laying in this blog novel sandbox turned out to be more fun than I had a right to expect. Lost some time at work which I will make up this weekend. It sure can consume you. Just Damn! (Arrgh! I swore I'd stop saying that!) Thank you, Christina!

If you haven't started yet, go read Dax's Chapter One and Moogie's Chapter Two. This chapter will obviously make more sense if you do. Each chapter incorporates one of the Seven Deadly Sins.

Good luck to Kelley at Suburban Blight on Chapter Four. I think I left her with plenty of room to move the story along. Well, maybe...She'll have to clean up some messes first. Just like a man, eh?

Oh yeah...the sin is Greed.

Here's the rest of the lineup:

Chapter 4 - May 13 - Kelley

Chapter 5 - May 20 - Eric

Chapter 6 - May 27 - Pammy

Chapter 7 - June 3 - VelociGod

The man in black removed the saddle and bridle from his 5-year-old black Mustang and put on a feedbag. Three ranch hands retreated to the far side of the barn, murmuring to themselves, avoiding the stranger’s steely eyes. He caught a bit of the men’s conversation. Someone had been shot, recovering in the main house. Maybe starting in the morning would be too late.

His eyes professionally scanned the prairie barn. Entrances at both ends. Large enough for two dozen horses. Only a few stalls were empty. A wood ladder rose to a huge hayloft. He climbed the ladder and looked out the hayloft opening. No view of the woods. He shook his head and climbed back down.

His horse was still feeding, so he began a slow walk around the barn. Moonlight gave the prairie a soft glow. Flat land on three sides. A creek about 300 yards to the south, which he knew dumped into the river he’d crossed a mile down the road. To the west, the bunkhouse for maybe a dozen ranch hands. To the east stood the main ranch house, two-stories and an attic, with more windows than any decent home had a right to have. To the north-northwest, the woods, thick and green, rolling up into the gentle hills beyond. In the distance, a haze of cliffs and more rugged terrain. The tree line was only about 200 yards from the barn.

He sniffed the air. Clean, a hint of a wood fire. He listened. The woods were quiet. Too quiet. He stood behind the corner of the barn and stared into them for several minutes, a small target for a rifle hidden in those woods. He heard a rustling. Then saw a jack rabbit strike out from the woods heading west. Here’s where he’d sleep, near this corner of the barn, his eyes closed and ears open, with his horse tied up next to him.

He finished his circuit around the barn. The ranch hands had gathered outside between the barn and the main house, around a wood table next to an open fire. Poker hands, poker stakes, poker whiskey, and poker faces. One laughed drunkenly as he raked in a large pot. Cursing voices quieted at the sound of his spurs, and faces stared intently into the cards as he walked by. They all wore guns. Good. But they were drinking and carrying on. He stopped at the well, picked up the dipper from the water-full bucket and drank his fill, careful not to spill any. He set it back, wiped his mouth, and returned to his horse.

He removed the feedbag and led his horse back again to the water trough. From his overcoat he removed a folded paper and a thin black cigar. He stuck the cigar between his teeth and unfolded the poster, old and worn.

“Wanted, Dead or Alive. Stalking Wolf for murder, rape, train robbery, cattle rustling, and cheating at poker. $100.00 reward.” The poster was almost 20 years old. I’m a collector, he thought. A collector of men. He pulled out a matchstick, struck it on his leather gun belt and lit his cigar. He dragged on it slowly and stared at the poster.

Never satisfied. Never at peace. No matter how many I collect. He lit the lower right-hand corner of the poster and held on as it slowly burned out the face of the devil staring at him. The Gunslinger dropped the match and the poster to the floor, grinding the heel of his boot into the dancing flames.

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'

Tom put the bank money in the safe that sat in the corner behind his desk. Henry, the bank manager, already had a few drinks and, out of character as it was, agreed to favor the Marshall despite the late hour. $1000.00. Blood money. He wanted that money. It should’ve been his. Hell, he’s the law in this town. He should be the one collecting blood money.

The door creaked open behind him. Tom closed the safe and spun the lock. He stood up and stared at another man in black. Tall and thin as a sapling pine. The black top hat lengthened his already long, clean-shaven and pitted face. He wore thin lips, droopy brown eyes, hollow cheeks. The clothes were wrinkled, the hair unkempt.

