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Metal Spaghetti

Matthew Middleton

LETTER 1:

June 4th 1867

My Dearest Theresa,

    The calendar tells me that a mere two months have passed since I lest held you, but my heart tells me it has been and eternity. When I left you to earn the money needed to have your hand in marriage the only comfort I had was that the job I would take would be exciting and interesting. As it would turn out, this never came to be.
    The job I ended up finding was filled with promise. The Government is trying to rebuild after the war tore the country in two and had heard amazing stories of inventions that they could use to raise the money they needed to help restore the country to something that resembled normal. They needed people to look into these stories to verify their authenticity. This was to be my job. The chance to see America and witness truly amazing machines seemed like a once in a lifetime opportunity, but it turned out that most of the stories were simply that, stories completely fabricated or that were gross over-exaggerations.
    As I write this letter I have one more town to visit before I can collect my pay and return to you. The tale of this town is the tallest of them all. A man built entirely of metal, walking, talking machine. I hold no hope that this tale will end up any different than the last tone, I only wish it to be quick so I can be blessed with your touch once again. Until we me again my dear.

-Matthew

LETTER 2:

June 13th 1867

My love,

    It seems my initial pessimism was unfounded, I have talked to several people from the town of Killbuck and they all corroborate the story of the metal man! Tomorrow I will talk to Bill, the owner of the local saloon and the man who was closest to the metal man. I can hardly contain my enthusiasm! May this letter find you well.

-Matthew

LETTER 3:

June 15th, 1867

My Eternal Heart,

    The story that Bill has recited to me is equally amazing and heart breaking! I am blessed to be the one who gets to pen it. I am working through the narrative now and will send it to you as soon as it is complete. With much love!

-Matthew

LETTER 4:

June 18th, 1867

My Love,

Here it is, may this tide you over until I can hold you once again...

INTRO:

    The midday sun beat down on the small town of Killbuck. The cloudless sky allowed the full force of the sun to attack anyone foolish enough to challenge it. Killbuck was an uninteresting dustbowl of a town with a single street, lined with a saloon, a hotel and a few shops that led to a large house owned by Mr. Slate. The town grew up around the mining community that put down roots when gold was found in the hills that surrounded Killbuck, but no gold had been pulled out of those hills for nigh on fifty years and the town suffered the consequences. Mr. Slate was the reason that Killbuck was still around. It wasn’t that he gave the town life; so much as they allowed it to live for his own personal use, kind of like feeding a servant just enough so they don’t die so you can use his services. Mr. Slate let the townspeople pretty much live their lives as they wanted as long as it didn’t interfere with his ranching business. He only had one rule, no religion. No one knew the reason for his deep seated hatred of it; some suspected it was to make sure that the spirits of the townspeople stay broken.
    Most days were plain and ordinary, and this day looked to be no different until the silence of the morning was broken with a gunshot as a man was launched backwards through the door of the Slate Mansion.
    “I’ll give ya five seconds preach. Better hope the good Lord grants ya wings!” Called a voice from inside the house, snickering.
    “ONE!”
    With that the preacher started running down Main Street.
    “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I shall fear no evil,” the preacher mumbled under his breath.
    “TWO!”
    “For You are with me, Your rod and Your staff they comfort me.”
    “THREE!!” called the man from the house, his volume increasing with each number.
    “You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.”
    “FOUR!”
    “You anoint my head with oil, my cup overflows.”
    “FIVE!” With that a man stepped out of the Slate house, aimed, and took shot at the preacher.
    The bullet struck the back of the preacher’s leg and exited through the kneecap, sending him falling to the ground, grabbing his knee in agony. As he gathered his Bible and tried to crawl further, the man who fired the shot walked towards the preacher, flanked on either side by two large men holding rifles.
    “I told ya I’d run you outta this here town didn’t I preach?” The man said, stifling his laughter, looking at the men behind him, almost as if to ask for their conformation. “Gave you a chance to get out yourself, but you were just too stubborn to take it.” He said, almost to the preacher now. “I do say, you brought this on yourself.”
    When the man caught up with the preacher he kicked him over onto his back, the preachers Bible flew out of his hand and landing just out of arms reach. “I told you that you and your God aren’t welcome here.” He said, putting a bullet in the preachers Bible.
    “It doesn’t matter what you do to me, God will send someone who can help these people, in spite of you!” The preacher yelled up at the man in disgust.
    The man knelt down to get right in the preachers face. Grabbing the preacher’s hair, he said “Well preach, you better tell Him when you see Him that the next preacher he sends thisa way better be bullet proof.” With that the man stood up and buried a single shot between the preacher’s eyes and holstered his side arm.
    “Want us to clean this mess up boss?” One of the large men asked.
    “Nah, not your job,” the man said, staring up at the birds starting to circle overhead. “And it’s not anyone else’s job either!” The man said loud enough for the rest of the town to hear. “If I catch anyone burying this man, he better dig enough graves for him, and his family!”
    Everyone in town knew he wasn’t exaggerating.

