<hr/><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/7/7a/Josh_Brolin_True_Grit.jpg)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Christian “Spooky” Spectre, Sasha Berrings<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>Unknown<br/><strong>Date:</strong>Summer 1869<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Evening to Morning<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Dodge, Kansas<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Closed<br/><hr/><br/><br/><div align="center"><strong>The Song of Scars<br/>Act One</strong></div><br/><br/>There is really only one thing that anyone ever knew about Christian Spectre, and that was he was a cold-hearted, murdering son of a bitch. He walked into town, hunting The Man in Black, and nine times out of ten, left a body or two behind him. If there were two things that anyone ever knew about Christian Spectre it would be that he was a stupidly brave or lacked the ability to fear altogether. He never walked away from a fight, never backed down, and so far, he had never lost.<br/><br/>There was, however, a third thing that only a select few knew, and that was that Christian Spectre was capable of so much more than killing. He could love, he could be gentle, he could be sensual even, but getting past the barriers, the walls, and the bad attitude was a challenge few women ever could ever shoulder. Sasha Berrings, however, was one of those women.<br/><br/>She was an “Entertainer” at the Backroom Saloon, a seedy place in Dodge, Kansas. Lots of violence happened in Dodge, and very few were spared from it. Sasha was no exception. She had caught a stray bullet on the cheek. It had never penetrated her skull, never put her in a danger, but it had ruined what had otherwise been as perfect a visage as any ever seen in Bloody Kansas. Christian would have, and eventually did, describe her as a tall drink of water. Legs that looked like they went on forever, curves that could make a priest’s head spin, and her face…oh her face was divine. Oval shaped, with porcelain smooth structure, and hair the color of maple syrup. Sasha Berrings was an angel. Or, at least she had been.<br/><br/>That stray bullet that grazed her cheek had scarred the left side of face. She was a singer at the largest, most upstanding theater in Dodge, though that of course was not saying much. The point was she could have entertained at any opera or theater on the East Coast, but then she took that bullet. The owner of the theater, some failed businessman from Charlotte, fired her the day after, just when the Doc told her she was going to live. Living, unfortunately, wasn’t cheap.<br/><br/>Soon, she was working at the Backroom, doing what she had to do to survive. Sucking cock, giving a cowboy or a soldier a quick poke, and a variety of other activities that she would have rather forgotten. She did this for just over a year, before her story really began; when Christian rode into town. The year was 1869, and it was summer time, and it was hot. Hot and dry, and miserable as could be. It had been more than two months since rain had graced anywhere near Dodge, and it was bone parched.<br/><br/>Christian was passing through town, though he was always passing through town. The hunt for The Man in Black did not allow such luxuries as putting down roots, settling a home, and especially not making friends. Enemies, however, were another story. Christian had made plenty of enemies in his short time roaming the West; bandits, outlaws, and even a lawman or two. Dodge was a new town on his circuit, however, and the local sheriff and marshal knew him by reputation only. That was soon to change.<br/><br/>Sauntering into the Backroom, Christian glared around the room. The last four years had been hard on Christian, the death of Wallace Carmichael weighed on his mind every day. That weight had turned into an anchor on his spirits and that caused his mood to always be foul. So, a glare was about the best possible expression he could have given. The room was sparse, given it was the afternoon, yet still a few drunks and lechers were in attendance for Ms. Berrings’ performance. Christian walked in during the middle of one of her songs. It was an upbeat song about finding love and it lasting forever. Despite her majestic voice, to Christian the song sounded empty, or maybe sad. The words held no meaning for her it seemed, or perhaps the song was an irony or a painful remainder.<br/><br/>Sasha mesmerized him all the same. The way her lips formed the words, her teeth glittering in the soft sunlight from the contrasting dark, dirty windows. Her make-up was tasteful, natural colors complimenting her features. She wore only her nightie, the shoulder straps around her elbows, breasts poking out the top. Her arms made motions to cover her nipples to give her some sort of modesty, but that only earned her jeers and heckling from the crowd. She paid them no mind, but a scowl from the owner, a fat man with a disgusting leer, sent her arms back to waving in time to her music. Her long legs swayed with the music played by a piano man, his eyes averted from her exposure and when he looked to her he gave a reassuring smile, right to her eyes.