Horace Thistle read out loud, slowly. He turned each page slowly, and always took a brief pause to assess the contents of the new text as it loomed before him. He did this as a habit, because he had been embarrassed reading out loud once, and he reckoned this was owed to his having been attempting to read too quickly. So he read slowly.

The book was on hawks. It was a field guide of sorts. ‘Of sorts’ because the author would often break away from the detail of ornithology into long digressions on the poetic beauty of his subjects. These diversions, in Thistle’s opinion, weren’t very well written and added nothing to any reader’s knowledge of raptor biology or behaviour, but the book was a favourite of his adopted son Simon, who lay dying in the bed next to where Thistle sat.

It was during one of these long diversions, delivered meticulously by Thistle, that the eventual and much delayed moment of Simon’s death came. His breathing ended when Thistle was about halfway down a certain page, and when he reached the bottom of the page he closed the book. He hadn’t needed to look up; the gentle rhythm of Simon’s breathing had been the only sound in their home apart from his own voice for several days. 

He reached out and held the hand of his son.

—

When the undertaker, Flint, and his boy came to pick up the body they were very quiet in doing so. They graciously refused Thistle’s offer of tea, stating that they preferred to see jobs such as this through as quickly as possible, as experience informed that it was best not to linger in any way, as their presence in the house often inspired discomfort. They also refused his help with carrying the wrapped-up body to their cart, stating that the young man was very light and easy, and that they preferred to handle bodies in this kind of situation themselves, being professionals, and that experience informed that the lifting of unwieldy objects should not be left to the recently bereaved, particularly those of advanced middle age. 

Thistle, then, had plenty of time to saddle up his horse with his luggage, and double-check his inventory that it was all in order for his journey. His horse was called Hawk, a name chosen by Simon when they (mostly Thistle, but Simon chipped in as much as he could with money he made from copying) purchased him as a foal, a project Thistle had always planned on for his retirement.

When Flint set off towards town, Thistle matched his pace. Nobody said much on the way.

In town people tipped their hats and bowed solemnly and the like. None of them particularly said much.

Flint ran a cremation service out of his parlor, so that’s where they went. Before Flint could apply the alchemical treatments to Simon’s body to ensure a complete burn, Father Graham came over and blessed it to prevent the ashes from catching the attention of the ravenous crocodilian demons which populate the Stygian swamps, through which they would be transported to reach the gates of Heaven. 

//

Fifteen years ago Thistle was the sheriff, and he was already old. For reasons he preferred to keep to himself, he had devoted much of his lifetime to rooting out a sprawling network of criminal gang-families from across the county, and the cost of this endless war on his soul had driven him to drink. He was calculated in approach, abrupt in action, and constant in execution. He operated tirelessly, seeming to be fuelled mechanically by liquid spirits; a joke commonly made amongst his deputies was that he had not slept since he was in the womb. He lived alone, and had very little in the way of friends.

Thistle’s war, which lasted decades, came to its awaited conclusion in the gutted pit of an abandoned quarry. His grail; Billy Spider, the man he had been chasing all this time, his dragon, his counterpart, had his back quite literally to the far wall of the pit. He was holed up in a mouldering shack, the slanted path to which was littered with the bodies of his lieutenants. Thistle himself was further up the path than the rest of his party, much against their advice, about one hundred100 yards or so from the shack. He was crouching in cover from Spider’s bullets and curses alike, behind a large boulder. Whilst he waited for the stream of offense to still, he treated himself to a drink from a flask he kept on the opposite hip to the one where he kept his pistol. When he was sure that Spider was busy reloading, he leaned round to level his own rifle at the empty window frame in the front wall of the shack, and waited for the ultimate, decisive moment. Before long the silhouette of a man staggered upwards into view. Now, perhaps if Thistle had been sober, or perhaps if the sun was a little more behind or ahead of him, he would or could have noticed that this silhouette, ostensibly Spider’s, seemed strange,ly- that it bulged and twisted about the middle, a shape very different to the stickish frame which had earned Spider his moniker. That aside, the shot was there, and Thistle took it. Spider, then, through Thistle’s scope, seemed to fall into two, slumping asunder down the middle. 

