Chapter 4: The Gunslinger Returns

  The marshal rode despite the claw marks across his ribs. The ghost watched him from the corner of his eye as they climbed the narrow trail. Blood soaked Silas's shirt, but he sat straight in the saddle.

  The trail branched into three paths. The ghost took the left route toward what appeared to be a cliff face. The hidden switchback carved into the rock became visible only at the last moment.

  "Impressive," Silas said quietly.

  The ghost said nothing. Boy don't know what impressive means yet.

  They climbed for another hour. The air grew thin and cold. Pine trees gave way to scrub and bare stone. The trail opened into a hidden valley, sheltered on three sides by granite walls. A small stream ran through the center.

  The ghost's cabin sat against the mountainside.

  Silas reined his horse to a stop, staring at the fortress walls. Massive logs and native stone, gun ports cut at intervals, stone chimney rising from one corner.

  "How long did this take to build?" Silas asked.

  "Been working on it six years." The ghost dismounted and began loosening his horse's girth.

  "Must've had good reason to come this far from civilization."

  "Reasons don't matter up here." The ghost turned away from the marshal.

  They led their horses to a small corral built against the cliff face. Fresh water flowed from a spring into a stone trough. Hay was stored in a cave.

  "Everything's hidden," Silas observed.

  "Everything's a target," the ghost corrected. "Wolves are smart. Learn patterns. Leave something exposed... they'll use it against you."

  The ghost opened the cabin door and stepped inside. Silas followed, looking around. Heavy wooden furniture filled the space. Oil lamps sat on tables. A stone fireplace took up one wall, cold ashes in the grate.

  Rifles lined the walls with shortened barrels, modified triggers, some fitted with scopes. Silas stopped walking.

  "Jesus," Silas said, moving to the wall. "How many are there?"

  "Twenty." The ghost lit lamps and checked the gun ports. "Plus ammunition for all of them."

  Workbenches lined two walls. Tools for metalworking and loading ammunition covered the surfaces. Wooden boxes held bullets. Traps and snares hung from hooks.

  Silas ran his hand along a rifle stock, then moved to examine the workbenches. "This is incredible. You've been preparing for war."

  "Fighting one." The ghost pulled out a wooden chair and gestured for Silas to sit. "Take off your shirt. Those claw marks need tending."

  The wounds were deep but clean. Four parallel gashes across his ribs where the devil wolf's claws had raked him. The ghost had dealt with injuries like this before. He worked in silence, cleaning each gash with whiskey and stitching the worst of them closed.

  Boy's lucky. Few inches lower and those claws would've opened his belly.

  When the ghost finished, Silas flexed his shoulders, testing the bandages. "What do I call you?" he asked. "The stories just say 'the ghost.' But you're real enough."

  The ghost capped the whiskey bottle and moved to one of his workbenches, checking the action on a half-assembled rifle. "Names don't matter up here."

  "They matter to me."

  The ghost turned to face him. "You came a long way to find ghost stories."

  "I came to learn." Silas gestured at the weapons lining the walls. "Those things... how many are there? How organized are they?"

  "Enough to matter." The ghost walked to the gun port and stared out at the valley. "Smart enough to adapt. Fast enough to kill anything that gets in their way."

  "But you've survived fighting them."

  "Surviving ain't the same as winning." The ghost turned from the gun port, moved to another workbench where bullets lay in neat rows. "Every year there's more of them. Every year they get bolder."

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  Silas was quiet for a moment, watching the ghost sort ammunition. "Teach me. Show me what it really takes to fight them."

  "Takes more than you got."

  "Try me."

  "Takes silver. Takes knowing their patterns. Takes accepting that most people you try to help will end up dead anyway." The ghost picked up a silver bullet, examined it in the lamplight. "Takes living like this."

  "Living in isolation?"

  "Living with everyone you couldn't save." The ghost set down the bullet and faced him. "You sure that's what you want to learn?"

  "I can't do that."

  The ghost moved to his weapon rack, began checking the action on one of his rifles. "You will. If you want to live through the week."

  The cabin fell silent except for the whistle of wind through the peaks outside and the soft clicks of the ghost working the rifle's mechanism. Silas wandered to one of the gun ports, peering out at the valley.

