Blood

Chapter 6: Pale Rider

Both Callahan and Bill had fallen asleep on the dusty church floor, too exhausted to make it anywhere else. They were torn from their slumber by the sound of gunfire and shouting in the streets. A voice emanated from outside the church door “Where is the boy! You all know which one I mean! No one else dies as long as he’s brought to me!” Callahan recognized the voice of the pale rider that had killed his father. His year had passed in the blink of an eye and he hadn’t even realized it. He was frozen in place, terrified and angry, but suddenly felt a firm hand on his shoulder that calmed him, he had been so focused on his own fear he had not noticed the preacher make his way down to the cellar and back up to him. “Young Callahan, stay here and be quiet.” the preacher made his way to the door and swung it open.
The preacher was greeted by a group of seven men standing on the main street, guns still smoking from bullets fired in the air. At the head of them stood a ghostly pale man, the preacher may not have known exactly who this man was, but he knew that in some way this man was death. “Gentlemen, I implore you to leave these people alone, no blood need be shed today.” the preacher spoke firmly but desperately, the pale man only laughed “and what will you do about it preacher, pray for me? Offer to save my damned soul?” The men laughed and raised their guns at the preacher. “You weren’t here last year preacher, maybe you can tell me where to find the son of the late William Colt.” Bill Bishop’s gaze darkened as he narrowed his eyes, facing down the men who dared threaten innocent people. He widened his stance and held his hands low underneath his cloak “I’ll only ask once more, leave town and leave these people alone before I’m forced to introduce you to the devil himself.”
Callahan watched from behind a church pew, his vision of what was happening in the street obscured by the preacher’s form in the doorway. Every ounce of his being urged him to step in between them and accept his fate before anyone got hurt, but something kept him still.
The preacher could do nothing but hope that the revolver he had carried all these years in his dear Caroline’s name was truly as powerful as she had always claimed, and that maybe, just maybe, it had decided that its time had come to fire for the first time. The weight of the gunbelt on his waist was like a familiar old friend once lost and finally returned to open arms. The pale rider scowled at the preacher “death it is then preacher.” The preacher drew like lightning, slower in his old age but somehow still faster than most people had seen before, the hammer of the revolver dropped with a resounding boom and the man furthest on the right fell. Before he had even hit the ground the preacher had pulled the hammer back four more times and four more times it fired, bringing another man down as the hammer fell each time. Two shots, one from the pale rider and one from the last standing member of his posse, tore the preacher. His blood splattered across the floor of the old church but he let the last round in the cylinder fly and the last man he would ever kill fell like the others. The pale rider laughed “you’re out of bullets preacher. Aside from the two already in you.” he stepped forward as the preacher fell to his knees, the last of his strength leaving him, but holding his head high by willpower alone. The pale rider stood in front of the preacher and brought his gun to the preacher's nose “I’d say a prayer for you preacher, but no one is listening.”
As his finger tightened on the trigger another booming explosion resounded from within the church. There stood young Callahan arm outstretched holding his revolver, as if it had heard his call as he’d watched the preacher get shot, his gunbelt had appeared around his waist as if by magic. As the hammer fell ending the Pale Riders life, so too ended Callahan’s old life, he was no longer just a simple boy raised on a farm, he had sealed his fate as a gunslinger and accepted the power passed down in his blood as countless others before him never did. The pale rider fell backwards off the steps into the dirt. Blood pooling around him, as Callahan walked past the still kneeling preacher to look down he could swear he saw his parents' reflections in the blood, their spirits avenged and at peace. He helped Bill to his feet and into the church, never wavering or stumbling, that cold comfort had overtaken him and was all he felt now. “You’re dying, aren't you preacher.” Bill nodded “I’m afraid I am young Callahan'' he struggled to remove the gunbelt from his waist and handed it to the boy “I suppose this is yours, your grandmother would be proud of you boy, just as I am.” Bill Bishop leaned back in the pew and closed his eyes ''I am sorry that you were chosen for this life and that I can’t be around to guide you, I need a favor from you now, in return you can have my horse.” Callahan sat next to the preacher “what do you need sir.” Bill removed his hat and held it against his chest “tell me about my son, tell me about William.” And so he did, for the next few minutes as the preacher faded away he regaled him with whatever tales and details he could about his father, and as the preacher died. He was smiling. Callahan took the preacher’s hat and his cloak for himself, he would grow into them quickly enough after all, and went down to the cellar to gather supplies and steady himself. As another family member died in front of him, this one he had just met, Callahan had once again not cried. Whatever magic he carried in his blood had its advantages for sure, it was evident by all that had just happened, but it made him numb to his own feelings aside from the most intense ones. When had shot the pale rider he had experienced a new rage that surprised himself, and as his grandfather died a new sorrow, but he was unable to express them as he did not yet understand what had changed within him. It didn’t take long to gather what he needed. He went to the stable and took Abendago, the preacher's horse, and paid no mind to the man who was cowering behind the counter. As he left however he did leave what money the preacher had on the counter “see to it that the preacher is buried properly. I’ll know if you don’t.” His last stop before leaving his hometown forever was to the house he had grown up in, but was no longer his home. He reminisced on the words his father had said years ago. Callahan Colt, gunslinger, was born when he had drawn the blood of the Pale Rider, and who he was had been reforged by the iron of his revolver, the old Callahan Colt had died in the blaze of gunpowder, and now it was time to bury him. The gunslinger rode away into the wild as the flames that now swallowed his former home raged behind him, it was a good pyre he thought, and a fitting way to mourn the death of who he once was.