Thistle rushed down the rest of the dusty path to the shack, and opening the door slowly with the barrel of his rifle, first saw Spider’s no-doubt lifeless body where it had fallen, half-propped against a dusty cupboard that it had collided into on its descent. Then, heading further in, he could hear light, ragged breathing, and as he turned to look around the door he saw Spider’s bastard child, Simon, leaking into the floorboards where he lay. 

//

Simon Spider was eight8 years old when his father used him as a shield to try and get his last shot off at Thistle. However, the boy’s struggling meant that Spider was delayed in reaching his full stance, and it was Thistle who was allowed to shoot first. As Spider crushed his his son’s body against his own with one arm, and raised his pistol with the other, Thistle’s bullet first entered Simon’s torso and ricocheted off his spine, travelling upwards into his father’s heart, killing him instantly. Simon himself survived, but was left motionless from the waist down. Thistle adopted him, and soon retired from service as sheriff. 

Now Thistle and Simon were on their way to a secluded stretch of river, thatwhich had been a favourite vacation spot of theirs when Simon was younger and healthier., Thistle rode  astride a lightly-burdened Hawk, cradling Simon’s ashes in a locked, sturdy box. In the gentle current of the river Simon had learned first to paddle and then propel himself with his arms, building over the years a real strength and talent for swimming. This act was deeply important to Simon; it enabled him to move freely and elegantly without the use of a wheelchair, and he likened his perfected stroke, a kind of butterfly, to the pattern of a bird’s wings in flight. 

Simon was beset at times with attacks of severe illness. Thistle’s bullet had committed him to a lifetime spent in the constant company of death, who made an attempt on his body every few years. Simon was strong, and would meet death on its own terms, the two remaining locked in siege for weeks at a time. Thistle bore witness to their conflict from Simon’s bedside, cleaning his sores and wiping the sweat from his brow, watching him waste away in a tormented sleep, reading from books of ornithology. 

//

The journey from town to the river was cross-county, and took a few days. There was a sequence of inns they would stay in every night, and Thistle was now at the second. He had left his things in his room, and was downstairs in the saloon, sat at a small, empty table, staring at the fungal abrasions thatwhich shot through the crusted surface of its planks. He was tired. He was a little thirsty, but not too hungry. He didn’t feel like speaking to anybody just yet, so he resolved to stare at the table a little more before making up his mind on what to order.

He felt that he was being watched. He turned slowly and saw that he was, by a youngish woman sitting at the bar with a red ponytail in dark, expensive looking clothes. The stranger smiled at Thistle and motioned to the barman. Thistle turned back to stare at the table.

In a minute or so the red-haired woman came to Thistle’s table holding two stocky glasses of whiskey.

“Thought you could use some company. Looked like you could,” she said as she sat down opposite, placing one of the glasses in front of Thistle. “On me, of course.”

Thistle gently picked up the glass and placed it back in front of the woman, and said “Thank you kindly. I don’t drink. But it’s very kind of you.”

“That’s a crying shame,” said the woman, still smiling, “Looks like I’ll have to have two.” She reached out her hand. “Name’s Sidney Dust.”

Thistle took it. “Horace Thistle.”

“Now I don’t mean to be forward, but I already knew that. See, I know who you are and why you’re here, and I don’t want to waste your time. You really ought to get some rest, but first there’s something I feel I’d better tell you. You know what a red letter is?”

Thistle shook his head. “I might’ve heard the name before, but I don’t give much credence to that kind of thing.”

“Again, I hate to be forward, but you should. A red letter is a bounty set by the Devil, and there’s one on your name. It’s been picked up by a bulletman, a grim sorcerer by the name of Dr. Buzz Kitch. Now I don’t know how close he is, but he’s on your tail.”

Thistle felt that from her look and tone, this Sidney Dust was quite deathly serious. “And how do you know this?” he said, a little through his teeth.

Dust started to smile again. “I have something of a score to settle with old Lucifer, and I make it my business to disrupt his, wherever possible. I’m trying to help you, let’s leave it at that. There isn’t much more I can say except that you should get some rest and maybe something to eat…and, uh, good luck. What you’re doing is real admirable.”