CHAPTER 1: The Strange Stranger

    It had been three days since the preacher had been killed, and although his dead body, rotting out in the sun stunk to high heaven, no one dared challenge Mr. Slate. At least that’s what everyone thought. Every morning since the preacher’s murder, Bill, the owner of the local saloon, looked out his window, in the direction of the preacher’s body, and said a prayer for him. This morning was no different, except, whenever Bill looked to find the preacher he was nowhere to be found. Instead there was what looked to be a man standing there with a shovel patting down the ground. The man was oddly formed though, it looked as if his limbs were very thin and each of his joints jutted out into his jacket at odd angles. The man then pushed the shovel into the dirt to mark the grave and turned toward the saloon. Bill scrambled to get ready to greet him, but by the time he got downstairs the strange man was already seated at the bar.
    “What can I get you sir?” Bill asked him, trying to hide the fear he had in his voice. He didn’t know what he feared, this strange man, or what would happen if Mr. Slate found out that he was disobeyed.
    “A beer would be just fine,” came the man’s reply. His voice was unlike any Bill had heard before, very steady in tone, almost not human.
    “One beer coming right up!” Bill started to fumble for a glass when Mr. Slate’s two thugs, John and Don, shoved aside the saloon doors in a way that announced their presence.
    “Well, well, well. Looks like someone was stupid enough to disobey Mr. Slate and go ahead and bury that preacher.” Don said as they both took a seat, one on either side of the man who had done the burying.
    “You new here?” John said turning toward the stranger. “Never seen you before.”
    “Just got here this morning.” The stranger answered, keeping his gaze straight ahead.
    “This morning? Interesting.” Don replied, looking over the stranger he noticed that his gloves had dirt on them. “Say, wouldn’t have been you who was the one who went ahead and buried that old preacher was it?”
    “I did.” The man replied, matter of factly.
    “Well I say we have to do something about that.” John said shooting a smirk toward Don. “How about we go outside settle this.”
    “If that’s what you need to do, then let’s do it.” The stranger answered with no waiver in his tone.
    “HA!” John laughed, “I kind of like this guy’s attitude, you got a name?”
    “Preacher should do just fine.”
    John and Don shot each other a surprised look. “Reckon I’m gonna enjoy this,” said Don laughing. John nodded in agreement with a large smile.
    Outside, the men formed a triangle. John and Don stood about ten feet apart facing the Preacher who was about a hundred feet away.
    “We draw, ona count of three!” John yelled out. “One.” John and Don both moved their coats out of the way of their guns. “Two.” Their hands on their guns. “Three!” With that they both pulled their guns and unleashed hell on the preacher until both of their guns were empty. Once the smoke from the shots cleared there was the Preacher, just standing there, no harm had come to him save a few bullet holes in the over coat he was wearing, he hadn’t even drawn his firearm. Once John and Don noticed this fear crept across their faces. Then, very slowly, and deliberately the preacher drew his gun, aimed, and shot both men in their gun hands. Both John and Don instantly dropped their guns, grabbed their hands and fell to their knees in pain. The Preacher then holstered his gun, and walked very slowly over to the two men.
    “You men work for Mr. Slate I presume?” Both men nodded. “Good, tell him I want to meet him, to talk to him. And tell him next time don’t send his two bit thugs to greet me first. Now go!” John and Don both got up, still holding their hands in disbelief, and ran as fast as they could towards Mr. Slate’s house. The Preacher then turned to the bar keep, and in a very upbeat voice he asked “now, how about that beer?”