“Taint right, Tom.” A cracked voice, only a hint of its former resonance.

Tom sat behind his desk and stared. “What ain’t right, Preacher Man?”

“Taint right, Tom, ya know’t.”

Tom pulled his Bowie knife out of the drawer, carved a sliver of wood off the edge of the desk, and stuck it angrily in his teeth. He saw the tremor in his hand. A tremor that had come only after his wife died. He hadn’t shot no gun since. Except when drunk. Whiskey tamed the tremor.

“Too late, Preacher,” said Tom. “Moon’s up.”

“A man’s been shot. Another man’s gonna be shootin’. Do ya see the danger, Tom? Do ya see’t?”

Tom picked his teeth, staring at his gun belt hanging on the rack.

“A man’s gotta be a man, Tom,” said the Preacher. “Ya gotta go out there. Ya gotta have your say.”

Tom stuck the Bowie into the desk. “Dammit to hell, Preacher. Dammit it to hell.”

“Well, the devil take ya, Tom!” The Preacher grabbed the door. “If ya ain’t gonna dance, ya ain’t got nothin’. Ya ain’t a man.”

Tom rose up, his face burning red. The Preacher slammed the door behind him. “Fuck’t t’holy hell!” Tom shouted at nobody. Then softly, “Fuck’t t’holy hell…” He slunk back into the chair and stared into the nothing of his life. Presently he walked over to the safe, spun the dial, opened it, reached into the back and pulled out a bottle and a shot. He placed both on the desk and stared. Thirty minutes later as the waxing moon rose higher, Marshall Tom was still staring.

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Jus what kinda asshole did ol’ Bill call? Stalking Wolf thought, eyeing the Gunslinger, recognizing the nature of the man. The way he walked around the barn. The way he stared into the woods at Stalking Wolf. He shivered and stared back. He the devil man. Eyes o’ the devil. Stalking Wolf knew he couldn’t be seen. Hell, he could hardly make out the face of the stranger. But he also knew that such men had senses larger than their eyes. He himself was such a man. Senses that had saved his hide too many times. Gotta kill this’un. Gotta dead ’em afore he deads me.

Tomorrow night was the plan. The dance before the burn. Rape, torture, murder—then burn the house and barn to the ground. He’d thought to keep the buildings intact. But that was before the man in black put his stain on ’em. Gotta clean that land. Stalking Wolf cursed having no rifle. This was no man he wanted to stare down. No dancin’ wit this’un.

Most of his men had stayed back at the hideout. Six waited for him back at the horses. Seven of them against a dozen or more at the Lazy B. ’Twas enough with surprise on his side. Any thought that the girl could be a threat never even entered his head. She was entertainment for his insatiable desire. Nothing more.

So tonight had to be the night. He’d have it all tonight. Cause of the devil in black. I’m a comin’ for ya, devil man. Ya won’t know me til I put a bullet in yer eye.

Stalking Wolf moved back through the broken moonlight filtered through the trees. Time to make his way back to his men and the horses. New plans to be made. He smiled a tooth-broken smile at the brutal images he coveted in his mind’s eye.

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***
'

Emily dished out the hot savory stew the moment she heard the Gunslinger enter the house. She wanted to look in on Roger one more time before bed. She wanted to spend as little time with the man in black as possible. She didn’t like that man. Death hung in the air around him. She could hear him talking with Papa. Papa kept an eating table in the big den. Emily picked up the bowl of stew and sidled into the den.

“I have the stew, Papa,” she said as she laid it down on the table. The Gunslinger looked up at her. She couldn’t help but make contact with his eyes, and thought for a moment that they’d softened. But a moment later, the life went out of them. Devil’s eyes, she thought and she felt a chill in the air.

“Thank ya, Miss,” he said. Not an unpleasant voice. But distant. A traveling voice that had spoken more words of death than any man ought to hear.

Big Bill Callahan looked at his daughter and the Gunslinger. Somehow, he didn’t like the two of them in the same room together. “Go on up, now Emily. Draw a hot bath for this gentleman. Then get to bed.”

“Doc Ashby says I need to change the dressin’ before bed,” said Emily.

“The bath first. Now git.” Emily left the room, and Bill glanced at Tiller. “She’s a good young lady. Blessed to have her.”