Thistle nodded and left the table. He headed back to his room, and took care to lock the door. He took stock for a moment, and sat down to clean his pistol. He hadn’t fired a single shot, from any weapon, in fifteen years, and had always carried the revolver as a habit rather than a precaution, so he thought it would be prudent to at least make sure that it was in working order before he continued on. 

He was about two-thirds of the way through the process when he felt that he could hear deep, thunderous footsteps against the earth. They seemed miles away, but approaching steadily. Hurriedly, he began to reassemble his revolver, and as he brought together the cylinder and the frame, the footsteps changed in texture, and he could hear that they were now coming from the end of the corridor, towards his door. 

Thistle had time to load one bullet before the room imploded, throwing him out into the muddied soil of the empty street. 

He lay in the filth, violently dazed, surrounded by splinters and chunks of shrapnel, clutching the half-built pistol in his left hand. He squinted, looking around him until he saw the box containing Simon’s ashes, which had landed a few metres away from him, still intact. He turned back to the inn, looking up to the hole where his room had been, one storey above ground. On the precipice of the blasted floorboards above stood a figure, a man so tall he seemed to touch the sky, in a wide-brimmed hat and long coat.

The man jumped down, landing squarely on his feet down the road from where Thistle was attempting, against a mill of broken bones, to stand. He turned to face the now-crouching Thistle. Between his hat and his collar his features were indiscernible, except for a pair of dark, circular glasses, and an impossibly-wide, toothy grin. As Thistle began to aim his pistol, the man raised his right arm, keeping his palm level and parallel to the ground. Instantly, Thistle felt that he was being crushed by a great weight from above, as if a massive stone pillar had been dropped onto his back. He was forced onto his stomach, limbs spread wide, half-buried in the mud. 

Witnesses would later describe a mountain or perhaps a rocky tower, swathed and switched over in black cloth, erected in the middle of the street, casting a taut shadow over the old man, who was lying still on his face in the dirt.

The man, still grinning, began to approach Thistle, one step at a time, each footfall causing the same thunderous noise that he had heard from his room. With each step the weight on Thistle’s back increased, and his vision began to fade. Grinding his chin into the earth, he turned his head, so that he could see Simon’s box. In that moment, somehow, he managed to flex and lift his left wrist from against the ground, to aim the revolver, with its one bullet, at the encroaching fiend. He squeezed the trigger, and from the soiled muzzle flashed a bolt of bright white light, which gouged a steaming furrow into the tall man’s side. He lowered his raised right arm to clutch at the wound, releasing Thistle from the invisible weight, and he hissed through his massive teeth. As he turned to flee, the stunned crowd began to stagger out of the inn, including Sidney Dust, now limping, who attempted to shoot him in the back, but missed as her eye was full of blood. He swirled into an alley, casting a grin at Thistle over his shoulder, and scaled the shadowed wall of the general store using nothing but the grip of his fingers and toes, before leaping across the rooftops into the night. 

Dust, panting, lowered her pistol and dragged herself over to Thistle, collapsing next to him. “That’s your man,” she said, “that’s Buzz Kitch, no doubt in my mind.”

//

Thistle could not be convinced to rest. The innkeeper, who recognised him a little from his previous visits, pleaded with him to stay, but he would only remain long enough for the local doctor to perform cursory treatment on his myriad wounds, the worst of which was a massive gash on his stomach, presumably caused by a flying splinter. He didn’t collect any of his belongings save Simon’s ashes and the remainder of his bullets before he heaved his way onto Hawk’s back in the dead of night. He, and began to ride for the river.

It wasn’t far, and would take the better part of a day to reach — the journey was usually twice as long, but Thistle didn’t usually ride Hawk as if to outrun the Devil. The ride, at this pace, was nothing short of agony for the broken Thistle, but he did not slow for a second, clutching the box against his wounded gut and thinking of nothing but the river. 

After untold hours, by which time the sun had risen fully and was lingering high, Thistle reached the tell-tale field of tall, wild grass through which a single straight path to the river was cut. From here it was only a matter of minutes to the water’s edge itself. Hawk was slick with sweat, frothing at the mouth, B, and between ragged breaths Thistle assured him that the ordeal would be over soon.

