• [Setting - 1890s Texas]
    [The language warning is for some swearing and racist language]

    The hot, dry July air pierced the town of Sholen, Texas with occasional dusty wind. People outside, drinking their chilled Degen brew, found themselves constantly enticed and teased by the sweet and hearty smells of koláče and klobása baking in Isador Lev's shop. One could always tell an out-of-towner in these parts, no matter what the season, thanks to the dusty wind - one purchasing himself a black suit for the Sunday meetin' would walk outside to the Blessed Sacrament parish, a mere ten paces from Samuel Yasek's cloth shop, and find himself wearing all gray for church. Locals found their main shelter, other than the gothic structure that was Blessed Sacrament, to be the Sunday Saloon owned by Dan Phillips, still bearing its storm-broken sign that was once a sign of the owner's sense of humor. Now and then, a "jak se máš" or "jak se máte" would be heard, betraying the Czech heritage of Sholen, but other than that, it was rather quiet. Usually.

    Sholen itself only had a few buildings. General store with its wares and goods. Tailor, tannery and saddlery Hotel with eight rooms for guests who were few and far between. The Sunday with the best whiskey west of Tennessee and local brews. The livery stable with its normal $3 fee. Barber with an available bath: heated water extra. The church, of course, was the grandest edifice of Sholen, standing out against the drab wooden buildings which were painted with the hands of men and aged by the hands of a god. The owners of the local business lived in their shops (if they had spare rooms – if not, they built one outside the shop); the priest lived in the rectory attached to the church; everyone else lived within 5 miles of town on their own homestead, though the ranch house might be only a lean-to built onto the barn. The local livestock would be taken to the trains and butchers in San Antonio, of all market towns the closest – though not by much.

    Bar fights now and then among out-of-towners and locals alike were the only major sources of entertainment save for a party or social at one of the barns. Sometimes the Bishop himself would visit, if only to induct more lost souls through Baptism, Eucharist and Confirmation. Otherwise, Sholen was calm. Again, usually.

    There was one citizen whom the townsfolk of Sholen tried to hide from most visitors, even the Bishop himself, even though in his sermons he made quite obvious references to "he who spreads sin and death amongst us with his ways." Not many liked this strange man, but they knew of him as a protector of the town — a savior without the messianic (or any sort of saving) qualities. A man of the gun and the knife who knew his way with murder as if he was blessed by God with God's own fury. Many out-of-towners didn't know of the man, but those who did rarely got anything out of him other than a string of swears or a bullet, if they were eager enough for an early death. But for those who were granted his assistance, many would agree that the employer was better off selling his soul to the Devil himself for the salvation of another.

    No matter how the townsfolk tried to hide the man, visitors seeking death kept coming.

    The hotel owner, Micah Donnel, saw two men, as different as Pharisee and tax collector in appearance and attitude, come to his hotel on the same day, a few hours apart. The “Pharisee,” who registered as Samuel Coleson, once of Coleson & Davis Co., arrived in the morning in a coach, ordering that his horses be boarded and his items taken to the second floor … so much for such a small purpose which would only take a few hours to fulfill or fail. His outward appearance consisted of a newly-grayed suit with matching boots and a cane with a polished gold head. Both his luggage and outfit revealed how much he was willing to sacrifice or brag for, short of his life. He told Micah he would spend a few days in town, see what was in store. Micah knew otherwise, as did Dan and the rest of the natives of Sholen; no man came to town except to see “him.” Coleson was under the strangest belief that $50,000, vast sum though it was, would be the only requirement to persuade a person in this town and twice that to persuade “him.”

    The “tax collector,” an apparent drifter with such a scruff, torn and worn appearance and such numerous battle scars upon his face (battles lost more often than not, considering the barely healed damage evincing a broken and ripped nose, torn cheek and cut eye socket, among many others) had shown up on a mule a few hours later, going first to the stables to let the beast be fed and watered after an obviously long trek – what’d take a coach 2 days, he rode for 5. His next stop was Dan’s bar for his own food and drink (not water). The scars, combined with his raven, unkempt hair, stubble neglected for days, sarape, canvas vest over a thin gray undershirt, black denim pants, black slightly decorated shoes and plain brown hat, all of comparable neglect and wear, showed rough aging. His holstered weapon at his side, a Single Action Army that looked government-issue, showed an identical amount of forced aging, if not worse. Dan seemed to take pity, but stop short of doing so. He only kept pouring the drinks. The drifter, who registered later at the hotel as Jim Lazar (an obvious alias, but Micah didn’t care so long as his customers paid…), would pay day by day, all of his belongings in a tooled leather pouch decorated with nothing but a typical, minimal Spanish ornament. Dan couldn’t help but think that Jim’s scars looked familiar. He brushed off the notion and kept pouring, still carrying a hint of pity.

