a drought ever came, and not everyone on the frontier was so good at sharing. At best, another summer meant another few months of tension and anxiety for the townfolk, who’d worry about the heat even when it went away on an ‘eve. That was one good thing about the days in the summer, though: they always ended. When night arrived, a soothing coolness settled over southern Texas. The eventide nip would never fail to be commented upon by the locals when it arrived.

“Mighty chilly tonight,” Deputy Beadle commented. It wasn't often that they were out in the wilderness at such an hour, so he'd left his coat at the office. He was left with nothing to warm his torso but a red-tartan shirt, so he'd taken to caress himself with both arms.

The immediate surroundings of Amistad were mostly scrublands, with little patches of hardy vegetation defying the odds and persevering in the arid climate; mostly mesquite and cacti. It was a flat area, but off in the distance there were rugged hills and rocky outcrops, some of which were home to quarries. It was these quarries, along with the many ranches, creek fisheries, and stream-fed farmlands, that had made Amistad such a popular destination for settlers. In only a handful of years, it had exploded from an outpost of four-or-five buildings into a place that housed a few dozen permanent residents, and many more who came and went. Even in Ramos' short time in Amistad, which had begun two years past, its population had almost doubled, and in addition to the ever-changing transient population, it was an impossible task to eradicate crime from the area entirely. There just wasn’t the manpower required to maintain law in the town wholesale, so he settled for keeping the good, hard-working folk safe; victimless crime and inter-gang outlaw business were seldom his concern. He saved his resources and his energy for when something real nasty reared its head, like it had on this night. He'd recieved a knock on his door not an hour ago by O'Noone, a local cattle herder, who'd led them back to his ranch around a half-mile from Amistad proper.

“Almost there,” O’Noone said, shaking slightly. On account of the work jacket he wore, the shakes didn’t seem to originate from the cold. “It’s, uh, it’s just over there, other side of the post.” The rancher pointed a quivering finger up past a line of fencing.

Ramos nodded as he held up his lantern, a powerful orange glow following him as he approached the fence. He handed Beadle the light-source as he hoisted himself over the barrier, retrieving it thereafter, using its light to study the horror beneath him. Beadle remained on the other side of the fence, but could see enough to turn pale. A mangled cadaver was face-down in the dust; a young man, by the looks of it, though barely recognisable beneath a motley of grotesque injuries. Large chunks of flesh had been ripped from his arms and legs, the bones 'neath exposed and gleaming in the dim light. Ramos turned him over to examine what was left of his face; a ruined mess, with one eye missing, the socket hollow and dark, while the other stared lifelessly at the sky. His throat had been torn into a ragged, gaping wound. Given the sheer multitude of lascerations, abrasions and bruises, it was near-enough impossible to determine what had killed the boy, nor how much of this had been done while he was still alive. Ramos examined what appeared to teeth marks amidst the mutilated flesh, as well as the grisly etchings of fingernails on skin. It'd be easy to dimiss this as a monster attack, but the markings looked eerily human.

"Tell me about the kid; how long did he work for you, who'd he know in town?," Ramos said calmly. As he did so, he looked to Beadle and nodded in the direction of the nearby sheds and barn, directing him without need for words. The deputy obliged, taking his own lantern around the ranch in search of further evidence.

“His name was Gus, — uh, Gustavo,” O'Noone mumbled. He had his hat in his hands, toying with it for comfort, like a child with a stuffed doll. He wasn't looking over at the remains, but off to the side, disturbed. “Only got here two weeks gone... Didn't seem to know anyone in town. Was just helpin' with some maintenance, and then he was gonna' be on his way.”

"Que descanses en paz," Ramos whispered, now looking at Gustavo's corpse. There was little he could do to grant the ranch-hand any dignity in his final repose. Usually, he'd rest a hand on the departed's face, closing their eyelids, and uttering a prayer. Today, he'd have to settle for the latter..

“What'd'ya think did it?,” asked O'Noone, his concern both evident and understandable. “I never seen nothin' like it."

"I don't know," Ramos admitted, standing up. "But I'll find out. Is there anyone who passes through the ranch, anyone I can check in with, ask if they seen somethin’?"

“Not really,” O'Noone said. “Sometimes, when their work slows down, the boys from the quarry lend a hand. But they've not been by for a couple weeks now. And there's that Guillermo feller who lives down the way, but he's never been any trouble.”

The air was cool and still; there was very little in the way of wind. Ramos looked around for any sign of something watching or waiting. He had a good draw; good enough to trust it if something came flying out of the shadow. But nothing came.

“Sir!!,” Beadle called out from across the ranch. “I found somethin’, sir!”

Ramos stood quickly, vaulted the fence, and hurried in the direction of the shout. He made note of O’Noone’s expression as he passed him by — seemingly genuine concern. Ramos hadn’t much reason to suspect the rancher. It would be quite straightforward, in O’Noone’s case, to get away with a murder such as this. A field-hand that nobody else in town knew… all he would have to do was bury him out in the brush, and the whole of Amistad would be none the wiser. That sort of thing probably happened a-thousand times a year across the frontier; shallow graves with no headstone, the final resting place of many a nameless drifter who would never be searched for, nevermind found.

Beadle, none the less pale than he was before, was crouched nearby a silo, examining what looked like a splattering of crimson-tinged vomit. As he drew closer, something caught Ramos's eye — a thin rivulet encrusted upon the curved metal of the silo. He squinted, bringing his lantern close. Dried blood. It had trickled down from the top of the container, leaving a trail that led to a small, splattered pool at the base.

"Look," Ramos said.

“Sweet mother Mary,” Beadle said, eyes wide as they traced up the side of the silo. “What sort of a beast does somethin’ like that?”

"The human sort,” Ramos posited.

“A man did this?,” O’Noone exclaimed, having made his way over. “You sure about that?”

Ramos didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on the external ladder that ran up the side of the silo. Burgundy markings every few spokes, vestiges of handprints. He shone his light on them. The two other gentlemen gasped audibly. He braced himself and climbed, a cold sweat settling on his brow; he knew what he would find before he reached the top. He shifted the top hatch open, holding the lantern up to inspect the silo’s contents.

“W - what’dya see, sir?!,” Beadle shouted up.

”Just a second, Beadle,” Ramos said, twisting his neck to look down at O’Noone. ”You have any other missing workers? Family or acquaintances?”

“No sir,” the rancher confirmed solemnly.

”Beadle,” Ramos said as he descended the ladder. ”I need you to fetch the rangers. There’s another body up there; same sort of wounds, only it’s started to decay.”

Beadle’s eyes were wide. He’d seen plenty of dead men, but he’d never dealt with anything like this. He didn’t respond.

“So that’s two dead, could be more, at least a few days apart… same killer,” Ramos said, mostly mulling through his own thoughts, expecting little in return from his unseasoned deputy. ”Time’s precious. No telling if this could happen again, or how soon, so we’ve gotta’ act swift. Get some shut-eye, then ride out first thing. Mellon and his boys should still be over in Gordonstown. If you make good time, you can have ‘em back here this time tomorrow.”

Beadle allowed the fear to rush through him before nodding. “What should I tell ‘em?,” he asked, his throat dry; his words panicked.

“Just tell ’em what you saw. That’ll be enough.”

Beadle nodded, hurrying back to his horse.

“I’ll be back tomorrow, Mr. O’Noone,” Ramos said. “I need you to keep safe tonight, you hear? You can either come back with me to town, or keep yourself shut up in-doors.”

“I -- uh, I think I’ll stay, sheriff,” the rancher rasped. “Got myself a shotgun. Don’t think I’ll sleep any means.”

Ramos nodded, tipping his Stetson respectfully.

On the back of Captain, his palomino-pinto mustang, he was back in Amistad in just shy of three minutes.

Down the dusty, unpaved roads, Captain slowed to a trot, then a walk. The town was still lively at this hour, 'specially the saloon, from which the usual ruckus sounded; the tinkling keys of honkytonk on tack piano, the boisterous banter of gamblers and drunkards. The denizens, all of them, were blissfully unaware of the killings, and Ramos envied them. One of the usual troublemakers was pissing up against the side of the bakery, and had the fear of God in his eyes when he noticed Ramos, but the Sheriff didn't venture to scold him. He had more pressing matters to attend to, that much was clear. Before he'd even set foot in his office, persons of interest danced across his mind. He'd have to be proactive over the coming days, get ahead of the danger, question anyone who he thought might have answers. Names came and went. There was Guillermo, the Californio who lived in a tent outside of town; he'd make a good start. Moreover, there were a fair few newcomers that'd captured his curiosity, among them; an imposing merc, a British gentleman, an emboldened preacherman, a lone caravaneer, and a tenebrous scholar.

It'd be, at absolute best, twenty-four hours before his deputy returned with reinforcements, so unless he was to persevere on his lonesome, he'd have to turn to the only person in this town that he knew for sure had seen something as grisly as what he'd just witnessed. He'd note down his findings, and then he'd seek out Detlev Schäfer; only a guest in Amistad, but a ranger buddy of his from a decade gone, and something of a role model to Ramos.

__________________________________________________________________________

________

Slightly Later May, 1888.

The thumb, recently wetted with a tongue’s worth of saliva, grasped the corner of the page with ease and cast it off to the opposite end of the book - to rest and recuperate with its siblings, until it was time once more for the reader to go through it.

A journal, in a place like this, was a man’s legacy - his entire life’s experiences and tribulations etched neatly upon pages yellowed by both time and smoke, a combination man and journal had experienced plenty of on their travels together... good times, bad times; tobacco smoke, gun smoke; to name a few. But now, well, Detlev only had a few pages left: a dozen or so, give or take, and he wondered if that was cause to procure a new journal or, well, a grim omen regarding a certain numbering of days. The real question was, what would he do with the journal when it was finished? He hadn’t the ego to ship it back to civilization for study, nor the front-loaded approachability to have his thoughts aired to so many besides - no, this had to go to someone close, someone he’d known a long time. But boy, that particular category had certainly dwindled to a sparse few in recent years…

He brought the cigarette to his lips as he contemplated, his eyes passing over the words on the page with a rehearsed knowledge of the ones that followed, the flow and patterns so well-retained over his many years that the images were easy to recollect and display upon the front wall of his mind… He only wished he’d begun journaling in his youth: the weight of the regret he felt whenever he struggled to recall an old friend’s name or the name of a place he’d been fond of was overwhelming on occasion, the threadbare memories impossible to clarify, even as they tumbled through his desperate fingers. Lost to time, yes, as he eventually would be… But if his journal lived on? Well, a piece of Detlev Schäfer, no matter how slight, might just trickle on into the next century.

