I'm saying this now, on the 31st of July, the day I opened a doc to write this, that I don't know anything about American History or cowboys and I have almost no intention of googling anything.

Anyway, here's my written contribution to resbang 2017. Can you believe that this is my fifth resbang? Jesus, time flies. This ficwould not exist without the resbang structure, and it wouldn't exist half so good with the imput and inspiration and grammar corrction of soundoffez, marshofsleep and my much beloveed Caitlin, who has no idea why I make her read my resbang every year.

(Hint: It's because I value your opinion.)

Disclaimer: Still not the guy. I'm too tired to google how to spell his name.

PROLOGUE.

(Shortly Before The Story Commences)

"Ain't nothing out past here, boy." He was old and grizzled, a character of note in another story set some twenty odd years earlier. That story wasn't this story though, he was only passing through this tale. "Nothing but Death."

Oddly poetic for a man who'd been a model of stoicism for the entire ride out.

Still, the boy, hereinafter referred to as Soul, tipped his hat to the man and carried on. Soul wasn't the name his mother had given him, but that hardly mattered. She'd be much happier knowing he wasn't dragging the good family name through the dust anyway.

"See you around, Ifan," the man called after him, before turning and heading the other direction.

There was one final town out here on the edge of the reasonably known world, and that was Soul's destination. He had, in his breast pocket, a crumpled telegram advising him to come out immediately.

Rather, he had a crumpled clipping from a newspaper begging for someone to ride out to the last town on the frontier and take up ingainful employment playing the pianoforte in the local saloon. It was described as a hazardous and life-endangering task, and 'the successful applicant would be able to play competently, have a good sense of when to cower for their life, and when to fight for that selfsame life.'

The telegram was the one asking him if he was certain he was the man for the job.

CHAPTER ONE.

(Here Begins The Story.)

At first glance the town was just like any of the other towns Soul had passed through on the ride out. At second glance, it was exactly like any of the other towns he'd passed through. It would be a great many more glances before something strange started to shape itself in the town's image, but for the moment, it was more or less any town.

For now, it was a collection of dusty, sunbleached, wooden buildings and compacted dirt roads, all aligning the vanishing point of a clean, fresh painted chapel. There was no heavily travelled trail to indicate that anything of significance might exist beyond the town. A handful of trails wound away from the heart of the town, but as far out as Soul could see, they might only be traversed once or twice a week, if someone could be so inclined to come into town that often.

The only thing that might make a body consider there to be anything unusual about this town, was the name. There, positioned at the boundary, was a sign welcoming Soul to the township of Death.

Soul wasn't certain that this was what the man he'd spoken with in the previous town intended, but the people here must've had a twisted sense of what made a respectable name for a town.

Town on the edge of the frontier seemed far away enough, for now.

The saloon sat tall between two low buildings - the postmasters and a general store wearing bullet holes like a pox - and the customary layer of dust was absent. There were a pair of heavy hocked horses tied up outside of the general store, and Soul was careful to tie Falada up some distance away. She didn't take kindly to strangers, acquaintances, or anyone that wasn't Soul.

It was early in the day, and the saloon was quiet- there was only three old crones playing a slow game of cards in the corner.

"Hello?" Soul called. The crones in the corner glanced up to take his measure, but the card game did not falter for a second. Soul couldn't admit to recognising what they're playing, but there was a heap of valuables piled in the centre, a couple of dice and complicated woven structure of were playing with more than one deck of mismatched cards, and the table was strewn with half-measures of whiskey. "I came to enquire after the notice printed in The Appeal."

A man appeared behind the bar, sharply dressed in the blackest clothes Soul had ever seen outside a picture of the mourning Queen Victoria. He was flanked on either side by a barmaid, the pair of them blonde-haired, sharp-eyed, and mistrustful.

He nodded once towards the general vicinity of the piano, and Soul took that to mean that he was expected to play his prepared audition piece. The wood was scarred, the lacquer chipped off in places, and the ivory was yellow and cracked. It could tell some stories, and it had seen some things, but when Soul ran his fingers up the keys in a scale the notes rang something akin to true, and moved freely.

