<hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://[url=http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/2/20/Christian_Bale_Cowboy_3.jpg]http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/2/20/Christian_Bale_Cowboy_3.jpg[/url])</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Christian Specter, Wallace Carmichael<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>Unknown<br/><strong>Date:</strong>1865<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Overtime<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Tombstone, Arizona<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Closed.<br/><hr/><br/>Wallace Carmichael was getting old. He knew it, his friends knew it, and his congregation knew it. As he stood finishing his sermon he was grasping the oaken pulpit more than normal, steadying his form. He had built that pulpit with his own hands three years ago when he settled in Tombstone, Arizona. Now, just the thought of working with a hammer made his arthritis flare in his hands. Sundays were always the worst.<div class="floatright">(http://[url=http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/2/28/Captain_call.jpg]http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/2/28/Captain_call.jpg[/url])</div><br/><br/>“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven,” Wallace spoke, his Scottish accent picking through despite years spent west of the Mississippi river. His voice was weary, and some of his congregation, small as it was, looked on him with concern. Still he tapped his Bible in rhythm to his speaking. “Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth. Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.”<br/><br/>Wallace spoke parts of the Sermon on the Mount without looking to his Bible in front of him, the Beatitudes etched into his mind years ago. His congregation of fifteen was dutiful Baptists who had been missing a Pastor when Wallace and his friends had strolled into town five years ago. He told his friends that God called him here, and it was time they parted ways. They were sad to see him go, especially Nicholas, but Wallace was adamant. It was time he retired from their life and went back to preaching.<br/><br/>The words he spoke, however, were not for his congregation. His sermon was for the young man who had stepped into the sanctuary shortly after services began. Wallace had grimaced upon seeing him at first, though not just because he recognized the lad, but also because of how rough he looked. He was dirty from head to toe looking exhausted, starving, and suffering from exposure. To the lad’s credit, he sat patiently while Wallace preached, though the ice-cold stare told Wallace he was right.<br/><br/><em>That is definitely Nick’s boy.</em><br/><br/>His sermon lasted another hour and a half, and he spoke on seeking God’s Kingdom through charitable acts, fear of the Lord, and forgiving those that wronged you. He never looked at the lad directly, worried it might spook him, but the words were meant for him regardless. With his sermon over, services let out and the congregation went to break bread with one another. Wallace excused himself from the fellowship politely, speaking of urgent chores needing done on his ranch.<br/><br/>The lad did not show up until that evening. Wallace had been unsaddling his horse after a long afternoon of work with his small herd of stallions and mares. He ran a barely profitable horse ranch outside Tombstone, his income supplemented by the pay from the congregation he was able to live comfortably, or as comfortably as a man with a guilty conscience could live. Wallace heard him coming yards away, but gave no indication. He waited to acknowledge the lad when he felt the cold iron press against his back, and the soft click of the hammer being pulled back echoed in his ears.<br/><br/>“Now,” Wallace spoke slowly, calmly, but did not move, “don’t ya be doin’ anyting hasty, lad.”<br/><br/>“Why did you do it?” the boy spoke, his voice dry, husky, and deep despite his young age. The question was punctuated by a sharp poke with the revolver the kid held.<br/><br/>“If you be lookin’ for the bastard that killed yer father, yer lookin’ at the wrong man,” Wallace spoke slowly, fear never touching his voice. He realized now why the boy was here, and he cursed himself a fool for not seeing it sooner.<br/><br/>“More like the wrong direction,” the voice that spoke was raspy, almost tinny, and punctuated immediately by the bark of a gun. The bullet came from behind the lad, though he turned just in time to take it in the shoulder instead of the back. There the boy saw the true source of his pain, the damnable Man in Black. Through the pain all he could see was the Man’s form, his features obscured by his eyes welling and the overwhelming urge to sleep.