The Shootist drew a huge revolver, speed preternatural. Boom of the report like artillery, it punched a hole in Basil's chest. To the hard earth his body drove, dead before he hit the ground. Gray smoke drifted up from the barrel.

Cassidy jumped. He bolted around the corner, gun in hand. The Shootist turned to him, but stepped back into the shadows to fade away. He blinked, swallowed. Over the alley his eyes roamed, till they came to Basil. Dead, he knew, even at this distance it was obvious. Whatever had made the wound, it had burned a hole through him, and the smell of burned pork hung in the air. Disgusted by the stench, Cassidy covered his mouth, stomach lurched.

Back to the town's main thoroughfare he ran. No one had come to the sound of the shot. Cassidy frowned, for when a gun went off, screams or shouts always followed. He blinked, swallowed, but felt ice run through him, and shivered in spite of the warmth.

Alarm raised in the small town took little time to spread. All the dark haired women stood at the edges. Johnathon's men came, armed and ready to fight. Cassidy saw the lust for blood in their eyes, but hid his contempt. To the alley he led them, but Basil's body was gone. Astonished by this he searched. Nothing, no blood had stained the greedy earth.

"Cassidy," Johnathon said with a scowl, "what is the meaning of this?"

"I saw Basil," he looked at him, "a Shootist had got him. He was dead as ever was. Didn't you guys hear the shot?!"

"Well," Johnathon looked at them, but all shook their head. He looked at him, and then at the alley, "It seems you're the only one, who heard the shot."

"You know Basil," Rufinus shook his head, "he probably chasing some pretty little thing." The words brought laughter from the rest, who already walked away. Johnathon studied Cassidy, edges tinged in confusion.

Alone, he cast about the alley for any clues. The smell, where the Shootist had disappeared, was familiar. "Frankincense and myrrh," he muttered to the dark.

Izzy left Cassidy in the alley though was the slowest. The man patted his belly, which rumbled. Pulled by the smell, the gluttonous craving bit deep into the gut. For the festival the townsfolk had gathered supplies for the unfortunate of the area. Before him, it brought back memories. Once he was stuck out in the snow, and the supplies had disappeared. He had still been able to find food, and he had developed a taste for long pork. Though his middle had swelled, he never grew ashamed of his new taste.

As he studied the feast before him, the smell of that sweet meat grew heady. The young ones, sweet veal, had been the finest meal of his life. Izzy, Isidore, grabbed food from the table, knocked meat to the floor. Hearty laughter bubbled out of him between enormous bites.

Nubby teeth tore at a piece of meat, which conjured the image of a child's leg. With a grunt, he chuckled, but a long shadow fell over the table. Izzy paused, mouth wide. The Shootist stood over him. He went for the revolver, but grease from the food caused the hand to slip. Darkness in the Shootist's pistol grew before his eyes. Boom, the shot resounded to disintegrate his head between the nose and neck. So clean was the blast, the man's massive body still sat. Fat arms and legs drummed on the wood in an energetic little dance.

Cassidy's hand went to the revolver's hilt. Still in the alley, he ducked instinctively. Into the saloon he rushed. Again, the silence of the town was untouched. The body of Izzy had stilled. A few feet from the warm corpse the top of his head had landed. Unmoved was the Shootist, though he seemed far away from the deed just done. Cassidy put his hand on the revolver, but a violent gust doused the lights. Velvet shadows swallowed the Shootist. Candles reignited.

Eyes like the dawn surveyed the dark, but Cassidy saw nothing. There was a rational explanation, he was sure, though none came to the clamor in his mind. He swallowed. Since the death of his family, fear had been beyond him, until now. Upon the bloody battlefield, under extreme conditions, one would hear strange stories. The ghosts of fallen brethren, strange creatures of abominable form, or loved ones called to them. Lots of stories filled the lonely land. Winged people like angels, men who drank blood, and even tales of women who turned into dark beasts had reached Cassidy. Until now, he had never seen anything unnatural, so had dismissed such tales.

To the batwing doors he rushed, yet at the entrance, he turned back. Izzy was gone. No trace of blood or flesh betrayed the murder. Cassidy lowered his hand, which shook. Suddenly, he could hear each meager breath, and felt the beat of his heart, rush of blood in his veins. Even the smell of gun smoke had disappeared to leave the aroma of fine food. He licked dried lips, brushed down his beard, and tried to order the world. Around the room, the light of oil lamps moved in languid sweeps.

No, he thought, and shook his head in negation of this trick. There is someone here of flesh and blood. Through some devilry the Shootist had managed to kill and take the body. Just because it was beyond his kin, at this moment, there was an answer. Only the smell of frankincense and myrrh marked the Shootist's reality.

"Is everything okay?" Johnathon said from behind Cassidy, who jumped with a hand on the pistol.

"Yes," Cassidy's grin was hard but the word held a tremor. "I was looking for Izzy."

Past him his eyes slid, "Looks like he has been here. Isidore is probably somewhere eating." Back the cautious gaze returned.

"I suppose," he glanced back, "but he left a mess."

He nodded, "I'm headed to my room to read." Johnathon stood, studied the sweat on Cassidy's brow.

The street in front of the saloon was empty, and the moonlight bathed all in its glow. Cassidy felt his heart race. Over the skin his perspiration had turned to ice. Unbroken silence filled the town. About the buildings his eyes flew, though caught nothing and no one. Blowing wind rolled some tumble weed a few feet, before it came to a halt.