Charles and Jacob passed the next two hours in grim silence punctuated by the whirring of revolver cylinders and metallic grating of rifle lever actions. Finally, Charles spoke.
“You in the war, Jacob?”
Jacob nodded and began loading his current revolver. They had separated the firearms into sections: workable and too-damned-rusted-to-ever-shoot. The men were steadily cleaning and oiling their way through the workable pile, testing the hammer action and making sure the sites lined up. “I was. You?”
“Yes sir. Cavalry. Texas. Damn, sure wish I’d have taken better care of these. Should’ve known I’d need them.”
“Kansas. Jayhawker. Don’t get your knickers twisted on count of the revolvers, Charles. This is a damn sight better than I’d have expected. No offense intended by the loose language, of course. How many are left?”
“Three revolvers, then the Winchesters and Springfields. Anyway, how did you get to be a Catholic Marshal?”
Jacob laughed despite the gravity of the situation, “Catholic Marshal? I like that. Same way as any soldier, I guess. I signed up.
“After the war, I joined a monastery in Chicago. Had no idea they still existed. Figured that was all storybook nonsense. But there’s one there, believe it or not. And still others in more out of the way places. So I went, to try and let this shooting hand have a rest, maybe a retirement. It saw a lot of nasty work and had killed too many men and innocents to count. You know how it was, so I imagine you probably know why I was trying to outrun the past.
“Anyway, without neither hem nor haw about the wondrous monastic life, I had a vision. I was sitting and having lunch with the other monks, not saying a word because we’d all taken our Vows of Silence, and next thing I know I’m surrounded by the whitest, most pure light I could ever imagine.
“A woman I’d shot in Missouri during the war is standing there, real as flesh and blood can be and as lively as the day I gunned her down. I recognize her so quickly because, at this point, I saw her crying face every time I went to sleep. This woman, Abigail was the name she told me, instructs me on how the Lord will give me penance. Next thing I know, I’m awake and looking at the ceiling with fifteen silent men staring down at me. And I just start screaming. Pass me that oil, Charles. Screaming bloody murder like the Devil hisself is riding down on me. Didn’t stop for nigh two hours. And then I sent for the abbot. He didn’t believe my vision right off, of course. Eventually, though, the abbot arranged for an interview with the Templars. They accepted me.
“It’s not glamorous, but most jobs ain’t. Truth be told, I never expected glory or recognition. It’s a secret sect no one outside the church knows about, unless they’ve been aided by the order, of course. And who’s going to believe the madman who tells them they’ve been possessed by a demon, then a priest forced it out like a hound flushing some game? Finally some knight in shining armor rode in and drove it back to the Gates of Hell? Even inside the church, that ain’t gonna hold water these days.
“Hell,” Jacob slapped the cylinder back in place, “I’ve been playing my hand at this game for near seven or eight years, and I hardly believe it.”
“Seven or eight years?” Charles whistled. “How many of these things you gone after?”
“More than my fair share, I reckon. Enough to almost lose count.”
There was a knock on the door frame. Father Ryan was in full clergy array, a copy of the Roman Ritual, the Catholic priest’s guide to sacraments, tucked under one arm. The priest nodded at Jacob.
“Charles,” Jacob said, setting the pistol down on the cloth they’d put out for the finished revolvers, “it’s time. If you don’t mind cleaning the rest of these irons, I’d appreciate it. Need to have them ready for Chisum.”
“Yes sir,” Charles replied, wiping down the revolver in his hand, “that I will.”
Father Ryan stepped inside the room. He looked hard at Charles and Jacob. Finally, the father said, “Charles, no matter what you hear coming from that room, it’s imperative you be staying down here. For your sake and that of your daughter’s.” Charles nodded in assent. Father Ryan shook his head. “I want you to be speaking your promise aloud, Charles.”
“Yes sir, I’ll stay sitting tight right here. Not a foot up them steps, lest I be struck a dead man.” Father Ryan nodded. Both he and Jacob turned to leave the room. “Jacob?” Jacob stopped. “You make sure Angela’s safe, you hear. She’s all I got left.” Jacob nodded and followed after the old priest.
Father Ryan led the way upstairs. As he climbed the steps, he spoke to Jacob, “Jacob, my son, I’m assuming you know the ritual better than I do, and so you’ll know the right time to come in.”
Jacob nodded. He wasn’t sure of how well Father Ryan and Charles were handling themselves, but his stomach was fluttering with that familiar refrain of nervousness. Same feeling he got before every skirmish in the war. Still the same feeling years later.