<br/><br/>The next few moments were a blur to the boy. All he could remember was Wallace and the Man exchanging unpleasant words before he saw what must have been impossible. The Man fired again at Wallace who seemed to ignore it and just knelt beside the boy, lips murmuring a prayer of some kind. Every shot missed which was miraculous considering the distance was only a handful of yards. Wallace never stopped his prayer, even as he picked up the gun the boy had dropped and fired back. The boy blacked out then.<br/><br/>___________________________________________________________________________________________________________<br/><br/>The room Christian woke up in was a small one, though Wallace would later comment it was cozy, not small. His shoulder felt like it was on fire, and he remembered what had happened. Before he could so much as sit up, Wallace was sitting at his bedside, calmly but firmly holding him down.<br/><br/>“Lad, you’ll need a bit more rest a’fore ya try ta kill me again,” the preacher said gently, a smirk on his face, “lay back now, I’ll get ya somfin ta eat. I’d bet me left leg you’re starvin’.”<br/><br/>Christian admitted the man was right. He was hungrier than he had ever been in his life. The phrase so hungry he could eat horse did not seem to quite apply; he was hungry enough to eat the herd. Christian’s shirt was off him, but he saw it hanging by the fire, washed and drying, it had a new hole to it in the shoulder. Christian realized he should have one too.<br/><br/>His hand went to his shoulder and he found no wound, no bandage, just an inexplicable, agonizing burning where it should have been. All of it was impossible, miraculous, even maddening. Christian by all rights should be dead right now, and from what he could remember, so should the man who was caring for him. The man he had approached with intent to ventilate.<br/><br/>The smell of the stew cooking made his stomach growl, roaring loud enough for Wallace to catch. The preacher chuckled, and finished fixing him a bowl and brought him some corn bread to go with it. After handing Christian the meal, he sat on the end of the bed and watched him eat. Christian found the entire situation awkward at first, and then realized the look the old man was giving him was one just like his father used to give him when he was worried about him.<br/><br/>“Hurts like hell, but I’ll be fine,” Christian said, his voice returning to him slowly as he filled his gullet. He ate so quickly, and with such abandon, much of it found its way to his chin and chest, but Christian did not seem to mind. “Did you kill him? How am I alive? How did you save me?”<br/><br/>“Jesus saves, lad,” Wallace said with a cryptic smile, knowing just how enigmatically frustrating that sentence had been. He patted Christian’s knee and stood again. The old man moved to the door where a well-made duster and beautiful Stetson hat waited. “I be havin’ some chores ta be doin’ lad. When ya feel up to it, I could use some help.”<br/><br/>Christian nodded slowly, still eating. When he was alone, the only thing he could think about was how he and the preacher had survived. He had caught wind of the Man in Black heading into Tombstone, all the way from Texas, and it made him assume that was where he lived. After some digging, Christian had discovered an old friend of his father’s lived in Tombstone, a preacher, and he had assumed that must be his Man. He was wrong, and it almost cost him his life, and the life of the preacher. That certainly put a foul taste in his mouth, despite the deliciousness of the stew.<br/><br/><em>Time to make up for that.</em><br/><br/>Christian spent the next weeks with Wallace Carmichael, learning to take care of the horses, attending church, and discovering that Wallace Carmichael was a good man. Christian had hoped his father was also a good man, though he knew Wallace better now than he had ever known his late father. Despite dozens of attempts to learn more about him, Wallace refused to discuss Nicholas Specter. Christian could not get him to give more details.<br/><br/>After Christian had spent a long time cleaning stalls, feeding the animals, and watching everything Wallace did learning all the while, the old preacher finally took him out hunting with him. Ranching was as much about new stock as it was about taking care of your current stable of animals, Wallace had told him. Now, they were out looking for more wild horses to bring home.<br/><br/>Wallace was an expert hunter, Christian had discovered. He could spot trail signs from what seemed miles away with but a hope and a prayer, though Wallace always emphasized the latter was the most important. Before the sun had risen to noon, they were riding behind a herd of almost twenty horses, and the preacher already had his lariat at the ready. Christian followed suit, and then they were off. One after another they lassoed the horses together, bringing them into a tight circle between the two of them.