Cort couldn't see, and it seemed he'd gone deaf too. A moment before the air had been alive with shouts, screams and the immediate noise of the fight, now there was only pounding silence and ringing somewhere deep inside his left ear. He was disoriented, confused and it took him a while to figure out he was flat on his ass on the ground, and that it probably wasn't the best place to be right now. A voice drifted down from somewhere above him.

"Shit Jake, you wasn't supposed to kill him."

At least that meant his ears still worked.

Another voice, closer. "He ain't dead. Wake up, preacher."

Something slammed into Cort's ribs, forcing a grunt of pain out of him.

"You see? Now go get some water."

For a second he thought he'd dreamed the past three weeks and he was still in the middle of Herod's shooting contest, chained to the town fountain and at the mercy of every sadist who passed him by. But Cort knew this was no dream. It hurt too much to be a dream.

Something was running into his eyes, making them sting. It smelled like whisky and his brain finally made the connection. One of the men had clubbed him round the head with a bottle and he sure as hell hadn't seen it coming. It seemed like there was something he should be doing right now, he just couldn't quite remember what it was.

He was shocked back to reality by a torrent of cold water hitting him in the face. He spluttered and cursed, forced his eyes open and tried to make some sense of his situation. It didn't take long. The three men he'd been fighting only minutes ago were now best buddies again and they were standing over him, close together. Three guns were pointed his way.

This was it then, the moment of truth, the moment he'd known was coming ever since he took the marshal's job. Cort glanced beyond the men, seeking some way out of this and finding none. The balconies of the nearby buildings were undulating slightly, not completely in focus, and he could see they were thronged with people. So he was going to die in front of a crowd, for their entertainment and pleasure, and he knew damned well they weren't going to help him. After all, wasn't this pretty much the same mob who'd lined up to watch Herod's show?

But he wasn't going to die flat on his back like a whore. Cort managed to sit up but it was a struggle. His balance was shot and his head was pounding fit to bust.

"You want us to say a prayer for you, preacher?"

The persistent reference to his former calling bugged him more than the fact he was about to die.

"Stop calling me that. I'm not a preacher."

The same voice again, goading him. "Then I guess God won't be providing any kind of miracle."

They laughed and he glared at them. Water was running into his eyes now, and they were stinging again. He scrubbed at them with the sleeve of his shirt, squinting at the man he took to be the leader, the one called Jake. He was leaning in closer, a look of mock concern on his face.

"Don't go bleeding to death before we get to shoot you, preacher."

Cort didn't understand, until he glanced at his sleeve and saw it streaked with blood. It seemed he'd been hurt worse than he'd figured, though it hardly mattered now. He was sick of being toyed with like this, it was like Foy and Ratsy all over again and he wondered if Foy was up there in the crowd, watching. The bastard would be getting a real kick out of this little scene, that was for sure.

"If you're going to kill me then quit talking and get on with it." Cort's head felt so heavy he just hung it down and watched blood and water dripping onto his pants.

"We ain't gonna shoot you down there. Get up and face us like a man."

He sighed. That meant having to try and stand. He watched as the gang holstered their weapons and took a few steps back, spreading out in a line. The sight was almost comical. They wanted him to get up just so they could gun him down again, just so they could pretend they weren't cowards. With his wits about him Cort could have taken all three of them easy. He remembered facing four men once; only one managed to even get his gun clear of its holster before he got hit.

But he couldn't do it now, not like this, though it seemed he had little choice in the matter. He struggled to his knees, hearing more laughter and jeering from his soon-to-be killers; it was quickly picked up by some of the jackals on the balconies.

Then there was somebody behind him; hands sliding beneath his armpits and hauling him upright, something soft pushed against the wound in his head, making him wince. A voice close to his ear:

"Keep it pressed tight, it'll stop the bleeding long enough to take these assholes out."

Cort recognised the voice. Ben Carter, the young fellow he'd been talking to on the hotel veranda. That conversation seemed like a lifetime ago now. He grunted his understanding and raised his left hand to keep the cloth pressed in place. Now at least he could see what he was doing. Ben's voice again, still behind him and still quiet.

"Go for the one on your left, I'll take the others."

Cort nodded, trying to comprehend the fact that somebody in this godforsaken town was actually prepared to help him. The gang seemed to be thinking along the same lines and Jake was looking at Ben suspiciously.

"If you think you got business joining this fight then help yourself. You can die right alongside the marshal."

"Just making it more even." There was contempt in Ben's voice. "Where's the glory in three of you killing a man who can't even see straight?"

"I don't see that's any of your business, unless you're his deputy or something?"

Ben shook his head. "Just passing through." He backed up towards the saloon but his eyes were on Cort and he nodded almost imperceptibly.

Cort turned to face the line of men, his heart racing. Adrenalin pumped through his body and he felt like he was twenty years old again. This was just like the bad old days - the good old days - just him, his wits and his gun against ludicrous odds, nothing but his reputation and his life on the line. He used to do this kind of thing for fun; it used to make him feel alive, invincible, like he could look God right in the eye and laugh.

He dropped the bloody cloth in the dirt, drying his fingers on his pants. He only had a few seconds before the damned cut started leaking again but that's all he needed. He could take them, all three of them, and he wasn't about to let them make the first move either. They'd had their chance.

