The streets of the city were still fairly dark. Some windows were illuminated from the inside, but not all that many by far. There was still the occasional firework that lit up the night sky going on, all those people out there and those still inside their homes largely unaware of the menace that had stalked their streets, even if they had known about the murders. Caleb Morgan and Coraline Hawthorne hadn't gotten all that far down the street before Wyatt Earp caught up with them again.

"I don't know what's harder, dealin' with the cowboys, or with my own deputies. So, you two are off after the smith, right? He's not gonna be happy, but tell him its on my say so. He's gonna also think it a mighty strange request - that's the problem. I'll let you two figure somethin' out." He took a moment to give them directions, explaining that it was south of the tracks on First Street, but not quite down to Locust Street.

"I've gotta go check on one of the other sectors. I sent the others to take Mansfield back to the jail. I reckon that pretty soon we'll be done for the night. If nothin' else, I'll be back at the lock up eventually."

Tired as he was, Morgan couldn't help smiling in response to Earp's comment about his deputies. Of the two of them, Morgan had become convinced he had the easier job. Hunting men down and bringing them in to answer for their crimes offered its share of dangers, but it was still far simpler than trying to keep a city in line, especially a powderkeg like Dodge.

Once Earp had ventured off into the dark, Morgan looked to Hawthorne. For a moment he hesitated, uncertain about what to say, but feeling compelled to speak about what had occurred with Mansfield.

Clearing his throat, he said, "Miss Hawthorne, I wanted to thank you for what you did back there. The truth is, if you hadn't been there, I'm not certain I'd still be alive. I'm not sure Earp or Mr. Darling would be either."

Tempting as it was to ask questions, he left them unspoken. He owed her that respect.

"I'm truly grateful, ma'am."
This message was last edited by the player at 04:56, Tue 02 July 2013.

"Thank you, Mister Earp.  I'm sure we will find it without any trouble.  I think we can be persuasive enough to gain his assistance."  She continued along with Caleb after Wyatt left them to find their own way.  Glancing sidelong at him at his offer of gratitude, she shook her head.  "One of you would have disarmed the man.  You are quite the capable shot, Mister Morgan."

Denying the feat was once again on the top of her tongue, but she sighed it away.  "I'm not a witch," she protested with a sniff.  "I mean... I can do things that no one else can, but I don't consider myself to be a witch.  I'm not evil.  I don't hurt innocent people." 

Morgan frowned. "Respectfully, Miss Hawthorne, evil's the last thing I'd be inclined to call you."

He shook his head. "I hope you'll forgive me for speaking plainly, ma'am. Back at the train, there was nothing that compelled you to assist in rescuing Edwin Wilder, a man you didn't even know. The same here in Dodge. You didn't have to volunteer to keep watch on this town, or to track down Mansfield. But you did. And in doing so you put yourself in harm's way for the sake of others. The fact that you chose to do those things speaks to your character."

He gazed down the dark street and sighed, his mind suddenly alive with the shadows of his own past.

He was quiet for a long moment, searching for the right words. "Miss Hawthorne, when I was a young man, when I was a soldier, I came face to face with the fact that there were things on the frontier that no one could understand. Fearful things."

"The darkness that's out there...it finds people. Some, I imagine, seek it out. Some just stumble across it. But regardless, it changes them. I want to believe, Miss Hawthorne, that it's not the darkness itself that matters. It's what you do with it once it's found you."

He crouched down. Staring out into the darkness, he let out a low whistle.

"He won't hurt you," Morgan said, "I had called him earlier, when that thing that was Mansfield first rushed us. I thought I might need his help in the fight."

"You're not the only one with secrets, Miss Hawthorne."

Coraline's jaw dropped as the wolf emerged, seeming made of naught but shadow itself save for the unearthly glow of its piercing gaze.  She took an involuntary step backward, automatically reaching into the ether for the cards of chance when Caleb's words finally penetrated.  She paused, uncertain and hesitant, wary of the beast that could easily maim or kill her with a snap of wicked jaws.

