Hellfire Revolvers

Rolling along the dry plains of the frontier, an old, sun-bleached wagon carried a single coffin large enough to contain a grown man. Matching the sorry sight of the old wagon was the old, crippled horse Nanny pulling the rickety wooden vehicle. Fourteen-year-old Johnny Tanner hid from the oppressive sun beneath the only shelter he had available to him - his grandfather’s old straw hat. Johnny eyed the oak container then turned his attention to his father driving the rickety wooden contraption. “Why are we bringing this into town?”

An uncharacteristic look of determination came across his father’s aged, sun burnt face, it was a fire in his brown eyes, “because the Lord has finally answered our prayers, and this is what he requires of us.”

Swallowing away the tightness that gripped his throat, Johnny dared a glance at the coffin and felt his body recoil. Johnny turned his gaze to his father, “will we find Ma?”

Running a hand through his matted grey hair, Johnny’s father caught a tangled clump and with a sharp yank, ripped the hair free from his scalp, adding yet another barren and bloody spot to the dozen that marked his head. “Your mother is already gone.”

Johnny grew silent for the rest of the journey, feeling as if he were being watched an uneasiness sank into him and was eager to see this journey end. Pa’s been a mess since he returned from town by himself last week. Staying up for days on end with his rifle in hand. A dark realization came to Johnny then. Outlaws must’ve taken over the town! The man in the coffin must be one of them. Eying his father’s lever-action rifle, Johnny smiled. God’s going to guide Pa’s bullet right through their leader’s head.

As they came closer to town, they passed by the charred skeletons of covered wagons once belonging to travelers and traders that had been making their way to the frontier. Johnny thought back to the storybooks he would read about different outlaw groups and bandits who would terrorize towns and rob good people. There was always a sheriff or even another band of outlaws who would rise and challenge the evil doers. But it’s not like that is it? Just a man ripping out his hair and his boy. We’re not even riding in on a horse like the heroes in those stories. Johnny imagined his favorite hero riding into town atop his black stallion with him: the wandering vigilante and former sheriff, ‘Silver Star’ Seamus. Seamus had dealt with this kind of ruffian before; just a group of bullies who think they can do as they please. They’re probably all drunk in Mr. Martin’s saloon.

Slipping into a daydream, Johnny watched from his mind’s eye as the black clad Seamus rode down the empty streets of Bittergrove to the saloon with the sun shining off his old sheriff star pinned to his vest. The former lawman dismounted his stallion and removed his hat to wipe sweat from his barren pate, his lips curled into a bitter frown under his thick, orange mustache. Seamus swallowed; the dry heat had turned his throat to sandpaper.

The words of the widowed mother of three were ever present in Seamus’ mind, “the bastard’s a silver haired wretch with a wicked scar under his left eye. Put three bullets in him, one from each of my sons whose daddy he took from them.”

Resting his hands on the revolvers hanging from his waste, Seamus made a slow, deliberate approach to the double swinging doors as he counted each of the windows on the first and second floor.

Well, I haven’t been shot yet, must be my lucky day.

With a daring boldness, Seamus sauntered through the doorway. He was met by a liquor-soaked collection of unwashed outlaws, eight hunched over the tables and three conscious at the bar. The trio took notice of him, the one in the center - an older man whose golden hair and beard had turned to a silvery grey and under his left eye was an ugly, twisted burn scar. The two men at his sides reached for their pistols.

Seamus pulled back the hammers of his revolvers, the click serving as a warning to those who would listen. Keep your cool Seamus, you still haven’t gotten your drink. Better to kill two birds with one stone. Seamus eyed the rest of the gang, or a whole flock in this case.

The man in the center raised his hand and halted them, motioning to Seamus’ hands which were already on his guns he said, “boys if you try and draw on this man, he will gun you down. Best just to be amicable with our new guest.”

Seamus watched the men withdraw and smiled, “mind if I pour myself a drink?” his voice was course like gravel, “riding here has worked up a terrible thirst.”

“I’d only ask for you to pour a second one for me.”

Giving the outlaw a polite nod, Seamus made his way behind the bar, he peaked under the counter for mugs and found what he was looking for and more - a double barrel shotgun that had been left unmolested by the ruffians. Seamus retrieved the mugs and placed them on the bar top.

“You’re an odd sort for a sheriff, stranger,” the old outlaw said.

“My names Seamus and I’m retired.” Seamus poured the two drinks and handed one to the man, “so who do I have the honor of sharing a drink with?”

