The reverberations of four gunshots echoed through the dusty streets of Flatriver. The barrels of both Frankie "Gore" Wilson's iron and John Travers's six-shooter were still smoking.

John took a step toward Frankie.

"I think it's about time you left, Frankie, fore I put another hole in ya," he advised.

Frankie clutched at his chest, just below the collar bone. Blood seeped out between his fingers.

"You're gon' pay for this'n Travers, you and the - "

"Watch it now, Frankie, now go on, get."

The outlaw shuffled toward his lingering posse and horses, hefted himself onto the back of his steed, and, no doubt headed back toward Thornsummit, left.

John turned and walked back toward the saloon. Val Combs, Bailey Blackburn, and Quinn Martin were all standing out on the porch, watching. He took three steps forward and staggered, the pain in his abdomen flaring to life with the passing of adrenaline.

Val flew off the porch, her hat landing in the dust of her passing, and ran toward John; the dark locks of hair freed, whipped wildly in the wind.

John managed two more steps before slumping forward onto his knees and toppling over.

"John? John can you hear me?" Val called as she rolled him onto his back. She whipped off her scarf and pressed it into the gunshot wounds. The tan linen garment was swiftly soaked through with crimson vitae.

"Ms. Combs, you don't need to shout," John whispered.

"Goddamnit John, that was foolish, what were you thinkin'?"

"Ashamed to say I wasn't thinkin' much, Ms. Combs."

"Don't have to say that twice, damn fool, runnin' out here to get killed," Val muttered, struggling to maintain pressure.

"It's alright, Ms. Combs, it's okay," John reached up for Val's hands, she batted them away.

"Don't you dare, don't you say that, John Travers. You can't die, I won't have it," Val demanded. Her blue eyes bored into John's, pleading with him, despite the nature of her words.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you Ms. - “

“Johnny Boy,” Val interrupted, “I need you to do three things for me, sweets, look at me, alright? Now listen, you stay here with me John, okay? N’you keep that mouth shut, save your strength, and you can call me Val, okay John?” tears streaked the grit and dust from the street on her face.

“Val…” John repeated, struggling to keep his eyes open.

“Shhh… quiet now sugar, doc’s on his way,” Val assured him. She groped around in the dirt with her off hand and found John’s six shooter, then leveled it at Betsy Larsen, one of the ‘companions’ at the saloon, and resident gossip, “Isn’t he?” she menaced as she pulled the hammer back.

Betsy took off across the way, toward Doc Eliis’s clinic.

“I didn’t know you had freckles, Ms. Val…” John breathed.

Val Combs brushed the back of her hand over her cheeks, successfully smearing away some of the remaining mess.

“John…” she cooed.

He didn’t answer.

“Johnny boy?” she asked, looking back to him. His eyes were closed and his head lolled to the side. John’s chest wasn’t moving.

“John!” Val held her hand over John’s mouth. She felt no breath.

“John, John you come back to me,” she commanded, shoving against his chest, “John!”

Val’s pleas and demands turned to anguished shouts and sobs as she pounded her fists against John’s chest, doing everything she could think of to bring him back.

John looked down at the scene playing out before him, stunned.

“What the f- “

“I would suggest against using such language in my presence, Jonathan Travers,” a guttural, otherworldly voice spoke from behind him.

John whirled on his heels, and came face to robe with an imposing figure of a man. The thing was impossibly tall, its robe was a mass of writhing, climbing darkness with the faces of damned men crying out in torment, its skeletal fingers were wrapped around the haft of a wickedly pitted and nicked harvester’s scythe, dripping with blood that never seemed to leave the blade.

“Well shucks,” John said, “I’m gonna infer that you would be Death, and I, well, I would be extra dead if you’re here to collect me.”

“You are indeed, deceased, Jonathan Travers, however, much before your fated hour,” the Reaper answered.

“Pardon?”

“Do you believe in destiny, Jonathan Travers?”

“Is that the… um what’s it called… manifesto… thing?” John asked.

“No… Jonathan Travers, it is not. Destiny, Fate, the predetermined events in a man or woman’s life that are the sum of their character and demise. Destiny, Jonathan Travers.”

“Can’t say I much do, sir. If Destiny is a thing, what does that make free will?”

The Reaper brought one of its skeletal hands underneath its deep cowl, and an eerie chuckle emerged.

“A surprising question, and a good one.”

“So?” John continued.

“So?” The Reaper asked.

