"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."