"Whatchu think you're doing, mister?" the deputy asked.

He looked like a loose thread pulled at the edge of a worn vest, or the runt of an already small litter.

As he held that gun, swaying just inches from my face, I thought about letting him shoot me. Nothing makes a man stop and listen like watching as the person whose head you just blew a hole through starts talking like nothing even happened.

Instead, I kept my peace and waited for him to lose nerve. They always do. Not like what was left of Lonely Hill's law and order was gonna open fire and shoot a stranger on his knees in front of the whole damn town.

"We don't take kindly to defecating the dead," he said.

He meant desecrating, but I let it go. He'd had a bad enough day. So, I just glared up at him like I knew a secret. Fact was, I did. His bullet in the back had killed the Sheriff, and that most likely meant friendly fire. And only one frightened deputy was shooting blindly in the Sheriff's direction.

I spoke softly as to not let anyone else hear me. "Feeling guilty, Deputy?"

His eyes went wide as saucepans, and his face turned red.

"Leave the fella alone, Dale," said another voice. "Can't do worse keeping us safe than y'all done."

This one belonged to one of the townsmen. By the sound of him, he was twice Deputy Dale's age, at least.

"What'd you say?" Deputy Dale asked.

Wasn't clear if he was speaking to me or the other guy, but either way, he received no replies.

I rose, sure Dale was harmless as a dove. I brushed myself off and ignored the shaking gun. It followed me, so I gently pushed back my duster.

They say a man looking to protect himself carries a single gun, but a man looking to kill carries two. Don't know what it says about me, but I got a third strapped across my back—a Winchester repeater to complement my twin pearl-handled Peacemakers. Not to mention a silver-dusted hunting knife hidden in my boot. If things get hairy, I’ve also got an onyx-black lasso—which I promise you is more terrifying to monsters than the guns.

"Mind putting that thing down?" I said. "I ain't here to stir up trouble."

Deputy Dale looked me over. I know where his eyes were roaming. He was wondering if he could shoot faster than I could pull. Probably could. He just didn't know it wouldn't matter.

By now, the crowd had backed up a respectable distance, likely fearing they'd get sprayed with brain matter should Deputy Dale decide to take his second life of the day. Matter of fact, it looked like even more had now come out of their hidey-holes to watch.

"Please?" I said with very little emotion.

Dale lowered his weapon halfway. "You a fed?"

"No, sir," I replied.

"Then what? Some kind of bounty hunter?"

"Of a sorts."

"Well, they long gone," Deputy Dale said, looking over my shoulder at the mob behind us. He was sweating bullets. "And you should be, too. Look at Theo, over there."

I did as he asked, not making a show of it. But just as I'd seen in my Divining with the sheriff, Theo lay baking in the sun. From here, I could now see the tomahawk sticking out his face. Only difference was, now the haze had fallen, and flies buzzed around his split skull. I could've Divined him too, but I saw him die. He saw much of the same. And honestly, an hatchet to the head was the last thing I needed to experience.

"These people need to grieve without any more hullaballoo," Dale said.

"Hullaballoo?"

"You know. Another stranger, coming in here, mucking up the place."

I grunted and turned my back on him, moving toward the entrance to the bank.

"Marshal, I'm warning you," he said.

I almost laughed.

My job as a Black Badge is a difficult one to explain. Though I have no earthly authority in the traditional sense of the word—no writs or warrants—there ain't a lawman alive who's gonna keep me from fulfilling my duties. Besides, I’ve been given no choice in that matter. I got debts to pay.

The White Throne sent me to Lonely Hill for a reason. I don't know what it is yet, but the Lord works in mysterious ways, and all that bullshit people say when they don't understand stuff. All I know is that whatever reason I'm here, it means this is a task for someone with a bit more experience than Deputy Dale.

And before anyone gets themselves in a state of confusion, allow me to set the record straight. I wasn't a good man in life. There was barely a sin I hadn't ticked the box off of in my day. In fact, I'd always figured I'd rub elbows with the devil himself when I parted this Earth. Probably did during those years before I was brought back.