“Clyde Barnerham, rattlesnake of the plains,” with a wide grin, Clyde flashed an incomplete set of yellowed teeth.

Raising his mug, Seamus smiled, “Cheers!”

As Clyde returned the gesture and the duo had begun to drink, Seamus drew one of his revolvers with his left hand and pulled the trigger three times, one bullet making its home in Clyde’s gut, another in his shoulder, and the last tearing through one of the man’s lungs. As Clyde fell backwards onto the ground, gurgling as he took soupy gasps for air, the men at the tables rose, reaching for their firearms.

One of the two men at Clyde’s side cried out, “you son of a bitch!”

Seamus responded with a shot that pierced his heart, and then fired his remaining shot into the man’s companion before diving behind the bar as shots from the gang whizzed past him. As the hailstorm of lead flew over him, Seamus counted the shots until he knew they were out. The former sheriff grabbed the double-barreled shotgun and rose from behind cover. He aimed the weapon at the gang and pulled the trigger.

“Johnny!”

His father’s voice pulled Johnny back into reality. There was a froggy cry in the air.

“What? What is that?”

Johnny’s father aimed a calloused finger at a golden lab who whimpered and whined as it pulled itself forward with its front legs while its shattered hind legs were dragged behind it.

Unable to speak at the sight of such brutality, Johnny’s mouth hung open. It was clear to the boy that someone had crippled the poor animal.

With a stunning haste, Johnny’s father leapt from the wagon and said, “mind the cart and don’t look.”

Obeying his father, Johnny continued to move with the wagon and ensured that their crippled horse would not run off on them. The cries of the dog grew quiet and then the sudden crack of two gunshots rang in the air. Johnny managed to force back the tears that flooded his eyes by the time his father had returned. Sharing a quick glance was all the pair could muster the strength to do.

Continuing their journey at a faster pace than before, the pair had crossed a small creek. Eager to put the encounter with the dog behind him, Johnny stopped and watched the water flow at its usual lazy pace and smiled at the memories he had made there with his friends Freddy Thomas and Mary Heydan panning for gold that wasn’t there, building small rock dams and staying out past supper.

Freddy Thomas is probably with his Pa selling boots and belts a few towns over, too bad he’s going to miss all the excitement.

Off in the distance, Johnny could see town come into distance with a single dark cloud shifting in strange patterns overhead. The sky’s been clear for days, and those movements are so sudden and wild, what an odd occurrence. Pointing above the town, Johnny said, “Pa, you ever see anything like that?”

His father was quiet for time as his expression darkened, “no and I don’t like it.”

The pair finished their travel in a silence that began to gnaw away at Johnny’s resolve as he watched the erratic, black cloud hover over. “We’re actually going into town?”

“That’s right.”

“Shouldn’t we have gotten others? I mean, can we free the town with just the two of us? I’m sure everyone else in town is waiting for something to happen but-”

Johnny’s father shot the boy a look, “don’t worry about whoever is in town.”

Reading the resignation on his father’s face, Johnny chose to hold any more questions he might have had.

Coming into town, a loud droning buzz filled the air. Johnny read the sign at the town’s entrance: “Welcome to Bittergrove.” The teenager scanned his surroundings and felt his heart shatter. Six of the buildings had been burned to the ground, leaving only blackened husks behind. Worst yet were the corpses lining the bloodstained street; horses, coyotes and small animals laying in piles, chunks of flesh bitten from their rotting, lifeless bodies that were swarming with buzzing flies and writhing maggots.

Beyond the corpses a display of a dozen people crucified to the walls of the saloon with their entrails hung as if they were decorations put up in celebration. Mouth agape, Johnny fell to his knees. Tears filled his eyes as he tried to comprehend the brutality. A realization passed through his mind like a horrid whisper, what happened to Ma? Please, please let it have been more merciful than whatever evil this is. The boy drew back under his grandfather’s hat for comfort and began to weep.

His father spoke, “Get up, Johnny,”

Johnny shook his head and screwed his eyes shut in the vain attempt to drive what he had seen away. A hand gripped Johnny’s shoulder. Johnny turned his head and only opened his eyes when he knew he would not have Bittergrove’s fate in his line of sight. His father looked down into his eyes. There was a silent understanding between the pair as they shared in the heartache that comes in witnessing such horror.

“You need to get up, we need to face this evil lest we be complicit in it.”

A tremble came over Johnny, “but I’m not strong enough to face it, Pa. Please, please don’t make me look at it again!”