After a moment of staring into golden eyes, she broke the gaze with some effort and returned her attention to Caleb.  "Evidently, I'm not.  Where... how did you come across such an animal?  Is it bound to you in some fashion?  Is it your protector?"

Morgan hesitated briefly, realizing he didn't have a ready answer for the question. Not because he didn't understand his relationship to the wolf, but because he had never attempted to put it into words before.

Shaking his head, he said, "He's not bound to me in any way. In point of fact, I don't think he and I have ever met before. I can call on one of them when I'm in need. Usually, out here on the prairie, there's one close enough to answer pretty quickly."

He looked down at the wolf. "Back at the train, I had called...one of his sisters, I guess you might say, to help me find where Wilder had been taken. I'm a good tracker, but they're far better. She led us straight to the mine."

He was silent for a moment, searching for words. "They don't come to me because they have to," he said finally. "I suppose the best way to put it is that they see me as their kin. Their family."

She pursed her lips in thought, glancing from Caleb to the wolf and back again.  As a woman of magic, she understood how difficult it could be to explain the ways of the world.  Slowly, she relaxed, never one to go into hysterics over the unknown.  She was the unknown.  "Can you speak with them?  Know their thoughts?  Or do they just know what you want from them?" An idea was percolating, but she would need several hours to consult her favorite reading material.

Morgan frowned. "I suppose knowing their thoughts would be the best way to put it. I know they can understand what I'm thinking. They'll do what I ask without me ever having to say a word. And sometimes, I'll know what they know. It just...well, it just comes to me, like an idea, only I'll know it was from one of them."

He looked down at the wolf. He didn't want the creature to remain on the street for long, despite the fact that it was late and Dodge's thoroughfares were mostly empty. Were someone to see the beast, Morgan know that it could cause panic. Wordlessly, he asked his brother to return to the edge of town and wait, in case the scalpel somehow created more peril.

As the wolf departed, he looked to Hawthorne. "If you don't mind me asking, ma'am. The cards. Are they how you do what you do?"

"Partly," she confessed.  "It is difficult to explain, but to put it in simplest terms, it works through gambling, luck, and strength of will.  I can't just... do whatever I want to do.  I have to twist it to my desire and wrestle power away from the... ah, creatures, for lack of a better word, and make them do what I want.  They aren't pleasant things to deal with.  Most of the time I can bend them to my will.  Other times, they are far too strong and fight back.  There can be... consequences."

She bit down on her lip, considering.  After a moment, she moved closer to him.  "Speaking of those consequences, I must beg your assistance with something."  Pulling her scarf free from her collar, she offered him the ends, keeping the rest looped around her neck.  "Would you knot this for me?  One of my arms is not cooperating at the moment and I'd like to put it into a sling."

When Hawthorne spoke of battling the dark creatures she wrested her power from Morgan felt his blood momentarily go cold. For the briefest of instants, images of his own struggles with shadow overtook him and he saw himself waking up, shivering and torn, trapped inside one of the many makeshift prisons he'd created over the years.

He blinked the thought away, focusing on her words.

When she stepped closer, asking for help tying a sling, he nodded. "Of course," he said quietly, taking the ends of the scarf. "I don't know if he could help, but maybe we should have Doc Smith take a look at you, once we've seen to the scalpel."

For a moment, he fumbled with the scarf, his hands suddenly awkward. Morgan had tied his share of slings over the years. For soldiers, deputies, even for prisoners. But in each of those instances, he hadn't felt the need to be especially careful. Or gentle. Finally, his fingers found their memory and, leaning in close, he tied the scarf in a secure knot around her neck.

"That'll do," he said, helping her place her arm in the sling. Looking her in the eyes, he added, "Miss Hawthorne, I feel like a fool. More than once, I've had the instinct that you need to be protected or shielded somehow from what's gone on, when the honest truth is in contending with these...creatures, you've probably fought more battles than any of us."