    Both the drifter and the magnate knew that the man who was referred to often as the 11:13 holed himself up in one of the upper rooms of the Sunday. A strange nickname for a mercenary. Many speculated he killed precisely at 11:13, whether evening or morning. Others assumed he was born on November 13 or at 11:13 and that his birth killed his mother. Some thought he was named for the 11:13 stage - the one that took criminals on a capital charge to the hanging judge’s court in San Antonio. No one quite understood why or how, but the mention of these numbers inexplicably sent epileptic chills down the spine of any god-fearing child of man or beast. The only thing they did know was this - reputation was the only advertisement this man of death had, or needed.

    Three days later, both Coleson and Lazar went into the Sunday, ready to seek the mercenary’s audience. Coleson asked for a beer, a bottle and a glass. Lazar asked only for the bottle. While Lazar kept looking down, deep in concentration, Coleson looked about this foreign bar and noticed it was lightly riddled … Shot, perhaps. Barely noticeable splintering of wood now if closely inspected, but easy to miss. No blood to prove violence except on two floorboards, the stain dried and embedded into the wood. The saloon ranked of whiskey and desperation.

    Dan saw the looks on their faces, Coleson’s eyes looking for a staircase but head not moving, and knew who they sought. He could only give his usual response: "He won't see you."

    The rich man glared at Dan for a moment and laughed, as if trying to ease the tension of the room. A dark, guttural laugh that betrayed many years of sloth and greed. "Sir, if the so-called ‘leven-thirteen refuses me after what I offer him, he will be shaming himself to the grave." He drank his beer and smiled, as if knowing already he would have his offer accepted. Jim only kept drinking suddenly remembering that he owed Dan ninety cents, almost accidentally gave the barkeeper a reb nickel in his quickly-gained stupor. He knew he'd have to be drunk just to ask the man what time it was. Dan only replied again, "He won't see you. Don't think he'll be swayed by money, my good man."

    Coleson's good mood quickly soured and his voice reached an equal tone, which scratched on the ears of the other customers who were trying to enjoy some of Kosmas Ericson's bock. He pulled out a SAA from what seemed to be nowhere and aimed it right at Dan's head. "You tell me where he is or all that liquor will be stained by your brains." Jim didn't stir one bit, still drinking from the bottle and feeling the courage course through him. The bottle finished, he didn't ask for another and started to quickly sober up. The headache moved in quick, but the stress of the wait was gone. So was the rich man, who apparently had found the staircase and gone up to approach the one called 11:13.

    The rich man's rage transformed rather quickly into a falsely genteel air – a skill developed in his years as the owner of a mine that only recently dried up after twenty years - as he walked the stairs up to the second floor of the Sunday. He hid the pistol back in its shoulder holster under his single-breasted jacket and opened the solid wooden door adorned only by a sign that was in a language strange to him; the locals knew the sign translated from Czech to English as "All hope abandon, ye who enter here."

    The first thing to meet his sight was a small, crudely-constructed desk made of what appeared to be maple and weathered pine. Off to the side of the desk, a coat rack topped with a black hat and draped in a lone white duster, permanently scarred and stained with blood, dust and tears. On the desk itself rested a bowie knife about a foot long and a ledger with bookkeeping numbers. The man heard a click and “What the hell do you want?” from his left. Instinct identified the click as a hammer being pulled back. He jerked his head to the left and beheld a man with exceedingly salt-white hair, clothed in black shirt, black pants, black belt and brown shoes, bearing the infamous x-shaped scar and black-tinted spectacles on his face. Behind the glasses glared eyes of blue betraying a destroyed sense of innocence. In his hand a Colt Navy, pointed right at the intruder. He was sitting up on his bed and staring angrily at the man he knew would offer money for his renowned services.

