In the Name of Salvation

In the name of Salvation

The year is 1898. America is beginning to industrialize. The West is dying; scoundrels are trying to claim the last vestiges of their former lives before it all changes. Once bustling saloons become relics of the past, more of a tourist attraction for northerners wanting to see the myth of the West. The further you venture south; the more decay is evident. It’s held together by both tape and a romanticism of what used to be.

Those who still operate as outlaws are growing older, withering, and decrepit. It’s become easier for cops to pick them off during heists and robberies. Old scores get settled not with a spectacular crescendo but with a sad whimper. For those who still operate, they are often looking for the jewels of their forefathers. An old heirloom lost during the Civil War, a piece of treasure that belonged to a famous cowboy, or even a woman from a fleeting connection. It’s all they’ve got to live for.

A church near San Antonio serves as the last salvation for many. An elderly man—Father James Winchester—operates the church. He is not a judgmental man; he doesn’t have the right to be. He used to be one of them. He once killed, raided, seized, and pestered many people. Now, he runs the church, caring for its visitors by offering food, shelter, and a listening ear. Many suspect his turn to religion is a ruse, one last chance for salvation. Still, his daily actions show he simply wants to help people.

As he puttered around his church, a young man entered. Walking with a slight limp, he looked worse for wear. Father quickly raced over to him as he collapsed into the chair. He looked as pale as the moon. He needed urgent help.

'I need salvation, Father, oh heavenly Father,' the young man pleaded. Father Winchester wetted a piece of cloth and placed it on the man's head. The injured man wore a bandolier; Father removed it and set it aside. He then noticed a considerable amount of blood coming from the man's side. Realising the severity of the wound, Father focused on making the man as comfortable as possible.

He then noticed a gun in his holster. With the injured man fading in and out of consciousness, he removed the weapon. As he looked at the gun, he noticed a name inscribed into the butt. It was familiar, frighteningly familiar. It simply read O’Shaunessey.

‘Father, I don’t have long, you've got to get me help. I need salvation, I’m dying.’ The father looks down at the man. His eyes are rolling in the back of his head, and he’s looking weak. He looks back at the gun. After a few more silent moments, he leaves this man where he is and walks back up the aisle to the chancel.

The injured young man starts screaming; a desperate ploy to get the father back to him.

‘You swine, get here and help me, I need to be saved, you rat bastard, uh.’ As the father reaches the front of the church, he grabs a copy of the bible. He flicks to a page, Isaiah 44:22.

‘I have swept away your offences like a cloud, your sins like the morning mist. Return to me, for I have redeemed you.’

The man continues to beg, each scream getting weaker. The father just continues reading his bible until the screaming stops. It takes a few minutes, but eventually, the pleas become silent. Once the young man begins wheezing his final faint breaths, the father prays, splashes himself with holy water, and tends to the man like it's old trash. There is no intention to get help.

SOME TIME LATER

It’s a suspiciously clear day in this part of the world. The air is still. The sun beats down like a brutal strike of a hammer, the trail to the dying West sits unbeaten. In these parts, trees creak and crinkle like an old man holding on for life. Not even the animals operate, as there are no faint crickets chirping or one ominous snake hissing. The only creature that could catch your attention is the looming vultures that begin descending on one spot in the desert: a sign of someone succumbing to this dying empire? Or evidence of greater malfeasance.

One person takes note of this. His name is Ebrahim O’Shaunessey. He is a 64-year-old outlaw. Once a feared mercenary with a gang of marauders, he has very few men left to support his lurid ways. He often rides alone, as the few times he can gather a crowd often end in petty squabbling or bad feelings. He’s done well to make it this far, but he knows his time could be limited.

He rides towards the wake of vultures. It’s a grizzly sight. Blood lines their beaks like paint dripping from the end of a paintbrush. Their eyes are blackened; no signs of a soul behind them. These are savages, something he could relate to.

He fires off a shot. They scatter like marbles. Riding over to the man, he’s curious to see which soul has perished in the harsh conditions of this cruel country. The man wears a flannel shirt, a Confederate flag tattooed onto his wrist. It’s a gnarly sight, but despite the carnage, he recognises this man.

He gets off his horse and crouches down to this man. The smell isn’t pleasant, but he soldiers through it. He turns the body over. To his horror, he recognises this man.