"You're quite remarkable, ma'am."

Coraline wasn't completely immune to Caleb's close proximity.  While he fumbled with her scarf, she had to remind herself more than once to breathe normally.  He was, by all accounts, a reasonably attractive male and he'd shown himself to be quite capable with his chosen weapon.  While he focused on creating the makeshift sling, she lifted her gaze, studying his face each time the holiday pyrotechnics set his features aglow.

When her arm was comfortably situated in the sling, resting just beneath the swell of her breasts, she offered a nod of thanks.  Dark eyes met his gaze with a hint of mirth.  "You give me credit I surely do not deserve, Mister Morgan.  I... deal with those creatures because I must.  I was not gifted with strength or superior marksmanship.  The cards are all I have.  If I intend to make my mark on this world, I must use the talent I was given."

She offered a slight smile.  "Your instinctive behaviors are quite common among your sex, you know, and I am certain that your desire to protect would be well received by many women.  While I will always be resistant to being excluded from dangerous activities simply because I am female, I do find the gesture quite gallant."

"I would rather not be shot, for instance.  If you could make certain to leap into the path of the bullet to save me, I would be exceedingly thankful." Her smile broadened as she teased him.  "As for my arm, there is little the doctor could do for it.  It will return to normal function in time.  Let's call it a sprain, shall we?"

Morgan smiled warmly as Hawthorne teased him, realizing as he did so that he'd had few reasons to smile in recent days.

He was about to speak, but paused. He had long recognized that Hawthorne was an attractive woman. But here, on this quiet street, the play of light and shadow on her features served to reinforce how strikingly beautiful she was. For a brief, but noticeable, moment he was transfixed.

He swallowed and found his voice again. "A sprain it is," he said, smiling. "And I'll keep watch for stray bullets."

He reached out, touching her uninjured shoulder. "Why don't we get to the smith's? Once that cursed thing is melted down, I'll walk you back to the Dodge House. It's been...a hard night. You're due some rest."

"I think we all are," she agreed.  Turning at the slight touch, she fell into step with him, treading the unfamiliar path again.  Following Earp's directions, she soon spotted the dark smithy and the house next to it that she assumed belong to the blacksmith.  After rapping smartly on the door without hesitation, she turned to Caleb as they waited.  "You know that there is no guarantee that this will work.  If whatever enchantment that lies on the blade also includes something to make it indestructible, we'll have to find another way.  With luck, it will be nothing more than a physically ordinary scalpel."

He nodded, frowning. "If it can't be...," his voice trailed as he considered the problem, "Perhaps I could take it. Ride out on the prairie. Find a wolf den. I could bury it there and ask the wolves to keep watch over it."

He shook his head at his own suggestion. "That would be a poor substitute, though. If it was out there and there was a chance, however small, that it could be discovered..."

He left the thought unfinished. He recalled that Mansfield had revealed that there were two of the murderous objects in existence, the second having traveled to England in the care of another medical student. He wondered what kind of mayhem it might have caused, or if it was still resting in its black valise, waiting to be awakened.

He hoped that it would prove to be no more than an ordinary piece of metal. That it would end here.

Coraline nodded.  "Bury it deep, though I would always be fearful of its discovery.  An evil like that... Mansfield said that it called for blood.  It might only be influential at the touch, but I would be afraid that something so evil would call out to those that would possess it.  If it can't be destroyed, it is possible that it can be unmade, but that would take hours of study and research."

"Unmade?" he asked, "Do you mean you could remove the...," he paused at the word he was unaccustomed to using, "...enchantment? The...curse that changes those that touch it?"

He frowned. "Would that be dangerous?"

"Very likely.  I do not know if such a thing could even be done, but to rid the world of such evil would be worth making the attempt."  With her functional arm, she knocked on the door again with much greater force than before.  "Still, it is only idle speculation.  With luck, the blacksmith will be able to aid us.  Earp said he would need convincing.  Just how good are you at convincing others to do the right thing?"  She gave him a long, speculative look.

