The Collection

A Meeting With the Devil

The distant glow of the town of Caternita marked my way as I made my way across the parched desert ground. My eyes had long since adjusted to the soft moonlight that paved my way. This was to be a calm night. In these brief moments everyone's guards were down, the time where they were swept away by the moment and the eyes of once-wary people are shadowed by absentmindedness and leave their suspicions at the bar, lying drunk and happy from spirit. I became aware of the other five riders that I had set out with, their mouths set in harsh lines. Joseph was an artist, Max organized services for the poor and Jerry Bayard had a family of seven children. Ami loved animals and killed to put food on the table for his two daughters. Bayard was just always there, a constant friend and companion. I had seen them all cry, laugh and kill. Of all the criminals worth hanging, it would be me, I have no family to come home too, no mouths to feed, no worthwhile cause. I just had to face it, I was the monster. And no matter what I wanted, they were there,. We trusted each other to cover each other's back, with our very lives.I turned my thoughts from my partners and to the well-beaten road in front of me. It would be a couple of days before the news of the robbery and murder in the town of Lachtna reached Caternita. It wasn't anything new, it was just business. And as I led my horse inside the stable, I wondered if anything could go wrong, but before the end of the night, it did. *** It was Bayard; he stepped from the rain, dripping perspiration and precipitation. His sweat mingled with the rain and his eyes showed the feral monstrosity of fear that clouded his gaze. His skin lit up as he stepped inside, his hands pressed into the folds of his vest, where his revolver usually rests. Casting frantic eyes around at the grey, misty scene he pressed by me, his wet shirt brushing me as he went by. Lightning crackled through the haze, breaking the pitter-patter briefly and lighting the streets with a ghoulish light. I closed the door, ushering him inside. The lock clicked closed behind me and Bayard turned and hurriedly barred the door with trembling hands. Then, he lay, rocking back and forth on the rug, shivering, his eyes yellowish ovals filled with terror and inhuman dread. He babbled on, his lip threatening to let sobs escape his mouth. He lay there for a while, and then abated, slowly cradling himself to sleep. Bayard had always been the strongest of us. And he was reduced to an infant within an hour, there was only one thing that could have stopped him cold, and that was the devil himself.

Golden light seeped through the window, rays of sunlight mercilessly tugging me from the arms of sleep. As I slipped from my bed, the scenes of the successful raid whipped through my brain. At one point I would have been nauseated by the thought or the sight of a projectile buried in a sheriff's forehead, a limp testament to my guilt. I stretched, reaching for my trousers and shirt. I hurried from the room. The night before I'd had to drag Bayard across the floor and carry him to bed. Now he lay motionless, breath wheezing in the eerie stillness. He wouldn't eat anything, and he had lashed out when I'd tried to remove his coat. The others needed to know about this, something had happened to Jerry that night, and it was much worse than his usual drunken stupor. The door clicked open. It was Aryman, my rarely-seen neighbor. "Yes?"The farmer turned,"The deputy's dead." My face paled considerably, no other bandits had given word that they were attacking, could it have been the same thing that took Bayard? And why was Bayard still alive and the deputy not? I dropped my spoon; it clanged on the ground, a ringing peal that knocked me from my stupor. Something was amiss, someone or something had drove Bayard insane and killed the deputy. I would say there's a new gun in town, but no gunslinger or bandit could make Bayard stand down, much less drag him into the chasm of insanity. I left the house, feet growing less stable from apprehension and fear. My senses were razor sharp, my ears pricked and my vision elongated considerably. I made my way towards the clump of people around the Sherriff's office. I wobbled towards the growing crowd. Townspeople were gathered around the grisly scene. The corpse was a rotting husk, his chest was a mutilated mass of bloody tissue that pulsed with an ugly light, red liquid running from the wound, and pooling on the ground. The sheriff was nowhere in sight. Disgusted by the ruthlessness, I turned away and walked away from the brutality. I spat, emptying my mouth of traces of vomit. No longer did I feel the elation of the successful raid. Within 12 hours I had lost a companion to insanity and had found the law-enforcement mutilated horribly. I was seriously shocked now, cold sweat coating my body in sticky coolness. I shivered. My confidence shrank and whined piteously I found myself unsure of what to do. Never before have I faced an unknown enemy that brutishly maimed. It was always the feller with the big gun, or large ego, or even just lots of money. But I always had my companions to back me up. Now it was unknown, a variable incalculable, and I knew I was utterly alone Scrambling hands reached for my pistol and I drew it, silver metal glinting in the evening light. My panic started to subside as I held the familiar weapon. If I knew anything, I knew how to fight. Soon the streets would be coated with blood.