  Silas turned back. "I won't go back empty-handed."

  Stubborn. The ghost set down the rifle and faced the marshal.

  "You think you're the first to come up here asking to learn? You think you are the only one who thought he could make a difference?"

  "Who else?"

  "Three marshals before you. Couple dozen bounty hunters over the years." The ghost began organizing his tools. "Know what they all had in common?"

  "They all died," the ghost said finally.

  Silas was quiet for a moment. "But you survived."

  "Because I don't try to save everyone. Because I know when to run." The ghost moved to his weapon rack, selected a rifle, and began cleaning it. "Because I accepted that some fights can't be won."

  "What if you're wrong?"

  "What if I'm right, and teaching you just gets you killed faster?" The ghost worked the cleaning cloth along the rifle barrel. "At least now you might make it back to town alive."

  Silas went very still. "This is what you've been fighting all these years."

  The ghost nodded, moved to the fireplace, stared into the cold ashes. "Every night. Every day. Six years of it."

  "That's why you won't come back," Silas said quietly. "Because you've seen what they can really do."

  "I've seen what happens when good people think they can fight devils. I've buried the results." The ghost moved around the cabin, adjusting lamp wicks. "You want to know why I won't come back? Because I know better now. Know what these things do to anyone who gets in their way. Last time I thought I could protect people... it didn't end well."

  Silas nodded slowly. "That's what brought you up here. Something happened."

  "Something always happens." The ghost selected a rifle from the rack, began cleaning. "Point is, Marshal, I don't save people. I just kill things. Sometimes that's enough to slow them down."

  Silas sat back down, wincing slightly from his wounds. "What if we could do more than just slow them down? What if we could actually stop them?"

  “Trying hasn’t worked yet.”

  "But you've been fighting alone." Silas leaned forward. "What if that's the problem? What if you need someone watching your back?"

  "Tried that. Partners get distracted trying to save civilians. Get themselves killed making heroic gestures. I work better alone."

  "Everyone works better alone until they don't."

  The ghost looked up.

  "What about the townspeople? If we trained them—"

  "To do what? Die more efficiently?" The ghost slammed down the rifle. "You seen what one of those things can do. Imagine facing sixteen with farmers backing you up."

  The ghost returned to the gun port, checking the sight lines. "I've seen good people torn apart because they thought they could make a difference. Seen children orphaned because their parents believed in fairy tales."

  "So you just... gave up?"

  The ghost turned to face the young marshal.

  He looks like I did once. Before I learned better.

  "I didn't give up. I accepted reality." But even as the ghost said it, something whispered in contradiction: This isn't acceptance. This is fear.

  Fear keeps people alive.

  What about everyone else?

  The ghost moved to another workbench. "You want my advice, Marshal? Ride back to the capital. Report that this requires military intervention."

  "The Army doesn't believe in devils."

  "Then let them learn the hard way."

  Silas stood again, moving carefully. "I can't do that."

  He set down his tools, and studied Silas for a long moment.

  "You'll get yourself killed," the ghost said finally. "Probably take some decent people with you."

  "Maybe. But at least I'll have tried."

  Boy's gonna get himself killed. Just like all the others.

  But something whispered: Don't let him die alone.

  If I help him, I'll care about him. If I care about him, I'll lose him.

  "You can stay the night," the ghost said abruptly, setting down his cleaning cloth. "Those wounds need time to heal. But come morning... you head back to town. Alone."

  Silas nodded slowly. "Thank you. And... what do I call you?"

  The ghost was quiet for a long moment. "Elias. Elias Granger."

  "Thank you, Elias."

  "Don't thank me yet."

  A long howl echoed from the valley below. Then another. And another.

  The pack had found their trail.

  Elias moved to the gun port and peered out into the pre-dawn darkness. Shapes moved among the trees at the valley's edge. Large forms that slipped between the pines.

  "How many?" Silas asked.

  "Hard to tell." Elias began pulling weapons from their racks. "They're testing our defenses to see if it’s worth the risk."

  "What do we do?"

  Elias handed Silas a rifle. "We show them we aren’t."

  Outside, the howling grew closer.