Closing his fist, Morgan joined Hawthorne's efforts at knocking, hammering at the door with the side of his hand.

"Truth be told, most of my experience is in talking people out of doing the wrong thing," he admitted. "Of course, if he's especially ill tempered, that experience may still come in handy."

"I have managed to convince my share of folks to ride out with me in pursuit of one dangerous fugitive or another, so I can certainly try to appeal to his better nature. The only problem is, we're going to have to spin him a story about the scalpel."

He returned her gaze. "I imagine it will take both of us to persuade him. And if it comes down to bluffing him, there's no question in my mind which of us will be more skilled at that."

"You think that because I'm so fond of cards that I'm good at bluffing?"  She smirked, nose wrinkling slightly.  "A wise assumption.  Though I'm just as good at friendly persuasion.  Some men will do anything for a friendly smile or saucy wink.  Of course, there are notable exceptions.  I can think of one old codger that will forever be immune to my charms.  He's about as prickly as a cactus."

"Alright, alright already," a voice shouted from the inside of the house. There was the loud sound of a latch being lifted and the door opened just after that to reveal a stout, barrel chested man. He had arms like cannons and a face like an anvil, covered in a black beard that was well peppered with grey.

"Hell you need at time like this?" he asked, looking sleepy and irate. "Horse need shoein'? I don't know who sent you over here, but they've got another thing comin'. It better be somethin' that can't wait till mornin'."

Coraline took a step back as the door opened, unsurprised to find the blacksmith disagreeable.  She probably would have been equally as cranky had someone interrupted her beauty sleep.  Wearing her prettiest smile, and in the prettiest tone possible, she explained.  "Forgive us for waking you, sir, but it is a matter of importance.  Marshal Wyatt Earp sent us over to beg your assistance.  Unfortunately, it is a matter that cannot wait until morning.  We need the use of the smithy immediately, specifically the furnace you use, and as hot as you can get it.  Will you help us?"

Hawthorne's comment about Clarke had elicited a chuckle from Morgan, one that he quickly swallowed when he heard the latch lift. He regarded the blacksmith carefully, remaining silent when Hawthorne spoke up. He shifted his coat, making certain the smith could see the badge Earp had provided.

He smiled politely, waiting to see how the big man would respond.

His hands clasped at his waist, pressing up against a beer belly that pushed against the threadbare fabric of his nightshirt. He looked at Caleb, but it was Coraline that held his attention. The smith grunted sourly, though.

"I could help you, sure. You might even say I'm inclined to. It's a helluva unusual request, though. I don't recall ever bein' asked by a law man to start up my forge in the middle of the damn night. What does he want? Horseshoes or chains or somethin'?"

"No, nothing like that.  We do not even need you to labor hard over anything.  All we need is the forge."  She threw a glance at Caleb, then out to the dark street before stepping near the blacksmith.  Speaking in hushed tones, she explained.  "We need something destroyed, and your fire is the only thing hot enough to melt it.  It is a matter of extreme importance."

Morgan stepped closer to the smith’s door, wanting to make sure the man could hear him. He felt certain that, in the end, it was Hawthorne’s persuasiveness that would finally convince the blacksmith to aid them, not anything he told the man.

He kept his voice low to insure that any passerby wouldn’t hear. Although he spoke quietly, he let his tone become flat and hard. It was close to the same voice he used to help desperate men see the peril of their foolish actions, but not as fierce. He needed the blacksmith to understand that the situation was deadly serious, but he didn’t want the man to think that he was trying to bully or intimidate him.  They needed to remain in his good graces.

“I imagine you've heard that there’s been some murders in town over the last few days. The man responsible for those killings was shot dead just a short time ago. We have the weapon he used."