At the top of the stairs, Father Ryan turned determinedly to his right and led Jacob into a short hallway. Of the three doors leading off the hallway, only one was closed. Father Ryan stopped in front of the door and put his hand against it.
“Sure you be ready for this, my son?” Father Ryan said before he pushed the door open. He looked intently, almost fearfully at Jacob. Jacob nodded. The priest took a deep breath, nodded. He exhaled and pushed the door open softly. Wafts of brimstone and violence tinged sinfulness washed over Jacob as the bedroom door swung open. Loathing emanated from the room, making Jacob shudder inside his chainmail. Jacob drew his revolvers and checked them one last time. Father Ryan walked in first, hands folded across his copy of the Roman Ritual. “Angela?” he asked quietly as he strode into the room. Jacob followed after him.
The room was well lit by a bay window. Eddies of dust whirled in the air, causing rays of sunlight to be visible. Angela Goodnight was in bed, a quilt pulled up to her chest. She was pallid looking and her fine black hair was plastered to her forehead with sweat. “Angela?” Father Ryan asked again. Jacob shut the door behind them. After a third questioning greeting from Father Ryan, Angela opened her eyes.
“Hello, Father Ryan,” she replied softly, smiling meekly at the two men as they approached her bedside.
“Angela, I’ve brought a man to see you. His name is—”
“Jacob Smith,” she interjected, the smile still on her lips. Both men stopped in their tracks and looked at one another. “He’s the Templar you sent for.”
“Did you?” Jacob began to ask, but was interrupted by Father Ryan’s emphatic headshake. “Then how did—”
“Because I’ve been waiting for you, Templar,” Angela said. “My name is Gazael. I’ve been sent for you.”
“Father Ryan,” Jacob said as he stepped forward and put himself between the priest and the possessed girl, “get out of here. Now.”
“But, Jacob,” the old priest said, taking a step back, “you need me for the exorcism.”
“Not today, Father Ryan,” Angela said in a sweetly sing-song voice, “ain’t no Exorcising for me. I’m coming out willingly.” The little girl laughed an unearthly laugh like no little girl in the history of man ever had.
“Father Ryan,” Jacob said, trying to keep his voice as even as possible. He drew his six-gun and turned towards the priest, “You need to get the fuck on out of here. And do it now.” Father Ryan’s eyes went wide and what little blood remained in his face drained away in terror. He took a step back, paused for a moment, then turned and bolted for the door. Jacob spun back around in time to see crimson mist begin to flow from the little girl’s mouth, eyes, nose, and ears. He said over his shoulder, “And shut that door on your way out.” Jacob stepped back to make sure the demon didn’t materialize on top of him. “All right, you piece of shit cocksucker. You came for me? Then show me what you got.”
“GLADLY,” the demon replied, its voice coming from everywhere in the room. The crimson mist began to coalesce near the head of the bed, next to Angela’s prone form. The mist finis
hed exiting the cavities of her skull, but her mouth remained open. Thankfully, her eyes were closed. Jacob didn’t think he could do this if she were awake. Jacob took another step back, trying to put as much space between him and the nearly solid demonic entity. The quarters were tight though and he prayed softly that this wasn’t going to be a big one. Jacob raised his pistol, taking a bead on where he figured the head would end up. His every instinct said to fire at the first possible chance, but past experience told him not to waste bullets on a half-materialized demon.
His prayers went unanswered, though. The creature could definitely be categorized as a big one. Standing at over seven feet tall, its swiftly solidifying vaguely-human form was almost too big for the bedroom. The demon had to crouch to keep the massive horns that protruded from its dragon head from digging into the ceiling. Jacob could see the muscles rippling beneath its scales and fur as its body assumed corporealness. Definitely a demon from Violence. Jacob softly muttered, “Shit.” Hell must have really wanted him dead.
Finally, the creature finished coming together. It turned and looked at him, said, “JACOB SMITH. AT LAST WE—”
Jacob pulled the trigger and sent a bullet through the thing’s left eye. It reeled back a step, clearly surprised. A clawed hand coming up to the wound. “COCKSUCKER!” it roared indignantly.
Jacob fired again, this time aiming for its right eye. His shot missed and instead tore a hole through the creature’s right cheek. It growled in anger and surprise, recoiling. Jacob fired again, this time aiming for its throat. Instead, he caught it in the left forearm. Gazael growled and came at him faster than he had ever seen a demon move. It slammed into Jacob’s chest before Jacob could react, picking the Templar up in its massive arms. Jacob tried to dig his boots in, but couldn’t find any purchase on the wood floor. He stumbled backwards under the great creature’s weight, hitting the window, and losing his gun. It clattered to the bedroom floor as the momentum of the collision carried them both through the window and onto the porch roof. They both skid across the wooden shingles, leaving a streak of black demon ichor and dark-red Templar blood.
