Matt broke into a run.

The street was empty, not a soul in sight. There was only the church at the end of the street, calling to him as if it were a beacon, its white cross standing high on its roof peak, throwing a black-shadow cross into the street.

Matt's breath was coming in bursts now, and so was that of whatever was behind him, and he could sense that it was almost on him, ready to leap and take him down, and he found a second wind and ran harder, and then his side felt as if it were about to burst, but he still ran, and he thought he could feel the hot, damp breath of his pursuer on the back of his neck.

His hat came off. His breath was coming in gasps now. He was almost to the church.

The buildings on either side of him seemed to lean out and push—hang at strange angles over his head. And there didn't seem to be as much light as usual, and no sounds, other than his own breathing, and the breathing of whatever was at his heels.

And then he was in the shadow of the cross, and it was as if he had been struck by a warm wind. He ran up the church steps, and when he was at the church door, he wheeled—the revolver held before him—and he saw—

—nothing.

Just the empty street with his hat in its center. There was nothing wrong with the buildings. They grew at proper angles and did not hang over the street, and there were just as many lights as usual, and in the distance he could hear the buzz of voices at Molly McGuire's, and someone had finally decided to play the piano at The Dead Dog Saloon.

Matt leaned against the church door and got his breath. His face became less tense and finally turned humorous. He collapsed on the top church stoop and laughed at himself. He slipped the revolver back into its holster.

"Nothing," he said. "Not a goddamned thing."

But at that moment there came a long, haunted howl that filled the street, and the howl gradually began to sound like a hoarse and hateful laugh.

VII

After a little while, the sheriff cautiously walked away from the church and picked up his hat. When he was about to put it on his head, an involuntary cry escaped his lips.

The crown was bitten neatly out of it.

Hat in hand, the sheriff ran back to the jail.

VIII

The dead gambler was the best walker, but Millie was no slouch—even though she had lost a shoe.

The others were doing their best, and Millie was doing better, but the gambler had long legs and a good stiff stride.

He was moving way out ahead, as if he were trying to win a race.

As the night moved on and the sky lightened, the others slowed down, but not the gambler.

He walked faster.

Millie veered off into the woods and out into a field until she saw the shape of a house.

She no longer truly recognized that it was the house where she lived with her sister, Buela, nor did she guess that Buela was worried sick about her, wondering what had happened to her and the stage. In Millie's mind there was only a reptilian pattern, and she followed it.

No lamps burned in the house. It was silent. The sun was easing up over the horizon like a sneaky, blond baby raising its head.

The woman with one shoe came to the root cellar. She looked at the house and sensed the human warmth there and felt hungry.

She looked to the horizon. The blond head was coming up faster, strands of light, like fine lines of hair, were lightening the lower edge of the sky.

She opened the root cellar door, climbed down the short length of steps, closing the lid behind her.

It was not root cellar country. Too much ground wetness, and it had been abandoned and allowed to fill up with brackish water.

Millie didn't mind. She didn't mind anything but the rays of the sun and the gnawing agony in her brain that told her she must eat—and soon.

She lowered herself slowly into the water until it swirled over her head. A water moccasin swished quickly out of the way. Dirt and maggots washed from her hair and flesh and floated to the top as she kept sinking, DOWN, DOWN, DOWN, until she resided at the bottom of the cellar, and there was not even a dark ripple.

…

A short time before dawn, the others stopped altogether and scrambled for the soft dirt alongside the stage trail. They began frantically digging shallow graves with their bare hands.

They crawled into their little holes and began raking the leaf mold over themselves, finally pulling it over their faces and squirming their hands inside.

But not the gambler. He had long since left them behind and had passed the sign that read:

MUD CREEK.

IX

Just before sunrise, the livery doors flapped open like great bat wings spreading—the padlock spinning to the dirt.

A chill wind blew inside, and the doors closed shut after it. The padlock was back in place.

II

THE GATHERING

AND CLOSE YOUR EYES WITH HOLY DREAD/FOR HE ON HONEY-DEW

HATH FED/AND DRUNK THE MILK OF PARADISE.

— COLERIDGE

Shiftless, the Reverend stood before the broken mirror dipping his hands into the washbasin. He scrubbed them, washed his face, toweled dry.

He walked over to the window and looked out.

It was almost sunup. The gray sky had been severely ruptured with pink and red.

A man was coming down the street. He walked fast, but oddly. As if he had a case of rickets. He reached the saloon, grabbed the door that closed over the bat wings, and tugged. It was locked.

…

The sun was fully up now, and a wave of light washed down the street. When it struck the man at the saloon door, he let out a little shriek. Wisps of smoke curled up from the top of his head and hands.

The man tugged harder at the door latch.

His arm came off at the shoulder and out of his sleeve. The hand still clutched the latch firmly, and the arm jutted out—bloodless and white.

The man stood looking at it for a moment, then he pried it loose with his free hand and put it in the deep pocket of his coat. It stuck out of the pocket from elbow to nub.

The man began to hasten up the street. He tried every door he came to.

Finally he moved into the middle of the street and fell face down.

The Reverend raced downstairs.

II

The Reverend ran over to the fallen man and bent down. The body was smoking. The arm that was sticking out of the coat pocket was wilting like a limp dick. It finally puddled into the coat pocket and onto the street.

The Reverend, not eager about it, reached out and touched the gambler's neck for a pulse.

There wasn't any. The Reverend startled at how strange the flesh felt. He pulled his hand back and looked at it. Putrid smelling flesh clung to his fingertips like mold. He quickly wiped it off in the dirt.

A hand reached down and grabbed the Reverend by the shoulder, surprising him.

The Reverend wheeled, standing as he did. His hand went for his constant companion: the Navy revolver in his sash.

The revolver was suddenly out, cocked, and planted against the nose of the elderly man he had seen in the cafe with the beautiful woman who reminded him of his sister. And the woman herself stood nearby, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

"Whoa!" the elderly man said. "We're good Samaritans like yourself. We saw him fall.

Lord, but you're fast."

The Reverend lifted the gun from the old man's face and uncocked it. As the old man dipped from view to examine the body, the Reverend had a full look at the woman. She was even more beautiful than he had thought. The Lord just kept throwing her at him.

He turned to look at the old man, who, like the Reverend, had touched the body and was wiping his fingers in the dirt.

"Damndest thing I've seen," the old man said. "He smells as if he's been dead a week."