The old Ranger’s Safehouse was quiet - by design, of course, given there weren’t many Rangers in these parts anymore… Unless he himself counted, and that’d be a stretch worthy of praise. A retired ranger from the offshoot’s offshoot, as far removed from the badge and duty life as a man can be, while still serving the same cause… And even that particular half-truth was enclosed on all sides by a miasma of wild theories and speculation regarding his division’s true origins and purpose. Not that he’d ever had the wild, sudden bouts of madness necessary to question the man in charge, no, but Captain Vorstag and his merry bunch of renegades were spoken of in hushed whispers these days. He hadn’t the heart to reach out - in case they were short a few bodies and asked him to return to Storm’s Verge… And he’d promised long ago he’d not return there unless his, or somebody’s else’s, life depended on it - and that particularly somebody else had to be someone he liked quite a bit.

The book snapped shut in his grasp, his eyes fixated on the peeling green paint of the old Ranger’s Safehouse door: he ceased all movement, his journal clasped tight and held close to his chest - not quite within the confines of his duster, but mighty close, and he strained to attend his senses to the commotion outside. The clattering of hooves, interspersed with minimal pauses - a fast horse, by his measure, and pushed to be all the faster by the rider’s urgency, enough so that Detlev rose from the rickety chair to stand tall, and snatched the lever-action from the desk upon which it sat. Jury’s out on whether the man’s bones or the chair creaked more when he straightened up, but it’d be a close call to say the least. The hoofbeats swiftly quietened down, around the town’s entryway he’d suspect - and slowed to a trot, one that quickly fell below a volume he could recognise, and as such, became intermingled with the evening’s festivities from within the town proper.

With the sound of heavy boots upon long-worn wood, Detlev stepped out onto the alleyway that little safehouse was nestled just within: he’d had his little period of peace, a much-needed respite from the social obligations of living alongside other people - it was taking more time for the old nomad to adjust than he’d expected, after all. A dishevelled man, his unkemptness so incredible as to be almost audacious, stumbled past him and into the depths of the alleyway - his desire to flee so powerful, he didn’t even give Detlev a second glance. He repaid the man by offering him no further mind, and, as he turned the corner leading towards Amistad's main street, watched Sheriff Ramos march into the Sheriff’s Office with the stride and determination of a man possessed, and understood that something was indeed amiss.

All of a sudden, the old monster hunter didn’t seem so averse to being sociable. He stood, and he waited, leaning against the hitching post outside Hadfield’s with his rifle resting squarely over his shoulder, the occasional burst of light from the cigarette’s embers the only sign of motion or activity from the man’s personage. Where there had been no wind before, a sudden chill lashed through the air like a myriad of cascading, clawing fingers, each more desperate to swipe at Detlev’s exposed face than the last - eventually, he surrendered this particular skirmish of wills, cast his cigarette down into the dirt below and pulled up a thick, woollen scarf to protect his face. Whatever this elusive pressure in the air was, it’d veritably followed the sheriff back from wherever his travels had taken him - and was an ill omen, indeed.

It was then, the acrid smell reached his nostrils, and, with a cursory investigation upwind, he caught a glimpse of the puddle off to his side, glistening in the moonlight.

“Ah.” He said to himself, with a quick tilt of his head… Mystery solved.

________

__________________________________________________________________________

The cart stood as a poignant relic of a bygone era, its wooden frame bearing the scars of countless journeys. Weathered and splintered, it creaked ominously with every jolt, a symphony of age and neglect. The wheels, once the epitome of craftsmanship, now wobbled precariously, each rotation a gamble with fate, threatening to detach at any moment. The so-called seats were nothing more than rough-hewn planks, their surfaces unforgiving and devoid of comfort, mocking the weary traveller who dared to rest upon them. Frayed ropes and rusted nails held the entire contraption together, a testament to its resilience and the many years it had braved these unforgiving roads. This cart, in its dilapidated state, told a story of endurance and the relentless passage of time.

The journey into town on this decrepit wooden cart was a far cry from the refined comforts of Surrey. Each ride was an ordeal, marked by incessant jolts and jostles that tested one’s endurance. The man, known for his impeccable standards, found himself reluctantly enduring this indignity—not out of necessity, but merely because he happened to be passing through. To him, Amistad was just another stop on his travels, a place where he found himself by chance rather than choice. The cart’s every creak and groan underscored the stark contrast between his usual surroundings and this rustic reality, making the experience all the more jarring.

Ah, Amistad. Another dreary waypoint in the man’s grim survey of the new world. This town, like so many others, was a cesspool of destitution and criminality. Yet, it had the dubious distinction of being called a town, albeit in the loosest sense of the word. Here, his disdain for the filth around him grew ever more intense, a stark contrast to the genteel life he once knew. The squalor and lawlessness of Amistad only deepened his sense of alienation, making him long for the refined and orderly world he had left behind.

Upon arriving in Amistad, the man sought lodging with a sense of resignation. He found himself at the Haven Inn, a modest establishment run by Patty and Jason Miller, a couple whose kindness and evident love for each other stood in stark contrast to the town’s harshness. Patty, seated at the inn’s desk and engrossed in a book, greeted him warmly as he entered. Her smile was a rare beacon of warmth in this desolate place.

Reginald, ever the gentleman, approached the desk with a refined air. “Good evening, madam,” he began, his voice smooth and cultured. “Might I trouble you for a room?”

Patty looked up from her book, her eyes twinkling with curiosity. “Well, howdy there, stranger! Sure thing, we got a room for ya. How long ya thinkin’ of stayin’?”

“That is yet to be determined,” he replied. “I must say, your establishment is quite… charming.”

“Aw, ain’t that sweet of ya to say! This here’s the Haven Inn. My husband Mr. Miller and I run the place. Lemme get ya a key.” She paused, pulling out a logbook from beneath the desk. “I’ll just need your name for the record, if ya don’t mind.”

“Of course, Mrs. Miller. Sir Reginald Percival Hawthorne,” he said, enunciating each syllable with precision.

“Please! Just call me Patty, everyone does.” Patty jotted down his name with a smile. “Thank ya kindly, Mr. Hawthorne. And if ya need anything, don’t hesitate to holler. We ain’t got much, but we do our best to make folks feel at home.”

“Your kindness is most… appreciated, Patty.” Reginald said, masking his inner disdain for the inn’s rustic charm and Patty’s lack of understanding of proper titles. Though the Haven Inn was quite nice by most standards, to Reginald, it was a far cry from the opulence he was accustomed to. He made his way to his room, concealing his discomfort as he took in the simple, yet clean accommodations.



With nowhere else to go and the hour growing late, Reginald found himself reluctantly drawn to the saloon, the only establishment still open in this forsaken town. The saloon was a dimly lit, smoke-filled room, its air thick with the scent of stale beer and unwashed bodies. The raucous laughter of patrons, oblivious to the decay around them, filled the space, creating a cacophony that grated on Reginald’s refined sensibilities.

He took a seat at the bar, his posture impeccably straight despite the rough surroundings. The bartender, a burly man with a grizzled beard and a no-nonsense demeanor, approached him with a nod. Reginald, ever the epitome of sophistication, cleared his throat delicately before speaking.

“Good evening,” he began, his voice smooth and cultured. “Might I trouble you for a glass of your finest Château Margaux?”

The bartender’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Château what now?” he grunted.

Reginald sighed inwardly, his patience wearing thin. “A fine Bordeaux wine,” he clarified, though he knew it was a futile request.

The bartender shook his head, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Ain’t got none of that fancy stuff here. We got whiskey, beer, and gin. Take your pick.”

Suppressing a shudder of disgust, Reginald forced a tight smile. “Very well, then. I shall have a whiskey, neat.”

The bartender nodded and poured a generous measure of whiskey into a glass, sliding it across the bar to Reginald. He accepted it with a curt nod, then, with a look of mild distaste, pulled out a pristine handkerchief from his pocket. Carefully, he wiped the rim of the glass, ensuring it was clean to his standards. Lifting the glass to his nose, he inhaled the sharp scent of the whiskey, his expression betraying his reluctance. After a moment’s hesitation, he decided he was better off without it and set the glass back down on the bar, untouched.

As he surveyed the scene with a mixture of disdain and weary acceptance, Reginald couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of alienation. Here, in this dimly lit, smoke-filled room, he would bide his time, driven by an inexplicable force that had haunted him for as long as he could remember. This pull, this need to find something—perhaps here, perhaps elsewhere—gnawed at him relentlessly, a constant reminder of the darkness that now shadowed his every step.

The sun leered down upon the land like an oppressive deity whose anger radiated upon its subjects whom had no freedom to escape its fiery anger. It beamed down onto a harsh and open landscape that offered little to no reprieve. It was far from Maston’s first time in the domain of the sun god, but taking one look at the secondary caravan guard trotting along with him and he could tell that the man hadn’t many seasons under his belt. The thin patchy stubble on his face also made it evident that he was still pretty young in his years. Maston sighed to himself, just another sign that it was time to move on. He’d been traveling with a small caravan for the last handful of weeks and as time had grown long the crew had slowly started to become more and more familiar with Maston. This, as always, led to questions like ‘Where ya from? Got any family? What’re them there fancy medals you keep in that box?’ and all sorts of personal matters. Maston of course didn’t take kindly to that. He’d already been thinking ‘bout movin’ on ‘fore they started with the questionin’.

THWUMP

Maston was shaken from his thoughts at the sound, he’d momentarily gotten caught up thinking and lost track of his surroundings. Typically not a mistake one makes lightly but the road had been mighty uneventful and that had a tendency to make a man lax in his duties. Maston also knew that with the sun as high as it was currently they’d have had ample opportunity to spot anyone that took to ridin’ upon them. And of course Maston wasn’t leaking anywhere so that ruled out the most obvious. Finally, ruling out all the usual reasons of disturbance, Maston turned about to look back yonder the trail. To Maston’s right trotted along an empty horse, the creature absentmindedly chewing its bridle and giving Maston a side-eyed look. Maston’s eyebrow raised quizzically and he turned a hair further back to spot a brown lump in the trail slowly getting further away with each step. Clearly that sun had gotten the better of the greenie. Maston sighed to himself and turned back to the front of his horse. He made no move to assist the man, he didn’t plan on to be honest. That was simply the way of the road. The man would lay there and bake in the sun and either die of exhaustion or dehydration. First the opportunist would come and pick over his corpse for valuables, then the carnivores and the carrion birds would come later and pick over the corpse for valuables of an entirely different nature. By dawn of the next day it’d be a surprise to find much left.