The demon uncoiled from Jacob and pulled back. The leeway was just enough for Jacob to draw his other revolver with his left and bring it to bear against its chest. He fired convulsively into the scaly tissue, working the trigger as fast as his finger would allow. It didn’t slow Gazael, though. The demon backhanded Jacob across the face with all its force, breaking his nose and filling his vision with red stars. Jacob cursed through the blood and sweat. He brought the pistol toward the center of his body and angled the barrel of his revolver higher, hoping to shoot the demon in the brain via the underside of his jaw. It didn’t work. The bullet tore through the softer underside, but exited the left cheekbone. Thankfully the wound was painful enough for Gazael to shift his weight enough that Jacob could shove himself out from underneath his bulk.
Jacob fired his six-gun’s last round as he skittered backwards over the edge of the roof and began to tumble towards the ground. The awkward positioning made for a shot that went too wide of its mark, though. The bullet went just over the demon’s shoulder. In the brief moment of free-fall, Jacob managed to find the grip of his broadsword with his right hand. His back met none-too-soft ground next, knocking the air from his lungs. Gasping for breath, the Templar drew his blade as Gazael came over the the edge of the porch roof. He pointed the blade skyward, careful not to lock his arms. His one chance to make it out alive was to impale the creature in the spot he’d just aimed his revolver; beneath the chin and through the brain.
The demon landed with unearthly force on his sprawled right leg, crushing the bone with its weight. The Templar’s blade slid home into soft demon flesh, eliciting a final roar from the beast. Jacob breathed a sigh of relief and closed his eyes. He felt himself relax. Then he opened them and tensed up again. The roar had stopped. The demon was eying him with its one good eye. “Son of a motherfucking bitch,” Jacob whispered.
The demon licked its lips. Jacob was about to extend his arms all the way and sheath the blade fully in the brain cavity, but the demon quickly gurgled, “JIM CHISUM’S RIDING UP! I WANT TO MAKE A DEAL!”
“What?” Jacob shouted.
“I SAID: JIM CHISUM IS LESS THAN FIVE MILE AWAY.”
“So what?”
“THINK YOU CAN TAKE HIM AND HIS MEN, TEMPLAR? WITH YOUR BUSTED LEG AND TWO OLD MEN AS YOUR ONLY HELP?” The demon ground its left cloven hoof into his shattered femur to punctuate its point. Jacob screamed in agony. “THEY’LL KILL CHARLES GOODNIGHT AND THE PRIEST. THEN THEY’LL KILL INNOCENT LITTLE ANGELA.”
“Shit.”
“SLAYING ME WON’T HELP A THING, WILL IT?”
Jacob sagged against the ground, careful not to release his grip on the sword. “Fine. What’s your deal?”
“I HELP YOU BEAT THEM.”
“And in return?”
“YOUR SOUL.”
“When I die?”
“NO. UPON EXECUTION OF THE TERMS OF THE CONTRACT.”
Jacob sagged again. Kill the demon and get everyone, including himself, killed by Jim Chisum? Or sell his soul and protect an innocent? The second option was what he had signed up for, after all. Jacob sighed, defeated.
“Deal.”
“WITHDRAW YOUR BLADE, TEMPLAR.”
Jacob removed the blade from the demon’s chin, releasing a stream of black ichor that dripped onto the Templar’s chest. Immediately, Gazael began to fade into the same crimson mist it had materialized from. As soon as it and its chortling laughter had disappeared, Charles Goodnight and Father Ryan emerged from the house. They came to Jacob’s side, questions gushing from their mouths. “Is Angela all right?” he asked, ignoring their questions, as they helped him to his one good foot.
“She’s resting, Jacob. Same as you should be, my son.”
Charles whistled as he inspected the damage to Jacob’s leg, “Don’t think I’ve ever seen a mauling that bad, yes sir, and I’ve seen more herds of cattle trample people than I can count. We need to get you on inside, just like Father Ryan says, and get that there leg doctored. What happened to that,” Goodnight shuddered involuntarily, “thing? Is it dead?”
“No, it’s not. We have bigger problems, though,” Jacob said, leaning his weight on Father Ryan’s bent frame. “Chisum is close.”
Charles Goodnight turned and looked into the not-so-far distance at a dust cloud that loomed on the horizon. His one word encapsulated the three men’s thoughts: “Shit.”
Jacob didn’t tell them about the deal he’d made. Father Ryan never would have agreed that it was the right decision, no matter what the outcome of the day’s events. So Jacob kept his mouth shut.