Hosea rode his horse back into the edge of town where he could hear the pounding of the Blacksmiths hammer on his anvil. As he parted with his horse and tethered him to the post outside the shop, he walked into the open area where the sounds pounded louder.

Sparks flew around and singed the black beard of the beefy man. Then he took his metal tong and placed the blade into the barrel of water where it sizzled and cooled. The smell of scalded iron wafted through the air.

Hosea approached cautiously. The blacksmith turned where it was revealed he had one eye blind. "What can I do fer ya?"

"Excuse me, I'm new in town, but a Mrs. Laura Roberts thought it best if I asked you if my horse and I could board for the night."

He tugged and rubbed on his fried beard. "Mrs. Roberts eh?"

"Yes, sir, names Hosea. I intend to build a house for the Lord on some land outside of town."

The blacksmith took his time, rubbing his chin, sorting through thoughts. He wore a blue denim bib without a shirt and had various scars running up and down his arms and across his chest. "If Mrs. Roberts asked, then I'm obliged to help. But all I got is an empty stable."

"That'll do just fine."

Hosea untied his horse from the post outside and walked him toward the empty stable. The blacksmith bobbed over to him. "My name is William. Folk...folk call me B...Billy."

Hosea nodded, pulled out some bills in his pocket and tried to pay Billy.

Billy held up his hand. "No...no sir. It's about one rung up from sleeping in...in the alley."

Hosea could tell the beefy, intimidating man had a persistent stutter. He settled in the horse stable with Patches. He used his saddle with a spike of hay for a pillow. He pulled out some buffalo jerky and shared it with his horse. "This ain't so bad, Patches. A darn sight better than the salt flats, eh?"
****

Dirk Blake rode his horse, cloaked in darkness. She neighed and bucked, as if sniffing a mountain lion hiding among boulders. Dirk pulled his pistol and thumbed back his trigger, as the horse deftly threaded the trail until the lights of the front porch house glowed with oil lamps in each window.

He eased from his saddle and walked on to the front porch with thuds and clomps from his boots. He knocked on the door and toyed with his moustache.

Mrs. Laura Roberts opened the door. The smell of roasted chicken found Dirk's nose and made his mouth water. "My goodness Laura, the smell alone is enough to make a scarecrow hungry."

Mr. Roberts walked across the varnished floor in the glow of oil lamps staged between them. He went toward Dirk and corralled him with a hug. "How are you Mr. Mayor, that is, depending on what hat you wear today."

Dirk hung his leather jacket on the coat rack along with his black hat, and then wiped his alligator boots on the rug by the door.

Dirk looked at Lance. "I've been hearing someone new is in town. They say he claims to be a preacher. Came to dig for a vein of lost souls."

"News travels around here faster than greased lightning," said Lance. "Come in. Sit. The usual? Brandy?" He opened a glass cabinet with the bottle and two empty glasses. Dirk sat down at the end of the dinner table with an ornate white cloth and fine china. He ringed his neck with a napkin while Lance poured him a drink.

Mrs. Roberts, Dirk's sister, wiped her hands on her apron and walked toward the stove where she pulled out the roasted chicken with her thick mittens. "Gentlemen, I present to you our free roaming chicken who wanders no more."

Dirk sipped on his poured glass of brandy then sniffed it, allowing it to settle in his nose. He leaned in toward Lance who sat near his side. "Folk might decide they need the church more than my saloon. Might not be good for business. But go ahead and approve his plot. We'll see how much sand he has in him for Purgatory.

Lance all to eager to please, nodded, as they sipped on their glass of brandy.

As Laura walked in with steaming vegetables, she let her sarcasm flow like molten lava. "It be a shame if folk put money in an offering plate than on whiskey and whores."

Laura's hot tongue drew criticism from Lance. "Your brother rebuilt this town, Laura. Have you no thanks?"

Laura smiled. "Part of a town's good foundation needs a place to thank God. Families who put down roots help a town grow."

"Time will tell," said Dirk, as he gnawed on an ear of corn.

"Should I presume my brother to have soul?"

"Used to have one when we were kids Laura. No need here for it."

Laura's smile turned into a smirk, as she served the men and waited on them. It made her husband frown more.

Dirk put his own thoughts in the open. "Thing is Laura, my sister, sometimes a preacher can be a wolf in sheep's clothing. Watch and see if his offerings don't line his pockets first."

Before Laura could answer, Lance chimed in. "I bet this stranger has a checkered past."

The men snorted with laughter. Laura decided not to join them for dinner. The men tucked a handkerchief under their chins and feasted on chicken legs. Afterward the men sat on the front porch with a lantern, overlooking the town, smoking fat cigars and discussing the property business at hand.

As the men lounged Laura looked out the window in the lamplight and couldn't help but notice the steam coming from the rocks below. It made her wonder then, what kind of foundation they had.
***

In the blacksmiths stable Hosea rested his head back on the pile of hay over his saddle. His horse patches laid down in the hay, exhausted from the long journey, only lifting her head now and then to look at Hosea through black marble eyes.

Hosea pulled out his harmonica. In the peace and quiet, he waved his hand over the mouth organ creating a haunting rendition of the "Sweet by and By."

The blacksmith could be heard from his cot on the other side of the half walls, snoring whenever Hosea took a break from his mouthpiece. A fire glowed from the pit where the man earned his station in life.

Hosea pulled out his pocket watch with the black and white faded photo of his wife in it, and to him it seemed like ages ago, a different lifetime. He looked into her dark eyes, her wisp of smile, her ruffled blouse, her raven hair in a bun. "I don't have a right to even look at you." A tear escaped an eye and trickled down his leathery skin. But it was never enough to put out the past fire that changed all.

Hosea tucked his pocket watch back in his vest and rested his eyes until they grew heavy as steel traps. He always prayed for a dreamless night, but this time he found himself in the old cave of a mine, until he followed the light to the other side that turned into a wall of fire. Before he knew it, his feet were glued to the ground, unable to move, he watched helpless, as his house in Chicago burned to the ground and heard the blood curdling screams of his wife and daughters. His mouth wide open, but unable yell, he watched the burning house collapse.


Hosea shot up from his bed, his burned hands searching for an invisible door. He took a deep breath. His heart pounded like a hammer to an anvil. He eyes darted about the half-dark wood frame around him. A cold sweat cascaded across his forehead. His horse lifted from her side, startled, then she gently rested back against the hay.

Hosea's only solace was the vision from his death bed. A vision he'd yet to share. He tucked it back into his mind and slipped back to sleep.