At least that’s how things would have gone if the caravanners bleeding heart of a daughter hadn’t turned around and spotted the man. Suddenly everyone in the caravan was clamoring on about duty and taking care of each other. Maston grumbled to himself and turned his horse back in the direction of the fallen man. It took a few minutes more than he’d cared to spare under the heat of the day but before long Maston had the man strapped to the back of his saddle and was moving to catch up with the caravan. The caravan leader gave him a sour look on arrival, probably assuming Maston would’ve left the man otherwise. He wasn’t wrong. Just another reason to move on…

---

The anger and heat of the day were fading as the sun turned to more creative pursuits. The sky was painted in hues of orange and red with shades of purple and blue mixed throughout as the sun peeked further and further below the horizon. The caravan had reached Amistad, their destination and the place that Maston figured they’d part ways. With a huff of effort Maston unceremoniously hefted the man from before from his saddle. A few steps around the wagon and he found the caravan lead handing out duties to the rest of his hands.

“Maston! Start hitchin the horses up!” The man gave him an order and turned away without giving Maston a moment to respond. In response Maston heaved the man from his shoulder and dropped him at the lead's feet which quickly startled him from his current endeavors. “What on earth?” He hollered.

“I reckon this one here can hitch yer’ horses for ya’, given ya give him some water and take care of his lazy ass. And I reckon you’ll be needing to find yerself another coach guard for whatever trip y’alls plannin’ after this’n. Now I’ll be takin’ my dues and hittin’ the trail if ya don’t.” Maston stated simply, preferring not to mince words. The sour look on the lead’s face told him that the news wasn’t quite welcome but regardless the man fished a handful of bills from his person and shoved them into Maston’s waiting hands. Maston tipped his hat in thanks and turned on his heel. With that he left the caravan behind, it was unlikely that he’d have any run-ins with them, he was heading further west and they’d likely head back east after this stop. With nothing else planned for the time Maston decided to stock up on some basic provisions then find lodging for the night and have himself a drink. Tomorrow he reckoned he’d figure out what to do next, but for now he was thirsting mightly for a drink.

Most nights in Amistad the saloon was a bustling place of loud music, hootin’ and hollerin’, gamblin’, drinkin’, and anything else you might reckon a man would find himself getting involved with to forget the circumstances of his life. Tonight was no exception, in fact the denizens of Amistad seemed in even higher spirits than most nights, or perhaps it was just the strength of the booze that was higher in spirit. Maston found himself nursing a bottle to himself at the end of the bar, doing his best to avoid the main throng of singers and dancers further down the bar. A rather rambunctious fellow took front and center as he hollered for the attention of the crowd, slurring and stumbling over his words he took little time rallying the crowd for another rendition of whatever diddy suited their fancy. Clapping and stomping the crowd soon began building to a crescendo once more and Maston made to pour himself another glass.

As fate would have it, all was not well. The moment Maston’s arm rose up hefting his bottle a disturbance at the other end of the bar broke out between a couple rowdy singers. One man bumped into another and that man shoved the other one and slowly but surely the shockwave rippled its way down the bar man to man. As Maston made to raise his freshly filled cup the man to his left suddenly stumbled backwards and Maston soon found himself wearing a majority of his booze rather than drinking it. The smell of alcohol permeated Maston’s senses and the liquid dripped slowly from his face. Maston took a slow deep breath as he rounded his gaze towards the man who’d fallen into him.

Would he have apologized and offered to right his wrongs Maston might have let things go. As it were, the fool gabbed on with his companion with his back turned to Maston. He’d not even realized, or not even cared. Maston attempted to get the man's attention but was brushed off rather abruptly. Anger brewed like a stormcloud over Maston’s head as he tried once more to grab the man’s attention. The man shrugged Maston off again. Like a stormcell snapping into a hurricane Maston’s anger swelled. The next time Maston reached for the man it was not so polite, his hand found the scruff of the man’s neck and his other hand found the waist of the man’s pants. If he’d known what was coming he’d maybe made it harder for Maston, given the man’s inebriated state and Maston’s element of surprise though it was no difficult feat for Maston to hoist the man into the air and throw him bodily across one of the nearby poker tables.

It was likely the gentlemen participating in that game didn’t take kindly to that.

Jesse Li slouched at the bar, scowling into the watered-down whiskey as if it held the answers to her predicament. The day had been a parade of disappointments, each “no” more disheartening than the last. Monster hunting jobs, it seemed, weren’t for “boys” like her.

She ran a hand over her smooth jaw. The chest binding, the deepened voice, the careful way she carried herself—none of it had been enough. To everyone else, she was just a green youth trying to play at being a man. And no one was willing to risk sending an untested boy into danger without a seasoned hunter to watch over him.

Maybe if she looked a little older, they’d take her seriously. Should I get some horsehair and glue? she thought, imagining herself with an obviously fake beard. The mental image almost made her snort her drink.

A commotion erupted at the other end of the saloon—raised voices, the scrape of chairs, the dull thud of fists meeting flesh. Jesse paid it no mind. She had enough problems without getting mixed up in a bar fight.

Fate, of course, had other plans.

A body came hurtling in her direction. Jesse sprang to her feet, avoiding the human projectile. In her haste, she stumbled backwards, colliding with something solid and warm.

“Goddammit!” a voice snarled behind her.

Jesse whirled around to find herself face-to-chest with a burly man. His shirt was soaked, an empty glass clutched in his white-knuckled grip. Slowly, Jesse raised her eyes to meet his gaze.
She watched as the man’s eyes narrowed, assessing her. Jesse could almost see the questions flitting through his mind: Man or woman? How old? Could he take her down on his own? White or… not?

Jesse’s own mental checklist was far simpler: Man? Check. Pissed off? Double check.

The shorter list gave a crucial edge. Jesse ducked just as the man’s meaty fist whistled through the air where her head had been a split second before.

“Whoa, hold on!” Jesse backpedaled, hands raised. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean—”

“Shut your trap, son,” the man growled, advancing on her. His face was a mask of drunken rage, focused solely on the dark-skinned varmint. “I’ll teach you to watch where you’re going.”

Jesse’s eyes darted around the room, searching for an ally, an escape route, anything. But the other patrons seemed content to watch the show, cheering and jeering as she dodged another blow.

“Five cents on the runt!” someone called out.
“Nah, Big Jim’ll flatten ’im in a minute!” another voice countered.

The man—Big Jim, apparently—lunged again, but Jesse was quicker. She sidestepped, letting his momentum carry him past her. He stumbled, crashing into another group of people.

Reginald sat at a corner table, meticulously polishing the silver head of his cane. The saloon’s cacophony was a constant assault on his refined senses, but he found solace in the ritual. Each stroke of the cloth was a reminder of the order and discipline that had once governed his life. His suit, immaculate and perfectly tailored, stood in stark contrast to the grimy surroundings.

Before the fight erupted, Reginald had been lost in thought, reminiscing about his days as a butler in the grand estates of England. Those days were a distant memory now, but he clung to them fiercely, a lifeline in the turbulent sea of his mind.

As he sat there, he nursed a glass of water, the only beverage he deemed acceptable in such a place. He observed the patrons with a mixture of pity and contempt. Their crude manners and boorish behavior were a constant reminder of how far he had fallen. Yet, even in this den of iniquity, he maintained his standards, a beacon of civility in a world that had lost its way.

It was in this state of detached observation that he noticed the commotion beginning to brew. The raised voices, the scrape of chairs, and the dull thud of fists meeting flesh pulled him from his reverie. With a sigh, he set his glass down, intending to remain a passive observer.

However, fate had other plans. As Big Jim lunged at Jesse and missed, his momentum carried him forward, directly into Sir Reginald’s table. The impact sent the glass of water flying, drenching Reginald’s pristine suit.

Reginald’s eyes flashed with a mixture of outrage and contempt. “You insufferable brute,” he hissed, rising to his feet. Big Jim, disoriented and enraged, turned to face the ex-butler, his eyes narrowing.

Without another word, Big Jim swung at Sir Reginald. But the ex-butler was quicker than he appeared. With a deft movement, he sidestepped the attack and brought his cane down on Big Jim’s wrist, causing him to yelp in pain and drop his fist.

Big Jim, now even more enraged, lunged again. Reginald, with the grace and precision of a man trained in the art of service, sidestepped once more. This time, he used Big Jim’s momentum against him, guiding the brute’s head directly into the wall with a sickening thud. Big Jim crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

Sir Reginald straightened his coat and turned to Jesse. “You should be more careful,” he said, his tone stern. “This world is full of savages.”

Jesse gaped at the fancy gentleman. His effortless takedown of Big Jim, using only a cane and wit, was nothing short of amazing. “That’s some slick moves, mister!” she blurted out, her voice pitched a touch too high in her excitement.

But the thrill was short-lived. Over the gentleman’s shoulder, Jesse caught sight of a figure walking towards them, broken chair leg in hand and murder in his eyes. Her heart leapt into her throat. She pointed urgently behind the fancy man. “Look out!”

Meanwhile Maston was doing his best to navigate the floor of the saloon while avoiding the various brawls that had broken out. Tripping over a broken chair left him stumbling into the back of a man wielding a chair leg. In response the man made a swipe at Maston and even caught the edge of his shoulder, it would have been his head but Maston had managed to lean into the swing and leverage his other shoulder forward to ram the man in the chest midway through his swing.

Maston’s anger was steadily building and he didn’t plan on having any of what the man was trying to offer. As the assailant stumbled back from Maston’s shoulder check Maston leaned back and planted the flat of his boot square into the center of the man’s chest with a solid and forceful shove that sent the already off balanced man reeling backwards. Maston was a little taken aback when the man windmilled backwards and tripped over another immobilized patron and pitched clear through the window and out onto the porch.