<br/><br/>Laughing, hollering, and yelling playful insults and hearty congratulations to one another as men often did after a successful, tiring adventure, the two drove the herd back to the pens at Wallace’s place. Christian realized that this man, whom he had set out to kill two months ago, was becoming more like his father than his actual father ever had. Upon returning to the ranch, Wallace gave Christian a very big responsibility. It was his turn to break in the horses to the saddle.<br/><br/>Christian had never done this before, even at his father’s cattle ranch back in Texas, he had never been allowed atop a wild stallion. His mother would not allow it. Now, however, Wallace was entrusting the entire new herd to Christian, and he swelled with pride at the thought. He hopped the fence and without much trouble managed to saddle one of the horses. Once he mounted, however, he discovered things would not be so easy. Within moments the horse was bucking and jumping so wildly it threw Christian to the ground, which Christian responded to with a grunt and a curse at the beast.<br/><br/>“Horses, lad,” Wallace hollered at him, “are like a good woman. They require a lot of attention, a lot of patience, and all the stamina Heaven can give you. That applies in and out of the bedroom, mind ya.” Wallace gave him a wink and sent back to the task at hand.<br/><br/>A dozen attempts later, Christian had finally broken the stallion. He also gained a black eye, and bumps and bruises across his entirety that would not be going away any time soon. Wallace told him that was God’s way of reminding him of his lessons. With every horse, Christian was thrown less and less, until with the final mare he broke her in the first try.<br/><br/>Several days came and went before Wallace decided it was time for Christian to learn to shoot, but found a surprise in the deadeye that the boy already possessed. He could hit a tin can off a fence post at three hundred yards with a cold barrel weapon, and keep that same can dancing in the air for twelve shots between two pistols. He was also incredibly fast, almost too fast for what seemed possible, on the draw.<br/><br/>After performing this feat, Christian looked to Wallace with a grin but found only a concerned frown on the man’s face. Christian would not let the matter go, and finally Wallace revealed a bit about Nicholas Specter, Christian’s father.<br/><br/>“He was the best shot I had ever seen in me life. He could kill a man at a thousand yards with nothin’ but a moment and his rifle. I dare say you’re a mite better, Christian, and it is a bit spooky,” the old man said, and Christian again swelled with pride, but the preacher still did not look happy. “That skill got’m an early grave, lad. I think it might do the same ta you if ya aren’t careful. “<br/><br/>“Stop yer worryin’, old man,” Christian said with a smile, trying to calm the preacher down from a moment of regret, “Ya got the Lord on yer side, don’t yah?”<br/><br/>“That I do son, but I’m afraid you don’t,” Wallace said, sadness touching every syllable. “I got word on the Man. He hired some men to kill you, to kill me. I suspect they’ll be here in the next few days.”<br/><br/>“What?! Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Christian exclaimed, hurt, anger, and fear filling him simultaneously.<br/><br/>“My plan was ta send ya off lookin’ for more horses. The men would come, find but me, what would happen would happen, and you would be safe, lad,” Wallace spoke of tricking Christian without a hint of regret or remorse. “But, now, I suspect ya’d go after them men just like the Man in Black. I wouldn’t be doin’ ya any favors that way.”<br/><br/>The revelation of Wallace trying to steer him away from vengeance did not come as a surprise to Christian. Over the last weeks Wallace had even come to preaching to him on forgiveness and turning the other cheek. None of those lessons had stuck. Christian could not even hold it against the man; he was just trying to protect him, just like his father had done when the Man had showed up at their family home.<br/><br/>“Yer concern is appreciated,” Christian finally said, nodding once, “but tagether, I don’t reckon them bastards got a chance.”<br/><br/>“We’ll see, son,” Wallace patted Christian on the shoulder as he passed, “We’ll see.”<br/><br/>___________________________________________________________________________________________________________<br/><br/>It was a quiet Sunday in October of 1865, the 8th in fact. Wallace and Christian were making their way to the little chapel Wallace held service in. The town was very quiet that morning, and for good reason. Everyone in town knew the five strange men in town were there for violence. A humming bird was the only motion that either Christian or Wallace could see.