<br/><br/>Sasha’s frown, or melancholy, or apathy (it was impossible for Christian to make heads or tails of which it was) never changed, her song of love and happiness intoned with sadness. That sadness spoke to Christian. The loss of Wallace, his homesickness, the failure to find The Man in Black had boiled up inside him, but her words, her inflections of the words, released those feelings within him, gave him some relief from the pressure. She, in the span of moments, provided him some safe harbor from the insane swirl of death and chaos that had become Christian’s life.<br/><br/>When her song ended, and Sasha left the stage in a swirl of flesh and fabric. The patrons called out their displeasure, but it was soon quieted by the arrival of another performer. Christian ignored the girl, a blonde, and moved to join Sasha at the bar as quickly as he could. A couple of rough and tumble brigands were accosting the woman, grabbing and fondling, groping her, though she made no attempt to stop them. Christian grabbed the first one by his collar and threw him to the ground, the second spun to meet Christian head-on. A fist from the brute collided with Christian’s nose, knocking him back a step, but before the man could follow through, he found a gun barrel stuck up his nose.<br/><br/>“Just cleaned her yesterday, I bet she smells purty,” Christian growled to the man, “You ever smelt just fired gunpowder?” Christian cocked the hammer back on Reaper, the distinct click echoing in the suddenly silent room.<br/><br/>The man could only snarl, but he didn’t dare move. He was a large man, brutish even. Teeth uneven, face unshaven, and ugly to boot. There was a certain malice in the man’s eyes, a defiance despite his close brush with death.<br/><br/>“What’s your name?” Christian asked, voice filled with a righteous fury.<br/><br/>The man, however, remained silent, sidestepping slowly to have his back to the door. Christian’s gun remained firmly implanted an inch into the man’s nostril.<br/><br/>“I said, what is your name, boy?”  Christian snarled.<br/><br/>“Wilcox. Buck Wilcox,” the brute finally spoke. His voice was husky and deep. To the rest of the patrons, the mention of the name Wilcox should have been the end of the argument. The Wilcox Boys were a local terror, scaring up townsfolk and roughing them up. Stealing cattle and horses, robbing banks, and enjoying the simple pleasures of inflicting pain, suffering, and undue punishment on the masses.<br/><br/>“Well, Fuck Littlecox,” Christian spit the mockery of the man’s name at him, “you leave this saloon, and you start running. My name is Christian. Christian Spectre.”<br/><br/>That name well and truly put an end to the argument. Christian had built his reputation enough that hearing you were face-to-face with Spooky meant death wasn’t far behind. Buck’s eyes grew wide as his brain registered the memory of the man said to have faced down some of the fastest draws west of the Mississippi and was the last one standing.<br/><br/>Buck put both of his hands above his head and started a slow backwards walk towards the door. Christian never turned his stare from him, and Buck never looked away either. The Wilcox boy swallowed hard though when Christian’s eyes flashed, the infamous glare coming across his face. When Buck reached the door he turned his backwards march into a forwards run towards the edge of town. He was followed by the sounds of laughter from the remaining patrons at the Backroom.<br/><br/>Christian put the drunken applause to his chivalrous protection of the young woman aside, and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, “You alright, ma’am?”<br/><br/>Sasha began to speak her thanks, when she was cut off by the fat owner of the Backroom, “You there! Unacceptable! That man was a paying customer! You have cost me my due!”<br/><br/>Christian had the strong urge to turn his pistol and let some air out of the fat man with a couple of well-placed bullet holes, but the man did not even have a weapon. He could never justify the killing, to the law or to himself. Instead, he holstered the pistol and drew out a couple of golden eagles. “This cover enough for a few hours?” he said, gesturing to Sasha.<br/><br/>“One hour,” the greedy little bastard insisted.<br/><br/>Christian pulled out two more eagles, “The night. Take it or leave it.”<br/><br/>The fat man pondered the deal for a bit. One Golden Eagle was more than he usually earned from Sasha. Her injury had kept her from becoming a better earner within the Backroom, but her figure still brought in enough to keep her around. The greedy bastard was astute, and could see something about the woman attracted Christian, so he knew he could get more. A continued haggle with a famous killer was more risky than profitable, however, so the man eventually agreed.