He didn’t really spend much time contemplating what had just happened considering someone had grabbed Maston by the shoulder in an attempt to line up a good punch. Bigger fish to fry.

---

The cool night air was calm under the starry night sky, like the surface of a pristine lake under the gaze of the moon. Abruptly, as if throwing a rock into said lake, the peace and calm shattered. The silence of the night was interrupted by a shrill scream from the direction of the saloon, shortly after the sound of shattering glass reverberated throughout the night and the faint sounds of yelling and screaming could be heard carrying up the street. Anyone who found themselves out at this late hour of the night would almost certainly hear the commotion coming from the saloon.

The scent of old leather, burnt oil, and the faint musk of gunpowder lingered over Ramos' office; a small cubby of justice betwixt a landscape of chaos. He dropped into his chair, his hand brushing past the disarray of papers, maps, and ink-smeared ledgers crowding the desk. He retrieved his worn notebook and dipped the nib of his pen into its inkwell, the dark liquid blooming like blood upon the page as he made to swiftly record the night's grim findings. He made no effort to ensure the notes were particularly legible for anyone but himself, so long as he could return to them later. He never deviated from this practice, this ritual: after assessing a crime, he would commit every detail to paper, no matter how small or seemingly irrelevant. His thoughts poured from his mind, each stroke of the pen exorcising the weight of the last hour until the ink ran dry. Only then did he pause, allowing himself a brief moment of reprieve.

He found himself looking upon his Bible, which lay unopened on the corner of the desk. It had been a while now since he had sought its counsel; a thin coating of dust had begun to form in testament. It's spine, though, was cracked and worn, showing the signs of repeated, long-lived use. It had been an old friend to him, a guide through the dark. But at some point along the way, he had found himself questioning: how long would it lead him through the dark, with the promise of light? It felt like false hope, and yet he longed for its comforts. It felt like a fool's errand, and yet he cursed himself, guilty for roaming astray. He was unaware of his momentary dissociation, but it washed over him. His eyes glazed over, his physical brain stalled, and the immaterial mind wandered. He found no answers in this empty state, but pressed the cross he wore around his neck and closed his eyes for a moment, whispering a prayer that tasted of resignation rather than hope.

Admist this brief moment, wherein Ramos was lost in himself, his gaze snagged on a figure: a dimly-lit apparition who lingered outfront the bakery. The figure stirred his perturbation, but as his eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw that it was only Detlev. He cursed himself for his anxieties and returned to the door, opening it; feeling a sense of relief as the old ranger moseyed over. No matter how bad a situation he'd found himself in, it couldn't be worse than what Detlev Schäfer had been through. Despite being ground down by the harshness of the frontier, he remained a good man; a reliable man. Probably the closest thing to a friend that Ramos had in this town, even if he wasn't intent on remaining in Amistad for more than a few weeks.

"Dios te bendiga; I'm glad to see you," Ramos said with a heavy exhalation. “Do you have a minute?”

In a gesture of respect seldom-seen from the rugged man, Detlev cast his cigarette aside and extended a hand out towards Ramos — which was quickly accepted. "I’ve got several, if you’re willing to share what had you charging back into town like hell’s hounds themselves were nipping at your boot-heels." There was a hint of a smile on the older man’s lips — honest mysteries were far more his wheelhouse than monster slaying these days… likely a consequence of the scarcity of the former, and the overabundance of the latter. Now, with their formal greeting complete, and Detlev’s hand now free, in one sweeping motion he was once again bedecked with a cigarette, and reached up to light it. The old lighter took a few sparkings gasps, but ultimately sputtered out, failing to evoke a flame.

Ramos reached for his own lighter as he ushered Detlev in, immediately clicking the less abused igniter into action, and restoring his ally's font of dopamine.

"Your hands are shaking, Benjamín," Detlev offered upon entering, his gaze lingering on the other man’s extended hand, that telltale shimmer of curiosity briefly lighting his amber eyes up, followed by a slightly less intense glare of concern — his previous hesitation had been out of respect for his old friend’s position: if he were to march into the sheriff’s office unbidden and started throwing questions around, well, it wouldn’t exactly be a response befitting the hospitality he’d received thus far… He’d expected to have to make a strong case for access to the old Ranger safehouse, but Ramos had given him the key the very same moment he’d asked — there was trust there, that much was clear, and Detlev was loath to deny it the reverence it deserved.

Ramos didn't directly respond, waiting for the door to creak shut behind him. "Sit if you like," he offered, remaining stood himself, hands resting on his hips as he digested his circumstances. He approached the whiskey on his desk, and glanced up to Detlev in wordless offering.

Detlev’s eyes lingered on the bottle, then the man — he didn’t often imbibe, it wasn’t in his nature to dull his senses, but there was an unwelcome weight to Ramos’ movements, his fingers white-knuckled as he grasped the neck of the bottle. Whatever the nature of the illusive burden that sat upon the Sheriff’s shoulders was irrelevant — all that mattered was how clear it was to see. So, with a nod of his head, he acquiesced to the offer of a drink, and slung it back without a second thought: a subtle invitation for Ramos to do the same, should he need it.

“Two dead on a ranch not two-thousand yards out. Torn up to a shred. By the looks of it, the handiwork of a man, not a beast,” said the sheriff, knocking back a single shot. “Worst is, there’s been folk gone missing up the quarry way. I had my concerns before, but reckoned that people disappear of their own volition out here all the time. Couldn't find any trace before. But I’m startin’ to think it’s no coincidence.”

"Killing innocent folk belies a lack of perspective, more than anything else." Detlev offered — there wasn’t much feeling in his delivery, only a delicate undertone of contempt. "But a man operating wholly without perspective is dangerous in his ignorance… Though it may not be my place to advise you, I urge you to tread carefully in this, Benjamín: you hunt a monster who walks in the skin of a man, and on such hunts, one must be selective with their trust. I learned as much during my bounty hunting days… tell me, what will your opening gambit be?"

"I’ll get the lay of the land," Ramos said, dabbing the sweat from his brow: a bodily response that betrayed the cool of the night he’d just escaped. "But if this is as gnarly as it looks, ‘might have to mount a posse — should that be the case, I could really use a hand from an old friend."

"Then you have it." Detlev offered, the corners of his lips curling upwards briefly in an altogether slight but definitely present half-smile, indicative of seldom few years spent practicing the gesture.

A colossal crash echoed from the saloon, followed by a cacophony of smaller, lesser shatterings of glass, and both men were up on their feet. The rare moment of warmth that’d seemed so recent, so important, now faded, pulled out of their periphery by the cold, inevitable grasp of memory.

"¡A la verga!," Ramos barked. "Excuse me," he said, sparing no time in reacting, swiftly marching out of his office in the direction of the Kiskadee; his dominant hand hovering an inch or thereabouts from his waist-holster. He didn't stop to see if Detlev followed, but he doubted the ranger would stray too far.

Outside of the saloon, a groaning man was crumpled in a heap, the shattered remains of a window surrounding him. Ramos briefly appraised him, finding him to be carrying only minor scrapes, and to be bathed in the ripe scent of alcohol, and disregarded him.

"Enough!," he bellowed, blasting the swinging doors to the saloon wide-open. When the ruckus didn't immediately die down, he repeated himself, louder: "Hey, enough!!"

Twice was, indeed, enough. Ramos had a reputation for fairness in spite of harshness; and a call thrice would've been enough to have him blow his gasket. The townfolk of Amistad knew him well enough to gauge that today was not a day to test his moxie. Whether or not the comers-and-goers would maintain that same level of deference, it remained to be seen. With his warning call heard, and a stillness befalling the room, an exhale saw Ramos’ rage subdued. The castigator melted away, and the lawman returned. He scanned the room. Tables were overturned, chairs splintered, and a few patrons were still engaged in half-hearted grappling, though the majority had backed off at the sight of the sheriff. Big Jim, the burly fool with bloodshot eyes, stood by the bar, rubbing the back of his head and glaring daggers at a little guy across the room — a caravaneer Ramos knew not the name of, who stood poised, eyeing their surroundings like a cornered fox might. Ramos’ eyes narrowed. Big Jim wasn’t the type to start trouble unless he was deep in his cups. Ramos strode toward the oaf, glancing down at the glass shards scattered at his feet.

"You better thank your lucky goddamned stars I got here before McRiley," he said sternly, firstly regarding Jim. Behind the bar, there was a veritable chunk of a man; not the saloon’s proprietor, who must’ve been out back or otherwise preoccupied. "Now I’m only gonna’ ask this once; which of you jackwagons is responsible for this ruckus?," he demanded, looking around the room for an answer.

Maston's eyes began to roam, searching for any sort of alternative exit. He hadn’t necessarily started it, not in his own eyes at least. That didn’t mean he’d be confessin’ his part in matters anytime soon. He reached up to tuck his hat down, attempting to not look at the lawman who’d just barged through the door. Trouble on day one was certainly not what Maston was looking for but he’d be damned if it weren’t par for the course.

With the silence outstaying its welcome, Ramos let loose a haggard, disappointed sigh: "Someone better talk, lest you all fancy yourselves a night in jail."

"Sheriff, I didn’t mean no trouble, it’s these drifters, sir, they’re always out pickin’ fights," Big Jim bumbled, still nursing his mildly bludgeoned crown. The large man raised his sausage-like index finger first in the direction of Maston, and then in a sweeping gesture towards the other newcomers.

Ramos narrowed his eyes towards Maston: a face he didn’t well recognise. He waited for explanation. It could well be the case that Jim was underplaying his own part in this mess; alcohol was lingering on his breath, after all.

Maston damn near cursed aloud when the big man pointed that meaty finger his way first. Christ, all he’d wanted was a drink after arriving in town and a bed for the night, not all this malarkey. "Now that don’t feel too mighty welcomin’, a stranger blows in lookin’ for meal and board ain’t barely been here a’day and bein’ blamed for all this ruckus. S’a mighty fine town ya’s got here lawman," Maston said with just a tad bit too much sourness in his drawl.

"Well, I don’t mean you any disrespect, mister —," Ramos said, pausing expectantly, waiting for the stranger to conjure up some verbal identification, his words laced with saccharine insincerity.

"Mister’ll do," was all Maston responded with, a slightly belligerent tone taking form.