Yet here I am. I think even the White Throne knows well enough that good men falter when it comes time for pulling the trigger. You need a special kind of someone to shoot first and ask questions later. Or choose never to ask at all.

That fella is me.

The name's James Crowley, but most days, I'm just a goddamned Hand of God.

You might say, "My word, Mr. Crowley, that language ain't appropriate for a sentence also including the Lord's name." And hell, you might even be right. After all, the Almighty did see fit to give me another lot in life.

Revived by angels. That's a gift!

Bullshit.

This is a curse if there ever was one. I may serve Heaven as penance for a life of crime, but Heaven ain't at the end of the rainbow road for me. When—and if—the White Throne decides it's had its fill of me, I don't get Paradise. No, sir. No golden streets, pearly gates, or mansions in the sky.

The only promise is me getting spared the icy depths of Hell.

And when you find out eternal damnation—there's that 'damn' word again—when you find out it's a real thing, you learn to play nice with angels. Trust me.

Deputy Dale was still spitting threats at my back as I trudged toward the bank. Puddles of what looked like blood pooled around its foundation. A lady huffed and threw a long-gloved hand over her lips when I reached down and dipped my finger in it. Heard some muttering behind me, too, like I'd just dug up the dead.

To my surprise—and dare I say relief—it appeared like nothing more than water mixing with the red clay that was so prevalent in this region. It wasn't from rain, that's for sure. This region hadn't seen rain in too many months. Might've been melted snow but those flurries couldn't have done this much. It was just too much water streaming out of the bank like a springtime creek.

A paper flier lay in the wetness. I picked it up and squinted. Something about a Founder’s Day Festival up at Revelation Springs in a week or so, hosted by Dufaux Bank and Trust. They’d be a little short on spending money, all things considered.

Leather groaned after I flicked the paper aside and stood.

I made my way up the front porch. It was dead silent but for the sound of my spurs jingling and my boots thudding. I reached for the door handle. That's when Dale's protests grew to a degree that could no longer be ignored.

"Now wait right there, Marshal!"

I spun, quick as a whip, pulling my pistol.

"I ain't a goddamned marshal!" I barked, firing two bullets at the kid's feet. Wasn't trying to hurt him, just trying to put a little bit of that fear of God in him. He danced like I wanted. Then, he dropped to his knees like his skinny legs wouldn't hold him any longer. Probably couldn't.

Bringing my arm down halfway to straight, I turned to the rest of the townsfolk who weren't already running. The injured men outside the saloon went pale, likely fearing another shootout that this time they wouldn't be lucky enough to survive.

"Now, I already said I ain't here to hurt nobody," I stated. "I'm here to find out what happened to your town. Y'all go home and let me work."

The faces staring back at me held terror in their features. Some retreated slowly. Others whispered. I raised my gun again, and they all scattered like startled crows.

When they were gone, only Deputy Dale remained nearby. He stared at me, his soft jaw set in as hard a line as it could go, trying and failing to conceal his many emotions. Anger and fear were likely to be chief among those.

"You need more convincing, Deputy?" I asked.

To my astonishment, he approached me, stopping when he saw my shooting arm twitch, and then pressed forward again. Even I had to admit the guy had some cojones on him.

He slowed his pace when he reached the porch but still climbed. A pace or two from me, he said, "Don't know who you are, mister, but I… I can't let you go in there unaccompanied. It's a crime scene, and if you ain't a marshal like you says you ain't, then you got no right being there."

I kept my gaze fixed squarely upon him. Then, I spun my pistol once and shoved it into its holster.

"Unaccompanied, eh?"

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I shouldered my way past him and down the porch stairs. I couldn't see him with my back turned as it was, but I knew he was watching, wondering what it was I was doing. Was I leaving? Was I walking ten paces before turning to send him following after the sheriff he'd likely accidentally murdered?

I stopped when I reached said former sheriff. Dale made a monosyllabic sound like a whimper or a puff. Reaching down, I snatched the star from the sheriff's jacket and returned to Dale.

