Chapter 7
943 Words
Part 2- The Haunted Prairie
By the time they saw the settlement, the sky had gone a deep bruised purple, the color of a storm that hadn’t made up its mind whether to fall or flee. Lanterns flickered along the ridge—tiny flames fighting the dark like stubborn old souls.
Rudy exhaled shakily. “A town. Thank God. A real town.”
“It ain’t real if it’s still breathin’,” she muttered.
The settlement—Red Hollow—barely qualified as a town.
A handful of buildings huddled together like drunks tryin’ to stay warm. A church with a busted steeple. A stable. A saloon. And at the far end…
A workshop glowing like a furnace.
Metal.
Sparks.
The iron heartbeat of a frontier gunsmith.
Rudy perked up. “Should we—should we talk to the sheriff first?”
“There ain’t no sheriff,” she said.
“How do you know that?”
“Places with sheriffs don’t smell like fear.”
Boot prints appeared beside her horse—deep, decisive.
Her shadow was excited.
That wasn’t good.
They rode in slow.
Every door cracked.
Every curtain trembled.
Every face that peeked out looked like it wanted forgiveness it hadn’t earned.
Red Hollow was scared.
Not of her.
Of something else.
When they reached the gunsmith’s shop, a hammer struck metal so hard the entire frame shuddered.
She dismounted.
Rudy stayed right where he was. “Uh… should I wait outside?”
“Yes.”
He didn’t argue.
She pushed open the workshop door.
Heat washed over her—thick, metallic, fragrant with gun oil and molten iron. The forge flames painted the room in violent gold. Tools hung in neat rows—saws, hammers, strange long-handled tongs.
And bent over an anvil, sparks flying around her like angry fireflies, worked a woman.
Tall. Wiry. Sleeves rolled up. Skin browned by sun and soot. Hair coiled at the nape of her neck. Eyes sharp as cut citrine.
She didn’t look up.
“You trackin’ through my town with that thing at your back,” the woman said, hammering, “or is it trackin’ you?”
The hammer froze mid-swing.
The woman lifted her gaze and leveled it directly at the shadow behind the visitor’s shoulder.
Most people couldn’t see it.
She saw it immediately.
That alone made her dangerous.
“Depends on the hour,” the tracker replied calmly.
The gunsmith smirked. “Fair enough. Name’s Marlowe. Don’t shake hands—I burn too hot.”
“You know what that is?” the tracker asked.
Marlowe shrugged. “Know enough to stay out of its way. Most spirits don’t bother me. They know better.”
The tracker raised a brow. “You ain’t scared.”
“Of that?”
She nodded at the shadow.
“No.”
Marlowe stepped closer to examine her visitor’s revolver—quick, practiced eyes assessing the steel, the barrel life, the wear marks.
“You keep that iron clean,” she noted, “but it ain’t made for what you’re huntin’.”
“I noticed.”
“You lookin’ for the Shepherd?”
Her jaw ticked. “I am.”
Marlowe’s voice softened—just barely.
“He took someone from here. Or took what was left of him.”
Her breath hitched. “Your husband?”
“Used to be.”
The hammer clenched in Marlowe’s fist trembled.
“Preacher revived him wrong. Sent him back here like a broken dog. Hurt folks before I could put him down.” She wiped an arm across her face, smearing soot. “Still hear him at night. Screamin’ like he was burnin’ from the inside.”
The tracker nodded once.
Respect.
Recognition.
Grief that had its boots on.
“I’ll kill him,” the tracker said.
Marlowe studied her a long moment.
Then: “No. You’ll try. But if you’re gonna make it past Drywater Gorge with your skin, you need a gun built for hell.”
She moved to a locked chest and opened it.
Inside lay a revolver unlike anything she’d ever seen—steel blackened on purpose, cylinder reinforced, barrel etched with symbols older than scripture.
“Prototype,” Marlowe said. “Iron, silver, bone powder in the welds. Kicks like a mule. Bites like a nightmare.”
The tracker lifted it.
It hummed.
Her shadow recoiled—not afraid, but wary.
Like a predator meeting another predator.
Marlowe chuckled darkly. “See? Even your pet knows better.”
“It ain’t my pet.”
Marlowe stepped close, voice lowering into something not quite human.
“Then don’t let it become your master. Shadows with teeth tend to choose their riders.”
The tracker holstered the weapon.
Perfect weight.
Perfect promise.
“How much?” she asked.
“For you?”
Marlowe shrugged.
“Consider it a gift. Woman riding with a devil is the only one likely to kill the bastard.”
She nodded.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Marlowe said.
“You ain’t seen what he’s building in that canyon.”
“What is he building?”
Marlowe exhaled slowly, like letting out a secret she’d held too long.
“A doorway.”
The tracker felt her stomach twist.
“To what?”
“To whatever answers when he prays,” Marlowe whispered.
“And honey—whatever he’s prayin’ to—ain’t listenin’ from heaven.”
The shadow behind the tracker rippled—once, sharply.
Marlowe’s eyes narrowed.
“It’s afraid.”
“Of the Shepherd?” the tracker asked.
“No,” Marlowe said.
“Of whatever waits behind him.”
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