“What does that make free will?” John asked.

“Free Will is choice, Jonathan Travers. I lay one before you now,” Death said, outstretching one of its arms in a wide sweeping arc.

John raised an eyebrow and said, “Go on.”

“As I said, Jonathan Travers, you have met your demise, but not when you were supposed to.”

“So, do I jus’ get to go back?” John interrupted.

“Unfortunately no, nothing so simple. What I have for you is an opportunity, Jonathan Travers. You see, this new frontier, new era of man, the agents within it, have shunted fate. These agents of chaos must be brought to justice, their interference has upset the order of the world - “

“Okay so, lemme get this straight,” John said.

The Reaper growled and wrung its hands on the grip of the scythe.

“You, Death, The Grim Reaper, need me, to round up some Outlaws out of Fate cause it’s fuckin’ up the world?” he asked.

“That is… one way of putting it,” Death answered.

“So, what’s the catch?”

“The catch?”

“Yeah, what do I get? What’s the cost? That kinda thing.”

“You, Jonathan Travers, get to live out the rest of your destined days. In exchange, you become my Reaver.”

“Reaver?”

“Yes, Jonathan Travers, a Reaver.”

“What’s the difference between a Reaver and a Reaper?”

The dim indigo points of light within the cowl flared up to glaring torches, the Reaper lurched toward John, the burning flames of contempt level with John’s gaze.

“You ask too many questions, Jonathan Travers.”

“Okay okay!” John answered, taking a step back with his hands raised to the level of his eyes, “look, I jus’ wanna make an informed decision, alright?”

The Reaper receded, though the flames of its eyes did not dim.

“I will answer one more question after this. My Reapers go to collect the dying when it is their time. Reavers go forth and tear away from men.”

“Tear what away?” John asked, unable to stop himself, “Shucks…”

“Free Will, Jonathan Travers. Free Will is what you will Reave, what you will strip from these Agents of Chaos. Starting with Frankie ‘Gore’ Wilson.”

The outside edges of indigo flame tilted upward. John couldn’t tell for sure, but he guessed that The Grim Reaper was smiling under his hood.

“Frankie’s one a them?”

The Reaper nodded.

“I’m in, I’ll do it.”

"Most excellent, Jonathan Tavers. Now, there are a number of things to discuss, paperwork to be filed -"

"Look, Death..." John interrupted, "I appreciate that you wanna do things by the numbers and all, but I'm gonna be real honest with you, a lot of that stuff is gonna go right over my head, I'm gonna ask where to sign, then I'm gonna do it."

"Eager to get started, are we?" the Reaper asked.

"I'd be lyin' if I said I wasn't itchin' to plug Frankie full of holes..." John admitted, "I'm a simple man, Death. I said that I was in, so, here it is."

John held out his right hand toward the Grim Reaper, offering it for a shake. Death let out a chuckle that rested somewhere between amusement and disbelief.

"If there is one thing that I know of you, Jonathan Travers, it is that you are a man of your word."

"Deal's a deal, far as I'm concerned."

Death extended its skeletal right hand and clasped John's and shook once, firmly.

"So... uh... this is the part where most folks let go," John observed, as Death had not yet released him.

"Did you think that you would return to the land of the living unchanged? That I would send a Reaver, my Reaver, back in the same fragile flesh that I found him in?"

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

A moment of silence passed between them.

"You're lookin' for 'No,' right?"

"It was a hypothetical question, Jonathan Travers -"

"Y'know... you can just call me John... the full name thing is awful formal."

Death dragged John to be nose to nasal bone with the Reaper.

"You will not interrupt me again, Jonathan Travers. I will address you as I see fit."

Death's left arm shifted beneath its robe, there was a sickening snap, and then all of the air rushed out of John's non-existant lungs as the Reaper's non-occupied hand plunged into John's chest.

The man could only gasp as Death released him and withdrew both hands and stepped back.

"As a Reaver of Men, you will be a nigh-unstoppable force of order in the world. Contrary to what some may think, Holy sites and relics cannot kill you, mortal instruments will wound you, but only an object of chaos can grant you true death."

John sank to his knees as the hole in his chest knitted itself closed. There was something moving around inside of him, spreading, coating his bones and organs.

"Is it supposed to feel like my insides are burning?"

"Right now, every flaw within your corpus is being righted, made to be correct as I deem it. I could have turned you inside out and fixed it myself, would you have rather I done so?"