* * *

    In a few minutes the saloon went from being almost completely empty to bursting at the seams. Everyone in town wanted to meet the man who stood up to Mr. Slate’s men. The preacher however, just sat at the bar quietly while everyone stumbled over each other to get close enough to ask him whatever was on their mind. After a few minutes of this the Preacher stood up and turned toward the crowd. Everyone immediately hushed and waited for him to speak.
    “I imagine there are a lot of questions for me, and I intend to answer everyone, but let me say my peace first in order to try to answer them.” The Preacher said, the brim of his hat covering almost all of his face. “First things first, as some of you may have noticed, I am not quite like the rest of you. I was created, built instead of born.” As he said that he lifted his hat to show everyone his face. He had the shape of a man, and the features, eyes, a mouth, a pair of arms and legs, but it was very apparent now that he was made of metal. “I was built with the purpose of bringing the Word to you and those like you. Those people who have been prevented from hearing it, in one way or another.”
    The crowd burst out in conversation, some shouting obscenities as they had never seen anything like this, others shouted questions and still others stood silently shocked.
    “Who built you?”
    “A machine preaching? Blasphemy!”
    “What do you plan to do now?” Came voices from the crowd.
    “Good questions. I’d like to keep my creator’s name to myself, simply for his safety, however, what I plan to do from here on out is to preach to you, and to help you out in any way I can.” Came the Preachers reply.
    “How can a machine preach? What do you know of God’s will, you’re just a bunch of metal parts?!”
    “I promise you I know God’s word, and have helped others before, who built me and what I am made of does not take away God’s ability to use me to help his people.” The Preacher answered.
    “Help? Hows about you kill Mr. Slate!” Came another voice.
    “That I cannot do. I will not take a life. I will keep him from harming you in any way I can, as long as that doesn’t involve killing.” Came the Preachers stern answer.
    “You know what happened to the last preacher, you buried him yourself, he’ll do the same to you and every other preacher that comes thisa way less’n you put a stop t’him.”
    “I already said, I won’t kill!”
    “If you won’t kill then you are no good to us!! You’ll end up like every other preacher who has tangled with Mr. Slate, all you’ll accomplish is making him angry, which won’t affect you much, ‘cause you’ll be dead, but I can guarantee you it won’t be any good for us!”
    “I will have no more talk of me killing Mr. Slate or anyone else for that matter! It won’t happen! If that’s all you want from me I’m afraid you’ll be sorely disappointed!” The room deflated a bit after this declaration. After seeing what the Preacher did to Mr. Slates men, everyone was hoping to a quick solution to their problems. “Now, If you don’t mind, I’d like to find a room to make my own while I’m in town.” He said, turning toward Bill. “Can we hold services here Wednesday nights at seven and two on Sundays, at noon and five?”
    Bill nodded his head. “Across the road and down three buildings is the hotel, they can make a room up for you.”
    “Much obliged.” The Preacher replied, flipping Bill a coin. “Thanks for everything,” and with a tip of his hat he was out the door.

CHAPTER 2: A meal with fate

    The Preacher awoke the next morning to find that a letter had been slipped under his hotel room door during the night. Walking over to the door to retrieve it he noticed the name “Mr. Slate” sprawled out on the envelope. That didn’t take long, The Preacher thought to himself. Let’s see what he has to say.

    “I would like to meet, how’s high noon at my house sound?”
    -Slate

    “Short and to the point isn’t he?” He said to himself aloud. “Looks like I still have a little bit of time,” he said, looking at his watch. “Might as well head to the saloon to let someone know where I’ll be.”

* * *

    “Howdy!” Bill said in his usual cheerful tone as the Preacher entered the saloon. “What can I get you.”
    “Nothing today Bill, I’ve been invited to Mr. Slates for lunch.”
    Bills face went flush. “Y...you’re not going...are you?” He managed to say after a few moments.
    “Not sure it’s a good move to turn him down.”
    “You have to know what he is planning! If you go in, well, you might never make it back out! I beg you, you’ve just started your work here, you’ve already proven he can’t handle you in his usual way. Just stay in, no use giving him any opportunities!” Bill replied frantically.
    “I appreciate your concern, but I think I have to go, give him a chance to do right, even if he doesn’t take it.” With that the preacher turned towards the door.
    “Sir...” came Bill’s voice, “there might not be anyone brave enough to make sure you get a proper burial.”
    The Preacher just smiled, tipped his hat and left the saloon.

