The Town Of Lacking

A Sanguine Thomas Tale

“You have to pay for killing that girl.” the obsidian shadow said in the darkness of the cave. Holding up a shotgun whose barrel gleamed in the failing light of the lantern. 

Joseph Barkes looked to his right and left looking at his decimated friends and comrades in his flight, laid out dead at either side. Trying to hold back the tears and the blood pouring from his arm from the buckshot load that shredded into his shooting arm. 

“Mercy, please if you're the Christian sort you’d spare my life.” 

“Christian? You call upon God’s mercy to protect yourself after what you have done?” 

“I didn’t—” 

“Shut up!” The shadow’s sharp tone ended all debate. “Sometimes we have to pay with the only thing we have left that is worth a damn.” yellow eyes gleamed from the darkness. “Say your prayers Christian boy, you won’t get another chance.” The shadow looked at the pitiful Joseph Barkes, his eyes turned defiant, as if he was sneering at the idea of admitting his wrong. “You claim God’s mercy, yet you dare not ask for his forgiveness—” the shadow shook his head in pity, “—you could’ve died in the grave of repentance…now you die, only to awake in fire.” 

Before there were anymore tears, or cries for mercy the cave thundered with the sound of a shotgun blast. 

***

Grand Central Station in a budding metropolis called Haven Square, where the trains have stalled because of snow, and citizens are booking carriages to carry them to safer territories during the winter. Fortunately the Red Man in those parts seemed pacified by the cold, and left the white folk alone, war parties are things for summer or spring, and nothing spooked a soul in the American frontier more than the rumors of a warpath, even more so one that happens by surprise. 

What spoked the people of Haven Square nowadays was a murder, a murder of the Coltastle girl, the richest and most influential family in the territory, they had more governors at their manor than the president. Whatever they wanted they paid for with cash or blood, though the blood usually came from others. 

Hershel Coltastle was seated on a carriage waiting, waiting for the gun he hired to bring him the killers of his little girl, Harriet Coltastle, the pride of his loins. Along with him was his eldest son, Cassidy Coltastle, whose arm was still in a sling from the robbery that left his arm mutilated and his sister dead. 

Head cracked right open with the butt of rifle, she died simply for standing in their way, not to stop them, but much like a fawn looking at the barrel of a hunter’s rifle, she was scared, innocent, and was the greatest loss to the Coltastle household. The safe they kept their monthly earnings in was easily replaceable, in fact the robbers dropped it in their escape, but a death must be paid in death. 

No one knew who committed the atrocious act, but they know they traveled south, hoping to hop the border. No one in the region could track them, so the patriarch Coltastle paid out a bounty of the three murderous thieves, three thousand dollars, to any man to bring them in—dead. 

Months passed and the gunfighters and trackers who answered failed to find them, all they could say was, “they haven’t reached the border, must be hiding in the caves or hills, but it is too dense to find them.” 

Dismissing them with not even a cent for their trouble, Herschel only awarded those who gave him what he wanted, and he wanted those men dead, no matter who they turned out to be; their identities remained a mystery but they would be known for their matching red jackets, a sort of uniform for their would be outlaw gang. 

“I tell you Cassidy, if before Christmas those men aren’t dead, I’ll burn every square inch of this county.” Herschel spit a wad of suckled up bile from his guts, as he was calling forth all his vile energies in his desire to see his daughter avenged. 

Cassidy, being a humbler soul because of his mother’s biblical teachings, didn't see his father’s quest for justice as anything less than wanting bloodlust. “Pa, you shouldn’t be too eager for death, mother says that—'' he was cut off by his father spitting out a mouthful of bile into the snow, staining it with his hatred. 

“Your mother would rather see those three go free rather than even give them a good tanning, she has been polluted by those new religious types, preaching mercy above the old testament. Remember this boy, if you are a scholar of the good book as you claim, ‘The Lord loves righteousness and justice; the earth is full of his unfailing love.’” 

Cassidy had no the spirit to challenge his father, but a verse came to mind that he dared not voice aloud. ‘Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven.’

Just then there was a howling, not from a coyote or dog, but horses, wild stallions, two as black as coal, heralding a streak of flame down the cobblestone road. Wheel less, the wagon that they pulled scraped against the stone, causing a flare of sparks and momentary flame that melted the snow and left scorch marks where it was dragged across. 