Johnny’s father raised his free hand and with it, gave his son a sharp slap across the cheek. “Boy, this is for your mother, for our neighbors, for the people of this town and God willing to keep innocent people safe from this fate.”

Though he already knew the answer, Johnny still asked himself the question. What would Seamus do?

With a sudden yank, his father pulled Johnny to his feet. “Look at me, boy, look into my eyes.”

Johnny did as his father commanded and found determination driven by pain and shame.

“When this town went to hell, I ran. I never stopped to think, I didn’t pay a single thought to your mother. Everything in my being told me to run and when my legs ached and my lungs burned, when I finally fell to my knees and found myself alone with the screams of the townsfolk behind me, I realized your mother was left screaming with them.” Johnny’s father shoved a six shooter into the boy’s right hand and fistful of rounds into the other then said, “Be a better man than me, son.”

Contemplating his father’s words, Johnny turned his gaze to the old, rust speckled revolver then back to his father. He swallowed, then nodded.

“You remember how to use that?”

“Just as you taught me.”

Johnny’s father held his son in a tight embrace for a moment before returning to the head of the wagon.

Walking alongside the wagon as it rolled to the front of the saloon, Johnny, finding the sight of the animals easier to look at, kept his eyes fixed to the ground. There was a shuffle in a nearby doorway. Johnny’s eyes flicked left, towards the sound. The figures of three people stood at the entrance a man, a woman, and a girl around Johnny’s age. Johnny’s grip tightened on the firearm in his hand. “Pa.”

“I know, son.”

Johnny examined the figures and recognized them as the Heydans. The trio stood nude and mutilated, grinning at the pair. Their putrid, green flesh was marred with strange markings that had been carved into their bodies with a blade. Johnny had remembered when he had first met Mary as a young boy; their fathers had been talking about how terrible the dry season had been shaping up to be. Both Johnny and Mary had been too bashful to say much to one another, but boredom had inspired the young pair to overcome their shyness. It had been Johnny to propose they play tag. He remembered chasing one another through the streets, and how her cherry red hair would fly in the wind and how her blue eyes were full of life then. Now, Mary’s hair had all but been ripped out, and the joy that had once shined bright in her eyes had been replaced with an even brighter derangement as she leered at him. Mary licked her lips as she ran the blade of the knife in her hand across her nipple, slicing the flesh free from her body.

The skin at the back of Johnny’s neck prickled, he readied the six shooters in both hands. I’m sorry this happened to you and your family, Mary.

A voice as deep as the pits of hell boomed from the saloon, “and so the rat who escaped brought his progeny back to us.”

Johnny turned to see a pale; clean-shaven man garbed in rose red robes with a black sash. His white, shoulder length hair flowed with the slightest movement.

“You’re the bastard responsible for all this?” Johnny’s father asked, standing atop the wagon with his rifle.

More of the townsfolk began to appear from the other buildings wielding cleaves, knives, hammers, and farm equipment. The robed man laughed.

A hatred boiled within Johnny’s blood. What kind of person takes joy in any of this?

“I am the Shepherd responsible for watching over and growing this flock and I was present at its birth at the hand of the apostles, but I am a mere guide and protector,” the Shepherd took note of the casket in the wagon and gave the pair a warm smile. “I see you come with a gift! There is a beauty in the world that can only be seen when you give yourself over to their embrace. Come, come, and join your loved ones in the experience.”

Remaining silent, Johnny’s father glared at the robed man looked upon the town then said, “This manifestation of pure sin is revolting and is an affront to all that is natural and good. It will do mankind well to see this evil expunged from the earth.”

The lid of the casket burst open with a sudden force that sent the piece of wood flying in a cascade of splinters. Rising to join Johnny’s father was a man whose face was hidden behind a brown bandanna clad in a grey duster. Below the man’s dark brown locks that clung to his skin were a pair of piercing gold eyes that radiated with their own light. In the figure’s hands were a pair of engraved, silver revolvers with ivory grips which he aimed at the Sheppard.

There was an outcry from the mutilated townsfolk around the trio - a rage fueled raucous that demanded blood.

With the simple gesture of raising his hand, the Sheppard silenced the crowd, “I’m sure you understand you’re outnumbered and certainly are without enough bullets for everyone here.”

The figure from the coffin pulled his mask down to reveal a second pair of eyes which darted back and forth as they took note of everyone around the trio, “nothing shall halt the absolution that I bring to this town. The denizens of hell will be purged from the bodies of the innocent, and you will be cast into perdition with them.”

