Revelation Springs was a place I occasionally stopped in my travels from one demonic bounty to another. A way station of sorts, in a dry, arid, rocky region where humans couldn’t live if not for the few natural springs dotting the area. Stunning rings of color banded the warm, crystalline waters, conjuring up a sense of peace within my soul. That wouldn't last, so I just tried to enjoy it while I could.

A geyser to my left shot off, spraying water across a field of pockmarked rock and sending lizards and whatever else might've been hiding nearby skittering away.

"What the—"

Evidently, it woke up the guest slumped over behind me on Timperina's back, too. Dale sprung awake. He nearly took a tumble, but I caught him by the belt and pulled him upright.

"Morning, sunshine," I said.

Dale stammered some more and I couldn't really blame him, knowing his last memory of consciousness.

"You took a nice knock on the head, fighting off them wolves," I said. "Lucky I showed up when I did, you damned fool."

“Wolves…?" It was sort of a question. Dale stretched around me, eyes wide with fright. "Them things weren't just wolves. They was standing, talking—"

"Damn, how hard did you fall?"

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Then he rubbed the back of his head, right where I'd whacked him. He winced at the touch.

"I guess pretty hard…." He glanced around. Then, under his breath, he addedd, "Wolves…"

I hate lying to anyone, but ignorance is more than bliss when faced with certain supernatural truths.

"Where are we?" Dale asked a moment later.

"Coming up on Revelation," I said. "Now, considering I didn't have time to ride you back to Elkhart, I suppose we should talk about how you abandoned your post to follow me without asking."

He had no rejoinder, just a pitiful, "I need that bounty, Mr. Crowley."

"You and I both know this ain't about a bounty."

I listened to him sigh, long and mournful.

"Yeah, well, I'd like to stop 'em from hurting any more people," Dale said. "Sheriff Daniels was a good man. He didn't deserve…" I heard his jaw grinding. "I truly don't know if I was the one who shot him or not, Mr. Crowley, but I think—"

I saw enough in Sheriff Daniels’s Divining to know Dale was slinging lead in a panic, trying desperately to stay alive and maybe hit one of the Frozen Trio. I wish I could ease his mind a bit. Maybe just a vague reassurance.

"Accidents happen when bullets start flying."

"Yeah, but Sheriff Daniels should still be alive. If I'd only been—"

"What? Prepared for your first shootout?" I laughed. I was only guessing it was his first, but he didn't argue. Was easy enough for me to tell. "I got news for you, Deputy. Few ever are."

"I bet you were."

I smiled. He wasn't wrong about that.

Fourteen years old and some wisecracker took a swipe at me in the saloon after I'd said one too many words to his girl. I wasn't even being fresh, just thought she looked interesting enough to hold my attention. Well, he dragged me outside for a duel. I didn't even have a gun, but he was so confident, he loaned me his extra. I put a bullet through his kneecap before he even had his barrel clear. Never walked right again.

That was when I got a taste for the rougher side of life on the frontier. What can I say? Ain't every day in a boy's life he finds out what he's good at.

"Nah," I lied, sparing Dale unnecessary heartbreak. "My legs wobbled like a newborn calf. My palms were so sweaty, I barely kept a grip on my piece."

"He deserved better than he got," Dale said, referring to the Sheriff again.

"Well, if retribution's your goal, I'll choose to forgive you following me without asking," I responded tersely. "The truth is, come Hell or high water, I'm gonna take this Frozen Trio down. You plan on helping, you'll get your cut, and maybe, just maybe, you'll find whatever else you need."

I knew he was after forgiveness, and I've read all the balderdash about forgiving being divine and how it ain't my job to seek vengeance, but it's it a whole lot easier to forgive others than to forgive yourself. No God or higher being can help with it. You either find that path on your own, or it eats away at you until you die, old and crotchety.

Revenge wouldn't help neither; I knew that. Dale could put a bullet into the whole Trio, and he'd wake up with that same pit in his gut. But dammit, if it didn't feel good nonetheless, watching as the bastards who made you feel like shit—like less than shit—suffer and breathe their last.

"I'll do whatever I can to help you," Dale promised. I knew he meant it. Not the smartest fella, however he'd been honest enough since we met.

"Good. I can’t seem to get rid of you anyway."

