"Yeah, I know what he said."
"Ah," Pablo said, nodding with a knowing glint in his eyes. "I figured you for a spiritual man, Gunner. You've read the Word, haven't you?"
"Ain't nothing spiritual about me, old man. And no one reads the Bible anymore. Not since the Church restricted it to ordained men of the cloth."
"That hasn't stopped the devout from educating themselves apart from the so-called Holy Church of Divinity. Do you know why it's the only sanctioned religious organization in the Territories?"
"They claim because they're the true religion."
"But you don't believe them."
"I never said—"
"You don't have to." Pablo's gnarled hands tightened on the cage bars. "I hear it in your voice. Because if the Messiah's followers are to be no part of the world, how can a church be sanctioned by a human government? It goes against the very spirit of being a follower of Christ. Yet the church embraces their relationship with the government all the same, prostituting itself for the sake of status and privilege. They have a Divinity mission right here in this Town. The Judge is a prominent member, as is the Baron. They and their kind love to preen in front of the very people they subjugate, pretending they ascribe to a higher power. The same hypocrisy has prevailed throughout the ages, but true children of God know that righteousness is proved by works, not appearances."
"I'm sure that's all true, Pablo. But I didn't come here for a lecture on theology."
Pablo tilted his head. "No, you didn't. You came here because of troubled dreams."
Gunner's head snapped up. "You don't know anything about my dreams."
"I know you have trouble sleeping, Gunner. It's in your eyes. The strain of being hounded by demons from your past."
Gunner sat down on the crate, staring at his hands. "What do you know about it, Pablo? You walking on the path of righteousness and all."
Pablo's voice lowered. "I know more than you might guess. I haven't always walked this path, after all. Not too long ago I was lost, like so many are. Blown about by loss and rage, given to drinking and unruly behavior. Just another fool looking for a way out."
He sighed. "I can't remember a single time I got a good night's sleep during that period of my life. Maybe I could if I exhausted myself badly enough. Drank myself unconscious. Maybe then."
Gunner nodded, face grim. "I been from one place to the next, but nothing changes. Either you fight, or you're prey. But every time you fight, you kill a little piece of yourself. And I know the things I've done. I know they ain't right. I wear gloves on my hands so I don't have to think of the blood they've shed. Sometimes I try to fool myself into thinking I can go straight. Hang up my guns, wash the stains from my hands, and settle into a normal life."
"And why can't you?" Pablo asked. "Why can't you go home, Gunner?"
"Ain't got one."
"No family?"
"Not no more."
"Then you can make a fresh start. Begin again. Repent from your sins and be reborn. Relieve yourself of pains and sorrows, and accept the love and acceptance from your Father in Heaven. This is the gift that God gives you."
Gunner shook his head. "Maybe I don't want that gift right now. Maybe never. I got scores to settle."
"Vengeance belongs to God. Let Him settle your scores."
Gunner's jaw clenched as he stood and turned away. "God takes too long. I'm done waiting. Been done a long time ago."
Pablo looked at him sadly. "This man you asked about earlier. What did he do to you, Gunner? What did he take from you?"
"Everything," Gunner said. "And your God didn't lift a finger to stop him, either. So I figure He won't stop me from doing what I gotta do, either."
Chapter 4: Haughty Eyes
Gunner woke to the scent of coffee, bacon, and burnt toast. When he made his way to the main room, Roscoe was already drinking from a battered tin mug. He gave a welcoming nod to Gunner.
"Top of the morning, friend. You're looking pretty bleary-eyed for a man just waking up."
Gunner grunted. "How am I supposed to get sleep with you snoring like an injured bear?"
"If you're not snoring, you're not sleeping well."
"I wouldn't know. That bacon and eggs on the stove?"
"Yeah, but not for you."
"That's funny. I remember paying ahead for meals just yesterday."
"Oh, I ain't holding back any grub. Just you got better options, is all." Roscoe pointed to a note lying on the table.
Gunner picked it up. "An invitation to breakfast with the Judge at my earliest convenience. Huh."
Roscoe raised a shaggy eyebrow. "Reckon you made an impression."
"Yeah." Gunner glanced down at his dingy shirt. "Guess I'll change into my new clothes."
A few minutes later, he strolled onto the grounds of a manor-style building of weathered brick and clay shingles, standing in stark contrast with the surrounding structures by being clean and free of the reddish dust that covered most of the Town. Servants swept the grounds and wiped down the building and its furnishings with feverish dedication, and several automated blowers hummed as they kept the dust at bay.
Bodyguards lounged against the siding or played cards at a picnic table, laughing and talking trash. Gunner recognized Janey's scarred features when she looked up as he walked through the gate. Her eyes widened slightly. He ignored her, continuing his way to the door.
"Hey, gunfighter."
He paused, glancing back. She had turned around on the bench, leaning casually against the table. Too casually. He noticed her hand resting against the butt of her revolver. The other toyed with the cigarette in her mouth. Smoke spewed from her nostrils.
"You're the one we robbed and beat up the other day."
"Yeah."
The other players paused as the air practically crackled with tension. Eyes focused on Gunner, weighing out options, anticipating his next move. The guard by the door hefted his rifle as if ready to use it.
Janey kept her cool, eyes on Gunner as if speaking to a friend. "I heard about your gunfight yesterday. They say you're lightning quick. You come here to kill me?"
"Didn't expect to see you here. Came at the Judge's invitation."
"Yeah? The hell he wants to see you for?"
"Guess I'll find out when I see him."
"Yeah, I bet. Even so, I reckon we gotta settle up. Ain't never known a man to take a beating without coming for payback."
"Maybe so. But the thing is, you and your boys caught me fair and square. Could've put me down, but you didn't. I ain't the type to hold a grudge. What's done is done. So I'm hoping we can just put this behind us. I won't come for you if you don't come for me. That sound about right?"
She squinted at him in silence for a second before nodding. "Yeah, all right. But I'll be right here when you're done gabbing with the Judge, case you change your mind."
"Good enough."
He turned to the guard by the door, a burly man in a weathered poncho who spat in the gravel and nodded at Gunner's weapon.
"Gotta leave the six-shooter. Pick it up when you come back out."
Gunner removed the belt and holster and handed it to the guard, who stood to one side and allowed him to pass through the polished, brass-trimmed doors into the manor.
The interior was grand and spacious, restored to preserve the original design as if meant to be a museum instead of an inhabitable home. Wood was everywhere: on the walls, on the floor, and most of the furniture, buffed and polished, smelling of citrus polish and oil. Old paintings hung on the walls: portraits of grave faces with wise eyes, depictions of buffalo hunts and battles of the Old West.