“I’m not sure what you’ve been told, but these murders, they’re not what most of us are used to seeing.  These people...the victims, this man cut them to pieces. Carved them up like cattle at a slaughterhouse. He used a scalpel, like he was performing some kind of sick surgery.“

Morgan lowered his voice further, as though he was taking the smith into confidence. "I've lived in this territory all my life. I don't know how long you've been in Dodge, but I reckon it's long enough that you know what happens. Some kid who has a score to settle or something to prove snatches up a pistol and gets himself killed. And what happens? He ends up propped up in a pine box in front of the undertaker's office with the lid removed so folks can walk by and stare. And for days, that‘s all anyone talks about: how a man lost his life."

He frowned. “Right when this first started, Deputy Marshal Earp had dime store novelists and curiosity seekers knocking on the door, wanting to know the story. Asking about the grisly details. And they haven't stopped. The fact is, Earp doesn't want the story to get out. The people that died, they had families. People that cared for them. They don't deserve to have the lurid details of how their loved ones were cut to pieces recounted in some book anyone can buy at a general store or talked about like the latest wild tale at one of the saloons.“

“And he also doesn't want any part of it, like the scalpel, ending up as a curiosity in some traveling show or being passed around town like a souvenir. Deputy Marshal Earp is a good man. But you and I both know that without him, there’d be no law in Dodge. Marshal Deger runs a loose ship and a little money to the right person at the right time can lead to things getting lost. And when morning comes and news of this man's death reaches the street, those vultures are going to be looking harder than ever for any gruesome thing they can find. Anything that proves these killings were…noteworthy.”

Morgan let his tone become grim once more. “One the men that was killed was Jake Simpkins’ brother. How do you think he and the rest of the Wilderness Riders will respond if they hear that someone‘s showing off the weapon that killed him?”

He looked the smith in the eyes. "The killer's dead. He's going to be buried south of here in an unmarked grave. There's not going to be a trial and there's no need for evidence. Right now Earp can make certain that the only people who know the whole truth are those that need to know it. Without proof, there’s nothing to say that this wasn’t just a bushwhacker killing people for their money. Without details it’ll all fade away in a day or two and people will be able to mourn their loved ones in peace.”

“Melting this thing down will help make sure that happens."

Randolph steps out of the shadows where he's been lingering.

"If the young lady's entreaties and the Marshall's arguments don't convince you, friend, let's just say it's the right thing to do," a $5 gold piece glitters faintly in his fingers, "And I'll pay for the coal and your time."

Catching the metallic glint of the coin, the blacksmith grinned broadly.

"Indeed. The right thing to do. Well, why don't you folks come round back to the forge." He stepped out of his residence, and beckoned them to follow. Walking back around his dwelling, there was a locked area at the back. Unlocking the heavy padlock with a key, he opened the makeshift doors and began to get going.

Morgan gave Hawthorne a quiet smile. Nodding to the reporter, he said, "I'm grateful for your help, Mr. Darling."

Following the blacksmith, Morgan removed his coat and hat, placing them near the door. Rolling up his sleeves, he said, "I don't know anything of smithing, but I'd be glad to shovel the coal if it'll help things along."

When they reached the forge, Coraline took hold of Randolph's sleeve after Caleb disappeared inside.  "How nice of you to join us, Mister Darling," she said, somewhat coldly.  Dropping her voice, she hissed.  "Just what do you think you're about, Randolph?  I'm growing a little weary of you haring off on this wild notion or that without any explanation.  I could have used your support a short time ago when nearly everyone seemed ready to burn me at the stake.  Instead, you were off giving your apologies to a soiled dove.  A whore, I might add, that you only accused because you decided go to haring off on your own again before you had all of the facts.  What in the world has gotten into you?"

Darling smiles at Coraline.

"I'm sorry not to measure up to your expectations, Miss Hawthorne, but gladdened to see that you are not even singed by your tribulation. I doubt Marshall Morgan and Deputy Earp would have allowed any serious harm to come to you. Indeed, you seem most able to take care of yourself.

