"Good," Kael whispered, a genuine smile touching his lips.
"Then tell me," he said softly. "Are you ready?"
Thy will be done.
The bartender's finger tightened on the trigger.
Kael moved at once, with the sudden, terrifying grace of a viper uncoiling. He struck to leave the face intact, so there would be eyes left to see.
His hand blurred, snatching the heavy whiskey bottle. He swung it down at the wrist hidden beneath the bar.
CRACK.
Bone snapped. The gun clattered to the floor. The bartender shrieked, clutching his ruined hand, collapsing into the corner.
"Watch," Kael commanded softly.
The card player stood up, clawing for his holster. "The hell you think you're doin', you little punk?"
Kael vaulted the bar in one smooth motion, his body gliding over the wood like smoke. He landed softly and pulled the shotgun straight from the wall rack.
He had no idea yet what the thing in his hands was meant to do. His hands already knew. The God guided his thumb.
Hammers cocked.
Thunder.
Kael spun. The card player raised his revolver.
Kael pulled the triggers.
BOOM.
The recoil struck Kael's shoulder, sharp and heavy. He fired again before the first blast finished echoing.
The card player took both shots in the chest at point-blank range. The first load tore through cloth and bone. The second drove straight into what was already breaking apart. His ribs collapsed inward. The front of his torso gave way.
The man behind him caught the spillover at the same moment—pellets tearing into his side and throat. He went down without a sound.
The card player was thrown backward. The table split under his weight. Blood sprayed across the room, mixed with splintered wood.
The room erupted in chaos.
"You son of a bitch!"
Bullets chewed the wood around him. Thwack. Thwack.
Kael was already moving. The shot was barely finished when he twisted aside, a round tearing past his shoulder close enough to feel the heat.
Gunfire cracked through the saloon. Bullets ripped into the bar top, wood splintering into the air.
Kael dropped behind the counter and let the shotgun fall.
He stayed low, pressed against the shelves and the casks beneath them. Bottles shattered overhead. Glass rained down.
The bartender froze beside him, hands half raised.
Kael reached across the floor and picked up the revolver the bartender had dropped. He checked the cylinder once. Six rounds.
"Don't move," he said, without looking at him.
Kael rose just enough to see over the bar.
A man was charging him, knife raised. Kael fired once. The man crumpled mid-stride, sliding across the sawdust.
Kael shifted, fired again. A second man tried to dive behind the overturned card table; the bullet found him before he hit the floor.
The third shot took a man in the shoulder as he tried to flank along the wall. The impact pinned him against the wood.
The fourth caught someone mid-run toward the door.
The fifth cut off a shout from behind a post.
The sixth caught the last man as he started to raise his gun.
Smoke hung low over the bar. Empty chambers clicked under Kael's thumb.
Silence began to reclaim the room, broken only by whimpering.
One man remained. The one who had bragged about the woman on the road.
Kael bent down and picked up a revolver from the floor. He straightened, then walked toward him, one step at a time, unhurried.
The third shot had caught him in the shoulder. His left hand was clamped over the wound, blood leaking between his fingers. His gun lay forgotten on the floor.
He backed away in short, panicked steps, shoulders scraping the wall, trying to make himself smaller.
"Please," he said, voice breaking. "Please—"
He kept retreating until there was nowhere left to go, his hands shaking, his eyes fixed on Kael.
"No! No, wait!" the man blubbered, snot running down his face. "I... I was lying! I was just talking big! I never touched her! I swear!"
Kael stopped. He stood amidst the carnage, the smoking revolver hanging loosely at his side. He tilted his head, looking at the weeping man with cold curiosity.
"Lying?" Kael asked.
"I didn't mean it. Whiskey talk. I ain't a bad man, I swear—please."
Kael stepped closer. The floorboards creaked. He loomed over the man.
"Let's play a game," Kael said softly. "I'll ask you a question. You have one breath to answer. If you miss it, I kill you. If you answer in time, I let you go. Do you understand?"
The man nodded frantically. "Yes—yes. I understand."
Kael's face stayed calm and empty.
"Three. Two—"What color dress was she wearing?" The words coming out in a rapid rush.
The answer flew out of the man's mouth, born of terror and memory.
"Blue! It was pale blue calico!"
The man froze. His eyes went wide as the realization hit him.
Kael smiled, his eyes flat. "You have a good memory for a lie."
"No—" His voice cracked before the word was finished.
Kael lowered the gun and aimed at the man's crotch.
Bang.
The shot hit.
His body folded in on itself. He dropped to the floor, knees jerking up, both hands clamping over his groin. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Blood soaked through his fingers and spread across the boards as he convulsed, breath breaking in his throat.
Kael ignored the noise. He turned away and jammed the pistol against his side, held in place by nothing but his loincloth. He had work to do.
He walked to the man with the wine stain—the one who had mocked his bare feet. The corpse lay face down.
Kael sat on the bloody floorboards. He pulled the man's coat off first, then his shirt. He took the trousers next, working them free without hurry.
He stepped into the pants, fastened them, then cinched the belt tight around his waist. A gun belt came with it. He slid it on, testing the fit, checking the loops.
He took the holster last and threaded it into place.
The boots came off next. He pulled them on, tight leather biting at his feet. He laced them slowly, adjusting the fit, while the wounded man behind him choked and sobbed.
Kael stood and stamped his heels once. Solid.
He found a hat on another body and set it on his head, pulling the brim low.
Then he went from body to body. He knelt, searched their pockets, took the coins, the dust pouches, the loose cartridges.
He picked up the knife from the man who had charged him at the start—the one who had come in with the blade raised. Kael tested its weight once, then kept it.
He checked their pistols one by one—weight, balance, the wear on the grips. He chose the best of them and swapped it for the one tucked against his side
The screaming in the corner had turned into low, gurgling sobs.
Kael walked back to the bar. The bartender sat slumped against the shelves, his broken wrist pressed to his chest. His breathing was shallow. His eyes tracked Kael without blinking.
"You're lucky," Kael said to the bartender. "You didn't speak of any sins you'd committed. Maybe there were none."
Kael reached for a bottle of amber whiskey that had survived. He uncorked it and took a long, burning swallow. The liquid washed the dust from his mouth.
He set the bottle down, then reached for a water jug behind the bar. He drank again, slower this time, until the burn was gone.
Kael looked at the bartender.
"Food. Where." He paused once. "And get me a pack."
...
The rapist in the corner was still twitching, breath bubbling wetly in his throat.
Kael crossed the room, chewing slowly. Beans and grease stuck to his teeth. He stopped in front of the man and looked down at what was left.
"Time to go."
Bang.
The room went quiet. Kael turned to leave. Then he saw it.
Pinned to the wall beside the shattered mirror, spattered with fresh blood, was a sheet of rough yellow paper.
He stepped closer. The charcoal sketch was crude, the lines rushed—but the eyes were unmistakable. The same ones he had seen staring back at him.
WANTED — DEAD OR ALIVE
"EL LOBO"
REWARD: $7,500
Kael tore the notice from the wall. He folded the bloodstained paper and slipped it into his pocket.
He looked at the bartender once more.
"Tell them," Kael said.
Then he turned and walked out into the night. The darkness closed in behind him.