Cassidy frowned at the evasive words. “Did Dermot fear banishment?” he asked.

“I would have said no before, but after my son,” he shook his head. “I found there was much I was ignorant of transpiring,” he said, and seemed to wither. “One day,” he looked up through hoary brow, “they shall reap what they’ve sewn.” Iron will returned with this prophecy of doom.

“You believe that this revival will undo all that has happened, Mister Todd?” he asked, but knew that Obadiah had used Dermot, certainly for ill.

“What else will save us?’ he studied the bounty hunter. “If the town knew of their Elder’s failings, all would be lost, Covenant Broken.”

“I think you and the other Elders of Sulky Hills should consider delaying the Revival,” he said, but Griswold shook his head. “While I was away at War, men murdered my son. I saw justice done, but the pain never ended.”

“I,” mouth worked, “I will speak to the others. Maybe, we should find out how Obadiah plans to help, at least.”

“Thank you,” Cassidy nodded.

“Now, Mister Bullock, I’m weary, and I wish to pray,” he shuffled away.

Back outside the home, he looked out over the spread of houses. Like dead, cancerous veins they spread throughout the valley. From this height, the blight that consumed Sulky Hills had spread out from the Covenant Tree. The decay had spread like a voracious cancer. If he managed to stop the Revival and rid the town of Obadiah, he could help end this strange disease, he thought.

Any thoughts of the odd rot were swept aside by Tabitha’s sad eyes. Her sorrow cried out to him. More than the Blasphemy plagued her. Without her help, he knew, he would have done poorer.

“What does she know?’ he asked, though alone. “Enough to send him after the Elders and Dermot’s suicide,” he added in a mutter.

Back to the town square he walked, but questions repeated in the mind. If he could find out Dermot’s transgression, maybe, he could ease these people’s suffering. Thought of her pain plucked at his heart. Through the miasma of decay he moved; yet gone was the stench. Image of Obadiah rose to putrefy his mind. He wished to drive out the false preacher, before his venom could slide into her ear.

To his relief, Tabitha stood close to where they had met. A hand held one arm, though she winced. A relieved smile played across beautiful lips. He frowned at her relieved pain.

“Are you okay, Miss Griffith?” he asked, smile tentative.

“Yes,” she smiled, “I’ve been talking to angels.” Hands tugged cuffs of the dress down.

“Okay,” he blinked, “I’ve spoken to the Elders about the Carnisvale and Dermot.”

Eyes drifted away from the bounty hunter, melancholy smile inscrutable. “I doubt you know all, for you’re an outsider,” words flowed distant as her eyes.

“No one would tell me Dermot’s crime, sin, transgression,” he said, brow furrowed, “or the nature of his failing.”

For a long moment, she was silent, “Our Covenant, our Culture,” Tabitha spoke in caution, “is rigid, and any that should balk or sin, they see more of harshness than love. Though our tenants are of compassion, it is a veil over a hammer to crush you, scythe to reap.”

“I’m curious about your beliefs,” Cassidy replied. “They have brought you here.”

“There wasn’t ever to be great houses,” she looked around the square as the bounty hunter, as a stranger, “we were all to be equal.”

“You were born into fortunate circumstance.”

“Yes,” smiled Tabitha, “I was of the House Griffith, promised to Dermot Todd.” Sad eyes fell to Cassidy, “I love him. I love him so much. Surely, I was blessed to have been promised to him.” Again, she went silent, edge of tears played about large eyes.

“There is a lot of blame being cast about,” Cassidy nodded.

She winced. “I will pay for my part,” lamented Tabitha, but an ice crept in beautiful eyes, “yet, so will Mister Todd and Mister Morgan. Inescapable,” she hissed, squeezed her forearm, “We all broke the Covenant!”

Eyes, blue as the dawn over the desert, fell into hers, their sorrow. “Did Dermot hurt you or murder someone?” asked the bounty hunter, vexed.

Tears rose abashed at her openness with the outsider. “Dermot only murdered himself,” she said, though an odd note crept into her voice. “He never loved me,” she added as eyes wondered over the Covenant Tree, nails dug into her arm. Black fabric of the dress grew blacker.

Cassidy looked at her arm, heart ached, guts twisted. Once, during the War of Rights, a boy had been cast into the prison with him. Little more than a glorified pit, it was hell on earth. Guards terrorized the boy, until he could bear no more. He started to cover forearms and legs, after sneaking off with his sliver of sharpened steel. Wounds eventually grew infected, yet he still cut.

“Tabitha,” breathed Cassidy. He grabbed her arm, “Why would you do this?”

“All is lost, never to return.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Tabitha,” horror crept in his eyes, and she turned away. “Please,” he let go, saw bright red across scarred fingers, “this isn’t the way.”

Large eyes returned to him, “Through my actions, Dermot is dead. My brother, Theodore, was nearly banished.”

“Please, tell me what happened! What happened here?” he asked, as gently as possible. “I want to help you, not judge.”

Large eyes searched his face, “Is there salvation, for such as me, Mister Bullock?”

“There is hope,” he said. “If you tell me, maybe, I can help you.”

Again, Tabitha fell silent, but patient was the bounty hunter. “I cannot speak of Dermot’s sin,” she said, slow, “but I can confess my evil.”

“I’ll listen, Ma’am,” replied Cassidy.

“Dermot and I met, and euphoric was I that we were to be wed,” lovely face fell. “Never did he love me, at least, in the way my heart desired. Another he loved, so the wedding was off.” She saw only heartbreak. “So, I told Mister Morgan and Todd,” she said in a sour tone.