Cort drew, got off two shots clean on target before they'd even moved. The man on his left staggered backwards, a bullet between his eyes and the leader, Jake, fell to his knees with one through the heart. Cort swung towards his third opponent and realised, belatedly, that this man's gun wasn't only drawn and aimed, but he was also pulling the trigger. Cort fired anyway, he was off balance and knew the shot would go wide but another gun roared from off to his right and then the man was staggering sideways. Cort felt something sear across his right bicep a moment before the man tripped over Jake's body and crashed to the floor. eHe d He didn't move again.

There were a few seconds of absolute silence and Cort looked over at the saloon where Ben was holstering his Remington. Somebody in one of the balconies started a slow handclap and the sound got progressively louder as more spectators joined in. The whole of downtown was a cacophony of screams and whistles; people were shouting Cort's name like he was some kind of hero and it made him absolutely furious.

He emptied his gun into the eaves of the building where most of the noise was coming from. People ducked as bullets whistled over their heads and Cort was sorry he hadn't hit a few of them. Blood was running into his eye again but right now he didn't care and he knew they didn't either. He had something to say and his words boomed and echoed around the buildings.

"Am I just cheap entertainment to you people? Did you hire me as marshal only to watch me die, or is it still amusing to watch a priest with a gun? If you think God's on my side, makes me invincible then you're wrong and I won't be the object of this town's amusement. I stayed in Redemption because I thought you needed protecting from men like John Herod, thought there were people here decent enough to be worth the effort but I was wrong. There are plenty more Herods waiting to move in and that's all this pisshole town deserves."

He wanted to say more but he'd only be repeating himself so he spat on the ground then shouldered his way through a silent group gathered around the dead bodies. He needed to be alone and he grabbed a bottle of hooch from a fellow who looked ready to pass out anyway, then marched up to the other end of town, the quiet end. He threw himself onto the steps of the marshal's office and tried to collect his thoughts. He was cold and realised he had the shakes, maybe due to the head wound, but Cort knew it was more than that. Killing men, even men who were determined to kill him first, didn't rest easy on his conscience. There had to be a better way to live than this and he'd tried so hard to do it, but it hadn't worked. It never worked. It seemed no matter what he did, how decent and moral he tried to be, there was always someone who thought violence was a better idea and, somehow, Cort kept getting dragged right back into it.

He wished there was a church or chapel in town. Right now he wanted to light candles and try to pray for the souls of the men he'd just killed, though he'd never have the audacity to pray for his own. That was a lost cause. Not for the first time since the dreadful night in Hermosillo Cort felt a great emptiness in his life. It was the space where faith used to be, would never be again. He usually filled that space up with alcohol.

He took a mouthful of whisky, vaguely aware that tipping the bottle hurt his arm, and wondered what he was going to do with himself now. The only thing he'd ever been really good at was shooting a gun, killing men, and he'd proved that again tonight. He could never again be any kind of spiritual leader, had no wish to be, but as marshal he'd imagined the people of Redemption as some kind of surrogate flock, done his best to help them, and this is what he got in return. Alone and bleeding while the town celebrated a great night's free sport and another door was slammed in his face. He cursed, raised the bottle and this time he couldn't ignore the pain. Belatedly he remembered getting shot. He glanced down at his arm, at all the extra blood on his shirt and cursed again. It would never wash out and he didn't fancy having to beg for a replacement.

"You should get fixed up, buddy."

He looked up, startled. He hadn't heard anybody approaching but since he was still mostly deaf in his left ear it wasn't surprising. Ben Carter was ambling towards him, hands stuck nonchalantly in his pockets. Ben was an agreeable looking fellow; tall and sturdily-built with an easy smile and a shock of muddy-blonde hair which had been further lightened by the sun. Cort put them at roughly the same age though Ben's clothes, boots and gun belt were of much better quality than his own and the Remington pistol was well cared for. He was plenty good at shooting it and Cort was glad to see him for a number of reasons.

Ben sat beside him and sniffed disapprovingly.

"You're bleeding like a stuck pig."

"It's nothing serious."

"Booze don't replace blood, marshal. The doc says get your sorry ass to his office right away."

"He can wait a while. You want some of this?"

Cort offered the whisky bottle and Ben accepted it. Cort still didn't know what to make of this man, but actions spoke much clearer than words ever could.

"I didn't get a chance to thank you. You saved my life back there

Ben grimaced. "I've stayed in some mean places, but this one beats 'em all." He sounded genuinely perplexed. "What kind of town stands around and watches its marshal die in a fixed fight? You know some of those drunk bastards were taking bets? They were all betting against you."

That nugget of information stung Cort to the core and he tried not to let on. "Doesn't surprise me."

"Maybe you should have stuck to preaching?"

Cort shook his head, watching droplets of blood splash out onto the sand. "I'm done with God, and he's sure as hell done with me."

"What happened?"

Cort grabbed the bottle and took a couple of gulps. "John Herod happened. Seems like his was always the most powerful church anyway…"

"Are you going to quit?"

"I don't know, Ben. I can't keep law in this town, not on my own, and it's pretty clear how little people value my life."

"I don't think everybody feels that way. There was a whole bunch of them at the doc's office worrying about you, but you could sure use some help around here, buddy."

Cort shot him a smile. "The job's yours if you want it."

Ben shook his head. "I'm just passing through."