"Fine," I said, palming it against his chest. "Lead the way. Looks like you're the new sheriff anyway."

Dale grabbed it before it fell to the ground. He stuttered through an unintelligible response and then promptly plunged it into his pocket. Confused as he might've been, his back straightened, and he nodded.

"It ain't pretty in there," he said, head shaking.

"Never is."

Dale led the way toward double doors that had already been busted open. He pushed them wider, and the frost-coated brass hinges squealed in displeasure.

The moment I passed the threshold I could sense the increased frigidity in the air as if out of habit, though there was no gooseflesh on my skin. Part of my… condition is that I don't feel the same way as everyone else. You can shoot me, stab me, kick me—nothing.

Sounds pretty damn good, don't it? Well, it ain't exactly. That numbness extends to the bedroom too. And the bar. And just about anywhere else pleasure can be found.

The bank's antechamber looked like it had been nice for such a quaint town, more like the lobby of a playhouse than a bank. But now, the walls and floor were peppered with bullet holes. On the back wall, by the teller's booth, an aperture the size of a cannonball told the story of a shotgun being involved. Fragments of chewed-up wood mingled amidst the chaos, soaking in meltwater with chunks of ice still floating in it.

A high, arched ceiling proved the building's external facade was just that—not two stories, just a tall one and beautifully crafted. On that ceiling was painted some exaggerated scene of a man finding what appeared to be gold in a spring and hoisting it high above his head as a geyser shot up behind him—tough to tell, coated in ice as it was. Blades of light emanated from the gold as if it were holy. To some men, I suppose it is.

"Lot of money put into this place," I remarked.

"Mr. Dufaux has a dream of having a bank in every town across the nation, he does," Dale said.

“Mr. Dufaux,” I said. “And who might that be?"

Dale looked as if I'd slapped him. Then, his face shone like he was telling a bedtime tale to his children.

"Why, Mr. Crowley, Reginald Dufaux is a legend! The man started with just the boots on his feet and the hat on his pate. Built—from the ground up, I might add—the premier banking institution in this here region starting in Revelation Springs. Lonely Hill has never been prouder than the day Mr. Dufaux brought his bank and trust to our humble, little old abode."

"Never heard of him." I shrugged. It wasn't entirely true. The name was familiar from my passings through the region, but never met the man. I've never been too fond of money-baggers who made their fortunes off someone else’s hard earnings.

I know that sounds funny from a former outlaw and thief, but what we did—me and my old bandit crew the ‘Scuttlers’ led by Ace Ryker—was an art form. Took more work than an honest day of hard work.

"He live around here?" I asked.

Dale laughed, sharp and short. "Golly, no. He's got an estate outside Revelation Springs.

He's gonna be like a bull on fire when he finds out about this.”

Despite it being midday, it was eerily dark inside. Flurries and dust flittered here and there like ash. Any window that hadn't been shot out remained fogged up by the thick film of rime that cast an unholy darkness throughout the place. Which answered the question: Is this why I was sent here?

The White Throne was stingy with details, expecting me to decipher things on my own. Most times, that was simple. Others, not so much. But here, standing inside this dark, wintry, cold bank, I could feel the touch of Hell on it. The hulking outlaw I'd seen wielding ice? Whoever he was, however he got those powers, those sort of abilities come only one way—communing with demons.

Most times, when folks think about Hell, images of fire and brimstone come to mind. But what filled the bank, cold and ice, those are the true signs of Hell. And cold can be just as unforgiving as any flame. It's really quite simpler than people think. The Almighty, Heaven, they're light. The sun… that's fire. Old Lucifer, the Devil, Satan, the Adversary, the Morningstar—don't matter what you call him—his heart is cold as the darkness in which he dwells.

Whatever happened in this bank, it was Hellish to the core.

"What happened here, Sheriff?" Steam swirled around my breath.

For a second, I don't think Dale knew I was talking to him, being the first time anyone ever called him by that title.

I realized my words might have sounded like an accusation by the way he responded.