John grit his teeth and suppressed a groan of pain.

"Nah, this is good."

"Now, Jonathan Travers, it is a shame that the accelerated healing took hold faster than I thought it would. I do have one more thing to give you..." Death reached up and grabbed the jagged edge of a knick in its scythe, then peeled off a shard of the metal like it was tearing paper.

"Oh boy..." John mumbled.

"A Reaver requires a weapon, one that is adaptable, sturdy, that cannot be taken from him. I grant you this shard of Inevitability."

Death slipped the shard of metal between the ribs on John's left side, separating his skin and muscle effortlessly.

"Ooh! That's chilly..." John shuddered as the piece of metal moved through his skin and spread on his left arm, wrapping the bones under his skin.

John got back to his feet and rolled his shoulders.

"Okay, so I get to go back now?"

"No, Johnathan Travers... there is more to do first."

"Like what? You fixed up all the wrong parts, gave me... whatever this thing is... we shook on it. I wanna get back before folks worry too much."

"Listen to me, Johnathan, and listen well. You will go back to the land of the living when I deem you ready, and not a moment sooner. You are an investment that I will not send out into the world simply to be destroyed. I will train you in the powers that you have at your disposal and then, when you have passed my tests, you will return."

"You didn't use my full name!"

Death groaned, "Is that all you took from my words?"

"No! I was listenin'! I just got a little excited is all... you're gonna train me on how to... do stuff... with the stuff you gave me... and there are gonna be tests... then I can go back, right?"

"What have I done?" Death mumbled.

----------------------------------------

Back in the Land of the Living

----------------------------------------

Doc Ellis shook his head, the tuft of white hair atop his head swayed back and forth like a cotton stalk.

“‘Fraid he’s gone, Ms. Combs.”

Val felt her knees buckle but refused to fall, taking a half step forward instead. John’s six-shooter was heavy in her trembling grip.

Betsy Larsen fell to her knees, careful of course, to make sure her ruffled skirt was well out of the way beforehand, and laid her head and arms on John’s chest. Alligator tears and faux sobs filling the silence around them.

“Which shot did it,” she asked, her voice low.

“Pardon?”

“I said,” Val growled as she shoved Betsy away, “which shot killed ‘im?”

The older man pointed at the middle of John’s chest, “That one I suppose, was the second shot…”

Val paced, the shooting iron pulling hard at her hand.

“Ms. Combs, would you kindly calm down?” Doc Ellis asked, appearing suddenly in Val’s path.

“It is unbecomin’ of a lady to pace with a weapon brandished,” Betsy chimed in, no trace of tears on her face or in her voice.

A part of Val wanted to point John's gun at Betsy's face and say "I'll show you unbecomin.'", part of her just wanted to cry, and another wanted to chase Frankie down and make sure he never hurt anyone again.

For now, she just needed to think. Val let out a sharp whistle and her horse, Chip, clopped up next to her. John's horse, Sal, paced nervously. Val pulled herself into Chip's saddle, took hold of Sal's guide line and headed back to her ranch, Angel's Bluff.

She could do with a ride.

----------------------------------------

Father Dalton put together a nice service for John that Sunday. Most folk would have left the service if it were anyone else, but John had made his mark on Flatriver. Not one soul left; not one eye was dry. It was hard to believe that it had been five days since his passing.

"Johnathan was a kind and gentle soul. Violence never suited him, but this world is a violent one. While the Good Lord dictates that we should turn the other cheek, it is also demanded that we turn not a blind eye to the wicked, but to expose them."

Spittle flew from the Father's mouth as his fervor ramped up.

"Temperance, Kindness, and Humility may be among the Virtues, but the Wrath of the Righteous shall not be discounted or ignored! I implore you, when violence is beset upon your neighbor, take up arms and inflict judgement on those that would do harm! Protect each other from the vile darkness of man with the light that burns within every one of you!"

The nave buzzed with murmurs of agreement and stoked anger.

Val sighed and the Father ushered those in attendance to the yard outdoors where John was to be buried. Val's stomach twisted into knots as she followed the congregation, she almost felt the questions before she could hear them.

"Poor thing, first her husband runs off, then her hand gets himself shot standin' up to Frankie..." Iva Brady muttered.

"Hush, Iva. We're all missin' John," Winifred Bennett said.

"He was up there an awful lot, whattya s'pose he was doin' up there all that time?"