<br/><br/>Sasha timidly led Christian to the small bedroom she now called a home, and an office. The room they found themselves in was little better than a shanty. The walls were empty, the wood unadorned with art or keepsakes that Sasha might have gathered during her short life. The bed was little more than a flat piece of wood with a blanket on top, and as far as comfort level went a coffin would’ve felt better on the back.<br/><br/>As soon as the door was shut she obediently got onto the bed and took off her clothes, exposing herself to Christian. Her breasts were perky, still full of youth, but bruised from misuse from previous customers. She was almost unhealthily skinny, her ribs apparent. Her long legs held little meat to them as well, her backside holding an equal amount of bruises as compared to her bosom. Her eyes were cast downward, not looking at him or anything in particular. Her bright blue eyes simply staring into the void of her own soul.<br/><br/>She said not a word, and the dead look on her face spoke to the misery she found herself in. Christian frowned. He had never been above taking to whores, the soiled doves usually provided him some small relief in his never-ending pursuit of The Man in Black. Sasha was different. She lacked any passion for the job. Her complete lack of expression touched a part of Christian that he had forgotten about. He felt a connection to the woman, laid bare before him, a kinship in the loss they both felt.<br/><br/>“Put yer damn clothes back on,” Christian drawled out, a touch of regret in his gravel-filled tone.<br/><br/>She flinched when he talked, and that sparked another pang of sadness within the gunslinger. As she had walked in, she donned her clothing back and spoke softly, “I’m sorry...I’ll tell Mr. Thompson I wasn’t what you expected.” At that, she began making her way towards the door to the room.<br/><br/>Christian, however, grabbed her arm. It was not as gently as he had intended, but much better than what she had expected. “You’re….well, uh...you’re fine. Its just I aint out fer what you think I’m out fer. I just want a peace-able night.”<br/><br/>That was not unusual for Christian Spectre. Being a legendary gunslinger came with a very steep price. He was expected to own up to that reputation nearly daily, and some men thought they could make their fame by murdering him in his bed. A night with a whore usually meant he was safe, as he had someone to watch his back. Most soiled doves wanted violence in their place as little as Christian did, so they usually gave him a bit of an early warning.<br/><br/>“You…” Sasha ran her hand clumsily, hesitantly from her crotch to between her breasts, “Don’t want me?” It was not that she wanted Christian, but it was her job to please her customers, or Thommy, the fat owner of the Backroom Saloon, would see she pay for it. With a beating, among more less pleasant things.<br/><br/>“Darlin’, that aint it at all,” Christian said, taking a deep breath, his broad shoulders finally relaxing and sagging down, “I need a decent night’s rest, you needed someone to keep that damn Lil’Cox off of ya. A poke don’t give me that decent rest, and you’ll just be tradin’ one set of rough hands for another.”<br/><br/>Sasha’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, “You just want to sleep? That, and come to my rescue?” The timid little woman was starting to grow a backbone. While her current profession was one she was ashamed of, what she hated more than anything was a liar.<br/><br/>“Comin’ to yer rescue I thought might’ve earned me that sleep. Do ya disagree?” Christian’s raised eyebrows spoke to the impatience with which he felt for her doubt. He had just kept her out of the hands of a man that would have added to those bruises across her thighs and tits.<br/><br/>The whore chose not to say anything then. Christian, she decided, was correct. He was not there to hurt her, and his voice was genuine, if gruff. While he may have played her knight in shining armor, he was honest about why. The gunslinger was not out for her to show her gratitude with her mouth, or her cunt, or in any other way. He told her exactly what he wanted. A good night’s sleep. She knew who he was, working in a bottom-rung saloon in Dodge, Kansas gave her her fair share of rumors. He was a killer, a murderous, cold-hearted celebrity and yet he just wanted to sleep.<br/><br/>“I’ll keep you safe,” Sasha spoke finally, her back a little straighter, her eyes looking into Christian’s own.<br/><br/>He laughed at that. A true, hearty laugh. The notion he needed protection from the waif of a girl was ridiculous, but it was true. He was the fastest draw in the West, at least as far as he knew, but in his sleep he was as vulnerable as any man he had faced down. The young woman, the whore, would watch over him as he slept, keeping him safe from those things that might wish him harm in the dead of the night.<br/><br/>“Sounds like a deal,” Christian said, his rough voice graced with warm amusement for the first time in years. The first time since Wallace died a few years ago.