* * *

    When The Preacher got to the Slate house the door was already cracked open. As he was about to knock a voice came from inside.
    “Come on in boy!”
    The Preacher pushed the door open to see a large room with a table already set for lunch and Mr. Slate sitting at the head of it.
    “Come on in, take a seat, I believe we have some talking to do!”
    He seems awfully cheerful. The Preacher thought to himself as he took a seat.
    “Now I’m sure you’ve heard a lot about me already, about maybe the man that you buried the other day?” The Preacher simply nodded. “Good, well, let me clear all of that up. You see, the man you buried, the, um...preacher, as he called himself, was trying to unite the townspeople against me. We had a meeting just like this one, where I kindly asked him to stop, to move on from this town because he’s services, well, they weren’t needed here. Well he said, in not so many words you see, to um...well stuff it where the sun don’t shine if you catch my drift. Well that forced my hand, he wouldn’t leave, and I couldn’t very well let the townspeople to gather together to kill me could I? So you see, that little dilemma wasn’t my fault.”
    “Not your fault?” The Preacher asked. “Way I hear it he was turning the people toward God’s will, you say that was against you, are your will and God’s will incompatible?”
    “I’m not sure I like what you’re implying.” Came Slate’s reply in a rather dry tone.
    “I wasn’t implying anything, I was simply asking, what kind of man you were.”
    “What kind of many am I?” Mr. Slate paused thoughtfully. “Fair enough. How about I tell you a little bit about myself, that way you can decide for yourself just what kind of man I am?”
    “Sounds fair.” The Preacher answered.
    “Good. Here goes, I was the son of a clock maker. A clock maker, such a thankless, lonely job. No one knows you exist until they need you, and they forget you just as quick as convenient. My father was an honest man, a man of great faith, which did little more than guarantee that he’d die near penny less. He’d toil away on a project for days and not charge if the family if they said they couldn’t afford it, and when he did get some money for his work, he sank it right into the church. I still remember when I told him that I wasn’t going to follow in his footsteps, I thought it might break his heart, and it may have, if not for my darling little brother. See my brother bought everything my father was selling, and wanted to be a carbon copy of the old man, he pretty much was ‘fore the old man past. ‘Cept my baby brother had more of a knack for working with gears and springs. I was a little jealous I guess, that he had the old man’s heart, so before my father past I drew up a will, got dear old dad to sign it too. The will stated that I got everything the old man had, not much, but it was a house and a spot of land, money enough to start a ranch, the same ranch made me what I am today. ‘Course I’ve since sold that land and moved around a bit before finding this perfect little town. As for my brother? Well, can’t say I rightly know, if he took my father’s route he’s probably slaving away somewhere for next to nothing and giving what little he has to the good Lord. Me, when I saw what was left of my father when he was gone, well, I swore I would be everything he wasn’t, and well, look at me, I’d say it worked out pretty well. So, what kind of man does that make me Mr. Preacher?” Mr. Slate asked with a smile.
    “Judge not, lest you be judged.” Was The Preacher’s reply.
    The smile on Mr. Slate’s face instantly disappeared. “I can see that you’re going to be just as stubborn as the last preacher.”
    “And do you intend on me meeting the same fate as the last preacher.” The Preacher shifted in his seat as he said this and something on his chest caught Mr. Slates eye.
    After a pause the cheeriness returned back to Mr. Slate’s voice. “Oh no,” he replied, “I’m sure your fate will end up being much different.” The smile crept back across his face. “Much different.”
    “Seems like time I should be pushing off.” The Preacher said standing up.
    “So soon?” Mr. Slate asked. “Well I hope that you enjoyed our little chat.” After The Preacher left Mr. Slate called for John and Don. “Do you remember Mr. Fredrick, he works for the railroad, designing the new trains?” John and Don nodded their heads. “Put word out to him that I’ll be stopping in to see him soon with a very interesting proposition.”

CHAPTER 3: A Clash of Gears

    The saloon was packed, everyone in town was there to hear The Preacher give his sermon that Sunday. It was his third sermon and word of his first two turned anyone who didn’t think a machine could preach into believers. The word ‘machine’ hadn’t even been uttered in the past two weeks; anyone talking about The Preacher called him a ‘metal man’ out of respect. Just as that Sunday’s service was about to begin the congregation was interrupted as Mr. Slate and his men barged into the saloon.
    “Well, well, holding Church in a bar? Ha! I have seen it all.” Cackled Mr. Slate as he walked in through the doors which were being held open by his henchmen.
    “It does not matter where you gather, the Church is the people.” The Preacher responded in an even tone.
    “Well, Mr. Preacher, I came to ask you if you have given any thought to our conversation a few weeks back?”
    “I have given it much thought, and I intend to stay, as you can see, these people need someone to bring them the good news.”
    “The good news?” Mr. Slate said, smiling as he looked at his henchmen. “Well, that’s a shame Mr. Preacher, you see, I’m off to see a friend, and this friend, well he may be able to help me with the recent pest problem I seem to have. I was hoping you’d reconsider, save me the trip, but...well oh well, I gave you a chance. You may proceed with your service Mr. Preacher man.” Mr. Slate said, mockingly bowing towards him. “Enjoy it while it lasts!” And with that he left the saloon.