Smells of heated rock was similar to that of brimstone, and made the citizenry cower away, fearful of being trampled by the wild steeds, or smashed into by the pitch black carriage, driven by a madman dressed in black, with a hunched back and the look of a demon plagued with yellow fever. 

Cackling as he whipped his beasts into a frenzy of moment, he kept cracking the air till he got sight of the station, then heaved on the reins with all his might, his strength pulling back the necks of his stallions who slowed then stopped. Smoke came off the carriage axles as they flared red from the heat. 

The sheriff who watched this display came forward to give the hunchback a citation for reckless driving, but when he saw those demented yellow eyes he backed off, fearful that what he saw was a demon. Standing back as a crowd formed, the Sheriff became an observer as were most of the town, looking on, wondering what was happening. 

“Sanguine?!” Hershel Coltastle spat out as he was surprised. “Did you find them!?” eagerly he jumped from the carriage and went to the hunchback wondering if this latest gunfighter would claim his bounty. 

Smiling a terrible reddish grin, the ghoulish gunfighter said nothing, as he opened his carriage, and with great strength heaved out a body. 

Hershel’s eyes lit up as if he was a child awaiting a birthday present. “You have them!” He laughed uncontrollably as he saw the hunchback pull three bodies from his wagon, all wearing black hoods to conceal their identities, but all of them wore those unique red goats, unique to the robbers who murdered the Coltastle girl. 

Lining them up on the roof of his carriage, he made sure their heads slung over the side, everyone looked on in amazement. They heard of the thieves, and their unique red coats, made of fine leather, shining from polish and care, were embroidered as if they were part of a rodeo show. 

No doubt these were the three guys who did the killing, but some of the women started to whisper, and word got around of how, small the thieves were, quite small, in fact young, too young to be hanged, in fact the tallest of them looked not even old enough to shave the whiskers off his chin. 

“Joseph!” cried the shrill voice of a woman who started to weep as if the dead sea was leaking from her eyes. “Those are his boots!” She grabbed hold of the man-sized boots that were too big for a boy to wear. “These were his pa’s, he wore them after he died, oh Lord no!” as she removed the boots and started to weep into their worn leather. 

“Take off the hoods!” demanded a voice from the crowd, soon joined by other angry voices demanded the identity of the thieves revealed. 

Hershel, suddenly shy about his glorious vengeance achieved was quickly seeing he was out gunned, having only his son by his side, whose free hand was already gripping his gun. 

“Thomas,” he spoke quietly to the gunfighter, “I’ve got your money, maybe take the bodies back to my place, and we’ll consider our business done.” 

“Why that isn’t what you paid for Hershel!” cried out the hunchback whose wild eyes and blood slick grin terrified even the man who hired him, “you paid me to display them in town, so everyone would know what would happen to anyone who crosses the Coltastle’s!” speaking loud enough all could hear, Sanguine Thomas before Hershel could say another word ripped off the hoods and showed everyone the identities of the thieves. 

Joseph Barkes, age twelve. Carl Tuck, age ten. And Fred Robberts, age nine. None of them was at the age any respectable town would hang a killer. 

“Merciful heavens!” was the first word spoken after a long silence. 

“What the hell Hershel! You paid a man to kill children!” 

Dumbstruck Hershel Coltastle couldn’t utter a word in defense, he had no idea the age or identity of his daughter’s killers, and he couldn’t imagine it was boys, boys from poor households who desperately could’ve used money. Everyone around the station, cussed, and screamed at the gruesome display of homicidal vengeance. 

“They were so young!”

“They needed the money!”

“That could’ve been my kid!” 

The townspeople of Square Haven were kicking themselves into an uproar, and the sheriff was cringing behind the crowd, not wanting to stand between the tightening ring of bloodthirsty crowd, and the Coltastles. Decades of supremacy and lording over them had heated up to a boiling point, a point that erupted in a gunshot, KA-BOOM!

A raised shotgun sent vapors into the air, as a blast of buckshot’s shot towards the heavens, the hunchback Sanguine Thomas held the shotgun which was now pointed out into the crowd. Silence came then, as eyes darted about, estimating what was gonna happen. Did anyone dare pull their guns out?

Many of the women lost heart and left, leaving only the stubborn females and those mourning their sons who they thought missing but whose corpses are now on display. Some men left, and those that stayed formed a perimeter. They were tired of this tyranny and intended to end it, motivated by the loss of three of the town’s young. 