"As to my interactions with the 'soiled dove' you reference, you may rest easy on that account. I spoke only with Doctor Smith -- and that through his front door -- and so was quite able to keep my animal lusts in check. Besides, my tastes are more inclined toward dark, flashing eyes and a certain imperious manner. It is my weakness.

"Now, shall we watch the doughty Marshall become sweaty and grimy in pursuit of our goal? It should be most intriguing."

He gestures that she should precede him into the smithy.

"You know very well that I wasn't speaking one single bit about your lusts.  Stop sneaking away all of the time," she chided, waving her fan in his face.  "I mean it, Randolph.  One of those times you are going to find yourself in a heap of trouble without a single person around to haul you out."  She sounded more like a mother hen than a scorned lover, but her eyes were indeed smoldering. Giving him one last look, she sniffed and followed Caleb into the smithy.

Randolph shook his head, rubbed his jaw, shuffled his feet, scratched the back of his neck and otherwise signified that he just didn't understand women. He followed Coraline into the dark smithy.

The smith took a look at Caleb, and shook his head. "I can do this on my own. Easier that way, too. Way I'm used to. Besides, I think you need to see a doctor and soon. Somebody that can fix you up. You've stopped bleedin' but I think if you start shovelin' coal, you're gonna open right back up and start again." He went ahead and began the process of starting up the forge.

"Doc Smith lives just up the road. I reckon' he won't be too happy to get woken up, but he'd be less happy if you show up come mornin' without gettin' that seen to."

The truth was, Morgan hadn't thought about his injuries at all until the smith spoke up. His mind had been entirely focused elsewhere. Glancing down at his once white shirt, he saw the reason for the smith's words. There on his arm and chest were the tears and dark stains where Mansfield's blade had done its work. As his attention returned to the wounds, he became aware once again of the low, throbbing ache from each one.

Although she had disagreed, he remained convinced that without Hawthorne, none of them would have left that lonely stretch of street alive.

"You're right," he told the big man. "I'll go have Smith take a look at me as soon as we're finished here."

He paused, then added, "I'd just like to see this done first."
This message was last edited by the player at 17:51, Sun 14 July 2013.

"Damn, Morgan, I didn't realize you'd gotten so cut up. You should go get Smith to patch you up. I...ah...I know he's awake.

"Coraline and I will see this through."

"I appreciate that Mr. Darling. I do. I would just...," he cast a worried look at the forge, "I'd feel a lot better knowing that thing was melted down."

He gave Darling a rueful smile. Keeping his voice low, he said, "The truth is, I've been in worse shape before, and a lot further from any kind of help when it happened. I'll manage."

"Honestly, I probably don't even need to bother Smith. With these kinds of cuts, I think Daniel should be able to get me fixed up just fine. I'll get over to the Dog Eye once this is done."

"Are you quite certain you will not visit the doctor, Mister Morgan?  At least one of those cuts looks as though it may need stitches."  Her eyes drifted briefly to his bloody shirt before returning to his face.  "There's no need to put on a brave face for our sake.  We're well aware of the sort of damage the killer could cause.  I almost thought I'd lose a limb there for a moment.  I'd say we are all very fortunate to have walked away with as few injuries as we did."

"Anyhow, I know nothing of metal working or coal shoveling.  If the two of you don't mind, I shall stay well out of the way and read for a bit while we wait for the forge to reach optimum temperature."

"I'll go see the doctor," he acquiesced, "Just as soon as the scalpel's disposed of, I'll go."

Returning to the door of the smithy, he retrieved his hat and coat. He placed his hat on his head and draped the coat over one arm. Finding an empty section of wall, he leaned against it and watched as the smith brought the forge to life.

It took nearly an hour by the time the sweaty blacksmith had gotten his forge up and running again. He would occasionally make small talk with the deputies, but his conversation seemed forced - he would clearly rather fully commit himself to the work at hand. Only, there wasn't really much complicated about what they were tasking for here. At the end of the process, all he had left was a misshapen lump of metal that remained from what had once been a scalpel. Before he quenched what was left, he looked at the deputies.