AHowever, a ways up the path something appeared to be emerging from the ground. A human hand, darkly clothed, clawed its way up through the earth, followed by the wide-brimmed hat and sun-bleached grin of Dr. Buzz Kitch. He raised himself up from out of the path itself to block Thistle from passing, and before the old man could react, fired a single shot from a heavy old iron, directly into Hawk’s skull. The horse died instantly, crumpling to the floor and pinning Thistle by his leg. As Thistle tried to pry himself loose, Kitch approached once again, the soles of his boots shaking the very foundations of the Earth. He pulled aside his coat and raised his black shirt to reveal the gouge in his own torso, which did not bleed but instead oozed and spluttered a viscous, murky slime. He spoke, but his mouth barely seemed to move, and although he was aboutnear thirty yards away from Thistle, his great, hollow voice seemed to be right in his ear. 

“You and your holy sword scored me a mean one there, Horace, but it seems we’re even on our wounds.” Kitch again raised his right arm, blocking out the sun, “much nicer to resume our duel here, away from the meddling others.” Once again Thistle was subject to immense weight, which pushed down, not only on him, but on Hawk’s body, grinding his trapped leg against the rocky ground. Thistle had managed to grab his pistol before they fell, and, twitching, he managed to push it forward to aim at Kitch, thoroughly grazing his skin on the gravel. Kitch shook his head and tutted, before raising his other arm, so that he now appeared as a great, hellish buzzard. When he did, the already unbearable weight on Thistle doubled, and he let out a choking cry of pain. Hawk’s corpse began to compress, splitting slowly at the seams, gore issuing from the hole in his head. Underneath, Thistle’s leg was being turned into paste. 

Thistle could not move. He could not breathe, he could only watch as Kitch walked towards him. He could not think or pray, but he could feel as Simon’s box, slick all over with Hawk and Thistle’s blood alike, began to splinter and deform. As he felt the box lose its shape, Thistle again managed to push against Kitch’s weight. His cry of pain turned into a wild, ungodly roar, and he jerked his arm up to fire, again sending up a great flash of light, which burned through half of Kitch’s face. However, this did not slow him, and Thistle fired once more, this second shot pushing clean through Kitch’s heart, throwing him backwards, bodily, so that he landed on his back with a sound like an avalanche. 

Thistle, now free, slid out from underneath Hawk’s mangled carcass, and limped over to Kitch’s slightly-twitching body, still holding Simon’s box, which had just about retained its shape. He aimed his pistol at what remained of Kitch’s face, starting slightly when he saw that it was still grinning, and that Kitch was looking straight at him. 

“No need,” said the sorcerer, the clarity of his voice unaffected by his missing cheek, “I’m just about dead, and my last words won’t be a curse. As a part of my contract the Devil took my language of cursing. I will say this; I see you, Old Man. From here in the dirt I see you pinned against the sky just as we pin a moth against a wall. Perhaps that’s why he wants you…to pin you against the walls of his own domain, to kill and hold a little something of some kind of beauty. Perhaps he owes a favour to an angry moth. You’d best be on your way, Beelzebub comes for my soul.” As he closed his speech, Kitch jutted his chin into the distance, where Thistle could now see a darkened silhouette in the tall grass, arms raised like a scarecrow, approaching at a relaxed, steady pace. He turned away and began to limp towards the river.

These last hundred or so metres were the longest part of Thistle’s journey so far. When he reached the low bank of the river he could barely keep himself upright, and as he dragged his splintered leg into the shallow he thought he might lose consciousness from the sudden cold. 

He advanced a few more steps, out to about where Simon first learned to swim, and knelt so that his waist was submerged. He raised the box to his lips and kissed it, and, with his hands shaking, un-fastened the lid. 

As Simon’s ashes are released into the stream, the dressings on Thistle’s wounds are broken by the current, and he bleeds freely into the water. The blood and ash mingle as they go down the river, and Thistle begins to cry profusely. Tears, snot, and spit pour down his face as he slowly folds down around the open box. He bleeds freely, and dies kneeling hunched over in the river, the water breaking around his back.