Barnaby Gibbs, the self-proclaimed leader of this mob took point as leader of the host, and stepped forward, his arm poised to draw his pistol. 

“Gunfighter.” he spoke the words as if addressing a black knight would happen upon the road. “This isn’t your concern, you can leave, while you can.”

The red stained smile turned downward, as a scowl formed on the yellow face. “Not without my pay.” 

“Your pay will go to the mother’s who lost their children.” Barnaby said, confident that he can relinquish the other’s reward as if he had the political power of a senator. 

“My work, my pay.” Thomas didn’t budge, and his shotgun was already out, with one shot left. 

Barnaby looked to his flanks trying to tell the men with his eyes to pull out their guns. They would blast the wagon if given the chance, which Sanguine wasn’t going to give them, KA-BOOM! The stomach of Barnaby lay on the ground behind him, as his abdomen was shredded apart by the powerful weapon, overloaded with gunpowder and overstocked with buckshot’s, to the point of it almost blowing up in his hands. 

Then he drew a six shot revolver from his hip holster, under his long, black cloak. Pointed it at the man who nearly drew his weapon, the yellow eye’s of the gunfighter spoke of only certain death. Swallowing a lump of cowardice in his throat, the man put his gun back in his holstered and back stepped into the crowd. 

“You all make me sick, even the women!” He spat his anger towards the widow of Joseph Barkes, who went around the wagon to join in the mob. “You all allow resentment and fear to fester in you like it's the blood of Christ. If you put that effort into raising your young they wouldn’t have to pay a man’s price for their sins. They murdered a girl, they took part in a robbery that ended the life of a child much younger than them, and crippled her brother just for fun. Where was your righteous anger then? Should the rich and powerful pay a price for asking for the same justice you would’ve wanted, or is it envy that you can’t?” His words cut deep and he saw them back away, and many of the men walked away to hide in saloons or to continue their business. “Even your sheriff hides behind a mob—” he pointed his gun accusingly at the sheriff who all eyes saw hiding behind a thinning crowd, which now parted to reveal his cowardice. “—let this be known, a man cannot stand on any principle that doesn’t recognize the evils of necessity, and necessity comes from anything that lacks.” He gave everyone there a hard look, his eyes permanently branded in their minds to be recalled in nightmares yet to come. “And this whole town lacks.” 

From then on, even though the town sign says ‘Welcome to Haven Square.’ a piece of graffiti written on there, or a tourists passing comment would label the town ‘Lacking.’ A name that would haunt it even till its death, as the railroad decades later would be diverted, killing the community, condemning it to slowly decay by time. 

The crowd out of shame dispersed, the mortician claimed the bodies and prepared their funerals, followed by the mothers of the dead boys. Hershel Coltastle paid his gunfighter, and sent money to the families of the boys, paying for their funeral. Many believed Joseph Barkes mother would resist such an offer, but she didn’t get a chance to, as that night she hung herself, leaving no note, or surviving relatives; she was buried neck to Joseph whose graves are now buried by the elements, forgotten as the years passed. 

After that day Hershel Coltastle retreated to his manor where he languished in guilt, drinking himself into an early grave. Inheriting his wealth, Cassidy and his other sons divided the estate and split to the different corners of the United States, to seek their own legacy, leaving the shame of their father’s bloodlust behind. Cassidy took his mother with him, who died of illness many years later. 

The sheriff of Haven Square was voted out of his position, and became the town drunk, shamed from being replaced by his deputy Angus Gibbs, brother of the late Barnaby Gibbs, who resolved to reform the town’s justice system, making it safer place, but with the town’s new reputation, his efforts were in vain, and he retired later returned to the east coast. 

As for the gunfighter Sanguine Thomas, he got paid that day, and left town in a rush of fury as he entered, leaving many angry at his words and actions, and who more than one put money out to have a bounty placed on his heads. 

Years later you’d see a WANTED poster of him, with a bounty of five grand on his head, only offered if he is brought back dead. Many of those posters had their ink worn away by time, and to date no one has collected that bounty. 

Many tall tales, and urban legends revolved around the hunchback gunfighter, some tell them as if it were a ghost story. Speaking of him as a demonic specter whose spine shaking laughter can be heard on lonely nights, as he speeds through the wilderness, heralding sparks and flame in his wake. 

From then on he has been known as the Butcher Of Haven Square, as his coming not only killed three sons, but eventually led to the ruin of an entire town.