* * *

    A month had passed since Mr. Slate made his uninvited visit to the saloon that Sunday morning. One would think that his absence would have given the town some relief, but that was far from true. Everyone in town knew Mr. Slate too well to think he had given up on his vow to get rid of The Preacher, and with each passing day the tension grew thicker in the town. On the fourth Sunday since the visit, when The Preacher was getting ready to start his sermon, the whole town was visibly nervous.
    “I know that everyone expects Mr. Slate to attack me soon, but I think we need to take this time to realize the power of our Lord, and realize that His power extends over everyone and everything. Even Mr. Slate, and maybe, just maybe, Mr. Slate had a change of hear......” The Preacher was interrupted by a loud noise. He turned to see the front of the saloon had been completely torn off. Outside he could make out the shapes of three men. Mr. Slate and his henchman no doubt. Thought The Preacher. But it was what stood behind the human figures that had him worried. A massive object took up almost all of the visible space behind the men, almost completely blocking the sun.
    “Mr. Preacher.....” Came a deep and thunderous voice from the street. “Come out Mr. Preacher.”
    The Preacher made a move toward the door, but was stopped by Bill.
    “Please don’t go, I fear you won’t live if you do.” Bill pleaded.
    The Preacher put a hand on Bills shoulder. “Bill, you know I have to, I have to keep all of the people in here out of trouble.” As the preacher made it outside he caught his first real glimpse of what had torn the front off of the saloon. It was a large, lumbering metal man, much like him, but it looked like it was built for destruction. Mr. Slate, standing in front of it, looked like a small toy.
    “Well Mr. Preacher, I gave you a chance, just like I did the other preachers before you, and just like them, you didn’t take it. Consider this your ultimatum.” Mr. Slate then turned and walked toward his house. “Take care of him.” He said as he passed the large metal man.
    That was all the word the large monster of a machine needed. It heaved it’s huge hands above his head and swung them downwards. The Preacher was just able to jump clear of being crushed but was knocked back into what was left of the front of the saloon by the force. Struggling to get up The Preacher called out to Bill to make his way to his room and get his guns. Fear filled Bills eyes, the hotel that The Preacher had been staying at was across the street and the goliath stood in his way.
    “Bill I need you!” The Preacher called out, snapping Bill out of the trance he was in. “Take the back way, he won’t notice you, I’ll keep him occupied.” Bill simply nodded and ran towards the back of the saloon.
    “Giving up so soon?” The metal monster mocked.
    “Not hardly!” The Preacher said as he grabbed the nearest large rock and hurled it with all he had at the monsters head.
    “HAHAHA!! I hope you have more than that for me!” The monster cackled as he started to walk toward The Preacher, each of his steps shaking the ground along the way.
    Just then the Preacher noticed Bill slipping around the back of the hotel. That’s it Bill, I knew I could count on you. “Hope I have more than that for you? All you had for me was that weak ground pound!”
    “Weak?! I’ll show you weak!!” The monster once again heaved his fists in the air, but The Preacher was ready and quickly jumped up and climbed onto the roof of the porch of the shop next to the saloon.
    Need to time this right. The Preacher thought. Just before the monsters fists landed The Preacher jumped and landed on the monsters hands. With all the speed he could muster he ran up the arm of the monster and on to its shoulders. “NOW BILL!” He shouted. Bill, now in the hotel window of the room The Preacher had been staying in, hurled two pistols out the window toward The Preacher. In one motion The Preacher jumped up, grabbed the guns and started to unload them into the back of the head of the monster, sending it crashing to the ground. Everyone in the town started cheering and clapping as The Preacher himself fell to his knees.
    “Are you ok?” Came Bill’s voice, running from the hotel towards The Preacher.
    “I’ll be ok, please just help me to my room. If I write a letter to my maker, how fast can you get it out?” The Preacher asked Bill.
    “The train comes through each Wednesday, but I can take it straight to the station tomorrow if you want.”
    “I’d be much obliged; he’ll be able to fix me up better than before.”

* * *

    Mr. Slate had watched everything from his window along with John and Don.
    “Well that didn’t go so well.” John said after the monster had been brought down.
    “On the contrary, it may give me an opportunity to take care of The Preacher and an old problem all at the same time.” Mr. Slate answered as he played with the stubble on his chin.