"I take it this is good enough?"

Morgan nodded, but gazed at the piece of metal uncertainly. "It's certainly not a weapon anymore," he said.

But was the magic that transformed Mansfield into a monster still sleeping within it?

"If it wouldn't be any trouble," Morgan added, gesturing to the remains of the scalpel, "I think we'd like to take that with us."

"Fine by me," he said. With a grunt, he quenched it into a barrel of water that he kept nearby.

It took a while longer before it was cool enough for them to take, but eventually the smith tossed it into a burlap sack and accepted the payment that Darling had offered him earlier.

"And if you have any real work that you need done, don't hesitate to come on back," he told them as they were leaving.

Morgan accepted the bag from the blacksmith. He smiled faintly at the man's comment as they departed. Knowing nothing of the scalpel's true nature, it had doubtlessly seemed a frivolous task to him. The smith would never know just how important it had actually been.

When he, Darling, and Hawthorne were several paces away from the smith's home, Morgan raised the bag. He felt a twinge in his chest as he did so. He did need to see Smith before the night was through.

"It might be safe to bury now," he offered. "I was planning to ride out of Dodge in the next day or so. My intention is to go to Hays. See if I can pick up the trail of those responsible for all the murders there. I could put this deep in the ground somewhere along the way."

Looking to the reporter, he said, "Mr. Darling, if you're still interested in going to Hays, I'd be proud to have you join me. You're a good man. Not afraid of a fight."

He turned his attention to Hawthorne. "Miss Hawthorne, I...well, it may not be right for me to ask, but I'd be grateful if you'd consider coming along as well. I have no doubt that I'll need your help out there."

Coraline put her book away as they left the smithy, walking quietly with Caleb and Randolph toward the doctor's.  "Actually, I had already given that some thought, Mister Morgan.  I think it best that we go investigate Hays to find out what really happened and who is to blame.  What happened there should not be taken lightly."

"Thanks for the kind words, Morgan. There's no one I'd rather stand beside when danger's about than Miss Hawthorne and you. I'll be pleased to ride with you to Hays. Of course, I expect Earp will want you to stay on through the Fourth, at least."

As they neared Smith's place, he spoke again.

"As to the former scalpel, do you think it would be best buried in hallowed ground, rather than out along the trail someplace where it could be found by any...one? I'm willing to tote it to a churchyard and dispose of it that way."

Morgan smiled, sincerely thankful for their answers.

Nodding to Darling, he said, "Don't worry. I'll keep my word to Earp. I think I'm just...eager to put this city behind me." He glanced up at the night sky.

"I hadn't thought of placing the scalpel in blessed ground, but that might be a wise idea," he added, "Father Iglesias strikes me as a man who could be trusted. He'd guard it well." He offered the bag to Darling. "If you want to wait until morning, I'd be glad to go with you." One corner of his mouth lifted in a half grin. "I reckon we could pass for gravediggers, if need be."

Morgan fell silent for a moment, his mind a sea of thoughts as he recalled the events of the evening. So much had happened in such a short span of time. Realizing they had neared Smith's home, he stopped. Shaking his head, he said, "There's no reason for you two to wait here while Smith patches me up. You've both been through just as much as I have. More, even. Why don't you head back to the Dodge House? Get some rest. You've certainly earned it."

Coraline took the burlap sack before Randolph could lay a finger on it, holding it almost possessively.  "I am going to see this through to the end, thank you.  If you think you will be alright, Mister Morgan, then I shall leave you to your care.  It is likely best if Mister Darling keeps his distance from the doctor's right now, apology or no.  I shall see you in the morning at breakfast, I'm certain.  Do try to get some rest yourself.  That is usually the best thing for wounds."