<br/><br/>The next hour passed without much talking. Christian removed his pack, then his shirt, and Sasha saw someone who was more disfigured than she. Christian had more than a couple holes in his body. Scars of bullets and stabbings from men that did not take kindly to being gunned down in the street, or their fathers, brothers, or sons getting the same. He had survived it all, however, the scars wrote a song on his body that made it clear to Sasha why he had asked her to watch over him. Sleeping could not come easily to a man who had been through so much.<br/><br/>Her hands moved to those scars, examining their feel, the rough crater of a long healed wound that should have killed him; the ridgeline of a knife slash trying to take his innards; the not quite healed line of a broken collar bone from a shotgun slug. He had taken more punishment in the last few years than most men had in a lifetime.<br/><br/>Each time her small, delicate hands moved across him, Christian had flinched. Most women he had been with found them repulsive, evidence he was a violent man and someone that did not want sharing their bed. Sasha, however, found them comforting. her own scar had taken her livelihood, her talent, and made her the object of the roughest men’s cruel desires. This gunslinger was a kindred spirit, a wound still unhealed, and it called to her.<br/><br/>Before Christian could think, which is saying something rather incredible considering Christian’s reflexes, she wrapped him up in a hug. Her thin frame pressed against him, she buried her face in his chest, tears pouring from her eyes as she softly sobbed. The gunslinger was flabbergasted, it had been almost ten years since he had seen a gal cry like this, and it had been his sister when his father had been gunned down. It had been when Christian said he was going to go after The Man in Black.<br/><br/>His stunned arms slowly wrapped around her in a hug, as they stood there in the middle of her dark, dreary bedroom. She cried, and cried for what seemed an hour. Everyone now and again she would wipe her eyes, apologize for her foolishness and try to pull away from Christian. His heart told him, however, that she did not want to be let go, and he would pull her in tighter, and the tears would start again.<br/><br/>Finally, those tears dried up, the sobs turned into soft snores because she had put herself to sleep. She had stopped supporting her own weight fifteen minutes ago, Christian had picked her up to hold her, knowing sleep would be the only cure to his sadness. He ungracefully carried her to the bed, or blanketed plank of wood depending on the perspective, and she did not awaken. Once on the absent mattress, Sasha curled into a ball, and Christian was able to cover her with a quilt. It was a fine quilt, something Sasha had from her time before the scar. Her mother had made it for her after her first performance at a theater in St. Louis. Despite all that had happened since, the scar, the prostitution, the vile pit she now found herself, she had held on to that quilt. Christian crawled into the bed beside her, a smirk on his face as he thought about the lack of sleep he was now about to get. This was perhaps the most costly night of paranoid insomnia the gunslinger had ever had. Yet, he did not mind. If someone had asked him about it the next day, he would have told them, in a truly grumpy, mean-spirited way, that they should mind their own damn business and quit prying into what he and a whore might be doing all night. The loss of sleep was insignificant to the feeling that Sasha had provided him with.<br/><br/>He had lived the past several years, more than half a decade now, with a singular, vengeful purpose in mind: kill The Man in Black. Sasha, even if for only tonight, provided him with a purpose far more meaningful, giving her something he would likely never find, and that was peace. he sat with his back against the wall, as the bed lacked any sort of finery, including a headboard. His stetson hung on the wall atop his duster. He groaned a little as he removed his boots,  they had become attached to his feet from the walking he had done. His pants stayed on, he wanted to remove the temptation he felt for the beautiful woman beside him. The gunslinger was meant to protect her, not fuck her. Before long, however, this feeling of peace, of purpose, took down his guard, along with his eyelids. Christian drifted to sleep, to a land of dreams, but tonight, it was a land of nightmares.<br/><br/>------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br/><br/>Thunder rolled across the empty desert Christian found himself in. The sands were tinted a sickly green, the horizon twisted and rolled as if a mirage. A gripping fear tore at his heart, though its source was not apparent. Reaper hung at Christian’s side, as it always did, and he found some small comfort in the weapon’s presence.<br/><br/>The clothes Christian wore, however, took him a moment recognize. They were his father’s clothes. They were the shirt and trousers he was wearing the day The Man in Black gunned him down, right in front of Christian and the rest of his family. It was a rough, well-worn flannel shirt, and dirty denim pants.  