Blood of the Lamb

by Stephen Cote

believe you to represent.” He rotated the pistol to draw Cain’s attention to the barrel. “The only belief you need concern yourself with is whether or not I am capable of killing you.”

  Cain said, “You said you couldn’t kill me.” Could he pull his pistol and shoot the Marshall before the Marshall shot him? His previously failed attempt still burned in memory.

  “I think you need to see it.” Then, the Marshall pulled the trigger. The hammer fell. The cartridge ignited. The pistol fired inches from Cain’s forehead.

  Cain covered his face with his hands and moved away from the muzzle. But he was too late, and death lurked moments in his future. Except there came no pain or other feeling except hot gas expelled across his face. He rubbed sulfuric smoke from his eyes and gazed into the smoking pistol barrel.

  The Marshall fired at one of the buildings. Wood splintered and the sound of gunfire rang throughout the town of Liberty. “I was permitted to pull this trigger, but I am not permitted to kill you, Cain. No one is.”

  “Why not?”

  “Jesus! Read your Bible, for Christ’s sake!” The Marshall swore, apparently unconcerned with incurring the ire of the very deities he claimed to believe in. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you what it is like to try?”

  “John Bear,” Cain admitted. “He said it was like a wind that forces you to look away.”

  The Marshall said, “It is no wind, but the wrath of God coming down from Heaven! And such force is more terrible than the fear of any individual. It is one of the oldest and one of the only intractable pacts God made. Actually,” he raised his pistol again and held in Cain’s direction. “It must be a rather significant annoyance to Him to have his wrath evoked every time someone tries.”

  “You seem to take disrespectful pleasure doing so.”

  “I said I believed,” The Marshall said, “I didn’t say I was his agent.”

  “Then,” Cain started but was cut off when the Marshall shook his head.

  “It’s not so black and white that if I am not in league with good that I must be in league with evil. My purpose in such chaos is less distinct than your own. My presence isn’t noteworthy or mentioned at all in any surviving texts.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  The Marshall spread his arms wide and moved his hands to indicate the entire town. “All of this. You were far too comfortable and ineffective living with those Indians. Your role, believe it or not, is one of chaos, disorder, and destruction. I was to bring you here and, with a few well-placed rumors, your reputation preceded you. Especially after the business with the soldiers and the spurs, only the foolish waited for you to show up. Liberty is dead, and you killed it. The townsfolk lay dead around you, the survivors struggling towards some other hospice. Most of them won’t make it in this weather. The women and children will collapse, the beasts will falter, and men will expel their last breaths.”

  The Marshall looked around the town, seeming pleased with what he saw.

  Cain looked in the same direction. He saw nothing but an empty town and snow-covered ground. “I told you I had nothing to do with any soldiers.”

  “You don’t remember events that transpired so recently?”

  “Cain,” he said and pointed at his forehead. “The moment you fell from grace, you forgot there was a higher existence attainable by leading a noble life.” His voice became more like a preacher’s when he said, “Love thy neighbor. Can you conceive of how hard that is? How many people feign love and friendship but have no actual belief or concept in what they profess to offer? They lie to themselves and think that is noble.”

  “You don’t think I genuinely love Genevieve? Or Savannah?”

  “The gun fighter claims to love his neighbor prior to drawing his gun?” The Marshall grinned. “The only faculty most people possess, including you, is the ability to lie to themselves.”

  Cain refused to believe such rubbish. “I may have trouble remembering some events, but I remember that I loved Genevieve and Savannah.”

  “Cain,” The Marshall said, “The very wrath of God is in your wake, and both Savannah and Genevieve, and might I add it strange that you claim to love two whores and equate the act of copulation with love, both of them could see it. And, deep down, they knew they couldn’t be around you.”

  Cain picked up his pistols from the snowy ground, tucked them in his belt. “You never told me why you are here.” He held up his hand when the Marshall started to answer. “I mean why are you telling me this if I will only forget it?” He paused, furrowing his brow. “I cannot deny that it is strange I didn’t kill you, or you I. Nor can I deny that I really am not sure where I have been since my mind is not always clear. What I don’t understand is why you are explaining this to me.”