CHAPTER 4: CAIN AND ABEL

    The Preacher had been laid up for four days since his run in with the monster that Mr. Slate had meant to kill him. Word was sent to his maker on Monday and as the sun rose on the Thursday there was a knock on The Preachers door.
    “Father! It is truly a blessing to see you!” The Preacher said as he opened the door.
    “As it is a blessing to see you son, how are you?”
    “I’ve been better.” The Preacher answered, pointing to his busted arm and leg. “That is why I called for you from so far away. I do apologize if it is an inconvenience.”
    “It is never an inconvenience to visit my son and see to his wounds. Now let’s get a look at these.” He said as he pulled a seat up to his son. “I think I can fix this in no time.” He then opened up his tool kit that was full of tools and all manner of parts used to fix timepieces.
    “How is the clock business treating you?” The Preacher asked.
    “Oh, as good as ever. It allows me the ability to give a lot of time to those who need it.” Which was his way of saying he didn’t have much work. “There you go, good as new!” The Clockmaker said, standing up and wiping his hands off.
    “You are truly amazing at your craft.” The Preacher replied, moving around his limbs to test them out. “Now let’s head to the saloon to grab a bite to eat.”
    As The Preacher and The Clockmaker made their way out of the hotel they were greeted by Mr. Slate, this time sans his henchmen. The Preacher instinctively stood in between Mr. Slate and his Father in order to protect him if Mr. Slate should want to try anything.
    “Now, now, now, Mr. Preacher man, at ease, do you think I’d do anything to my dear old brother?”
    The Preachers eyes lit up with surprise and he turned toward his father as if to ask for an explanation.
    “So good to see you Cain.” The Clockmaker said in a dry, sarcastic tone.
    “Aww, what have I done to you to deserve such a cold reception?”
    “I could make a list, but let’s just say the little stunt you pulled just before dad died is enough in itself.”
    “Poor Abel. Outfoxed by his older brother and still sore after all these years. Is that why you sent this abomination after me?” Mr. Slate said motioning towards The Preacher.
    “That ‘abomination’ as you call him, was made to help all of the people that you left like me, helpless and penniless. I heard of what you were doing with all your money, raping town after town, just like you are doing this one. You steal all of the money a town has, leaving its people on deaths doorstep and then moving on to the next. I made my son to help those people get back on their feet, to undo all of the evil you’ve done!”
    “You are just as naive as the old man. Each of you so worried with what’s ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ what’s ‘good’ and ‘evil’ that you barely eek out an existence, and now you are condemning me for doing what I can to make sure my life here is as good as I can make it.” Mr. Slate then walked over beside his brother and placed an arm around him. “Now, dear brother, I am going to do something so evil that nothing your preacher can do will undo it!” Mr. Slate then pulled a large knife from his coat, turned to face his brother and stabbed him in the stomach. Looking his brother deep in the eyes his final words to him, or anyone else for that matter were “You think dad would have seen this coming when he named us how he did.” As his brother feel to his knees Mr. Slate caught a glimpse of the last thing he would ever see, the bright red eyes of The Preacher and the barrel of his gun.

* * *

    It took just seconds for almost everyone in town to come running to find out what happened. When they got to the scene they were surprised to find The Preacher on his knees sobbing loudly, Mr. Slate dead on one side, the clock maker dead on the other.
    “What happened?” Bill asked; the concern thick in his voice.
    The Preacher’s hands dropped from in front of his face and he just stared at the ground. “He...he killed my father.” He said slowly, turning to look towards Mr. Slate. “So I killed him.” There was something in his voice that no one had heard before, it was anger and disappointment rolled into one.
    “I’m sorry for your loss.” Bill said, looking at the ground.
    “When my father made me, he sat me down and told me that though I was made to look like a normal person, that I was different. I was stronger than a normal person, more accurate with a gun, but that these things were given to me in order to help people, not to hurt people. Not only have I let my father die, I have betrayed him.”
    “You’ve hardly betrayed him, you avenged his death, not to mention took care of a man who has done countless evils.” Bill replied.
There was a long pause from The Preacher before he got up. “Thank you Bill, for your friendship. I need to be alone for a while.” And with that The Preacher retired to his hotel room.

LETTER 5:

June 28th, 1867

My True Love,

    As it turns out, no one in the town of Killbuck ever heard from The Preacher again. I have heard other stories from the surrounding towns of a man wondering the deserts nearby. After I am back in your arms I may ask the government for the job to look into these stories, to see if I can find this marvelous preacher.

    -Matthew

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