"Oh. I. Uhm…" He turned toward me and continued. "Listen, I don't know what you think you saw or know…" His voice got low even though there was no one living to hear him. "But Sheriff Daniels, he’s a—was—a good man. He died protecting us like he always did. That’s it, clear and simple.”

Whether or not he accidentally killed the Sheriff in the firefight was irrelevant to me. Bad things happen when bullets start getting flung around willy-nilly.

"Just tell me what happened here and I’ll be happy to pry no further," I said. After the chaos I witnessed through the sheriff's eyes, a fresh perspective seemed necessary.

Dale swallowed the lump in his throat. "Thank you, marshal.”

"Name's Crowley. And I ain't a marshal. We clear on that?"

Dale nodded.

"What. Happened. Here?" I said each word pointedly like I wasn't gonna ask again.

"Wish I understood," Dale said, his gaze growing distant. "Never seen them before, and they came in like a twister and left just as quick. Or, like a blizzard, I reckon."

"Just took the money and split, huh?"

"Like nothing I've ever seen. Before anyone in town knew what happened, they'd already broke the safe open. Barely time to mount a defense. Look."

He gestured to the teller’s desk, the bars from the counter to the ceiling offering extra protection and making it hard to see the vault beyond. So many snow eddies filled the other side, I felt like we'd entered one of those toy snow globes.

Our boots sloshed through an inch of water while he led me around. The grated door leading behind the bars lay in shards on the floor, shattered like glass. Water rippled through from my steps, and my foot hit a chunk of ice. And not just ice.

A man was frozen solid on his knees, eyes open, staring in horror at whatever had done this to him. He looked as if an avalanche had buried him. The shotgun in his hand had been stuck with him, seemingly the culprit responsible for blowing that hole in the wall.

The vault door behind him was snapped open, unnatural tendrils of ice snaking through the crank. Even from here, I could tell the inside was completely empty. A bank branch in a small town like this wouldn't house too much, but money's money, and it was gone.

"Harvey ran this branch," Dale said, barely above a whisper. "Nice fella. Bit of a drinker, though."

"No warmth in the belly could have saved him from this." I lay my hand upon the bank manager's shoulder, the ice slick as it slowly melted. Enough that some frostbit flesh poked through. While Dale was busy peeking around corners as if anyone was still around, I tried to Divine the poor sap.

Nothing happened. Well, that's not entirely accurate. But, seeing as I only get to witness the final half-a-minute or so of a life, all I saw was a dark blur—the nothingness Harvey here saw from within the ice. I felt the Hellish bitter cold seeping through to his bones before numbness set in. Heard the slow thump, thump, thumping of his heart before it all went black.

When I came too, even my feelingless body gave off a shiver. What a way to go. I got thirty seconds. Only God knows how long he lived inside his frozen tomb, wondering where it all went wrong.

"That safe was supposed to be impenetrable," Dale said, poking around the thick metal entry.

"Apparently not," I said, rising.

Incredulity wracked his features. "What kind of weapon could freeze it like that? And Harvey… It's almost like—"

"How many were there, Sheriff?" I interrupted. I didn't want him to finish the sentence and say the word I knew was coming. The all-powerful word that can give cause for snow in a place where it doesn't snow.

Magic.

When normal people start throwing around that word, well, let's just say my job gets tougher.

"Please stop calling me that," Dale said. "I ain't proud of what happened."

"Proud or not, you're all this town's got now, son. So, tell me what you know."

It was time to pry the mind of the crime's chief witness. The dead weren't gonna show me any more secrets. But one thing was certain—things didn't add up. Not one damn bit. Demons and the like, things I usually chased after, didn't have much need for cash. And these outlaws didn't seem to be making it a goal of killing like possessed or demon hosts typically did. Sure, three were dead, but only lawmen and the teller who'd pulled a boomstick.

"Sheriff," I said. "You plan on answering?"

Dale looked like he was having a conniption. He was sweating before. Now? It was like a dam burst, and a whole ocean was pouring off him.

"It was pretty wild, Mr. Crowley."

"That ain't what I asked."

He peered out the window as if the outlaws might come back. "I counted two. Maybe three."