The reds and browns drowned out in the emerald tint from the dying star above. Several stars twinkled around the sun, as even though the sun was out, it still looked as though it were twilight.<br/><br/>Christian then saw his mother, and his sister standing a few yards away. They looked at him with disgust, or disappointment. No, it was neither of those things. It was worse than that. They both looked terrified from being near him. Christian reached out, tried to tell them it was ok, he was coming home, but a gust of wind picked up. The wind blown sand tore the skin from their bones, and soon only their skeletons were left standing, which crumpled into the dust. Christian tried to scream, but found he had no voice.<br/><br/>Then the whistling started.<div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">The Song</div><div class="spoiler_body">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j1rl8hPyKh4</div></div><br/>It was the tune of an old hymn, A Closer Walk with Thee was what Christian thought it was, he had heard it a few times since, usually in the services with Wallace. The reason he knew the song, however, was much more sinister than some hymn whistled. The Man in Black had whistled it the entire time he had drawn on his father, shot him, and as he walked away.<br/><br/>Christian slowly spun on his heel, and there lay the reason his entire life had turned into a long, bloody tale of woe. The Man in Black. His head was down, his lips the only thing that Christian could see, they were puckered together, whistling that damnable tune, mocking him with its uptempo. The Man’s hat, a black leather bowler obscured his features but Christian knew the man was watching him. A long-barreled pistol hung from The Man’s hip, his left hand dancing just above it.<br/><br/>This was it, this was the moment that Christian had been waiting for, pushing for for almost a decade. He was about to draw down on The Man in Black. While the tune continued, Christian squared off against the man, his stare matching the absent whistling of The Man. This showdown lasted several minutes before Christian’s nerves finally got to him and he went for Reaper. The Man in Black was faster, though, and Christian flew backward from a shot to the sternum. Bleeding and broken, Christian hit the ground. The Man in Black, still whistling, sauntered over to stand above Christian. Finally, the gunslinger could see the villains face, could put a visage to the hatred. But, the eyes Christian stared into, as he coughed blood, were his own.<br/><br/>The face of The Man in Black was his own, Christian dying and defeated, watched himself walk away from his own murder. What happened next was perhaps even more surreal. The ghostly hands of everyone Christian had put down erupted from the sands below him and began dragging him down. Christian knew he was being pulled down to Hell, and the murderous bastard of The Man in Black was walking away. Despite being taken under ground, air deprived from his lungs, Christian gave one final roar of fury, one final scream for vengeance.<br/><br/>------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br/><br/>“Mr. Spectre, wake up!” Sasha was shaking him, her pleas and his own shouting dragging him from the nightmare and back to reality.<br/><br/>He was covered in sweat, his hair a mess from the tossing and turning of the restless sleep.  She had donned a tattered robe, and the look of concern in her eyes tore Christian from the brink of insanity, the realm of not knowing when a dream ends and the real world begins. He blinked a few times, and took an offered glass of water from Sasha. The glass was dirty, the water had more brown in it than he would have preferred, but his throat was parched, raw from his screams.<br/><br/>“I...I’m sorry you had to see that, darlin’” Christian said after a few gulps of water, his heart finally returning to a normal pace.<br/><br/>“Do all of your dreams fill you with such terror?” Sasha asked, her worry over him apparent. She rested a hand on his, squeezing gently. Her skin melted the ice of fear in his soul. It provided him some relief.<br/><br/>“More often’n I’d like,” Christian said, his honesty and openness a surprise even to him.<br/><br/>“Mr. Thompson will be wanting you out, you created quite,” she paused while a flash of lightning, followed by distant thunder rattled the room, “a disturbance this morning. Woke up many other customers.”<br/><br/>Christian stood and and began dressing again and noticed something odd. There was a small bag of luggage next to his pack. It was adorned in golden flowers, made of a thick fabric. Then he noticed that Sasha was dressed, cleaned up a bit even. Her form was even more beautiful underneath the green dress she wore, her feminine curves complemented by the cut of the dress,  and the quilt he’d covered her with was folded neatly beneath the luggage.<br/><br/>“Mr. Spectre, I never told you my name. I am Sasha Berrings,” she extended her hand, and Christian confusedly took her fingers into his hand and brought her knuckles to his lips to kiss. His mother had taught him at least a few manners before he left. “I would like to join you on your travels, if you’ll have me.”