Nanny’s groaned and brayed as she shifted, threatening to injure herself.

One of the man’s four eyes flicked to the horse, “be at ease gentle beast, for your master is still with you.”

Nanny calmed and remained still, though there was still a palpable fear in her eyes.

The Shepherd frowned and wagged a finger at the four-eyed man, “I know you. The Apostles have spoken of you before.” He raised his arms in mock reverence and said, “the heaven’s ordained judge of the wicked on earth! A servant of the high and mighty meant to ensure God’s dominion over the earth. You’re no man, you’re just a dog doing its master’s bidding.”

Johnny turned and looked upon the figure who stood next to his father with awe. Could such a man be real? Could he truly be here to stop this?

One of the man’s eyes flicked towards Johnny and the boy recoiled as he had when he examined the coffin earlier. Something sharp and cold stabbed into Johnny’s side as he stepped back, pain shot through his body. Whirling around, Johnny faced Mary with his blood covering her knife.

With blinding, inhuman speed, the four eyed man aimed one of his revolvers at the girl and fired. The air grew thick with the smell of sulfur as Mary erupted into flames, her scream was drowned out by the ear-piercing screech released by the shot. As flesh and sin were melted away, Mary’s blackened skeleton danced in the fire, rejoicing its liberation from evil.

Witnessing the obliteration of Mary’s corrupt and ruined form brought Johnny to the breaking point. The boy fell to his knees as the contents of his stomach spewed onto the ground forming a thick puddle. Johnny had little time to react as the crowd fell upon the trio. A barrage of hellfire and lead was unleashed from the wagon. Bodies in every direction burst into flame while others fell as the rounds fired by Johnny’s father struck their chests. Though Johnny’s father and the Judge made a valiant effort, the pair would soon need to reload whilst the wretched horde had bodies to spare.

Despite his best efforts, Johnny’s body refused to move, even when approached by a man wielding a sickle who had sown the lids of his eyes open. As the man came closer, Johnny could see that his eyes were swollen, bloodshot and that necrosis had begun it grim work of eating away at the tissue.

The soft voice of the Judge rose above the clamor of the battle. “Rise up, young Johnathan and defend yourself.”

Taking the boy by surprise, his body sprung up on its own. What is this? What’s happening? Johnny watched with horror as his arm extended on its own and he aimed the six shooter at his assailants heart Wait, no I don’t want to kill this man. Please, don’t make me! Johnny’s finger pulled the trigger, the crack of the gunpowder igniting filled his ears as he watched the man approaching him recoil, grasp at his chest and fall to the ground.

“Good shooting,” Johnny’s father said.

Johnny whirled, turning to his father, “it wasn’t me! I didn’t kill that man.”

The Judge continued to unleash hellfire upon the corrupted townsfolk only slowing to spin the cylinders of his revolvers which stopped with a sudden click before continuing his attack. “Fear not the actions of thine hand, for they toil in accordance with the Lord’s will.”

“You made me do it,” Johnny winced and clutched the knife wound at his side.

“These are not the people that you once knew, they are now slaves in their own bodies, forced to endure whatever wretched horrors their new masters wish to experience. Death is mercy.”

Before Johnny could respond, the Judge unleashed another volley of flames from his guns upon the crowd that continued to close in on them.

Johnny’s father fired several rounds from his rifle then said, “we need to kill that bastard running this twisted show.”

“Hurry to the saloon, put a bullet in the man’s head and drag his corpse from his den of sin and corruption, I shall attend to this wayward flock.”

Failing to ignore the pain from his wound, Johnny flinched and fell to the dirt before scrambling underneath the wagon to the side facing the saloon. Fighting the numbness in his body, Johnny grasped the wheel of the wagon and pulled himself to his feet.

Another command was uttered from the Judge, “move unhindered and fight with conviction for thou art a child of the most high, these tribulations are nothing before the light of the Lord.”

The pain receded from Johnny’s body and though he was grateful for the relief, the Judge’s ability to have such an effect on his being left an uneasiness in him. While the issue of his wound had been addressed, if only for the moment, a far larger problem remained which hid behind the corrupted townsfolk that stood between Johnny and the saloon. Both Johnny and his father opened fire, they fought with a mechanical efficiency directed by the Judge’s words. Johnny fought with everything he had to keep his mind calm and to avoid disturbing the Judge’s hold over his body.