<br/><br/>The local tailor was a fan of hummingbirds, and even built a feeder for the things to attract them to his shop. What that really did was attract a lot of pretty women to the shop with whom he might “assist” in trying on a dress or two. Wallace, and by extension Christian, did not socialize much with that man. Today, only one bird visited the feeder.<br/><br/>The wings of a humming bird flap at an incredible rate, Wallace had told Christian a few weeks ago when they first started appearing before fall really set in. Most of the birds flap their wings at more than a dozen times per second, the preacher had taught him. They were discussing the creation and God’s role in why they were all there.<br/><br/>“God created all of this for us, designing an amazing world for us to live in, with wondrous things to see,” Wallace had told him. Christian nodded and listened, but more out of respect to the old man than out of any belief. If God was there, Christian had decided the day his father died, then he was a cold-hearted bastard. “God has a plan for all of us, even if that plan is like Him, very mysterious.”<br/><br/>Wallace knew about the ambush a moment before it happened. Perhaps it was intuition, perhaps it was a whisper from the Almighty, but either way it saved Christian’s life. The old man grabbed Christian sharply by the wrist as he spouted off a prayer. Then the shots rang out.  A dozen rang out in near unison and lead flew at the pair before Christian really knew what was coming.<br/><br/>Christian did not feel a thing, though he fully expected that same burning sensation he felt the first time he talked with Wallace, when the Man had shot him. Instead, his friend, his mentor, was covered in wounds. Somehow, all of the shots fired at the two of them had been pulled or attracted to Wallace, and he crumpled to the ground and on to his back, eyes blinking and lungs taking in its final breaths.<br/><br/>Time seemed to slow as the wings of the hummingbird flapped once.<br/><br/>Christian spun on his left heel, his pistol erupting from its holster into his hand. Those bastards were going to pay.<br/><br/>Flap.<br/><br/>The hammer of the revolver was slapped back three times as Christian held the trigger held down. Three men who had stepped around corners as the pair had passed earlier fell to the ground, gaping holes in their stomachs.<br/><br/>Flap.<br/><br/>The other two lowered their weapons to begin reloading, the beginnings of a curse erupting from their mouths at their empty cylinders.<br/><br/>Flap.<br/><br/>Christian slapped the hammer back again, another shot erupting from his weapon. The bullet tore into the man’s throat, throwing him backwards off his feet. Again, Christian’s palm collided with his weapon and it barked again, catching the last man in the shoulder.<br/><br/>Walter Carmichael lay motionless on the ground. Through the pain, and ragged breaths, he whispered final words that no one would hear, “Forgive him, Father, he knows not what he does.”<br/><br/>Christian reloaded his weapon slowly, now, as four of the men lay on their backs groaning in pain. When he had finished, he walked to each in turn and kicked their faces to the side, holding them there with his boot. He was tired of the pain, tired of losing people, and tired of those that wronged him getting away with it. He let loose another round on the men’s faces, ripping their visages asunder ensuring an open casket was definitely not in their future. Christian, in a single moment, was no longer just a tool of vengeance, he was now revenge incarnate.<br/><br/>Days later, after a funeral service was held for the late pastor of Tombstone Baptist Church, Christian walked out of the tailor shop. The old man’s duster and Stetson stitched and repaired, looking like new. The tailor was uncomfortable with the job, but his fear of the man who had gunned down five men in front of his store ensured the work was done to the best of his ability. He had paid the gunsmith for a fine piece of work as well, a brand new pistol.<br/><br/>Christian left Tombstone that day, duster and Stetson snug in place, memories of a man that had tried to protect him. There was no protection for Christian, though, the Lord had seen to that. There was only vengeance. There was only justice. He made a final stop by Wallace Carmichael’s grave, the slab of stone marking it reading, “He lived by Faith, and walked with Thee.”<br/><br/>As Christian rode out of town, a voice in his head whispered to him softly, “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called the children of God.”<br/><br/>“I know, old man,” Christian said as he patted the gun at his side, “I know.”