<br/><br/>The poor gunslinger was dumbfounded. Few people could do that to Christian Spectre. It was not that he was more intelligent, or wittier, the reason few could render the gunslinger speechless was because if he didn’t understand or was confused by what someone said, he just growled and walked away, or shot them.<br/><br/>“Darlin’...err...Sasha, the road I walk, the path I take, it aint no place for a lady,” Christian said as he released her hand. After his nightmare, it was time he refocused his efforts on The Man in Black. He had to put an end to this torment.<br/><br/>“I, as you have seen, am no lady. Or, at the very least, not anymore. Please, Mr. Spectre, I need to leave this place, you travel, and you seem to put my mind at ease. Your presence, it is comforting. Please, let me accompany you,” her voice started off defiant, strong, and ended in a plea. Christian thought she may be begging for her life.<br/><br/>“N...well...Ok. Where I’m goin’ though, aint havin’ too many comforts. The dirt’ll be yer bed, the stars yer ceilin’. My path tends to grow wet with blood, but I s’pose you can travel with me s’long as you can stand it,” which Christian guessed would last until the next town outside of Dodge.<br/><br/>Sasha’s eyes brightened, and an even brighter smile tore across her face. The scar on her cheek seemed to disappear when she smiled.  “Oh thank you, Mr. Spectre!” she jumped to hug him.<br/><br/>Christian took a backstep under the surprise embrace, “Weh...well, first, call me Christian. Or, Chris,” he said as he slowly repaid the hug in kind. Her body felt good against his own. A comforting, intimate gesture that he had not had in some time. Her affection was quickly growing on the gunslinger.<br/><br/>“Not Spooky?” Sasha said, pulling back from the hug to look into the grizzled gunslinger’s eyes. At the mention of the name, she saw only pain, perhaps a bit of anger, and she lowered her eyes.<br/><br/>“I’d prefer not. Never cared for that nickname,” he said softly, the gravel in his voice giving a hint of melancholy. The nickname only ever reminded him of Wallace, and that reminder only ever re-opened old wounds.<br/><br/>Sasha brushed the outside of her fingers along his cheek, which drew his eyes to hers, “Happily, Chris. Thank you...thank you so very much.”<br/><br/>Christian just nodded in reply, packing the rest of his stuff up as the thunderstorm outside grew nearer and nearer. As they left Sasha’s room for the last time, Christian gathered her luggage in his hand, and they walked out of the Backroom Saloon. The fat, slob of an owner yelled something in protest of Christian taking away one of his girls, but he quickly scurried away when Christian shot him one of his famous glares.<br/><br/>The streets were starting to crowd as people were going about their business. The early morning was cooler than the rest of the day, and with the storm moving in, people wanted to be done. Christian walked, slower than normal, as Sasha hung on his arm, the unspoken attraction between the two manifesting in small, simple ways. They were on the last street before exiting the west of town when the shout rang out.<br/><br/>“SPECTRE!”<br/><br/>Christian stopped in the middle of the street, which was quickly emptying of people. This situation was all too familiar to the gunslinger. He was about to have to kill someone. He and Sasha were just beginning, and now someone was going to force Christian to show her his dark side. He gestured for her to run to the side of the street, and the slowly turned his head. There stood Buck WIlcox. His brutish form in the middle of the street, a Colt Navy Pistol on his hip.<br/><br/>“Well...if it aint Lil’Cock,” Christian grumbled, a smirk on his face. On his right heel, he slowly turned to face down the ugly bastard that had laid hands on Sasha just the day before.<br/><br/>“You shut yer damn mouth, ya Spooky bastard,” Buck snarled, “Its time fer me ta teach ya some manners.”<br/><br/>“Christian!” Sasha called, fear deep in her voice from the porch of a nearby general store.<br/><br/>The gunslinger slowly held a hand up to Sasha and gave her a quick nod, reassuring her that all was well. It still did not sit well with her, but she knew, just by Christian’s reputation alone, that he was not backing down. Buck had called him out, and Christian never walking away from that.<br/><br/>“Well,” Christian growled to his opponent, “draw, big feller.”<br/><br/>The thunder rolled across the empty streets of Dodge, KS. The dirt and dust beneath Christian’s feet kicking up. The rain began to fall as the two squared off, water splashing across the dirty face of Buck and off the felt of Christian’s stetson. The two men stared at each other, and Buck began to realize exactly what he’d gotten himself into; facing the deadliest draw in the west. Fear gripped the man, and the flash of lightning made him go for his gun. Christian was fast, unbelievably fast. Buck’s hand touched his hilt just after the lightning crawled across the sky, and before it had dimmed, Christian’s Peacemaker was out, the trigger was squeezed, and the gunslinger was slapping the hammer back.