"Well, Mister," Ramos echoed, clearly a little irked by the lack of compliance. "Looks like you and Jim'll be sharing a bunk t'night." He beckoned Jim, knowing quite well he’d come and follow, tail between legs, as it wouldn’t be the large man's first night in jail. The newcomer, however, Ramos had no reason to trust, so he made to restrain him.

Maston almost made to bolt, he genuinely considered it for a second. Clearly this whole situation had gotten out of hand and it’d be just like him to make things worse, his hand twitched slightly, an itch in his trigger finger whispering dangerously in his ear. His heart rate ticked up a couple notches and a sense of anticipation built: "Ah hell." He spit through gritted teeth, exhaling with frustration. It took every bit of willpower to keep it in check, but Maston certainly didn’t need to make matters worse. Any other time he might’ve drawn, but that same feeling that had drawn him here made it hard for him to jeopardize his situation on the first day.

With that, Ramos disarmed the coachguard, restrained him, and firmly, but with no sense of belligerence, began his delivery from out the saloon. Maston, while not actively seeking to break free of his bonds, seemed to challenge the sheriff somewhat, striving to inconvenience his momentary adversary. Ramos was used to it. These types always liked to make a show, make sure everyone knew they weren't soft-like. But they all ended up in the jail cell the same; wasn't worth it to run from a lawman after a bar-brawl; best-case, you became a wanted man, and worst case, you found a bullet in your head then and there. It was a much more rational decision to take the slap on the wrist and accept detainment, which most often would see you a free man by next morn'.

Before Ramos could shuffle out of the door, Maston in tow, another individual made their presence known. Reginald cleared his throat, a subtle yet deliberate gesture to capture the attention of Sheriff Ramos. "Sheriff, might I request a moment of your esteemed attention?" he began, his voice carrying a tone of respectful urgency. "I discern that you embody the very essence of bravery and integrity: a steadfast protector of truth, a shining exemplar of unwavering justice. With such distinguished qualities, it seems only necessary that you would be inclined to address a few irregularities. Surely, such matters fall within the scope of a man of your remarkable stature, would you not agree?"

Ramos raised an eyebrow, nonplussed by the gentleman’s jargon. He decided that he’d let him run his mouth, see if anything of use would slip out in the process, letting his grip loosen on Maston for a moment, but keeping him in eyeshot nonetheless.

Without waiting for a response, Reginald pressed on. "Excellent, then: the first issue — there is an utter lack of tea available, a grievous oversight that has left me in a state of profound dismay. The absence of such a fundamental comfort is nothing short of a travesty, and I implore you to rectify this most egregious error posthaste." He took a brief breath, his eyes narrowing slightly as he continued. "Additionally, I have noticed the absence of any hourly chime from the town clock, and this simply will not do. Such neglect must be rectified immediately. Any town worth the merit of being recognized as one should have its clock tower be prompt and on time." Reginald’s tone grew more insistent. "This is a matter of utmost importance and surely falls within your purview to address. These are injustices that simply cannot be overlooked… I trust that a man of your caliber will see the necessity of these actions and will act accordingly." Reginald’s eyes softened slightly as he concluded, peering intently at the sheriff, ensuring the enforcement of his words.

A silence hovered in the air for a few moments in the aftermath of Reginald’s rant. The patrons, baffled by such behaviour, which was frankly alien in a place such as this, exchanged looks of befuddlement, awaiting the sheriff’s reply. It was anyone's guess how Ramos, overburdened by many a pressing issue that superceded tea and town-clocks, would respond to such demands. Whether in lunacy or genuine amusement, he cracked a smile, which became a chuckle, and then a throaty laugh. This was met by confusion among many of the patrons, but, for a fair few, it was matched with laughter of their own. As his laughter dulled, Ramos poked a rigid finger onto Reginald’s lapel: "Listen, silver spoon, you must’ve took a wrong turn; this ain’t Buckin’ham Palace, and it sure as shit ‘aint no quaint resort. If you’ve got complaints on how this town is administered, I suggest you take it up with Mayor Davis; but I expect he’ll tell you the same thing I’m about to. We’re tryin’ our damnedest to just about survive out here, and as you can see," he gestured to the debris around him. "Your problems ain’t one, two, three, four, or five on my list."

Reginald, utterly aghast at the positive uproar his plight had incited, took a step to the side, his eyes wide with disbelief. Convinced that his concerns were of the utmost importance, he was utterly baffled by the laughter that ensued. With a deliberate and cautious grace, he lowered himself into a chair, wincing internally though his face remained a mask of composure. The audacity of these common folk to live in such squalor and yet not aspire to better themselves was beyond his comprehension. It was an affront to his sensibilities. Yet, he reminded himself, this was their world, not his own. Could it be that his words, so reasonable in his eyes, were perceived as unreasonable in the current state of affairs? The thought gnawed at him as he pondered the disparity between his expectations and their reality. As he sat there, Reginald dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief, a gesture of both frustration and an attempt to maintain his dignified appearance amidst the bewildering circumstances.

Whether summoned by the fighting, the smashing, the hollering, or the laughter, Ol' McRiley burst in from out the back door. "Well, what in the hell!?," he snarled, his eyes forming daggers at the employee behind the bar, then at just about every patron who looked complicit in the shenanigans. "Can a man not go to answer the call of nature for, what, ten minutes, without this place goin' t' shit?!"

"All under control, Mr. McRiley," Ramos said, as he reclaimed his restraint on Maston.

"Well who’s payin’ for my damn window-glass?"

"I’ll make sure your windows are seen t’," he replied. "Maybe Prince Edward here’ll lend a hand," he pierced a glance over at the Englishman. He then turned his attention to Detlev, who watched on from the doorway. The lever-action the man had previously held ready now rested over one of his shoulders, but still remained easily to hand, should the situation have suddenly changed for the worse. Ramos approached, speaking in a hushed tone: "Can ya'... Could ya' get a scope of these?," he tilted his head back towards the new faces in the saloon. "Need to get these locked up, then pay the Mayor a visit... If you can get an idea of what we’re working with, it'd be appreciated."

Ramos knew he asked something of Detlev that would likely make the old ranger rather uncomfortable, but he also knew him to be a good judge of character, and a man who, above all else, had an interest in protecting the lives of the good-natured folk whose lives were presently at risk. He gave his old friend a strained smile, a token of his gratitude. He'd pay him after all this was done; not that Detlev had asked for it.

Before long, Maston and Jim were safely behind bars in the back-room of Ramos' office. The sheriff was grateful he had two cells, as he could only imagine what round two would look like in such a small, contained space. He looked down at the sorry state of Jim, and was satisfied with what he saw; a man who let his bravado and his temper get the best of him, and nothing much else. The other feller, though, he wasn't so sure about. It'd be worth questioning him later to see if he knew anything about the killings. Something told him that this man wasn't quite a homicidal maniac, though.

"When I'm back, you an' me are gonna' have a chat," Ramos said, looking down at the coachguard. He didn't linger to hear a response, and made his way outside.

As he mounted Captain, he mapped out the coming day. Mayor Davis usually woke up good and early: five sharp. Ramos would have to be at his door then. He'd have some morning coffee, and inform the good mayor of all the night's gruesome events; or, at least, the ones that the mayor needed to know. Then Ramos would get dear Nurse Davis and bring her along to collect the bodies from the ranch, then he'd secure the perimiter, then he'd be back in Amistad to continue investigations. But he couldn't sleep yet; he hadn't the time for it, so he banished the thought of sleep from his mind completely. First, he'd find Guillermo.

Life had a funny sort of habit. Whenever Maston tried to do anything, anything at all really, it would do its damndest to make sure he started off on the worst foot possible. It was a constant trend all throughout his life, a dark cloud of bad luck and despair seemed a constant companion in lockstep beside him. Once again he’d found himself on the wrong side of the law and in a jail cell, a far cry from how he’d intended to spend the night. And even further from how he’d seen things going for himself. Maston sucked back a deep snort and spat with a resounding splat into the corner of the cell. With it he spat his complaints and problems, metaphorically speaking of course. It never did him any good dwelling on his fortune and now wouldn’t prove to change anything from the usual.

There wasn’t much else to do but to get comfortable and settle in for the night. He hadn’t paid the big guy who’d pointed the finger much mind since he’d been tossed in a cell, man seemed to have his own problems. He’d certainly seemed more docile, likely feeling sorry for himself as Maston had almost caught himself doing. Maston took a seat on the cot before removing his boots, vest, and his shirt, all of which he folded neatly and stacked in the corner in a fashion that he’d carried over from his time in the military. With naught else to do Maston decided to settle in for the night, best to see what was in store for the future at this point, see about possibly heading further west if possible. Maston didn’t like the feeling he had when thinking about sticking around, it would be better to move on given the way things had started out. Well Maston wouldn’t be doing any moving anywhere until he was out of the predicament he was in and that likely wasn’t gonna be happenin’ till mornin’. For now there was nothing left for him but sleep, and so sleep he did.

---

Like most nights Maston slept fitfully, tossing and turning, mumbling and twitching. Sleep was something Maston had long since struggled with, ever since the war. It had only really gotten worse over the years, eventually though he’d learned to just deal with it. Some nights were worse, others not so bad. This was one of those not so bad nights, unfortunately the sound of wheezing broke Maston from the shallow bit of sleep he was managing to maintain.

The suffocating heat of the jail cell felt heavier than before, thick with something unnatural. The scent of sweat and something rancid — something like meat gone bad — filled the air. Maston could almost feel it clinging to his skin like an unnatural humidity permeating the space. Across from him, in the other cell, Jim stood pressed against the iron bars, his thick, calloused hands wrapped around them, shaking violently. Maston had seen many an episode from men who’d done awful things and had broken minds from it. This wasn’t that, Maston almost could feel it in his bones, something was wrong.

Where most men might find themselves paralyzed in fear Maston found himself leaping to his feet. The room hadn’t much in the way of potential weapons but Maston quickly picked up the wooden stool in the corner of the room. It would have to do. It had required him to momentarily take his eyes off Jim and when he returned his gaze he almost stopped dead in his tracks.

The sight before him would stop any man cold. Jim wasn’t just gripping the bars; he was bending them. The heavy iron groaned under the strain as Jim’s entire body shook with the effort. His muscles bulged hideously beneath his skin, veins pulsing under the pale moonlight. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, pupils blown so large they swallowed the colour, and his mouth was foaming, a thick red froth dribbling down his chin.

