The night was dark, but the sky was intermittently illuminated by fireworks. As one bright white nightflower lit up the night, scattering white sparkles all over the sky in the flash they could see a man standing in the middle of the street. Ahead of him, a woman screamed and ran away. The man was standing silently in the street, a black top hat on his head and a ragged coat covering his body. At his feet lay a body, or most of one. About a yard away was a severed head.

He didn't look up at the group's approach for a moment, but raised his head as they moved closer in, and quickly pulled up one of his hands. A sharp metal blade was clutched in one of his fists, catching the flashing light of the night sky again for a moment. His eyes, cruel and sharp could be seen every so briefly in a fleeting moment before all was dark again. He took up a fighting stance, putting a gap between his feet and squaring his shoulders.

Maybe it was here. Maybe it had always had been.

When Morgan had heard about Hays, when the name Quantrill had escaped little Laura Palmer's lips, he'd felt as though he had known for certain. Even more so after he'd seen Sarah. It was the hunt he'd been on all of his life. To put right all the horror the Border Ruffians had visited on his home. On his family. Insuring that William Quantrill was in his grave struck him as the last task before him. The last fight.

But maybe it was this. Putting a stop to the madman that now stood before them. The one who carved up men like meat in a slaughterhouse.

How was it Suzy Winger had put it? "I know it sounds crazy, but he moved so quickly. I'd say maybe five times as fast as any o' y'all could move."

Once, when Morgan was in the northern part of Kansas, he'd encountered a group of Cheyenne braves, warriors that were hunting the same murderous fugitive as he. Once they had understood that they were not enemies, they had ridden together. Morgan had told them about the Ruffians and Lawrence.  One of the men, called Dull Knife, spoke of Custer and the Little Big Horn. He'd said that at the battle, one of the Sioux leaders, named Low Dog, had called out to them, "Follow me. This is a good day to die."

So it was. He walked forward alongside Earp, raising his weapon as the killer turned to face them.

Earp had seen plenty of killings in his time. Dealt with more hot blooded fools who's reached for a gun out of anger, pride, or greed than he cared to remember. Much as he hated that kind of violence, at least he understood it. But these murders, cutting men up and hanging on to some of the pieces, defied all logic.

When he sighted the man in the top hat standing over another victim, his hand reflexively went to his Colt. Every time he pulled the weapon, he hoped it was only as a tool, something to be displayed to force people to calm down and see reason. But even as he drew the pistol he understood, deep down, that there was nothing reasonable about the man with the blade in his hand. There would be no talking, no short walk to the jail.

Some things had to end in blood.

"Town Marshals!" he yelled, his commading voice loud in the empty street, "Put the knife down and surrender! I'm only going to ask once!"

Pausing slightly behind and to one side of Caleb, Coraline's draw dropped open at the sight of the carnage in the street.  Thankful that she had a somewhat powerful hex already in reserve.  Having already drawn the cards, she had but to twist the dark forces at her command to her will.  She reached out with magic to Caleb, imbuing him with an invisible force to aid him in the fight.

The man simply stood there silently, not making a move. He lifted up the small blade in his hand, and made a slash in the air with it, as if he was cutting them. A cruel, ghost of a smile haunted his face.