Blood

Chapter 4: Blood is Thicker Than Water

The next morning Callahan woke up on the cold barn floor, it was the closest he had gotten to sleeping in his own home in the last year, the knowledge that he had something nearby that would effectively neutralize anything that forced his hand comforted him in a cold way. That cold comforting feeling would soon follow him for the rest of his life, becoming more permanent as he aged, but for now he was still young and the warmth had yet to leave him. The sun had already risen into the sky casting long shadows across the property and leaving the town in the distance nothing more than a dark silhouette. Callahan felt the cold in his chest dissipate as he left the barn and made his way to town, the hollow feeling returning slowly the further away he got from home but with a new reignited flame in his soul like something that laid dormant within him had reawoken. 

Meanwhile in town Bill Bisop, the preacher, had already found lumber on his own and had started on patching leaks in the roof before the rain season came and flooded the church. He looked down the main street as young Callahan trudged along, he had almost convinced himself that he wasn’t going to show up but the shred of faith he had left was not misplaced. Callahan clambered up onto the roof alongside the preacher, the two of them began working together with few words as if no time had been lost in the early hours before Callahan had arrived, he had done this kind of work once before a few years ago when his father had decided to teach him what little he knew of carpentry. The work made the day go by fast and it wasn’t long before all the leaks and holes were patched. The preacher suggested they take a break if only for a moment and regain their energy before moving along to readying the outside to be painted. The reprieve was welcomed by young Callahan, he didn’t want to let it show and certainly wouldn’t admit to it but he was tired and the sun beating down on them exhausted him further. 

In that moment the preacher could swear he saw a familiar symbol emblazoned into Callahan’s palms, a mark he was certain he would never again see on a living person but it confirmed what he had already begun to expect. This boy was not just Callahan Colt, orphaned farm boy, he was Callahan Colt, the youngest living member of a bloodline traced back to a time before history, wielders of a mysterious power never truly harnessed by them. Bill Bishop had lived a long eventful life but had only once before met a Colt, she was by far the most amazing woman he had ever had the pleasure of meeting and now in his twilight years he still regretted the foolishness of his youth leaving her behind. Perhaps his true hope for coming to this town in the middle of nowhere was not hopeless after all, his intention of bringing justice and religion was always in the forefront of his mind, but the rumors that Colt’s lived there and his hope that they were those Colt’s were not as foolish as he had convinced himself they were.

“What happened to your hands young Callahan?” he asked the boy “just some scratches from the work preacher” the preacher shook his head and pointed to his own palms “not the scratches boy” Callahan’s first instinct was to lie, but being as young as he was and lacking someone to confide in these last years had loosened his tongue. He confesses to the preacher about the strange box he had found and the weapons within, the description awoke a memory deep in the depths of the preachers mind of that woman he had once knew who carried revolvers of that same description. They were useless unfortunately and didn’t fire but she always said that someday their purpose would be revealed when the world needed them most, the young faithless version of himself that he had been had always scoffed and said that guns that didn’t shoot had as much worth as a horse that wouldn’t run. Now that he was older and wiser and the image sitting beside him he reminisced on the memory and questioned himself on the matter, perhaps her faith those decades ago was not misplaced. “Believe it or not, young Callahan, I have some knowledge on those particular marks. It is a long story though and we would have to put off our work until tomorrow, would you like to hear it?” Callahan had not been told a story since his mother had passed and the claim that the preacher knew of his new scars intrigued him. So the two settled down on a church pew and prepared for a long story.