‘Dion, my brother. What did they do to you?’ He didn’t have many left. His wife, Addie, had recently passed from Tuberculosis. The men who didn’t die during their thieving days had succumbed to cholera. Dion was one of the few he still rode with. Now, with his body rotting in the desert, being picked apart by birds of prey, he’d left Ebrahim a lonely man.

Fraizers Bar

A short while later, Father Winchester sat alone in a bar. He didn’t drink, but sometimes he needed company. His daily life was filled with people he didn’t relate to. People of good moral standing who had committed small acts of regret, the occasional broken marriage, and the semi-regular request for forgiveness. These people he dealt with didn’t have real issues in his mind. The ne’er-do-wells who frequented these types of bars would never think of asking forgiveness. The father found more solace in this.

As he sat lonely in the bar, he spoke to a young lady. She was obviously a lady of the night. He wouldn’t usually associate with these types. However, he felt she was the right person for his scattered state of mind.

‘What’s a man like you doing slumming it with layabouts like me?’ She asked. The father is trying his best not to look at her obvious cleavage. She noticed this. ‘It’s ok, you can have a look.’ The father shoots a look down, before looking away.

He takes a sip of water. ‘I’m tempted by the devil.’ He mutters. The lady runs her leg up his calf under the table.

‘Well, if you’re worried about people finding out, I won’t tell?’ She shoots him a wink before giggling. He shakes his head.

‘With due respect mam, I’m not talking about you.’ He takes another sip of water, his gaze shooting towards the man playing the piano in the corner. ‘My past is coming back to haunt me. I guess you can say I saw a ghost of my past, the embodiment of my sins.’

‘What are you talking about?’ She asks, ‘You’re a man of faith.’

‘Theoretically.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘This faith business, I’m not really of that ilk; it’s a ruse.’

‘What?’

‘I’m a man of sin, masquerading as a man of faith. I used to ride with a gang, the Rankin lot. We were feared across the great state of Louisiana, killing, stealing, fucking. We were bad men.’ The woman sits a bit more upright, a little bit of fear creeping in. The man’s expression changes from sorrow to almost a slight happiness, as if he were remembering the good times.

‘Well, how did they let you become a man of god then?’

‘I guess the standards of the church are slipping,’ he chuckles. ‘No, it’s a ruse. I needed to escape that life, to survive, live, thrive.’

‘So, you became a pastor?’

‘No man wants a man of faith dead, who’s gonna help them beg for forgiveness?’

‘Does that matter? The way you’re talking, it sounds like you’re in trouble.’ She takes a sip of whiskey. The smoke in the air is becoming thicker, men smoking cigars and drinking booze, creating a smothering atmosphere in this place.

‘I feel like trouble is finding me. I saw an old friend yesterday.’

‘Oh.’

‘A man who would’ve killed me if he knew who I was.’

‘Dear me. That’s awful.’

‘I expected it, one of these days, I knew they were gonna start showing up.’ He takes a sip of water before getting up to exit. The woman follows him out of the bar. She’s very interested in this man’s story. What has happened, and what is about to happen.

The Next Morning

The morning is colder than a banker’s heart. The terrain still sits lonely, seldom trekked. Back at the church, the father readies himself for a sermon. The woman sits there, watching as he practices his speech. It’s from Zephaniah 1:14-16

The great day of the Lord is near –

Near and coming quickly

The cry on the day of the Lord is bitter;

The mighty warrior shouts his battle cry.

That day will be a day of wrath –

A day of distress and anguish,

A day of trouble and ruin,

A day of darkness and gloom,

A day of clouds and blackness –

The woman is enraptured by the conviction in his voice, a far cry from all he spoke about last night. He delivered this with venom, passion, and resolve. He appears to believe in these words. He’s lived them.

‘That’s amazing.’ She says, in awe of his charismatic delivery.

‘If you say so.’ He mutters, his energy shifting dramatically as he closes his book. ‘It’s not that hard to sound convincing, it’s all about acting.’ He walks from his podium and walks over to the woman. He takes a seat on the pew beside the strumpet. It creaks rather loudly, echoing like the crack of a gun in the forest. He puts his hands together and begins praying.

However, he is interrupted by a bellowing voice at the church.

‘Father,’ He quickly turns around to see a silhouetted figure. It’s slightly brooding, yet his slouched posture suggests this is an old man. ‘I need your help.’

Father Winchester gets up and begins racing towards the man in the doorway. About halfway down, he stops. The silhouette becomes clearer, and he begins to recognise this man standing in front of a door. He is flanked by a horse; a dead body appears to be on its back.

‘Ebrahim?’