He cracked his knuckles sharply and began to play.

The crones in the corner put down their cards to listen.

It was easy to get enraptured in playing, to become so wrapped up in the song and the notes and the tune and the dance of his fingers. It was easy to forget that he can pull others in, numb them until they forgot how to do everything but listen.

He stopped abruptly, cutting the song off at its climax.

The crones were playing cards again, the same inscrutable, complicated game, but one of them flipped him a coin without looking up. It spun easily through the air, the silver flashing in the light, and Soul snatched it out of the air without any much difficulty. It was so hot that he near enough dropped it again, the metal burning against his fingertips, and there was a hole punched clear through it.

Must've been the product of some sharpshooter or another's trick shot.

He stuffed the coin in his pocket, shaking his hand to cool it down again and looked back up at the barkeep.

"You've got the job," he said. "Now, about payment -"

"-Ain't much in the way of cash other than what folks is inclined to give you," the taller barmaid cut him off. "But there's bed and board, and a fair division of what's left over after that."

"And there's not much trouble around these parts!" the other barmaid leaned over the bar to get a good look at Soul. "I'm Patti, this here is Liz, and folks 'round here call Mistah Bossy-Britches Kidd."

"Call me Soul."

"Alrighty Mistah Soul, you'll like it here," Patti did most of the talking around here it seemed, whether the others wanted her to or not. "It's a real decent place, I swear."

Soul remembered the notice in the paper, and decided to ask a question.

"What happened to the last pianist?"

"Oh, Hiro, that guy couldn't tell a piano music from a way-bill-"

"Patti-" Kidd warned. "We do not speak ill of the dead under this roof."

"He was about as good at piano playing as one-armed man with a mallet, Kidd," Patti said. "I ain't gonna whitewash him just cause he upped and got hisself killed."

"Killed?" Soul ventured, nervously.

"You're as a bad as long-tailed cat in a room of rockers," Liz sighed and shook her head. "Hiro was found a mile or so outside the town, ripped to more pieces than a cuckold's apology letter and spread 'round for a carrion feast."

"Never mind all that," Patti waved Liz away, smiling, "Let's get you settled in, it's been a long journey!"

Soul was duly shown his accommodation, which was nothing to write home about. He had no intention of writing home, but even if he did, he wasn't going to mention the bare floorboards and the faded patchwork quilt. It'd serve the purpose of being a roof over his head and a bed under it, and he couldn't ask for much more.

He moved Falada out to a small pasture out back where she stood apart from the other residents, a horse and an ass, respectively. She didn't seem too impressed by the new living arrangements and Soul was in the middle of trying to placate her with a windfall apple when Patti interrupted to give Soul a tour of the local attractions, of which there were remarkably few, and to acquaint him with the locals.

The proprietors of the General Store were a bespectacled man named after an institution of higher learning in Great Britain, and his silent companion.

"Afternoon fellas!" said Patti, leaning up on the counter to impart her goodwill. "I'm just showing the newcomer around."

"He any better than the last fella?"

"He's real good," Patti bragged, "Them old ladies put down their cards for a minute or two to lissen."

"Patti, you were seeing things. Those old biddies don't stop playing for nothing or nobody."

"I'm telling you they put down their damn cards - look, Ta even gave him a tip."

Soul pulled out the coin when Patti waved at him with some urgency. He didn't quite understand the significance of the fact, but it shut the bullheaded shopkeep right up. By name and by nature, this Ox fellow.

Ox's silent companion, a man who went by the name of Harvar and whose eyes were hidden by the low brim and deep shadow of his hat, whistled long and low.

A pair of women with actual business bustled in, and one of them decided to cut past Patti brusquely, while the other stayed behind in order to apologise profusely for the first.

"I'm always telling Kim not to - " behind her, the first woman was smiling at Ox, who seemed to be struggling to keep his eyes away from the generous amount of bosom she had on display.

"I've been here long enough to pay our Kim no mind," Patti said, brushing off the slight. "Anyhow, this here's Soul, our new piano man, and Soul, this's Jac-quill-een, our midwife."

