He's heard tales of them before.
The Ghost Riders.
They swarmed and swung through the night sky chasing the devil's cattle some say.
Others say it is two riders tied together on a horse, endlessly galloping through the desert.
Some whisper that it is a man with a skull of flames screaming in the night on the back of a skeletal horse.
Charles has heard all the tales of them before but never has he ever encountered one. Old wives tales and superstitions, he would say. Stories to scare you into being good. He had no need for them.
That is of course until he met one in his dreams.
The rider was pale and transparent, whispy as the clouds but somehow as thick as fog. It rode on a horse in the distance and no matter how close Charles got, he was always out of reach. The ghostly rider always appeared to him before a job. Always the same. Far away, yet close enough to see the outline.
As they moved from Blackwater to Horseshoe, the figure grew closer. Little by little he could make out the outline of his saddle. Then the outline of his shoes. His shirt and then his hat.
The ghostly rider visited him constantly but he never told anyone. He didn't know what to make of it himself.
Then one night the rider was closer than ever before. He could see the strands of hair around his ears and nape of his neck. The wrinkles in his shirt and the the gun in his holster. They rode through the plains of New Hanover and through the swamps of Lemoyne. Through the forested hills of Roanoke and into the mountains. The rider came to a stop at the top of a mountain overlooking the valley. Shafts of light from the sun peeking over the horizon illuminated the form as it turned its horse around to face him.
The figure smiled a crooked grin, eyes alight like fish in the river with mirth. It raised a hand in a two finger salute, horse rearing back before it disappeared in the light of the risen sun.
In the morning, Charles heard about the fire fight in the woods. He heard about the betrayal that had started and ended it. He mounted his horse and rode until he found the place in his dreams.
Later he would tell John where he had buried him. Later he would correct the betrayal that had taken the people he had called family.
But he never would tell anyone of the ghost rider. Sometimes he would watch the night sky looking for a streak of light. He would close his eyes when he saw one. Visions of a ghostly rider arching across a river of stars. They would whoop and yell, urging their horse faster until they were just a stream of light. Others would join their journey, glittering brighter than the moon. He knows he will join them one day.
And when that day comes he will gladly ride with him again.