‘James, I see you’ve brought yourself a fancy new outfit?’

‘You’ve still got the same tacky old flannel shirt, I see.’ Winchester and Ebrahim go way back. They were in rival gangs. They’ve both attempted to kill each other on numerous occasions. They’ve both sought the same treasures. They’ve slept with the same whores. These two are birds of a feather that would never have dreamt of flocking together. Yet, here they are.

Ebrahim looks at the woman at the front of the church. ‘Old habits die hard, you sleazy old bastard.’ James goes to walk away, but hears the cocking of a gun. He puts his hands up. He slowly turns back around. ‘I was gonna ask you to bury my friend Dion, but I almost have a sneaking suspicion you have something to do with this.’

James doesn’t respond. He just stands there idly, almost vacant. For Ebrahim, that confirms his suspicions. He signals for James to back up towards the front of the church. He begins walking backwards, slowly. After a few steps, the woman intervenes.

‘You sick bastard, are you really gonna kill a man of faith?’

‘Lady, you must be delusional to think this man has an ounce of humanity in his body.’

‘That’s not true.’ She scrambles in front of James, almost shielding him. ‘He may’ve committed some bad deeds in his day, but I’ve just watched him deliver a powerful sermon. He may not think it, but he’s a man of faith. Maybe you’re the one who needs salvation.’ Ebrahim begins cackling with laughter. ‘I need salvation. Ask your boyfriend here about the Tallahassee incident. Or the Bank of France raid of 1886. The father you’re shacking with is quite the reprobate.’ Ebrahim continues pushing these two backwards, the gun serving as the harrowing hammer of justice.

Ebrahim has waited for this for years. ‘You know I’ve been looking for you for a while now.’

’13 years.’ Father Winchester utters. ’13 years since our little incident at the Bank of France.’ He gently nudges his way past the woman. ’13 years since you stole my bounty.

Ebrahim spits back a fiery reply, ’13 years since you killed my uncle?’

‘He deserved it.’ Ebrahim races towards the father,

‘HE WAS A GOOD MAN, AND BECAUSE YOU’RE A GREEDY GANG OF SCUMBAGS, WOULDN’T LET US COMPLETE OUR MISSION, HE DIED.’

The woman can’t take this. Bravely, she once again steps between the two, who at this point are nose to nose. ‘Stop it, this is a church, this isn’t the place to settle old squabbles. This is a place for salvation. Have a bit of decency.’

‘There’s no decency in this man; he puts on his suit and delivers his sermon, but we know who this man is. He is a good-for-nothing, two-bit…’

BANG

The woman and Ebrahim fall to the ground. Both have been shot, and both are bleeding. They groan in pain, Ebrahim a little worse. James stands over the two. He has brandished a pistol. He looks cold, unfeeling, unbothered by this sight.

‘You’re right. I’m not a good man. I may put on a suit and preach salvation, but it’s just a new form of deceit.’ He steps over the lady to Ebrahim. Ebrahim feels around for his gun, but it’s not on him. ‘You’re not bringing me down.’ James fires one more round, ending Ebrahim. A chance meeting brought them back together, and he wasn’t going to let his own rivalries get settled.

He turns towards this woman. He races over to tend to her wound. She is in quite a bit of agony. He begins treating it, pouring a little vial of alcohol onto the wound to disinfect it.

‘I’m sorry, lady.’ She grimaces, in too much pain to speak. He takes off his clerical collar and puts it into her wound. It’s frugal, but he might as well try.

She begins fading. He takes off his shirt and puts it around her for warmth. He looks regretful. With her fading breath, she softly asks,

‘Why?’

‘I’m a scoundrel. I can’t be fixed. I can’t be saved.’ He checks her pulse; it’s slowing down. He looks sombrely over her. She doesn’t have much time left. After taking a swig of alcohol, he proceeds to pick her up. He begins walking her towards the front of the church, delivering her towards the pulpit. She is fading with every moment.

As she arrives, he places her down. Wiping blood from his exposed body, he grabs a nearby bible. Flicking through a few pages, he arrives on one verse. James 2:10

For whoever keeps the whole law but fails at one point has become guilty of all of it.

He then takes another swig of alcohol, and another, and watches the woman die. He sits at the altar, unclothed and uncouth, wallowing in his sad state. He tried to escape his life of sin, but when it came to his door, he accepted it. He can’t achieve salvation.

He sculls the rest of his liquor and chucks his bible aside.

The end…