Maston’s imminent danger snapped him out of it, without further hesitation he stepped forward and struck at Jims hands with a brutal swing of the stool. His first two swings hit more metal than flesh, the angle and the approach were just terrible for the shape of Maston’s improvised weapon. Regardless he swung and struck gold on the third swing, it looked as if he’d smashed Jim’s index finger. Jim did not stop.

Jim’s gaze snapped to Maston, feral and crazed, and a low growl escaped his throat. His teeth, dull and cracked, gnashed together, and his tongue darted out like an animal sniffing blood. Speaking of blood; the red on his chin seemed to be of his own making, with his tongue looking as if he'd chewed it like a tough lump of steak. Something was very wrong with him, and it wasn't just the drink.

“Help me,” Jim rasped, his voice guttural. He pulled harder at the bars, the metal twisting as if it were soft clay. His fingers scraped through the gap, claws of flesh desperately reaching for Maston.

"Please..." Jim’s voice was barely a whisper, more a plea than a demand. But the madness in his gaze spoke volumes.

Jim’s fingers clawed at the bars, nails splintering as he tried to squeeze through the small gap he’d made. His breath came in harsh, ragged bursts, his chest heaving like an animal in the throes of a hunt. The stench of rot was stronger now, clinging to him like a second skin. He pushed, harder and harder, bruising himself, testing the strength of his bones. His arm stretched farther through the bars, skin rubbing bloody against the iron as he groped wildly for Maston.

Maston took another wild swing of the stool and Jim’s waving hand snatched it from him unexpectedly. Maston wasn’t prepared for the return swing that caught him in the shoulder and sent him teetering hard to the left into the wall of the cell. Maston saw stars and heard a whining sound, and for a moment he wasn’t quite sure what he was doing on the floor. It came back to him a moment slower than he’d have preferred and Maston came to realize quite a bit had passed while he was on the ground.

Jim had managed to twist and contort his shoulder and head through the gap in the bars, he'd have widened it in the time it had taken for Maston to come back to his senses. Unfortunately the size of the gap paired with the size of Jim and the ferocious single minded intent behind his attack meant he’d basically wedged himself between the bars in a way that restricted his breathing. Jim’s face was growing bluer by the second and the frantic swings of outstretched arm were growing more half-hearted and losing steam with every passing second.

Maston was unsure what had just transpired, all he knew is that for once he’d been lucky. Not so much the other fellow. Maston was going to have a very interesting conversation on his hands this morning though, that thing was for sure.

Collaboratively made, with many revisions, alongside @Archazen.

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Detlev leaned aside to grant Ramos more than enough space to pass him by. The task rendered unto him was one most polarising - on the one hand, he had indeed offered himself in whatever capacity Ramos had required of him, but on the other, well, he had all the conversation wherewithal of a dead possum… apart from the smell, and even then, only when he wasn’t covered in someone or something’s viscera, and that had been more often than not in his lifetime.

He took two steps into the establishment in solemn resignation, knowing within the depths of his soul the opportunity to protest had long since passed - to go stomping into the sheriff’s office asking for more interesting work like an inexperienced deputy with his hair still wet from the womb just wouldn’t fly. And so, suitably, without any means or measure to diverge from this fated path, he cast his amber eyes at the two individuals in the saloon - circumstance had designated them his conversational targets, with everyone else there suitably beyond his purview. Normal folk were sometimes prone to madness, granted, but they were Ramos’ people, and he’d get more out of them than an outsider like himself ever would. But these two drifters, on the other hand…

The sombre Englishman’s crestfallen personage seemed like a decent enough first stop - whatever sizable, cavity-contained stick that’d propped him up since he’d arrived had seemingly snapped in two, and for the first time, he saw the man’s shoulders sag, his head drooping down toward the table’s surface: the whiskey glass perched atop it once long neglected, but now half-empty. “May I sit?” Detlev asked - as far as the situation was concerned, the man’s answer didn’t matter much to the older man, but whether the question was asked or not certainly did. “Name’s Detlev. Detlev Schäfer, and Ramos wants me to get some witness reports regarding that little… altercation, just now. Beneath you, perhaps, but regardless, can you give me a run through how it all happened?”

Reginald, with a lackadaisical and despondent gesture, indicated for Detlev to take the seat, as if his permission held any significance in this forsaken town where people acted with impunity. He raised the glass to his lips once more, grimacing as he endured another sip of the insipid, diluted concoction the locals seemed to favour. Detlev introduced himself, an unexpected courtesy in the environs of Amistad.

“A name begets a name in return, would you not concur?” he intoned, placing the glass back upon the weathered wood it had come to rest on. He sighed heavily, as though uttering this once more would only lead to obscurity, his breath catching mid-inhale as he fought to maintain his composure, “Sir Reginald Percival Hawthorne. I suppose I am at your service.” Reginald adjusted his lapel, a habitual gesture more than a necessity. “I cannot elucidate how the fracas commenced, for I paid it little heed. Such occurrences are, I believe, commonplace in the so-called civility of Amistad, are they not?”

Reginald idly rolled the glass on the table. “A brutish fellow collided with me, spilling my beverage upon my person. When confronted, he swung at me, and I dealt with the matter accordingly. That is all.”

“I’m surprised you’re not beside yourself - a stained waistcoat must be a hellish prospect, for a man of your origin… Now, let me continue by offering my condolences - the meaning of luxury out here in the west is far removed from what it may mean back in the civilised world… Luxury in these parts is having people around you be safe enough you don’t have to worry about them, to wake up without the abject terror of finding one of your sons snatched by a strigoi, to know your town’s foraging party would return without incident or fatality. Rare moments of freedom from worry, if you understand.” Detlev’s fingers crept absent-mindedly into the confines of his tattered waistcoat, swiftling finding his old pocket watch and grasping it gently between his digits.

“Perhaps, when next Ramos has business up in the city, I’ll go along - see if that import pipeline back east has borne fruit, maybe then your precious tea might not be such a distant prospect. But that depends on how he perceives you, doesn’t it? So tell me, Reginald - what exactly brought you here to Amistad? Just a little stop-off on the way to Salt Lake?”

Detlev’s employment of coercion introduced a refreshing deviation that Reginald found rather amusing. It revealed a level of acumen that resonated more with Reginald’s own intellect, a stark contrast to the mediocrity he had recently endured. A sly smile crept across his well-groomed features as Detlev hinted at the potential enjoyment of certain British refinements. Detlev was clearly adept, and Reginald appreciated the mutual understanding that seemed to pass between them. Despite himself, he felt compelled to entertain the man, who had laid his cards on the table with a finesse that Reginald found quite appealing.

“I suppose I shall have to compile a list of inducements that might sway me, hmm?” he remarked with a dry chuckle, his hand trembling slightly as he retrieved his handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed it against his forehead. “I have been journeying extensively since departing England; this is but one of many waypoints along my route. A period for rest and the restoration of faculties.” He returned the handkerchief to his pocket with a practised motion.

“Ah, yes. Of course. A wandering man… So I suppose, the only natural thread to follow would be your reasons for being here. What, exactly, dragged you out here to the west? Pure wanderlust?”

A claw at the reasoning behind Reginald’s motivations for leaving the confines of sweet Britain was something he would rather avoid than divulge. By no means was he ashamed; he was proud, even. However, he knew he ought not to afford the trouble that knowing a man’s past could bring.

Reginald reclined in his chair, a contemplative expression gracing his visage. “I surmise my reasons for venturing to the West are not vastly different from those of many others, Mr. Schäfer.” He paused, a soft smile playing upon his lips, his hand absently brushing his side.

“An ordinary man might regale you with tales of seeking fortune and influence," he continued, his fingers tapping lightly in sequence upon the glass. He then leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “But in truth, one believes what they wish to believe.”

Detlev’s lips parted into an uncharacteristic grin, his single gold canine catching the lantern’s light in the dim establishment - it shimmered with all the luminosity its measly eight carats could possibly hold, or muster. He’d heard once that every man was a puzzle, ready to be solved - in one way or another. “Do you wish to know what I believe, Reginald?” The man’s amber eyes flashed with a wolfish cunning - blood was in the air, metaphorically, and he intended to pursue its scent to the source: “Circumstance dictates you and I should be on opposite sides of the world at present - yet, somehow, you’ve been cast up into the dice-hand of fate, and cast across the board… Whereas I was aimed for society, and I fell, clattering and tumbling: resolved to remain in the west. What I believe, Reginald, is that a bond has manifested between us - My family prepared me for a life in civilization, educated me for it, call it my destiny… but I chose to remain in the West. Whereas you…” He paused for a moment, to gesture over the table at Reginald with a lit cigarette - one neither of them had seen be lit, so ingrained were they in the discussion. “...You chose the world back home, you were part of civilization, but destiny ordained you’d end up in the West.”

“It’s tough, I’ll grant you that, but nobody just stumbles into this life. You’re either born here, or you’re sent here, and I can tell just by looking: you aren’t the former.”

Detlev’s grin made Reginald’s hairs stand on end, a sensation he hadn’t felt in what felt like aeons since a conversational adversary has given him ample reason for contemplative pause. Reginald’s eyes softened, his eyelids drooping gently as he absorbed the words of his enigmatic counterpart.

“You know, Mr. Schäfer, I have devoted many years to the service of others as a butler, and if I may be so audacious,” he paused, leaning in with a slow, subtle grace, his hand pressing against his side, “my greatest delight was in concluding their stories and embarking on the narration of my own.”

Detlev smiled a genuine smile, though it soon faded - the misting of sweat lingering upon Reginald’s brow had evaded his notice sufficiently enough, but in this very moment, it was clear as day. For whatever reason, the man appeared to be nervous, and Detlev sought to understand why - and so, with a swift turn of his head, he made a show of glancing towards the opposite end of the saloon. And, when Reginald followed suit, he caught a glimpse of the man’s complexion in the light…

He was visibly pale.

They say when a man is stabbed, he experiences a moment of breathlessness - the impetus of the impact forcing any held air from his body, leaving him winded and gasping. Prior to this moment, he knew this only second-hand, given he’d delivered more than a few knifepoints in his time, but now… he felt he’d gleaned a reasonable approximation of how it felt. The conversational partner he’d previously thought had held so much common ground with him was now, undeniably, a suspect in Ramos’ present case.