The Gunslinger nodded and scooped up some stew. Bill pulled out a bottle of whiskey and poured a measure into two glasses. “He has a gang. Murderers and thieves the bunch of ’em. At least twenty, maybe more.”

Bill couldn’t help but smile as Tiller finished off the stew. He liked a hungry killer. Tiller drank the whiskey and eyed Callahan. “She know howta shoot?”

Bill dropped the smile. A cold finger traced down his spine. “What’re you saying?”

“He’s gonna come after her. Not just you and your men. But her. It’s what he does.”

Bill finished his whiskey and poured another. He offered, but the man in black held up his hand. “The moon’s up. Gives eyes to those woods ya got yonder. Best keep your gun nearby.”

The flames in the oversize fireplace cast dancing shadows around the den. The Gunslinger could smell the mix of burning cedar and oak. “Best have that bath.” He followed the path Emily had taken.

Big Bill walked over to the gun rack and took down his 15-shot Henry repeating rifle and grabbed a box of .44s.

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***
'

He poured a splash of whiskey into the shot and with quick resolve gulped it down. He savored the ancient, familiar burning in his throat.

Devil take me, Tom thought. He pried the Bowie out of the desk, put it in its leather sheath, and strapped it to his calf. Standing up, he corked the bottle, and put it and the shot back into the safe. He stared at the money. Then grabbed the cash and shoved it into his vest.

He grabbed his gun belt from the rack and buckled it tight, and snug with the thigh band tied. He pulled out the old Colt, spun out the chamber, and locked it back, slipping it easily into the holster. His hand was steady. He grabbed his lever action Winchester and headed out to his horse. Slipping the rifle into its home, Tom mounted his horse.

“Where you going, Tom?” Doc Ashby stood drinking a beer in front of the saloon next to the Preacher.

“Never you mind, Doc, never you mind.” Tom turned and spurred the horse. The old paint galloped down the dusty road into the night.

The Preacher smiled a ragged smile. “He got someone to dance with, Doc. Someone to dance with at the Lazy B.”

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Stalking Wolf gave a hoot before coming out into the clearing. He wasn’t one to end up shot by his own men. He gathered them round and took ten minutes outlining his plan. They’d been drinking. A bit wild-eyed. The way Stalking Wolf liked it. He grabbed a near-empty bottle and finished it. They were ready. Dancin’ time. Devil time. Burnin’ time.

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***
'

The Gunslinger heard the horse coming. He had been wrinkling in cooling water, musing over the stirring he experienced around Miss Emily. Not a stirring in his groin, but in his heart. There had been only one woman in his life since childhood. And there would be only one woman until he was finished. No time for such stirrings.

He rose from the bath, first putting out the ember in his heart and then the candle on the table. He watched from the upstairs window as Tom reined in, tied up, and stepped onto the porch. The ranch hands were still liquored and pokered up. He thought he saw movement in the woods and began getting himself together.

Emily had changed Roger’s dressing. The wound looked inflamed. She felt Roger’s wet cheek. It was burning up with fever. “Oh, Roger.” She dipped a towel in a bowl of water and pressed it to his forehead.

Big Bill, rifle in hand, opened the door before Tom could knock. “Dammit, Tom. Whatcha doing here so late?” He ushered Tom in and looked around outside before closing the door. Tom stood there saying nothing.

“Tom? What the devil’s the matter?”

“How’s Roger doin’, Bill?” Tom said attempting misdirection. His eyes looked through the entry into the kitchen.

“Just fine, Tom,” said Bill. “Emily’s changing his dressing. Doc says he’ll be fine.”

Tom perked up. “I gotta see ’im, Bill.”

“Alright.” Bill looked puzzled, but led Tom to the room near the kitchen where Roger lay. Emily looked up, surprised.

“Marshall!” she said a little too loudly. “Something wrong?”

Tom shook his head and turned to Bill. There was laughter and shouting outside and Bill turned away leaving the two of them alone with the unconscious man.

“I told you to call me Tom, Miss Emily. Please.” She heard the plaintive sound of his voice. He heard it too. “How’s Roger doing?”

“Not well,” she said, sadly enough to make Tom wonder if there was an attachment. This is all wrong, he thought. Loving only brings death. Nothing good comes of it. Nothing good.

“You alright, Tom?” she asked.

