It is said that the West was built on legends.

And that legends are a way of understanding things greater than ourselves. Forces that shape our lives. Events that defy explanation. Individuals whose lives soar to the heavens, or fall to earth.

These are how legends are born. . . . -Dipper Pines


Prologue

San Venganza, Mexico 1944

A full moon shone down on the Rider as he galloped across the barren Mexican desert, astride a magnificent black stallion.

Coyotes, rattlesnakes, and other nocturnal predators fled the sound of the pounding hoofbeats. A leather duster and battered cowboy hat shielded him from the chill of night.

Painful memories pursued the Rider, but he could not outrun his destiny.

There must always be a Rider, Stanford Pines knew. He was only the latest mortal doomed to bear that curse. Like all the Riders before him, he had made a deal, the kind of deal you can't break. A deal with the Devil straight out of Hell.

In his mind's eye, Pines relived that fateful moment when, in a burst of thunder and lightning, the Devil had appeared before him in a desert much like this one. A lean, shadowy figure, clad entirely in black, he had leaned upon a cane as he'd arrived to claim Stan as his own. A crystal skull had glittered upon the head on the cane, its skeletal grin mocking the doomed cowboy.

A second flare of lightning briefly exposed the Devil's inhuman features: black eyes gleaming like polished obsidian from a cadaverous blue countenance.

Stan had known then that his mortal life was over.

To the Devil, human souls were merely fuel for the hellish fires below. But the soul of the Rider was not like the others.

That night Stanford Pines had become the Devil's bounty hunter, condemned to hunt down those who escaped from Hell. And to collect on the contracts signed over to his satanic master.

By contrast, Hell itself would have been a welcome relief.

The murky outline of ramshackle buildings appeared before him. Shaking off the tormenting memories, Stan forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand. He rode out of the desert into the town. Tonight his endless ride had brought him here, to the remote Mexican hamlet of San Venganza.

Tumbleweeds blew down the deserted streets of the village. Thick black smoke rose from the smoldering embers of burned-out buildings. More smoke billowed from the husk of the old Spanish mission at the end of main street. Soot stained the mission's whitewashed adobe walls. A bell pealed from atop the steeple. Acrid fumes escaped from narrow fissures in the dusty earth, as though there was an inferno burning just beneath the surface. The night wind carried the reek of brimstone.

The Rider trotted on horseback down the main street. Somber eyes surveyed the desolation, searching the doors and windows of the few surviving buildings for any signs of life. Wooden shutters swung open and shut in the wind, the mindless percussion matching the steady clop-clop of the horse's hooves. He passed the charred ruins of the general store, saloon, barber shop, hotel, assay office, and various mercantile emporia. False fronts, originally intended to make the rustic buildings look larger and more impressive than they actually were, now helped to conceal the full extent of the damage wreaked by fire. Iron bars in a window marked what was left of the town jail. An empty noose hung from the town's hanging tree. Spooked by the eerie scene, the midnight-black stallion trembled be neath the Rider. Its dark eyes were wide with fright.

"Easy, boy," the Rider said.

A singed piece of brown parchment was nailed to the door of the chapel at the mission. Stan nodded grimly at the sight.

Of all the deals ever made, no covenant was more powerful than the contract of San Venganza. Here an entire village had turned its back on God and signed over their immortal souls to the Devil in exchange for worldly wealth and power.

But their newfound riches had not been enough for the corrupt villagers.

Consumed by greed and lust, they had turned on each other until San Venganza drowned in its blood, leaving only these smoldering ruins behind. Overnight, the village had become a ghost town.

Now the souls of damned villagers were trapped here, waiting for the Rider to come and collect the deed.

Let's get this over with, Stan thought. Gripping the reins tightly with one hand, he rode the skittish horse up the steps of the ruined chapel and snatched the scrap of parchment from the door.