"Hush Iva, she's gonna hear you if you keep yappin'."

"Lord, she seems upset..." Iva said before Winfred elbowed her in the ribs.

"Classy ladies, Val, aren't they?" Quinn Martin commented, "The dead are due their respect."

Val simply nodded, "John deserves it, deserves peace."

A fair number of folks spoke before John was lowered into the ground, their kind words washed over Val like a haze.

She couldn't focus, her heart was too heavy. Jasper Combs had never come home; the powers that be made sure she'd known of his demise, she'd had to keep that to herself. Here she was, baring the weight of what there had been between her and John, mourning alone, again.

Father Dalton nudged her shoulder, "Val, would you like to speak?"

She nodded and stepped to the foot of John's casket.

"If anything's clear it's that John..." she paused, keeping Johnny Boy from tumbling out of her lips, "John touched so many lives here. He was always ready to help, to give. John was a good man... because he was willing to be good, even if that made things more complicated than they had to be..."

The undertaker lowered John into the ground and Val's throat slammed shut. She stooped, clutched a fistful of dirt and tossed it onto the casket as she stood.

Val made her way back to the shade of the pine tree she'd been standing under while the others spoke and rested her hand on the worn wooden grip of John's revolver. The crowd lingered, milling about, and sharing stories as the gravediggers filled in John's plot. It didn't take long for Val to mingle and offer whatever ease she could to the folks.

Bailey Blackburn, saloon owner and retired US Marshal spoke up, "Now now, I'm sure John here would love to listen to us talkin' bout him, but let's let the boy rest. We all know he liked to drink that amber moonshine, and I happen to have a few bottles of it, why don't we empty 'em out for 'im?"

----------------------------------------

Elsewhere...

----------------------------------------

"Again, Johnathan, like you mean it," Death ordered.

"Y'know, I really am tryin' this sonuvabitch won't stand still," John snapped.

"Do you hear that Esseres? You aren't standing still long enough for Johnathan," Death taunted.

The glimpses of Esseres John had caught didn't tell him much about the Reaper. They weren't as tall as Death was, but they still had a head of height above him and every time that John had almost manifested his revolver they'd struck him with their own scythe, be it the blade or grip, or shouted directly in his face, shattering his concentration.

"I keep telling you. Make something easier... gun is too hard," Esseres offered.

"Fine, whatever, let's do this."

The first couple of days of training had been easy for John. Endurance tests, dealing with pain, learning what a "site of order" was and how to channel the energies there to empower and repair his body. But the three consecutive days of combat training opposite the Reaper with Death itself overseeing had been arduous. He just wanted to get out of this limboscape and back to Flatriver.

"Begin!" Death shouted.

John focused, commanding his will to take shape in his left hand.

"Too slow..." he heard Esseres mumble before launching off of their back foot to lunch forward, scythe held back, its blade eager for John's legs.

John lunged forward to meet Esseres and jammed his metal coated fist into the reaper's cowl. A sickening squelch told John that his punch had made purchase and made more of a mark than he'd intended.

Esseres was laid out behind him, a pool of silver mercury forming where the reaper's head had been.

"Aw shit! I didn't mean to decapitate the summbitch, I just wanted to slug 'em one!" John shouted in a panic.

Death laughed as Esseres' body got back to its feet, felt around the stump of its neck, and gave John a thumbs up.

"What?" John asked.

The sounds of crunching, reforming, and hardening bones reached John's ears.

"Aw that's just nasty..." he commented.

"About time. Can I go?" Esseres said to John first, then Death.

"Yes, Esseres, you may go. Do not run behind on your collections again... or you will return to train the Reaver."

Esseres bowed at the hip toward Death, shook their head at John, and stepped through the portal they tore into reality with their scythe.

"You have a good one!" John called after the reaper.

"Johnathan, you have passed your final test and christened your weapon in the blood of a reaper. You should be able to form your desired weapon now," Death congratulated.

John focused on the hunk of metal covering his hand and it reformed to his desires immediately, taking the shape of an eloquent revolver.

"Wait, so I couldn't'a made this thing a gun before, even if I wanted to real bad?"

"No, you could not. A Reaver's weapon is to be quenched in the blood of a fallen Reaper, which I have in ample supply in Tarturus," Death held up a finger, cutting John off before he could interrupt, "which we would have gone to if you hadn't insisted on shaking hands and moving forward. That decision still saved you three days time."