  “Because I want you to stay in Liberty. Where would you go from here? You can’t return to your Indian friends since you didn’t finish what you set out to do. You never started. Most of the town is dead because you rode in. You can’t return to Genevieve, and I think we covered why not. You really have nowhere else to go.” The Marshall looked around at the town. “Not bad. You might even get some company in a few months.”

  “You want me to stay? Why would I do that?” Cain asked, perturbed that this man would suggest he take lodging in a deserted town for no particular reason.

  “If you leave now, you will find no sanctuary. Everywhere you travel through this land invites God’s wrath in your wake. Your Indian friends will lose their lands and lives to the settlers and soldiers. If you stay here, it may be different.” A slight smile crossed the Marshall’s lips.

  “You set this up,” Cain said. “I still don’t believe that I killed those soldiers, or any of your banter about me being incapable of love. Whore or not, I love Genevieve. You may know what we said; you could have sent someone to spy on us. But you don’t know what I think or who I love, so don’t presume otherwise.”

  The Marshall shrugged but held his tongue when Cain raised his hand.

  “I have another choice.” Cain removed his pistols from his belt and dropped them onto the ground, and then spilled the extra cartridges. “I may have done questionable things in my life, but I am not the source of every wrong committed in this world. To suggest I am responsible for so much hate in evil – I won’t believe that. “

  Cain shook his head and backed away from the Marshall, moving towards Mescaline.

  “Cain, did you not believe me when I told you that the townsfolk were dead?”

  Cain continued to back away. “I’m not sure I believe anything that has transpired here, certainly not the words you speak.”

  “Even Thomas believed what he saw.” The Marshall took several steps towards a building adorned with signage identifying it as a mercantile. He crouched, clutched a handful of snow, and he held the snow up and asked, “Do you not see the death you have wrought?”

  “Snow,” Cain said. “What I don’t see are innuendos and metaphors.” He stopped backing away and grew exasperated. “A bunch of snow isn’t anything more than snow.”

  The Marshall’s expression changed and he brushed his fingers through the flakes of snow in his hand. “Cain,” he said, “This is the blood you have spilled.”

  Cain kicked the ground with his left foot, then bent and snatched a handful of snow in his right and threw the loosely packed snow at the Marshall. “It’s snow! There ain’t nothin’ in this town but you, me, and snow.”

  Cain continued to back away.

  “No, Cain,” The Marshall said. “You would deny your accomplishment?” He brushed his hand on his trouser leg, clearing the snow from his palm, then held his hand up. “This isn’t snow. It is the blood of innocence seeping into the ground. The blood of your sacrificial lamb.”

  When the Marshall started to walk towards Cain, he continued to back away but allowed the Marshall to close the distance. When he was within reach, the Marshall extended his snow-flecked glove and touched
Cain’s bare hand.

  Cain pulled away.

  “The blood you spilled is on your hand.” The Marshall looked from Cain to the town. “What a waste that you will not acknowledge your efforts. You have changed since the last time we met.”

  “I don’t know you,” Cain seethed and turned away. He walked briskly to Mescaline, mounted him, and guided the horse away from the Marshall. Mescaline cantered away from the Marshall, and away from Liberty.

  The Marshall called, “How can God accept this sacrifice? You’ve slaughtered your lamb. Will you not look?”

  But Cain ignored him. He wasn’t sure who The Marshall was, or what The Marshall sought to accomplish, but the man’s words started to have an effect. He imagined crimson tinged the snow. He could see red earth, and the townsfolk laid out in morbid repose. Cain refused to believe such insane words and thoughts.

  Riding out of Liberty and in pursuit of Genevieve, Cain noticed a dark red smear on his hand where the Marshall touched him. He looked at both hands but didn’t see a cut. He told himself it was only dirt, and coaxed Mescaline onwards.