The scorching wind blew against his face, offering no relief from the stifling heat of the night, as it whistled through the empty street. The whistling grew louder as the wind picked up, taking on a moaning quality that sounded disturbingly human. He could practically hear the bloody chaos of the village's final days: men shouting, women screaming, gunshots blaring. The bodiless tumult filled the Rider's ears.

The horse whinnied in fear, almost bolting out from beneath the Rider. He pulled back on the reins, halting the horse so that he could listen more closely to the keening wind and the ominous sounds of the village. A door squeaked loudly as the wind tugged it to and fro on its one remaining hinge. A weather vane spun wildly atop the burned-out husk of the town hall. A clanging sound attracted his attention, and he peered at the dried-up well in the village square. A tarnished tin bucket hung on a rope over the well, banging against the stone housing as it swung back and forth, faster and faster as the wind wailed like a veritable army of lost souls.

The hellish cacophony was too much for the Rider's steed. Snorting and shaking its head violently, the terrified horse reared up on its hind legs. Its front hooves pawed wildly at the empty air. Frantic eyes rolled in their sockets. Steam jetted from its flaring nostrils. Froth flecked its lips. The horse's agitated state said plenty about the evil that had overtaken San Venganza; this particular horse was no stranger to death and decay. It took a lot to frighten him.

The Rider tightened his grip upon the reins, fighting to bring the panicked horse under control. His other hand squeezed the rolled-up parchment and a single drop of blood fell from the scroll onto the dusty ground.

"Easy, boy," he urged his steed, but the night continued its conspiracy to drive the horse nearly out of its mind. A swinging door squeaked, a shrill sound cutting through the darkness. Shutters clattered against their frames over and over. The church bell rang out slowly. The metal bucket battered itself against the brick sides of the well, while, above everything else, the sulfurous wind shrieked like the damned. Noisome black fumes erupted from the cracked and barren earth. Fresh blood dripped from the dry brown scroll in the Rider's fist.

The tangy smell of the blood, on top of the noxious smoke and brimstone, only added to the stallion's alarm. Stan's horse worked himself into a lather. Striking hooves carved out deep divots in the packed ground as the horse reared up repeatedly, all but unseating the Rider. He grabbed onto the pommel of his saddle.

I've seen enough, Stan decided. Tucking the bleeding scroll into his boot, he snatched a rawhide bullwhip from his saddlebag and cracked it loudly above his head. Silver spurs dug into the horse's sweaty flanks. Time to get the hell out of here.

Stan's horse hardly needed any encouragement. At a thunderous gallop, it raced out of San Venganza, leaving the accursed village behind. Dust clouds rose in the horse's wake. The echoes of the speeding hoofbeats soon died away.

Behind them, the smoking ruins of the dead village smoldered in the moonlight. The eventual crash of col lapsing timbers went unheard. Nothing remained to watch the fiery ashes grow cold and still.

Nothing except for the moaning wind.

He found the Devil waiting for him in the desert just outside the village. The Devil held out his hand, hungry for the thousand souls. His dark eyes gleamed in anticipation, as thunder crashed overhead and lightning flashed on the horizon.

No.

The power of the contract was so great that the Devil must never get his hands on it, and damn the consequences. Stanford's own hand erupted into flame, instantly burning away his calloused mortal flesh. Bony fingers hung onto the contract, yanking it back from the Devil's fingers.

More flames spread over rider and steed alike, turn ing them into burning skeletons, aglow with hellfire. Cracking his whip once more, the Ghost Rider galloped away into the darkness, determined to do what only he could do: outride the Devil himself.

"No!" The Devil raged. He limped forward on his cane, but the Rider was already beyond his grasp.

Stan heard the Devil's anger echo behind him as he rode like a phantom across the desolate moonlit waste land. The tail of his long coat flapped behind him like a cape. He resolved to hide the dreadful contract some where far away, where it would never find the Contract.

Stanford Pines could never imagine that, many years hence, someone even worse than the Devil himself might come to collect.