I gave Timp's sides a light kick as we rounded a large spring nestled into rainbow-painted rock like a fancy bowl. Then, Revelation Springs came into view in all her glory —a haven in the middle of nowhere much like Mutt's, only this one bore no green and wasn’t trying to hide. A crisscrossing of buildings popped up, some three or four stories tall. The stone and rocks were so red you wouldn't know how much blood had been spilled on them.

It'd been a while since I'd been here, and the town had grown. Probably call it a city now, at least for the West. All things are relative. A train puffed up smoke as it pulled out of the station just on the outskirts. A legitimate station, too. Good for them. A couple hundred people were milling around, carrying umbrellas and luggage. Coming or going, I don't know, but it was something.

When I spotted red-and-white-striped tents being set up along the western side in a clearing extending from the church, I remembered they were probably coming. Little stands and what looked from here to be goats and cattle and little midget ponies. A proper carnival was happening soon, based on fliers I’d seen throughout the region recently, with all the fixings and plenty of visitors milling about to take part in the coming festivities.

What perfect timing.

"You'd think Dufaux would call all this off,” I said. “What with all the violence in the region."

"The Founders' Day Fair? No way," Dale said. "People train in from far away for this. My daddy used to take me. Had to ride up on our carriage. Which wasn't much. Lost more than a few wheels, them days. But he was good at fixing. Oh, and there's a stand that sells the best—"

"I didn't ask."

He harrumphed a response.

If there was one good thing about a festival coming to town, it was the crowds. Nobody looked at me funny, worrying I was the law or something worse. In fact, no one cared at all.

Though, of course, that was a double-edged sword. It meant the outlaws could slip into this place just as easy. The Trio had made a habit of rolling into towns, going straight to the bank, and hitting it. Though that wouldn't be possible in a place this size. Crowds also meant more innocent people who could get caught in the crossfire.

"Pooey," Dale whisper-shouted. He ducked down and tucked his head to my left. "That's Sheriff Culpepper and his crew from Elkhart. He sees me, I'm dead."

Just as he said, a crew of armed men loitered outside the stables. Their leader, this Sheriff Culpepper, looked more like an outlaw than I ever had—wearing black, head to toe, Stetson to stirrups. His posse, likewise, was the typical bunch of farmers and ranch-hands in need of a few bucks and some excitement. Rarely did they consider that going off on a dandy like this one might leave their ladies without husbands and children daddy-less.

I wouldn't have been laughing after my hometown got sacked, but there they were, sharing jokes and spitting up wads of tobacco.

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"I'm sure they've completely forgotten about you," I said.

"Am I that forgettable?"

I couldn't tell if Dale was kidding or not.

"They got a hard-on for a bounty is all," I said.

Dale laughed nervously. "Right…"

We passed them down Revelation’s main avenue, and after we were clear of their eyes, Dale sat back at attention.

Busy was an understatement. Hell, if I told someone Revelation Springs was just busy, it could've almost been considered a lie.

As you can imagine, there was a saloon right at the start of the main avenue, and it was packed as saddlebags. Out front, patrons chatted up corset-wearing courtesans while they sipped on drinks that would've cost a buck less last week. The Gold Mine Hotel had a line from the front desk, out the door, and then some. Seemed to me, this Founders' Day Fair was a big deal even if I'd never heard of it. Such revelry was never really my scene.

"Picklefinger's it is," I said to Timperina, patting her side. A town this big had more than one saloon, and Picklefinger's was the cheapest around.

My guess is even they wouldn't have room enough for both me and Dale, but we'd try that before resolving to slumming it in the wild. As much of a dump as Picklefinger's might've been, it also had a clear view of the bank across the square.

"What?" Dale asked.

I ignored him and kept pushing deeper into town. All roads converged on the big central square set around a bubbling spring with mineral bands inside that had the appearance of gold strips. A small geyser in its center shot off every hour or so. Tourists loved the thing, sometimes getting too close to the hot water and scalding themselves. It was no accident the city's physician had his clinic around the corner.

Carts filled the square, farmers selling produce and meat to take advantage of visitors. I saw some things I once enjoyed and wished my having been revived from death hadn't stolen most of my senses. I always loved those crisp, red apples in all their glory, candied and sweet. No utensils needed, no cooking. Just scoop it up and take a bite of joy. Nowadays, it wouldn't be the same.

