It was little more than a dirt track surrounded by endless scrub brush. Distant hills and hillocks were children next to dark distant mountains. Under ugly gloomy clouds, which vowed a coming storm, mountains were a Cimmerian black. Violent sweeps of wind snatched at Cassidy's slouch hat, but he tugged it down. Fine grit clawed at exposed skin. Hot flesh pebbled with chill, wet air. Greedy desert devoured the moisture, and the bounty hunter could taste the coming rain. Clomp of hooves faded away, mind never registered it, and he caught the call of coyotes, sporadic bursts of yips. Slow roll of the land pasted him.

Before him the sight struck, he slowed, so strange was the town's visage. Down the town's center the railroad track cleaved the municipality in two. Beside the station all one's wants could be satisfied from guns to food, though only the saloon looked to still be in use. Its name had been removed, wood lighter where the sign once hung. Beyond the town's main business thoroughfare, the town of Cimarron appeared abandoned, though still in decent shape. Dust swept across the town, gathered in little enclaves, to cover it in dust. Only the church had suffered, steeple toppled, and charred wood at its front.

Its antithesis was the other half, which a sign proclaimed was Lamp Light. To the bounty hunter's amazement, he could see no metal in its construction, or any glass in yonder windows. Savage were their aspect, crude yet sturdy. Ugly squat houses were painted a dusty black the sun failed to penetrate. They clustered together, dome-like, yet there was only room enough for foot traffic. Cassidy doubted anyone could get a horse through. To his confusion, there were no hitching posts in Lamp Light. "I guess that's where it got its name," he muttered, and tried to count all the strange lamps that hung ubiquitously throughout the village. It was nothing like any of the tribes-people's homes, and struck him as uncivil, a communal antipathy of anything of man.

Out of one house, a man with a pronounced hump back walked with a lantern, despite it being day. He clothed himself like a monk, in the same hue as the brutish township. With a blank smile, he fluttered along towards the repurposed saloon. Others of Lamp Light joined him, and all had vaguely similar features. Cassidy's lip curled at this, and knew some communities were too close, so grew strange. A rough made cross hung about a scrawny neck, though it was shaped more like an X than cruciform. Every denizen of the odd town walked with single-mindedness to the station, where a small crowd of travelers gathered.

Cassidy relaxed and thought of Captain Lee. If he'd moved on, the bounty hunter would let it go, and seek work elsewhere. Smell of home cooked meals rolled out from the nameless saloon. Great place to gather information, he often sought out the local watering hole, where alcohol often loosened lips. Barnabas was a war hero, he knew, so they'd know him by reputation. If not visage, a dark voice in him added, but forced away any musing of the scars he'd have by now.

He lashed his horse to a post, and a local, plain face woman flapped up to him. Like a dog, who'd been beaten, she looked up at him, and then down. "May I help you, Ma'am," he tipped his hat, but kept his gaze from the hump on her back.

"Yes," she grinned, frowned, "No, I mean, I can help you, weary traveler."

"Well, that is kind of you," he smiled, nodded, but was reminded of a small dog, eager to please, and would pee at any show of kindness.

"We provide a meal, drinks, to all that make pilgrimage to Lamp Light," she shifted from side to side; black dust seemed to drift from her clothes.

"I could do with a good meal," he forced a smile, but the smell of food drifted out to him.

"GOOD, good," she smiled; somehow black, with hunger, "we can speak of the Black Witch, her grace, her beauty." The woman flew away, delighted but distant.

"That would be," said Cassidy, but the woman was already gone, "unpleasant." A groan escaped, for religion was quick to tire him, and witches were just medicine women, at least to his experience. "No matter how strange the world became around them," added the bounty hunter, though no one listened. He would stomach their nonsense, if their food was good and liquor stout.

Others walked inside, which had been waiting for the train. A dark haired, veiled beauty hurried two children, a boy and girl, inside the building, but cast a watchful, confused glance in search of something. Cassidy thought of his family, but quickly silenced the thoughts. He tipped his slouch hat to her.

Inside, the interior caused all to pause. The original furnishings remained, yet the people of Lamp Light had repurposed them. As things were broken, Cassidy deduced, they'd replaced them the best they could manage. It was a mishmash that struck the travelers as pagan, uncouth. Over the bar, the bounty hunter looked, hopeful, but saw a painting of a severe man, where the liquor should've been displayed. About it, like an altar, were lamps hung in praise. Every face of the odd town was reflected in the serious gaze, who judged all with deep set, dark eyes. "Leviticus Woodbine" was proudly displayed under the picture in a careful hand. Under hundreds of the peculiar crosses they stood, lit by the lamps. A fine black dust, which seemed to cling to everything, covered the floor. People of the town waited, anxious and servile.

Others began to sit, nervous, yet the food beckoned them. Cassidy stood; a flutter of darkness caught his gaze. Outside was a man, pale and skeletal, but his face was smeared like a painting ruined. He blinked. Shadow of him passed, and the bounty hunter wiped his eyes.