"Jackie," she corrected. There didn't seem much in the way of formalities in this town, Soul thought, and it didn't escaped his notice how Patti already abandoned the 'Mistah'. She shook his hand firmly. "Nice to meet you."

She was dressed neatly, not a hair out of place, a complete contrast to the wild girl who'd blown in past them. Soul had played more than enough venues of ill-repute to know how Kim makes her living, rouged and stained like she -

"And that's Kim," Patti said, pointing shamelessly. "She's the town apothecary."

That, Soul would never confess, had not been his first guess.

"There's nothing our Kim can't manage to put to rights," Jackie gushed. "So don't bother your fanny going to see that old sawbones up on the ridge for anything more'n getting your death certificate signed."

"Doctor Stein is - " Patti started, before she was interrupted by swollen belly accompanied by a deep voice. Had word gotten out that there was some new shiny bauble in the shape of a music man to be looked at? Or was the General Store just the place to be around town?

"Speak of the devil and he shall appear," said the deep voice, and then; "Ow," because the right arm of the body attached to the swollen belly had smacked him.

"Doctor Stein! I'm so sorry!" said Jackie, wheeling away, apologetic. She seemed to make more by the way of apologies than conversation. "I didn't -"

"Of course you did, Jacqueline, but you were quite right," Doctor Stein was tall, taller even than Soul, who had become accustomed to being the tallest person in the vicinity and Soul was unnerved by this fact. "I was not blessed with Kim's healing touch."

"You have other talents!" said the woman attached to the belly. She wore an eye-patch, embroidered with some manner of design, and her hair fell in the golden blonde ringlets all the ladies at home struggled to achieve. She ran a hand over the belly, so enormous it appeared almost a whole character of its own, full of baby. "Oh? Who's this, Patti?"

Soul resigned himself to being introduced again, something he found taxing enough. This time, Patti cheerfully introduced him to Doctor Stein and his wife Marie, whose strong- gripped handshake left him no doubt in believing that she was the town blacksmith.

"Although," she said, patting the belly with great affection. "I'm afraid if you need any work done, you'll have to wait."

What kind of town was Death? Soul was deep in thought as he and Patti left the shop, squeezing out past the crowded space.

And it wasn't just the women, free-willed and independent, working laborious, respected jobs, instead of waiting impatiently to be married or working domestically. Soul had been through near enough every town in the country it seemed, and most of them seemed to adopt the mantra of "we don't take kindly to strangers around here, boy," punctuated with the sharp cock of a rifle. Death, despite its unwholesome name, appeared to be populated by people who seemed genuine in their happiness to make his acquaintance.

"Town goes by the name of Death, can't be altogether too fussy about its residents," Patti said, answering a question Soul hadn't even begun to think to ask. "There's a few more people you might benefit from meeting, but there's time enough for that after you meet our own personal Chief Justice."

She nodded at the man stumbling home drunk out of what Soul assumed to be the town brothel. He made this assumption based on the sign proclaiming the building to be The Dovecote, and the fact that the drunk was stained around the face and neck with the bright red of carmine dye. The colour matched the rosy lips of the woman cheerfully waving him on his way.

"Afternoon Sheriff."

He tipped his at the barmaid sluggishly, before trudging down towards the Sheriff's office.

"Him?"

"Oh no," Patti laughed at his apparent idiocy. "Her daddy may be the sheriff, boy, but our Miss Albarn's the law."

Patti directed him towards that beautiful, clean, fresh painted chapel.

"She's in there."

"Aren't you coming?" Soul asked.

"Oh, I can't set foot on consecrated ground," Patti laughed, brushing him off like she had never heard anything quite so stupid.

"Why not?"

"I'm one of them filthy heretics you've heard s'much about." Patti said, shoving him through the gate. "Say hello to our Kidd's daddy."

It was quiet past the gate, as if the town wasn't just outside the holy ground. Built all around it, in fact, spiralling out into the harsh landscape. Patti was already gone when he turned round, having seemed turned tail and ran for the safety of the saloon, so he walked up to the church doors alone.