Simple things got a simple appeal.

A big cloth banner that read Founders' Day Fair was strung across the street from the top of the Town Hall on one side to the Miner's Guild on the other. Local deputies stood at every nearby corner.

Picklefinger's Saloon was right next to the guild. It was quaint. That's a word people use when they don't wanna say it's a grimy, dilapidated shithole. I was sure it wouldn't be around much longer before Revelation Springs's new blood decided to make improvements.

"All right, Dale," I said, stopping Timp. "This is where I leave you."

"I thought you wanted my help?" he answered, sounding awful whiney.

"I want you to hang around here and keep a lookout for anything suspicious. You've seen our outlaws—"

"Barely."

"More than most. So, keep an eye out, and if you see anything dubious, anyone walking into that bank who looks like they're after more than their own savings, you fire that pistol of yours three times into the sky."

"Three."

"Yep. One after the other."

"Don't you think that might draw attention?" he said.

"That’s the point. My attention, the law's attention… Plus, it'll clear the square of innocents."

"Right. And how about you?"

"I'm gonna go pay our friend Mr. Dufaux a visit and see what he knows about that bird symbol and if he’s lost his mind not cancelling this fest."

Dale tittered. "Are you insane? You think you can just waltz right into Mr. Dufaux’s house? He'll have guards everywhere."

"I'll knock."

Dale swung his leg and hopped down from Timperina to the square. He smiled. "You've already been buried once, Mr. Crowley. I sure would hate to see this one take."

"Ain't a grave I've seen that can hold me for long." I moved to trot ahead when Dale's features darkened. He grabbed onto Timp's saddle. She threw her head. He was more than a little lucky he didn't get kicked considering how temperamental she could be.

"Thank you. Seriously," he said, withdrawing his hand. "For everything."

I tipped my hat.

Timp turned her head and snorted, giving him another fright.

"Oh, Mr. Crowley?" Dale said, grabbing my leg this time.

I stopped and peered down in way of a response. He removed his hat and shuffled dirt with his boot.

"Spit it out," I said.

"It's just… I ain’t got much money."

"That all?" I laughed. "Go inside. Talk to the barman. Goes by Picklefinger. Can't miss him. Tell him you're with me. He knows I'm good for it."

He nodded. "Picklefinger… right." He stood there for another moment.

"Can I go now?"

He smiled. "Right. Thank you again, Mr. Crowley. I won't let you regret it."

With that, he scampered off toward the saloon muttering "Picklefinger" over and over like it wasn't plastered all over the damn building.

"We'll see about that," I said as I continued on around the square. From all directions, farmers constantly hollered about their produce. A couple of… actors, I reckon you'd call them… were putting on a show, using the gallows as a stage. Judging by the performers’ costumes, from frontier garb to native feather-crests, I guessed they were reenacting the events of the founding of Revelation Springs. The gathered crowd was small, but occasionally, someone tossed a penny in their tin can.

The festival wouldn't start in earnest until tomorrow if the dates painted on the aforementioned banner could be believed—but these sorts of events tended to linger on for a week or more in some cases. Whatever it took to drive interest, get more bodies into shops and buying things for more than they ought to be sold for. And people called my Scuttlers criminals.

There were rich folk amidst the throng, women in puffy dresses and men sporting monocles and gold time-tellers. They all fanned themselves from the hot sun, and who do you think sold them said fans?

What a damn hoax.

I eyed Revelation's bank, standing on the far west side of the square. It was a big old building with fluted columns outside and a massive arched doorway large enough to fit that goat-Neph and more. DUFAUX BANK AND TRUST was carved into the stone cornice. Thing looked like a Grecian temple, all pristine white. Dufaux spared no expense. Why would he?

Two Pinkertons were stationed right outside. Deputies carried bags of what I assumed to be money inside from a stagecoach parked out front. Seemed odd to me, moving cash at a time like this. You'd think Dufaux would keep everything locked up tighter than Heaven's gates.

One of the Pinkertons giving orders noticed me and stared. He was one of the three I'd found tied up, though not the leader. I didn't spot my rifle on any of them, though you better believe I looked. He'd been chatting with the local sheriff before I distracted him.