“Miss Emily,” he said, suddenly aware that he was still wearing his hat. He removed it quickly, and the one candle in the room flickered. Like his dancing heart. If he didn’t say it quick… “Miss Emily, I have to… I have to tell you something… I have to… I have… these feelings…”

And just then, as he’d expected, all hell broke loose.

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***
'

Hank laughed. He’d won another pot and was raking in the coins when Deke pointed to the bunkhouse and started shouting. Fire danced high in two of the windows. The men scrambled for the well bucket as several more ranch hands ran out of the bunkhouse in their long johns and hats, carrying their boots and gun belts.

None of them saw the dark figure running from behind the bunkhouse to the barn. Nor did they see the five men spreading out in an arc coming from the woods, each carrying two revolvers. The five men fired and the flash of the guns lit their laughing faces. The ranch hands felt the spit of bullets enter their bodies.

Hank took one in the temple and dropped to the ground. Deke and Chester spun around as bullets slammed into their chests. Matt took one in the thigh and collapsed, feeling the warm flow of blood collecting in his jeans. He pulled out his gun and started firing. He thought he winged one of the gunmen before his head went light. The bullet had ruptured his aorta and he bled out. Lucky dropped to the ground with the first gunshot, rolled to his right and drew his weapon just in time to take a couple bullets in his face. James went down firing and kept shooting until a bullet ripped out his throat. None of his bullets found flesh or bone.

Three of the undressed ranch hands, Bo, Slim, and Curly, made it round the corner of the bunkhouse and drew their guns. Gunfire burst down at them from the hayloft. Slim and Curly never saw it coming. Blood gushed from their heads and shoulders. They went down and Bo turned, fired up into the hayloft and watched as a black figure fell and hit the dirt. Flames suddenly flared up in the hayloft and within seconds the entire upper floor was engulfed. Horses began whinnying and slamming into the stalls and breaking wood. Several made it out as the roof of fire started raining down. Smoke choked the air. Of all the ranch hands out there that night, only Bo survived.

The Gunslinger was looking out the window when the first volley of shots took down the poker-players. He whipped out his Peacemakers and took the measure of the advancing men. He observed them with detachment as they walked steady, firing continuously, giving him well-lit targets. He relaxed and fired--one, two, three--dropping three men with three shots. Before his fourth, there was a flash from the woods, and a bullet whizzed past his ear. He fired three more quick shots where the flash had been.

Always been a coward, Stalking Wolf, he thought as he stepped away from the window and walked quickly down the stairs. He didn’t want to be caught upstairs if the main house burned. The front door was open. Big Bill Callahan lay in the doorway, eyes closed, blood consuming his left shoulder. Marshall Tom was pulling him into the house. Gunfire still erupted outside. Good, thought the Gunslinger. Some ranch hands are alive.

He grabbed a jug of water and put out the fire in the fireplace, then extinguished three oil lamps. He squatted next to Tom, reloading and speaking quick and harsh. “Stalking Wolf’s hidden in them woods. I got three of ’em, but there’s at least three more ’round here. They’ll torch the house if we let ’em. You be thinking ’bout getting the Miss to safety.” He ran to the back of the house.

Firelight flickered across the back porch. The Gunslinger looked out a window and saw one of Stalking Wolf’s men throwing a lit torch up into the air. He heard glass shatter. He stepped out on the porch and fired both guns, one bullet for each lung. The man went down unmoving. They never moved, and he never missed when he could see the man.

He heard shooting in the house and moved carefully back towards the big den. Tom was down on one knee bleeding from a calf wound. A laughing man held Miss Emily from behind.

“Ya gonna be watchin’ me fuck yer Misses, Marshall,” he cackled. “Fuck ’er then slit ’er white creamy throat.” He glanced at the Gunslinger. “Well, th’devil hisself. Looks like…”

The Gunslinger shot from the hip. Emily screamed, frozen in place, blood splattered on her cheek and hair. The man holding her fell, a neat black hole where his left eye used to be. The Gunslinger shook his head.

To him, words were like bullets--You make every one count. Or you end up dead.

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***
'

Stalking Wolf saw all three buildings burning. His men would’ve given him the signal if any were alive. Blood seeped on his forearm where a bullet had grazed him. Looks like we be dancin’ some other time. He found his horse and rode him hard, like the devil was on his tail.