Randolph walks with Coraline in silence to Dodge House. He sees her to her room and bids her a courteous goodnight. He retires to his room and sleeps until morning, if he's allowed to.

Morgan bid both Hawthorne and Darling good night.

Stepping up to the porch of Smith's home, he prepared to knock on the door, but paused. Turning his attention back to the street, he watched Hawthorne walk alongside Darling until they both disappeared from sight.

Returning his attention to the door, he knocked firmly, ready with an apology for disturbing the doctor and his family once again on such an eventful evening.

A steady soreness worked in his chest as Morgan emerged from the doctor's residence. Hawthorne had been right. He'd needed stitches. Walking down the steps of Smith's house he saw that the streets were completely dark, almost silent.

Morgan's walk back to the Dog Eye was slow, his mind alive with a restless stream of thoughts. It had only been a matter of days since he and the others had arrived in Dodge and yet, in some ways, it felt like a lifetime ago.

Images rose and fell as he walked. Brave little Laura Palmer who had seen such terror, but wanted to be a Marshal. Tearful Sarah Ingram who had finally found the life she had long deserved, free from his ghost. Walter Jackson trapped in the street with his wounded arm. Clayton Mansfield weeping over the monster he had become against his will. Coraline Hawthorne, who'd stirred his emotions and now knew a secret he'd shared with no one else.

He looked up into the night sky. His gaze fixed briefly on the moon. It was waxing. Gaining strength.

Shifting his coat from one arm to the other he was suddenly aware of the tintype, resting as it had for years in the pocket of his vest.

Stopping, he reached into the inner pocket and drew out the picture. Himself and Sarah at the fair. Smiling. Content. Promised to one another. Before the war. Before the shadow. Before the vast prairie had become his closest companion.

He regarded the picture for a long moment.

Then, fishing in his pocket, he found a match. Striking it against a hitching post, he carefully touched the tintype to the flame. The fire took it quickly, turning the image black as it grew. After a moment, he let it fall to his feet, his eyes fixed on it as the picture was lost completely, the paper slowly reduced to ash.

And at long last, he let Sarah sleep.

He crushed the few remaining embers with his boot, then continued his walk. After a few paces, his eyes fell to the badge Earp had given him. He'd be returning it after one last day. He was glad of that. For all the good they'd done in Dodge, he had earnestly grown to dislike the town during his stay. Perhaps he'd just seen too much of the mean undercurrent that flowed through the city and its residents.

Reaching into his coat pocket, he retrieved his Marshal's badge. It was battered, having seen hard use since he'd first been given it, but the stamped characters remained clear. He regarded it with a frown, rubbing his thumb across its surface. Unbidden, he recalled running through Lawrence as a young man, the town's once familiar buildings swallowed by flame, gunshots sounding all around as he carried Josiah in his arms, his chest heavy with the knowledge that his brother Cyrus and his mother were gone.

If somehow it really was Bill Quantrill, the man that had ordered the deaths of his family, out there putting more innocents to the sword, was this really about the law? Would he honestly be seeking him out for the same reasons as the dozens of other hard men he had chased over the years?

For the first time he could remember, he was uncertain. He slipped the badge back into his pocket.

He walked on into the dark, toward the Dog Eye.

At the boarding house, Coraline spent much of the evening reading through her Hoyle's in search of a particular bit of knowledge.  When she discovered the secret she was after and her brain absorbed what she'd read, the knowledge struck her like a physical blow.  How had she not seen it before?  How had she never understood?  The hours passed unnoticed as she studied, flipping through the pages, jotting notes in her journal.  Her hour spent at the smith's had not been in vain, though another five were gone before she had a grasp of the hex she needed.  Though she was weary from the day's events and tired as she finally sought her bed, she wore a dangerous smile of contentment.  All that had happened would never happen again.  She just wouldn't allow it.  Snuggling into the covers, she was soon fast asleep with visions of golden-eyed men running through the wild with golden-eyed wolves.