Johnny repeated a grim mantra in his head Death is mercy. Bang. Death is mercy. Bang. With each shot his resolve wavered and his heart began to ache. He fired his last shot and began to reload. Shells clattered and rang as they hit the ground. As Johnny began to slide fresh rounds into his revolver he caught sight of a familiar pair of green eyes, his mother’s eyes. In truth her eyes were the only familiar feature left, her once beautiful raven hair had been removed - replaced by the thick crusted shell of a scab. Furthermore, her nose and ears had been removed, though the cuts were not clean evident by the chunks of rotting flesh which still clung to the body. The blood in the boy’s veins froze as the spell the Judge had placed over his body shattered. The boy dropped the round he was about to load as pain wracked his body once more. “Ma?”

The rest of the crowd rushed forward, ignoring the boy, Johnny’s mother was all that stood between the pair and their target.

“No! Shoot her,” Johnny’s father raised his rifle to end his wife’s torment.

Caught off guard and without the cover of the Judge, Johnny’s father was grabbed by two of the town’s horde, leaving Johnny alone to face the horror of his mutilated mother.

Johnny’s mother looked to her husband, fighting a desperate battle to reach their son and giggled.

“Ma,” tears began to form in Johnny’s eyes, “Ma what did they do to you?”

With a wicked smile, Johnny’s mother raised a curved knife and said, “I’ll show you sweetheart.”

Johnny recognized the blade; his father had used it when helping the neighbors castrate their stallions. His eyes darted between the blade and his mother, “Ma, you’re not really one of these monsters,” Johnny pleaded.

His mother strode towards him, “come here my little gelding.”

Despite having only loaded three rounds in the weapon, Johnny slammed the cylinder into place and took aim. The boy’s hands shook, “Ma, please, just put down the knife and step aside. I- I’m sure we can find a way to fix you.”

Ignoring the boy, Johnny’s mother continued her approach. Johnny prayed in secret that the Judge or his father would end this hellish moment, but his prayers would not be answered. With his gun pointed towards his mother, Johnny closed his eyes and fired, after a moment, Johnny opened them to find he had missed his target.

Shaking her head, Johnny’s mother said, “naughty boy.”

Johnny fired his second shot, his trembling hands caused him to miss, the bullet left a hole in one of the windows of the saloon.

Taking a controlled breath, Johnny eased his trembling, though it did not stop him from crying. “I’m sorry Ma. I love you.” The tears blurred Johnny’s sight of the twisted figure that was his mother - it was a small act of charity that was granted to the boy. Death is mercy. Bang. The resolve to free his mother from her torment strengthened his grip.

With shock giving in to rage, Johnny’s mother stumbled back and caught herself on the saloon wall. She let out a low, bestial growl then said, “look at what you’ve done. You’ve gone and killed your mother, you little shit.”

Though the voice belonged to his mother, Johnny knew the venom in those words were not of her making. “You’re not my mother.”

His mother grinned, “no, I’m not, but she belongs to me. As death claims this frail body, I will drag her screaming soul down into the depths of hell to be my personal plaything for eternity.”

Gritting his teeth, the boy fought with himself. The words uttered to him were a poison which caused far more pain than Mary’s knife. Johnny was only able to choke out a few quiet words, “shut up.”

“I’ll have no shortage of fantastic horrors for her to experience - she will suffer an eternity of torments thanks to-”

Bang! Bang! Bang! The shots came from Johnny’s right, where his father, battered and bloody, stood.

Johnny whimpered as he stared at his mother. His father grabbed Johnny and turned him away. “Don’t go listening to any of that nonsense, it’s just the words of a sore loser who can’t hurt your mother anymore. Your mother is safe from all this, d’ya hear me?”

Turning of their own will, Johnny’s eyes returned to his mother’s corpse. This involuntary act had earned the boy a sharp smack across the cheek from his father.

Shocked, he stared at the man and opened his mouth to speak, though no words would come to him.

“This business isn’t over yet, load your gun.”

Doing as his father instructed, Johnny loaded the last of his rounds into the revolver. Closing the cylinder, he scanned the street. The townsfolk paid them little mind as the Judge had become their singular focus. The Judge moved in quick, precise movements as he culled the mass of bodies being thrown at him. The man was engaged in a dance of death. Pulling his attention away from the being that stood its ground against the horde, Johnny took one last look of the smoldering skeletons strewn about the ground in the wake of the Judge’s assault, then turned.