“Well, Reginald…” Detlev replied, that previous smile now fully absent from his countenance, and his non-committal tone of voice served well as its death knell. “I can only offer my hope that your path leads you somewhere warm and safe - as I previously said, and I’m sure you’ll soon agree, such things are luxuries out here in the West.” The cigarette between his lips remained firmly planted as he rose from his seat, indicative of the man’s clenched teeth - even as he pulled one-handed on the hem of his overcoat, to straighten the bunched segments from how he’d sat, the scag remained stock-still. Only once his preparations to leave had been adequately made, did he finally draw from it, and it was a generous lungfull besides.

Yet, as he was about to turn away, he stopped, and turned back towards the table at which Reginald sat. He sought to offer the man something conducive to the nature of their conversation, and as such, decided upon a riddle: “To judge it is to oversee it, a balance carefully decided. Revenge, it is nearly, but never as one-sided.”
“...Death.”
“No, though you’re close.”
“Must be justice, then.”
“Right you are: Justice it is. Be seeing you around, Reginald.”

It was a painful sting to bear, to be briefly blinded to one’s own advice. He’d said to Ramos but a bell earlier to be vigilant, to remember that their foe was a monster wreathed in the flesh of a man - and yet, even after dispensing such vital advice, he himself allowed his guard to fall. He made headway over to the bar and, with his hat pulled lower, he plucked a notebook from his pocket and got to scratching, making note of everything he’d gleaned from his conversation with Reginald - along with his own suspicions. A pale, sweaty man didn’t mean much in a place like this, granted, but whatever was plaguing ol’ Reggie was more than a measure of frustration about unattainable tea.

With his composure rebuilt, and suitably reinforced, he leaned away from the bar and locked eyes on his next conversational target - the diminutive young man on the other end of the saloon, trying to keep to himself. Normally he’d let sleeping dogs lie, but, well, Ramos was counting on him…

________

__________________________________________________________________________

The ghostly silence of the late night was broken only by the creak of saddle and clip of hooves as Ramos cantered out of town. His lantern swayed along with the motion of Captain, casting flickering will-o’-wisps against the dry earth as it bobbed up and down. Through the brush he charged, returning to the perimeter of the O’Noone ranch; but he would not wake the cattle-keeper, nor would he set foot on his land. He sought out the elusive Guillermo, the transient Californio who had been lingering on the cusp of Amistad long enough to make his name known. Rarely, however, did the slippery drifter rear his head in public, ‘least not in the daytime — mostly kept to himself out in the scrubland, ‘cept for the occasional visit to the Kiskadee Cantina. He’d been one of a few individuals that Ramos had made sure to keep a mental note of. Amistad was the type of place men went to hide; from society, from the law, or from the life they had before. Ramos was no different; he came to this dry little corner of the world because it suited him; because he needed the distance. Just about everyone else who passed through had their own story, but seldom would visitors arrive who weren’t lost — in one meaning of the word or another. Guillermo, Ramos suspected, had good reason that he kept to the periphery of civilisation, and there was a good chance it was a reason he’d prefer to keep a secret.

As Amistad disappeared behind Ramos, a figure materalised out of the Texan night — a silhouette, half-hidden by the night’s embrace, mounted and approaching. Both parties drew their reins, slowing to a halt; facing each other from about twenty-feet apart. The Californio’s dog, who was following the trail at his rear, began to bark protectively, and seemed ready to pounce as the sheriff should things get dicey. Ramos raised his lantern with one hand, allowing its light to dance upon the rider’s form, creating slender, exaggerated shadows behind him. His other hand was poised near his holster, but remained still.

"¿Qué idioma?," he spoke out, examining the drifter’s countenance; indeed, it was the man he was looking for. The suspect had a restlessness about him. Ramos found it curious that he wasn’t settled down at such an hour.

Guillermo’s hand slipped from its grasp upon the reigns, fixing the bandana that lay stagnant on his neck to up to the tip of his nose. ”¡Callate Jorge!” His focus spread as his eyes darted around, scouting the land he had but mere moments ago paid but little regard to for paths to dart if things got too hot. Although he didn’t put much merit in the belief by nature he was still a cautious man. The land beyond the town borders had been mostly flat plains, all he could do was the toss the dice roll that was luck and ride off into almost any direction.”We’re in the land of the states ain’t we? English’ll do just fine.”

”Mhm,” Ramos replied, still sizing up Guillermo. He relaxed his gun-arm, holding out a peace-offering to the mutt in the form of a down-angled palm. ”Little late for ridin’ the trail?”

”Do I look like much of’a townfolk to ya? Just’a drifter, like most of the come an’ goers.” Guillermo’s hand brushed against the handle of his six-shooter beneath the poncho. This old Colt Navy revolver had got Guillermo out of many a sticky situation in the past since the day stole it from the armory down on the coast, and if this one turned awry it certainly wouldn’t be his last, lest his own blood was spilled upon the ground but his record doesn’t present an instance of such occuring. As his eyes looked around he noticed the hand stuck out to the dog, who had stood his ground. While a simple gesture by most men testing the waters, Jorge had still released a low growl that could still be faintly heard from the maw of the dog. ”He ain’t one much for strangers.” A statement never more true as the men they have encountered upon these lands have been naught but the robbing and slaughtering type.

’Just’a drifter’, Ramos thought. How many times had he heard that? There was always more to the story. He retracted his hand, but sought to maintain his non-aggressive body language. He observed Guillermo. He was no fool; he could see how the Californio held himself; face obscured by a bandana; hand tucked away, likely inches from an iron — a poncho to keep it concealed. But Ramos wasn’t about to dispossess a man of his last resort: not if he wanted him on his good side. Folks out here found comfort in their weapons, and this drifter didn’t seem the type to draw ‘lest he needed. After all, if this feller had an itchy trigger finger, one of the two of ‘em would be laid out dead in the dirt by now.

”An’ I could say the same ta you, lawman. The night don’t wait for no soul,” Guillermo continued, his eyes trained carefully upon the mad before him. And while Guillermo was not one particularly skilled in the art of reading human body language, he could through the posturing of the sheriff and his word oh so kind, a nicety not often provided by those within these lands and often one wrought with a backbone of sole malice. However, whether this was the sheriff’s intention was a thought he could not land upon in his mind.

”Well, you know how it is, if there ain’t no rest for the wicked, then there ain’t no rest for me,” Ramos replied casually. ”You got a moment to talk?”

”Whatever’ll yet ya off my back faster.” Guillermo’s free hand had moved back to grab the reign, emerging from beneath the confines of the poncho to drag the string beneath it’s cover as well. Out in these lands on could never stay too safe, even from a proclaimed lawman, even those type hid their skeletons in the closet. The revolver on his hip stayed attached to his hand like it was glued. He wasn’t one to take a life for no reason but if need came he was not afraid to let his lead blow. His aim was one that was not recounted, as a dead man told no tales.

Ramos cow-turned Captain, and began to ride in the direction of town, slowing a little to allow Guillermo to ride beside him — he wasn’t fool enough to let a suspect breathe down the back of his neck. The ride was quiet, for the most part, aside from a brief exchange. ”Care to put a name to a face?,” Ramos asked, though he knew damn well the answer.

”Guillermo,” said the Californio. His words were short, Hell, he couldn’t give too much away. The silence stood stagnant within the air as they followed down the dirt path to the town, it felt tense — well at least to Guillermo it did, like an eternal face-off betwixt the two lasting the duration of that grueling ride. His mind couldn’t help be veer off the train of thought of escaping and onto one of questioning why he even found himself in this situation. One could only wonder what would bring the sheriff out in the wee devil’s hours of the night to find a drifter for what? A bit of questioning? It all felt like a house of card ready to fall.

It seemed like the ruckus at the Kiskadee was successfully neutralised, with Amistad’s usual late-night hum restored. The clatter of the two horses faded as both riders dismounted out front the office, hitching their respective steeds to the post. Ramos unlocked the door, glancing back at the dog, who waited ardently on the porch, eager to defend his master. Ramos stepped inside, casting a brief glance back at Guillermo, who lingered at the threshold.

”Take a seat,” Ramos said; half-offer, half-demand. He gestured over to the ol’ faithful whiskey bottle on the desk as the door rattled shut behind them both. ”You a drinker?,” he asked; his first loaded question. Just what kind of a drifter are ya, Guillermo? The down-and-out drunkard? The headhunter? Somewhere in between?

”Who ain’t one nowadays?”

Ramos scoffed dryly, pouring himself a short glass, and passing the rest of the bottle, which was ninety-percent empty, over to the Californio. “So: you’ve been around these parts a short while now? Seen a fair bit of the goings on?”

”That one way ta put it.” A solitary hand slithered from beneath the poncho and onto the bottle before him. He caught the sheriff glancing down, trying to catch a glimpse of his gun-arm, but it was well concealed. With the bottle hand he used a single digit to bring the stained bandana down from his mouth, pressing lip of the liquor bottle to his own. The sheriff had been a bit too friendly for his liking, one truly unusual experience.

“That’s how it’s been these last few years; a crossroads. Drifters comin’ and goin’. You ever think they leave more than just their dust behind ‘em?” Ramos smirked a little as he spoke; an unsettling smile, not quite friendly; but casual. He hadn’t a chance to eat til’ now, so he retrieved some dry crackers from a drawer in his desk. He wolfed at the biscuits unceremoniously; a deliberate impropriety. The less formal this interaction seemed, the less threatened Guillermo would be.

”Do ya ever really know the motive behind a man? Can’t say I can give ya an answer. I really only ever go ta the saloon and general store, not one for knowin’ too much of the folk.” Guillermo’s hand sat the bottle back down upon the table after the last few drops of liquor dripped into his mouth. What is he tryin’ ta get at? the words flashed across his mind as his eyes wandered upon the sheriff’s smile, it reeked of something he just didn’t like.

Indifferent, Ramos brushed crumbs from the desk, pausing between munches to speak. “Someone has to try out here,” he said, watching as the Californio briefly tugged down his bandana to imbibe. “You mind keepin’ that down? Think it’s polite to regard a man face to face.”

”Ain’t much of a difference with it on or off, but I’m an honorable man.” The bandana that was one upon the tip of his nose now lay around his neck, exposing the face he had often hid beneath.