<br/><br/>The fourty-five caliber bullets that are loaded into a Colt Peacemaker are weapons of sickening firepower. In the span of two seconds, Christian had unloaded his entire weapon into the man across from him. Buck had six holes in him, climbing from navel to forehead. His weapon had not even cleared his holster. Six distinct roars from the barrel of Christian’s gun, followed by a seventh from the sky, the thunder speaking its approval. Gaping wounds were all that could truthfully be made out of the once visage of Buck Wilcox.<br/><br/>Christian walked up to the body of Buck Wilcox, dead before he’d hit the ground, and he spit to the side. Christian knew the law would arrive any moment, they had made it a point to check in with Christian when he had come into town. It was a clean kill, and from the dozens of people peeking out from their homes and shops, he had plenty of witnesses.<br/><br/><em>Witnesses...dear god, Sasha! </em>Christian just remembered she had been there, his fury and wrath overtaking him.<br/><br/>She had not ran, no, indeed she stood on the porch still, her face filled with grim approval, perhaps a bit of pride. Her arms were folded in front of her, and her head nodded back and forth slowly. She understood the fury within him, she understood why he did what he did, even though they had never talked so much as a word about it.<br/>Moments later the local sheriff arrived, a fair man by the name of Emmett Walker, a shotgun slung in his arms. He was not a tall man, nor a loud man, but he was a man who commanded respect by the way he carried himself.<br/><br/>“Well, Mr. Spectre...seems you couldn’t visit our fine town without adding to the body count,” Sheriff Walker said dryly, a frown embedded on his soft features. “You have any idea who this man is?”<br/><br/>Christian spat again, this time on the body, “The sonofabitch called ‘imself a Lil’Cox.”<br/><br/>The gathering crowd went in a small hush at his joke, which was a surprise to Christian. He was used to nervous chuckles, people going along with his humor out of fear, if not for him being genuinely funny. This time, however, no one said a word.<br/><br/>“Buck Wilcox, of the Wilcox Brothers. Them are mighty bad boys to have huntin’ you, Mr. Spectre,” the Sheriff spoke slowly. “But, I suppose it aint my concern now, considerin’ you’re leavin’ town.”<br/><br/>The Sheriff had apparently been keeping tabs on Christian, knew he was headed out of town when all this happened. That meant the Sheriff let him duel this Wilcox Brother, meaning he had purposefully let Christian put himself in a bind, and now he was kicking him out of town regardless.<br/><br/>“I can take care of myself, Sheriff,” Christian growled, most of the time lawmen ended up being just as bad as the crooks they hunted, only they had a badge.<br/><br/>“What about that pretty thing you’re now travelin’ with, Can you protect her too?”<br/><br/>Sasha glared at the Sheriff at that, his words a mockery, a dagger meant to stab at Christian, her protector. She said nothing, however, letting Christian fight his own battles.<br/><br/>“I do believe I can, Sheriff. I do believe I can. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we best be off,” Christian turned his back on the Sheriff and moved to take Sasha’s arm in his own, which she did with a smile. They then exited town and started headed west.<br/><br/>Fifteen minutes later, Sheriff Walker caught up to them on horse, and pulled to a slow trot as they walked, “My apologies for my attitude earlier, Mr. Spectre. I just have enough violence in Dodge, that I don’t need you adding more of it.”<br/><br/>Christian and Sasha never stopped walking, “I didn’t add nothin’, Sheriff. That Wilcox boy called me out, he went fer his gun, I drew him down.”<br/><br/>Sasha grabbed Christian’s hand and squeezed, using her presence to calm him. She did not want to see any violence erupt between her savior from the Backroom and a lawman.<br/><br/>“No, no, I understand. That’s why I’m here. I just wanted to escort you to the edge of my jurisdiction, and make sure you get on your way safely,” admitted the Sheriff. The Sheriff knew what had happened was a legal duel, and Christian was being kind just by leaving town instead of sticking around to deal with the Wilcox brothers when they found out. “Where ya headed, anyway?”<br/><br/>“Arizona, a town called Tombstone,” Christian said absently.<br/><br/>“Well, I wish you the best, Mr. Spectre. Here is where I turn back.”<br/><br/>Christian and Sasha spent the next few days walking and slogging through the prairie of Kansas. The ground was wet for the first time in months, which was good for the farmers, but terrible for travelling. They got rides on stage coaches, trains, took horses off of fools that tried to take them down and rob them. They believe the storm of Dodge was behind them, and they were right. What they did not know was that storm was gaining on them, and what a furious storm it was going to be.<br/>