Joining his father, Johnny rushed into the saloon. To the pair’s surprise, the interior of the building had been untouched by the horrors of the outside world and had been filled with fine red and gold-trimmed carpets lining the floor, burgundy satin cloth had been draped over the tables and a further collection of the goods stolen the from travelers and merchants coming to Bittergrove were strewn across the room. Furthermore, the burning of incense had cleansed the air some small degree. Standing behind the bar pouring himself a drink was the Shepherd.

“I thought you would never come in.”

The screech of the Judge's revolvers maintained a steady tempo in the background. Not daring to risk being caught off guard Johnny turned to cover the entrance while his father aimed his rifle at the Shepherd.

“Oh, there’s no need to fret over that my boy, the riffraff isn’t allowed to barge in here. One needs some semblance of peace to lead, think of this as my little eye of the storm.”

“Then that means it’ll easy to put a round through your heart,” Johnny’s father shouted.

With a roll of his eyes, the Shepherd said, “a lot of good killing me will do. Thanks to the arrival of that pistol totting freak even if I were to flee I'd be dead man.”

“At least it’ll bring some semblance of justice to this town,” the words slipped through the clenched teeth of Johnny’s father.

Taking a sip from his mug of beer, the Shepherd stared at Johnny’s father, unshaken by the fury in the man’s eyes. “Petty vengeance and aimed at the wrong person to boot,” the Shepherd’s lips curled into a wry grin.

Johnny scowled, “it’s your ‘flock’ you’re just as responsible for this mess as the ones who caused it.”

“To your eyes it may appear to be a mess.”

“And what would you call it?”

Holding his hands out as if to offer some intangible item, the Shepherd said, “the truth of the human spirit. This is what every man, woman, and child desires whether they know it or not.”

“You’re mad.” Johnny’s father spat, leaving a large wad of spittle and phlegm to settle in a coagulated yellow lump on the surface of the carpet beneath his feet.

“Am I?” There was a sly look in the Shepherd’s eye as he left his side of the bar. “Look to the past and you will see the truth that I offer. Mankind is never more honest about its nature than in times of war, you need only look back a few short years to the war that ravaged this land and the people living in it. Neighbor against neighbor, brother against brother. The rape, slaughter and mutilation that was inflicted on countless innocents and enemies alike serve as an undeniable testament.”

“Ours was a terrible war,” Johnny’s father agreed with a solemn nod, “but witnessing the horrors that conflict brings is no excuse to aid in the atrocity committed in this town.”

The Shepherd shook his head, “If only I had just borne witness. It was by the order of our general: ‘rape and plunder, breed and burn or be hanged as a traitor.’ I partook in horrific acts against my fellow man. I was once haunted by the screams; I could scarce even find an hour of sleep for days but now those screams are a lullaby and I’ve never slept better.” For the first time, the Shepherd’s composure shifted as his eyes widened with a manic energy, “don’t you see it is not in the bosom of god that we find peace with the atrocities we commit but rather in the embrace of hell.”

Taken aback, Johnny stared at the robed figure. He has lost his mind. “You’re not a Shepherd, you’re a slave, you bend to the whims of whoever you see holds power.”

There was a subtle glint of rage in the pale man’s dark eyes, “it’s unwise to cast stones, boy; your hypocrisy stinks to high heaven.”

An anger to match the Shepherd’s rose in the young boy. Does he think to judge me? Johnny felt his grip tighten around the handle of his gun. “We’re nothing alike.”

“Oh yes, we are. You accuse me of folding before powers greater than myself. But whether you’re too afraid or too stupid to realize it, you’ve done the same, once when you shot a man dead, again when you fired into a crowd, and finally when you slaughtered your beloved mother to get to me. Now, here you stand, to kill me on the order of something you can scarce understand. The truth is, if I’m a slave, then you are too.”

The man’s words lit a fire in Johnny’s skull, his heart pounded in his chest. The boy raised his six-shooter and fired. The Shepherd recoiled as the shot entered his chest, a smug, satisfied look painted across his face - a silent gesture of victory over the young boy. Johnny fired again and again, stepping closer to his target with each bullet that was sent hurtling into the man. As the Shepherd hit the wall and slumped to the ground, Johnny closed in, continuing to pull the trigger even after all the rounds had been discharged, filling the air with impotent clicks. Johnny screamed.

Johnny felt his father grab his shoulder and pull him into a tight embrace. Letting the gun fall from his hand, Johnny wrapped his arms around his father and wept.