I lowered my Stetson in salute and continued by, surveying what I could of the square. Even the Yeti and his crew would have a bitch of a time hitting this bank and getting away with it. Surrounded by other buildings on the sides and back, the only way in was through the front doors—two big wooden monstrosities, twice the height of the guards out front and ornately carved. Each one of those must've cost more than most men make in a year. The vault inside was sure to be absolutely top-of-the-line.

Smart outlaws would hit their main target first, as not to alarm anyone. If robbing Dufaux's monetary sanctuary in Revelation Springs and getting the score of a lifetime was indeed their goal, starting small made no sense. Then again, these were no ordinary outlaws.

Leaving the main square and crossing through the rest of the city, there wasn't a single damn shop not overflowing with people tossing money around like cards. Finally, I found myself in what might've been considered outskirts. It'd only been a few years since I'd been back, but damn, had they built this place up since. Out here was more like I'd remembered it, shanties dotting the ridge of a large quarry, some even with tattered cloth strung up for shelter. A poor place filled with poor people.

I'd guess Mr. Dufaux and whichever other men the plural word "founders" referred to wouldn't mind if this area got tossed up in the next twister.

Grime and red dust coated the faces of men, women, and children, so it was hard to tell where most of them were from—though many had distinctively native features. And they watched me go by with cold glares, likely envious that I got to sit so high on the rump of a horse, shaded by a big old hat.

Beyond their homes was a vast quarry, and farther past that, miles in the distance, a warren of sharp, striated rock formations painted all variations of red, with one that almost looked like a falcon's wing, feathers and all, sticking up sideways.

The quarry itself was dug deep and filled with various switchbacks and terraces carved around colorful hot springs, as well as tightly constructed wooden scaffolding. Must've cost a fortune to get so much wood out here where there were no trees, but when a mine is filled with gold… well, you get the picture.

Out here in the West, a settlement doesn't pop up for no reason. Either it's got water, or riches, or in the case of Revelation Springs, both. Made for quite a little hub of activity out in the middle of nowhere. And all these impoverished people had the luxury of digging and sloshing to harvest gold.

I'm no man of science or learning, but I had to hypothesize that the heat of the water had quite the effect on the minerals. Made for some dangerous conditions as well. And I doubt a baron like this Mr. Dufaux made up for with high pay. Men like him gave the bare minimum and hoarded the rest.

And as I continued northwest up the road, I spotted his villa, proud on a mesa with views over both his mines and Revelation Springs itself and I could practically see him standing by his window like a lord, lording like lords do.

There was well-to-do, then there was rich, then there was something else entirely. Dufaux fell into the lattermost category. I'd seen the estate before, though only from afar. Never had much reason to meet with Revelation Springs' de facto leader until now.

The road skirted the fairgrounds. It was roped off to the public, but from there, I could see all the many things one would expect from a traveling carnival. A tent marked Freak Show was prominent, as well as a shooting range, games of chance, and a big old stage. I passed the church and started up a long incline right to Dufaux's front gate.

The mansion was two tall stories, with a double portico at the front bearing columns similar to the bank. Only difference was that these were wrapped in a band of scintillating gold at the bottoms. Two buildings born from the same mind. One that liked to say, "Look at me. Look at me."

I've visited manors and plantations of countless types, but this was close to a fortress. Mid-height walls surrounded the place except on the backside, where there was a steep drop into the deepest portion of the quarry. The more cynical side of me imagined the master of the house tossing people through a back window when they forgot to add cream to his tea.

It didn’t take an eagle eye to spot the gunmen on the homestead’s balcony, with more behind some of the windows. And as I got closer, I counted even more patrolling the property. Perfectly manicured bushes formed patterns within, pinpricked with flowering trees. All florae not meant to grow in this region, organized around two shallow, diamond-shaped pools.

In a place filled with natural springs, Reginald Dufaux had built his own.

I stopped at the gate, noticing that the spikes on top were gilded—as if anyone who decided to try and climb over would prefer being impaled by gold over iron.

No sooner than I stopped, a gun cocked and aimed through the bars.

"State your business."

I peeked through at a clean-shaved dark-skinned man.

God Almighty, if I could just catch a break. You’d think working for Heaven would help, but no…