    “M-m-my name is Samuel Coleson. I ran the Coleson & Davis Co. until resources ran dry and I was wondering if-” He cut himself off when he saw the mercenary wave his pistol towards the door as if motioning for him to leave or be shot. His rage grew and concealed itself once more, but not in his voice. “Sir, let me tell you that I will pay handsomely for your services-” The mercenary interrupted, “Git out.” Coleson’s anger finally became visible instead of audible. “You have no idea what kind of offer you are declining.” The mercenary only held his pistol steady and mocked listening to Coleson, inwardly guessing by his accent he was from the Appalachians. “’Now listen here, you sumbitch. I’m offering $50,000 for a single job.” The mercenary, cool and still aiming between the eyes, only stated, “I don wan no damn job, slick. I sed git out and I MEANT git out.” Coleson’s anger turned into pure fury. “You are a gun for hire! I can pay you to kill just about anywAAAAAAAAAA-” interrupted by a slug penetrating his left shoulder and the sound of a gunshot penetrating his ears. Coleson fell to the floor, on his knees, doubled over in shock and pain. The mercenary got out of his bed, walked to the kneeling and wincing Coleson who was cupping his wound in disbelief, and pointed the hot chamber of the pistol to Coleson’s forehead. “No … I don’t kill just about anywun. I kill those who are worth the bullet. Now get the ******** out before I waste another bullet on you.” The mercenary turned his head to the left and spit. “I kill justly, not mercilessly.”

    Coleson was more than angry. He could only feel a rage more powerful than his pain, ready and willing to scream at the mercenary. “YOU ********!!!!” His scream could be heard all the way to the church. “I have enough money to make you kill anyone I ask! Why the hell don’t you want my money?” He tried to stand and after some stumbling succeeded. Jim stood up from the bar and ascended the stairs little by little, pausing to hear more from the mercenary, if not another gunshot. He felt that he and the mercenary had something in common – something savage and precise. Jim continued to ascend and opened the door to see Coleson bark at someone (he assumed the mercenary). He saw the pistol tracking Coleson’s head as the injured man stood as tall as he could, still grabbing at his wound.

    Coleson’s angry tone grew more Appalachian and raw. “I can give you more money. $100,000! You name the price! The injuns and niggers I hired are trying to demand more money and land for their families. I can’t just give out my money to undeservin’ coloreds who spent their wages on drink an-”

    He wasn’t able to get out another word. The mercenary put a shot through Coleson’s head. Jim got a profile of the spray of bullet, bone, brain and blood as Coleson fell backward, his right arm dropping as he fell. He felt, even though experience told him otherwise, that such a sight was new and exciting, every time – the moment of death.

    A few moments of calm. Heavy breathing from the mercenary, pained and angry, as if regretting the kill. Jim stayed outside the room. The mercenary called from the room. “Quit standing there and show yerself.” Jim started to walk in and saw the pale mercenary for the first time, mentally expecting this appearance and not surprised in the end. He saw a man of pale demeanor, rough soul and smoking gun just standing there, his sapphire eyes communicating regret. The mercenary continued; “Sorry you had to see that.” Jim finally spoke up for himself: “Doesn’t seem like a wasted bullet. b*****d was going to waste that money so you can kill a bunch of innocent niggers?” The mercenary walked to his desk and sat, cleaning his gun and reloading the cylinder’s two empty chambers. “Sounded like it.” A depressed sigh came from the mercenary – disappointed. “People just want to kill to get back on top.” Jim laughed, as if knowing. “You’re telling me. By the way,” putting out his hand for a shake, “the name’s Jim Lazar.” The mercenary smiled, knowing he’d give the same kind of obvious alias as Jim did. “Asher Davidson,” he plainly stated while holstering his newly-cleaned and reloaded revolver. “What’s with the face?”

    Jim laughed hard and shook his head. “You have no idea how many people ask that kind of question …” Asher interrupted, “None?” Jim laughed harder. “Yup. Too many afraid to ask how I got the scars.” The two shared a knowing silence of experience and understanding. “I need help with a few bandits out at San Nombre. They keep raiding the town and I think someone in the town is encurijin’ the attacks.” Asher resumed cleaning while listening. He simply asked “how many?” Jim’s quick response of “SEVEN” shocked the mercenary. “Don’t have to be so serious … They do something to ya?” Jim didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Asher remembered the scars and understood why Jim was so angry. He knew to keep back and spoke calmly, though a worried tone seeped into his words. “You’re scaring me worse than the drunk whore who got hold of a shotgun and shot up the bar downstairs … Calm down.” Jim only paced the room, looking angry but … Asher figured it wasn’t directed towards him. Just a raw anger. Jim spoke simply. “Will you help me?” His voice was rough, raw … natural for a killer. Asher could only respond a simple, confident yes.