“Thank you,” Ramos replied. “You seem like a busy man; you do any work ‘round these parts? Ranchero? Cantero? Or just passin’ through?”

”I hunt. An’ not the bounty kind. Some of the meat ya see McRiley cooking down over at the bar he buys off me.”

“Takes a tough son of a gun to make it out in the brush. You fight in the war, by chance?”

”In’a way. Those days ain’t somethin’ I really want to talk about though.”

“I understand,” Ramos said, raising his hands placatingly in a Gallic shrug. “Just thought I might ask you a few things, help me get the lay of the land with some business. You live not far off O’Noone’s ranch, correct? How well y’know him?”

”O’Noone? Ain’t really much to say about him and me, sometimes he’ll pay me to hassle up some of his animals that get out. Not much beyond that really.”

”And the Tejano kid he’s got workin’ for him,” Ramos continued. He watched Guillermo’s face attently, looking out for any signs of panic or deceit. “You work alongside him when you were a’russling?”

””Kid? I ain’t sure I really seen a kid out there. Usually only talked to O’Noone, and I work by myself.” Guillermo’s mind scoured hard in search of recollection of a kid ever working on the farm, on the times he had visited, O’Noone had met him alone, and he had never truly seen the deeper parts of the ranch. One of his eyebrows rose as his eyes met with those of Ramos. What the hell is this line of questioning?

Ramos wrinkled his nose. Either Guillermo was ice-cold, or he really had no idea why he’d been roped into the sheriff’s office this night. Didn’t seem to be much reason in beating around the bush any longer.

”I’ll cut to the chase, then, Guillermo,” Ramos sighed. He’d give a little information over; see if it coaxed out any memories. He wouldn’t mention the multiple killings, though; if word got out, there could be a panic on his hands. ”There’s been trouble at the ranch, the boy’s wound up dead. Haven’t got a chance to fully assess his wounds, but tryin’ to strike while the iron’s hot; chase up any suspects. Ain’t got any reason to put blame on you, other than your proximity — but from where you camp out, it’d be hard to miss folk comin’ back and forth from the town. Hasn’t been any quarrymen through lately, to my knowledge, and I’m good ‘n sure O’Noone has no reason to kill the kid…. So if you seen anythin’, it’d be mighty helpful for you to let me know.”

”Now I can’t tell you I done see a lot. The only lights I’ve seen passing in and through the town as of late had been from the caravan not so far off.”

The caravan, Ramos pondered. That would’ve been his next port of call anyhoo.

”But I can tell you that somethin’ aint right. My dog barkin’ at odd hours of the night into the darkness. Hell even durin’ the day my old horse get spooked. Ya ever notice silence? Has the night ever been silent? There might be somethin’ out there, 'cause in the wee hours like now Jorge doesn’t get all antsy for no reason.”

Ramos knew what he meant, and he’d felt it too. Out on the ranch, he’d been waiting for something to leap out at him, a shadow on his periphery — but nothing came. It was an unpleasant, foreboding sensation. He felt he hadn’t much reason to doubt Guillermo’s word, for now at least. One would assume an old gunslinger, one with wartime experience no less, would be smarter than to kill some folk and dump them in his back yard. Nonetheless, he’d need to keep him at arms length.

”Well that just about aligns with where I’m at,” he nodded. ”Now, listen, Guillermo. I don’t see any reason why I should—”

A metallic ‘bong’ sound reverberated from nextdoor, along with a thud.

”Shut it!,” he yelled. Probably Jim thumping his head against the wall, tryin’ to exorcise the drink out of him. ”I don’t see any reason why I should have to lock you up, the way’s I see it, you don’t seem to have much dirt on you. But I am gonna’ have to ask you to stay in town, ‘least for a couple days. Got some boys out of town coming in to help, and they might want to question you further. That alright with you?,” he asked, though he sensed it mightn’t be alright with the Californio. One of the few reasons a man lingered out in the marchlands was due to a difference of opinion with the law. But if Guillermo was smart, he wouldn’t run — it’d implicate him in the killing of Gustavo, along with any others who might wind up dead to the nameless killer.

”Can’t say I got much of’a reason to say no,” said Guillermo. The lie flowed through his teeth like water down a stream. He knew that staying around to be questioned by God knows who with a particular bounty laying around his head was naught but a terrible idea but run would as good putting the knife within his own hands. For now all he could do was to hope to whatever created this terrible land to send him a miracle, he had been out long enough evading death, he could surely do it in the face of some lawmen. ”Now if that is all ya got left to say I’d like to see if I could catch a drink at the bar if ya won’t mind.”

”Quite alright, compañero,” he dipped his head politely. ”I thank you for your acquiescence—”

Another loud thump.

Ramos kissed his tongue, irritated. ”If you’ll excuse me.” He stood, striding first to the front door, which he opened for his guest, tipping his hat in good grace.

”Take it easy. This world ain’t kind to any soul upon it.” Guillermo did the same in a good-faith gesture, finally releasing the death grip upon the firearm upon his waist as the door to freedom had been opened at last. He exited the building with his head held high and thoughts swirling about within that brain of his, he had something to take care of.

As the door closed behind Ramos, he rubbed at the bridge of his nose. Tonight was just getting started, and thus far, he wasn’t much closer to identifying a culprit. Least of all his worries were the idiot drunks in the cell, but they were a worry nonetheless. ”Now Jimmy, you better not be causin’ ruckus in there!,” he called out as he strode across his office, opening the door to the jail.

His look of mild disgruntlement quickly evaporated as he entered the jail, regarding the scene before him.

”Ay, caramba…”

31 May, 1888.

The dawn came in protean copper and rose — subsiding eventually into pure, unpolluted blue. A beautiful day, for those that could afford to rest; a fearsome one for those who couldn't.

Ramos stood on the porch of his office, shielding his night-bitten eyes from the emboldened almost-summer sun. His hands ached from hours of riding, and his sinuses stung from the dust, but he wasn’t ready to rest yet. One night without sleep here and there wouldn’t kill a man, but letting his guard down when death was lurking just might.

The scene he’d stumbled upon in the jail was the last thing he'd wanted to see; Big Jim’s face as blue as the day’s sky; rolled steel of the jail cell bars bent outwards; blood and foam dripping from Jim’s chin. The big feller had survived, just about, and Ramos had restrained him further. The other prisoner had sworn bloody that he had nought to do with Jim's outburst, and there was no evidence to dispute him. Ramos had little choice other than to release the coachguard, lest Jim enter another rampage and successfully ring his neck. He hadn’t had sufficient time to properly interrogate the drifter, but had no other choice: he’d have to circle back. If the coachguard was innocent, as he seemed, a question was begged: how does a man like Jim enter such a feral state in the dead of night that he bleeds ‘neath his fingernails, and chokes himself out? Seemed unlikely to Ramos that this wasn’t related to the rest of his problems somehow, but as of yet, he hadn’t determined a link. One thing he knew for sure — Deputy Beadle and Ranger Mellon couldn’t come soon enough. If there was one more incident before nightfall, he’d have to raise a posse, and putting the power of law into the hands of the commonfolk was a slippery slope that tended to wind up bruising egos — among other things.

His thoughts were interrupted by an echoed shout. Speak of the devil and he doth appear.

Ramos squinted into the heat-blurred street. Shambling along the dust road was a man, kicking up dust, clothes incarnadine. It looked like blood that was smeared up his arms and torso — too much to be his own, given that he was still standing. He seemed uninjured, but he had a queer gait; unnatural and slow, dragging his leg with each step, like a horse with a crooked shoe. The town had woken up by this point, with tradesmen and travelers making their way to-and-fro, and the strange visitor had already drawn some of their attention. Ramos wasted no time as he hustled in the direction of the unidentified visitor, hand trained over his Colt. The murmurs grew louder as he approached. The bloodied man's eyes were vacant — and he didn’t seem to even notice Ramos coming.

"Hold on there, stranger," Ramos called out, slowing his pace twenty-feet or so shy of the man. "You alright?"

No response. Not even a glance. The man kept staggering forward, oblivious. Most of the crowd recoiled.

"Hey. I'm talking to you," he said, edging closer. "I said hold it."

Still nothing.

Ramos cursed under his breath. Whatever was going on with this stranger looked all too familiar to him after the incident with Big Jim. Even if he wasn’t soaked in blood — which he was — there was plenty else off about him; the walk, the ambience in his gaze, the lack of consciousness. The violence that Jim had shown in the cell was uncharacteristic. Sure, he was a lout who was prone to bust-ups in the saloon; but he wasn’t a killer — not in Ramos’ view. There had to be something else going on. Some kind of sickness. This wasn’t natural.

The tension broke when a woman screamed. Without warning, the stranger lurched toward her, arms outstretched, fingers clawing wildly at the air. The crowd scattered in terror as the man’s blood-smeared fingers reached for her throat.

Ramos drew.

click

CRACK

ᵗʰᵘᵐᵖ

The stranger's body had jerked mid-step, crumpling to the ground in a twisted heap. His outstretched hand fell short of the woman by mere inches, twitching before it went still. The town went silent, 'cept for the soft whisper of the breeze.

Ramos winced. The thought had only just danced upon his mind that this man might be a victim of something, and not just a psychotic killer — and not a moment later he’d shot him dead. But had he not, a woman of steady mind and health would’ve taken his place, and that would have been on Ramos’ conscience. At the very least, only one individual had to die in the street on this particular morning; not two, or God forbid, more. Or that's what Ramos would tell himself to ease his guilt.

"Move along!," he shouted. The fatigue that he carried was apparent, highlighted under the spotlight of Sol in the tightness of his skin, and the strain in his neck. Nobody argued.

He started towards the woman who'd nearly been attacked, but stopped as he saw some others rally around, comforting her. Instead, he approached the stranger’s corpse, kneeling down to appraise it further.

Over at the town hall, Mayor Davis stood at the door, coffee cup in hand, seemingly roused by the gunshot. Ramos had paid him a visit at the crack of dawn, and had informed him on the situation at the ranch. Davis, though wearing an expression of concern, had a hopefulness in his eyes. He mouthed to Ramos something like: "is that the guy?". Ramos could hazard a guess as to what thoughts raced through the statesman’s mind. Our problem has solved itself; how fortunate are we for the killer to stumble into town and offer himself up for justice? Ramos simply shook his head. This wasn’t the end of their problems.

Not even close.