by Chris Barili
Pain exploded in his temples, driving him to his knees. When it relented, Webber hissed a laugh.
“Learn your place, Marshal.”
“You should have told me about the prospector.” Frank struggled to his feet. “And that damned Hellhound. How did they know where to find me?”
The judges conferred in their snake-hiss voices.
“We do not know,” they said, as one.
“Kinda what I thought,” Frank muttered. Webber’s eyes narrowed. He was hiding something, Frank knew, not that it mattered now. “I held up my end of the bargain, now—”
The steel-bound double doors behind him boomed open, allowing Camille and Spike to enter. Camille glared at Frank as she passed.
“What’s up your petticoats?” Frank snarled at her. “You told me to take the shot.”
“I thought you’d shoot around me, not through me!” A bullet hole oozed blood in the nape of her throat, and her voice whistled and gurgled. “Now I’m back here again, you jackass.”
“Silence!” Webber bellowed. “Jesse James’ soul has been returned to Hell, true, but not without extensive chaos and death in the world of the living. We had to pull the wool over The Boss’s eyes, which ain’t easy to do. You violated the second part of our agreement.
“However, you did prevent James from advancing his plan, and saved the lives of several innocents, so the court imposes the following sentences. Camille Logan and Stephen ”Spike” Miller, your suffering will be reduced by half.”
Camille looked visibly relieved, and even Spike relaxed, his shoulders slumping and his fists unclenching.
“What about Mills?” Frank asked. “He died doing good.”
The judges conferred a moment before answering.
“Charles Mills faces tests in his own underworld now to determine his eternal fate. Your guide is helping him.”
Frank felt a tinge of pity for the detective. Those would be difficult tests. Painful. And Batcho would be little help.
“Now, Frank Butcher, we will reduce your punishment by a quarter, since you did kill an exceedingly large number of innocent people, and were belligerent before this court.”
Frank pointed at Webber, taking a half-step forward before remembering the explosion of pain the man could cause.
“Way I see it,” he growled, “I killed innocent women and put a slug between the eyes of a fourteen year old boy. I deserve more pain. That was our deal.”
Webber dropped his hands to his side, brushing aside his duster to reveal a six-shooter holstered there, a green glow surrounding it. His threat went unspoken, but Frank heard it clearly, nonetheless.
“Like I said,” Webber replied, his voice dropping as his eyes smoldered, “you failed in half of your assigned tasks and needed us to bail you out of trouble, so the deal is void.”
Rage coursing through him, Frank fought the urge to rush the figure and wrap his fingers around his throat. The green glow of Webber’s gun held his temper in check—if his soul was destroyed, his suffering would end and atonement would halt forever. So he stood, fists clenched, fuming at the judges.
He’d done things just as bad as his original sins, yet somehow, he was destined to suffer less. Fists bunched at his sides, Frank managed to suppress the rage flowing through his body. They’d set him up to fail, manipulated him from the start, and in the end, they still got their way. Frank had inched closer to forgiveness he didn’t deserve.
The judges filed out of the room, but just before he left, Webber stopped and looked Frank in the eye.
“Don’t worry too much, Marshal. You’ll have other chances. The position of Hell’s Marshal is appointed for eternity.”
Webber started to go, but Frank wasn’t done.
“James didn’t know about the Hellhound.”
Webber stopped, his back to Frank. “He must have.”
“He didn’t. What do you suppose that means, Judge?”
Webber shot a baleful red glare over his shoulder. “Means you’re very lucky.”
As the oily judge disappeared, Frank remembered the final words of Jesse James’ spirit as it was sucked back to the depths of Hell.
This ain’t over, Butcher.
Somehow, Frank knew he was right.