They opened quietly, and shut quietly too, but the muffled noise still made the woman trying to pry open a coffin resting in front of the altar start. She turned quickly, her skirts swirling around her legs.

"Preacher!" She turned, some excuse or another ready to fall off her tongue. She was red faced with the shame of being caught red handed. "Oh."

"Miss Albarn?" Soul asked, his hat clutched in his hands. His mother didn't raise him a lot of things, but she impress upon him that men do not wear hats indoors. "I was told you would be here."

"And here I am," Miss Albarn shifted her weight in order to conceal the claw hammer she was using to remove the long nails holding the lid closed. "Who're you?"

"Soul."

"Soul?" Maka said. "Got a last name to go with that?"

"Eh…" Evans. "Eater."

"Well then, Mr. Eater -" Miss Albarn smiled, and it was a wicked thing in the house of God, "Watch the door while I finish my business. Tell me if you spot the preacher."

Soul turned his back on the sounds of the wood cracking under the strain of the claw hammer, and a string of quiet curses, resigning himself to the position of lookout. There was a nice piano in the corner, much newer and cleaner than the one in the saloon, but without as much character. He stayed there, tuning his senses diligently outwards, until a great clatter indicated to him that the lid was, in fact, off.

He turned then, and headed past the well oiled pews to investigate what was in this coffin that needed so desperately to be opened up for a look-see. Miss Albarn was standing over it arms akimbo, wondering where exactly to begin rooting through the contents.

And the contents - Soul thought he was a man with a strong stomach, but this was something else entirely. This was the limited remains of his predecessor, if he was a gambling man. He'd best ask though, assumptions are perilous things. He's a quick study, what can he say?

"This Hiro?"

"Sure is," said Miss Albarn cheerfully, up to her elbows in sun-dried entrails. She patted what was let of the blonde hair on his head. "He was a damn mail-order cowboy and a gadabout to boot, but he didn't mean any harm by it."

Soul didn't know what that meant, but he had learned the hard way it was better that people think you were dumb, rather than to open your mouth and remove all doubt. He had a reputation as a blow in to protect.

"What are you looking for?" He asked instead, nodding down at the corpse.

"Something - you're new around here, but Hiro wasn't keen to venture far from town," Miss Albarn shifting through the handfuls or remains mixed with dirt. "He didn't go out there of his own free will, and I mean to find what possessed him to do so."

"Was he dead when he got out there -"

"Nah," Miss Albarn looked like she wished it was that easy. "No drag marks."

"What in damnation is going on here?"

"It appears that the preacher has arrived -" Soul belatedly warned Miss Albarn.

"Maka Albarn you did not come into the house of our Lord to disrupt the final rest of Hiro," the preacher was tall and imposing, with hollow cheeks and deep eye sockets, like his skin was pulled taut over his skull. "And I know you are not corrupting the newest member of our humble congregation - a Mr. Evans?"

"Eater. Soul Eater," Soul introduced himself quickly, eager to steer the conversation away from the body behind him.

"Well, that is a strange name."

"I'm the new pianist in the saloon -"

"Kidd's?" the preacher rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "You're working with my boy?"

Soul nodded, too scared to open his mouth. The preacher frowned thoughtfully, before absently waving them both out. Miss Albarn stooped to grab her hammer, but Soul gripped her arm and pulled her along before she could draw too much attention to them both. The hammer was left abandoned on the floor, despite her complaints.

He wasn't here to draw attention to himself or anyone else for that matter.

Once they were outside the church grounds, Soul dropped Miss Albarn's bare hand like it had scalded him. To act so familiar with an unmarried woman to whom he was barely acquainted!

"My apologies-" he stopped. This was no place for his gentlemanly upbringing and manners. He reddened, hoping she wouldn't notice the slip.

She looked at him curiously, her oddly coloured, greenish eyes boring into him.

Coward that he was, he turned tail and fled for the safety of the saloon without another word.

If you liked this, please R&R.