"Well, which was it?"

"I-I—"

"It don't matter. A crew that small robbed your town blind and got out unscathed?"

Again, Dale looked dejected. "It's a small town, Mr. Crowley. Only about a hundred or so, not counting those living close enough to use our services."

"The people of Lonely Hill ain't armed?"

"Half of us are women and children," he said.

"Still, seems easy enough to take down two or three outlaws who get themselves boxed in here when there's a dozen or more armed and knowing how to shoot."

He closed his eyes and shook his head. "You didn't see them."

Fact was, I had. Or at least two of them. But he didn't need to know the extent of it.

"One was big," he continued. "Real big, with crazy hair like… like snow. The other moved so fast she was a blur to my eyes. I think her skin was painted. I… I just kept shooting and…"

He paused for a moment, no doubt thinking about that stray bullet which claimed his sheriff’s life.

"And the third you maybe saw?" I asked, hoping to break that train of thought.

"Just felt the wind when bullets whipped past from somewhere on the rooftops."

"Sharpshooter, huh?"

"Maybe. Sharpest I've ever seen."

"More would be dead if that were true," I said.

“It was probably his bullet killed Sheriff Daniels.”

Dale sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than me. So, I just gave him a sidelong glare and waited for him to continue. He blinked fast a few times before he did.

"Anyway, he scared everyone away like he was herding us,” he said. “Like we was sheep. Carved a path right out of the square after they broke open the vault. Sent most of us running."

I felt like that last sentence was a slip of his tongue, and his red face agreed. Then, his words did too.

"Wasn't like I ran," he said, quick. "Stayed down right outside, and I think they thought I was dead. Heard every word they said on the way out. Surviving's got to count for something."

I glared so hard at him he stopped to swallow the rock forming in his throat.

"Didn't think that was a good bit to start with?" I said.

"Forgive me, Mr. Crowley, but I still don't know who you is."

"I is the only damn bastard around here that ain't hiding out. I’m here to help and you need to cooperate.”

He nodded, slow.

"Well, I heard them all, but it was loud. So loud with the screaming, horses, gunshots… I ain't even sure it was English."

I threw my hands up in frustration.

"Wait. Wait," he said, raising his own to placate me. "I think I heard the big one say it was time to hit the next one."

"You think?"

"He did. He said it was time to get on."

"Which way did they leave?” I asked.

"Huh?"

I slapped his arm. "When they left, which way did they go?”

He bit his lip, and I could see the gears of his mind turning.

"West," he decided, finally.

"You sure?"

He nodded. "Yeah, after they loaded everything onto a wagon, they headed west."

"What's the nearest town in that direction big enough to have a bank?"

"Well, it's Elkhart, I reckon. You don't think—"

"Of course, I think. If they're going on a spree, they'll be moving fast."

"We gotta warn them."

"I plan to do a lot more than warn." I swept out from behind the teller's station, blowing by him.

I stopped by the bank's entrance. Turning to him, I tipped my hat. "Good luck with Mr. Dufaux," I told him. Then, I headed out and back toward Timperina. She was busy nipping at a young boy trying to give her a pat. She didn't have much tolerance for anybody but me.

Shooing him off, I walked her by the saloon to see if I could get any of the injured men talking. Nobody had seen any more than I already had. Same ghost stories of a shooter on the roof, an impossibly fast woman that some were sure was a man. And a big brute with some kind of dynamite that blew ice instead of fire.

Nothing that helped more than what Dale spoke of.

Not keen on wasting any more time, I decided to leave Lonely Hill in my dust. At least I wasn't riding blind anymore. There were many ways it could come about, but someone had been entrusted with the frigid powers of Hell and was using them to get rich.

I can't say I wouldn't have done the same if I'd been so lucky back when I was an outlaw. But I wasn't anymore. And if all these years serving the White Throne had taught me anything, it was that any man or thing with abilities like this didn't usually stop at robbing and fending off lawmen.

They escalated. Innocents died.

That is, unless I stopped them first. Frozen corpses, icy black magic, Hellish murder—all in a day's work.