John bounced on his toes, "So I get to go back now right? Am I gonna have to dig myself up outta the ground? Oh man... I hope Sal's okay, that damn horse was the best -"

Death floated toward John and planted its hands on his shoulders, forcing his feet flat to the ground, before removing them and taking a step's worth of distance.

"You will be going back, you will not be digging yourself out of your grave..." Death answered.

"What about Sal?"

"Any creature that your soul, your very essence had been bonded with will be affected by your return, your steed, 'Sal,' will recognize you and obey you."

"Okay... alright... I'm ready... let's do this thing!"

Death extended an open hand, the space where a palm would have been pointed at him.

"Do not forget, Johnathan Travers, Frankie 'Gore' Wilson must die. You must kill him."

"Oh, don't you worry, I didn't forget."

"Give him his due, Johnathan."

A swirling black mist wafted from Death's hand and robes, swirling around John.

"Oh, I'm gonna Do Justice on him alright..."

The mist paused.

"No, Johnathan, Frankie is due justice, you do not do justice..."

"You just said he needs to die, right?"

Death nodded.

"So, I'm gonna track that shit down when I get back, and go do justice on him in the form of gratuitous violence, fair 'nuff?"

"You are an idiot, Johnathan..."

The mist resumed its consuming swirl.

"But I'm your idiot, Death... you're stuck with me."

Death closed its fist, sending John to the Land of the Living with the gesture.

"Don't remind me."

----------------------------------------

Hours and many cups of 'shine later, Val walked back to the church and around to the west wall, where a small field of headstones cast long shadows. John's marker was a simple wooden post that read:

"Here lies John Travers, a heart so big it took two to stop it."

She sat down on the grass next to the freshly packed dirt, "I don't know how you stomached that stuff, Johnny Boy... much to sweet for good drink..." she mumbled, half expecting his feigned indignant answer.

"Dammit John, this is the part where you utter some nonsense... some endearin'... silly somethin'..." Val scolded the wooden plank.

"Easy, Val," Quinn said from behind her.

Val moved to get to her feet as she looked over her shoulder. The gentle, old barber held out his hands, "Yer fine, Val, full as a tick, maybe, but fine otherwise. You don't gotta get up."

Quinn approached slowly, like he were closing on a wild animal.

"What're you doin out here, Quinn? Why aren't you back in the saloon with everyone else?" Val demanded.

"Came to pay respects, same as you... I didn't see you slip out, I can let you alone, if you'd prefer."

Val considered the offer for a moment before shaking her head.

"Appreciated, Quinn. I don't want to be alone right now."

The older gent sat next to her.

"You ain't alone Val, John's right here," he offered.

She shouldered into him.

"You know what I mean, old fool," she muttered.

"You were awful fond of that boy, weren't you?" Quinn asked, his voice gentle and comforting.

Val nodded against his arm.

"Y'know, I asked him what he was doin' up at your ranch once, when he was sittin' in my chair, know what he said?"

She shook her head, "Can't say I do."

"It were the most 'Travers' thing that boy ever said in the time I knew 'im. He said: 'I just like to help Quinn, an' the folk there need some. I think Ms. Combs is awful pretty too.' Now ain't that just John in a nutshell?" Quinn asked with a chuckle.

Val's cheeks went red as her eyes watered.

"Quinn... it's -"

"Now now, unless you're 'bout to say 'it's a shame he's gone' you best stop right there. John made his own decisions, and I don't think he'd take too kindly to you blamin' yourself for what happened," the barber scolded.

"Alright..." Val answered.

"Can Chip getcha home? He know the way?"

Val nodded again.

"I think it's best you get movin' then, get some rest Val."

----------------------------------------

"Son of a shit!" John shouted.

Death had sent him back a full six feet above the ground. John landed hard on his feet, the parched land crunched under his feet. He looked down and studied himself for a moment.

He had been sent back in some business man's suit, in all black, with black leather boots, a red neck-tie, black ranch hat, and matching duster.

"I'm gonna roast in the daytime..." he muttered as he checked his pockets.

He found a half dozen silver coins and a folded map. John put the coins back into his pants pocket and unfolded the map.

"Aw Hell... Ha Ha Death... good one..." he mocked aloud, "So... Lost Hope's Scar... then 'bout two days walkin' across Dead Man's Flats to make it back to Flatriver... I didn't save three days..."

John took a deep breath, folded the map up and stuffed it into the duster's inner pocket.

"Dammit Death."