The Hollow Herd, Part 1

1. The Stampede

The sun was nothing but a sickly smear over the horizon when Mercy Vane rode into Coldwater. Dust clung to the wind like ashes, and the town stank of burnt wood and fear. Half the buildings leaned drunkenly, their windows shattered, doors hanging by twisted hinges. In the middle of the main street, the ground was churned to blood-mud — deep, wild gouges like the mark of countless hooves.

Mercy slowed her horse to a cautious walk, hand resting easy on the grip of her hex-marked revolver. From the broken church to the gutted saloon, Coldwater looked less like a town and more like a corpse.

A few faces peered out from behind nailed-up doors and cracked shutters. Hollow-eyed, silent, waiting. It wasn’t until Mercy dismounted outside what was left of the town hall that someone dared approach — a gaunt man with a battered star pinned to his coat. The mayor, judging by the way the others deferred to him.

"You Vane?" the mayor rasped, voice rough as gravel. "The bounty hunter?"

Mercy nodded. "What’s left of her."

He jerked his chin toward the ruins. "Wasn't a raiding party did this. Wasn’t no storm neither."

She let the silence stretch until he filled it, desperate to unburden himself.

"It was cattle," he said finally, voice trembling. "But not any cattle that oughta be walking. Eyes black as tar pits, bodies twisted like they been dead a year or more. Hollow things. Passed through in the dead of night... smashed everything to hell."

Mercy frowned. Ghost stories were bad for business, but worse for breathing if they turned out true.

"Some say," the mayor continued, lowering his voice, "that it’s a curse. Something old, dug up out past Deadwind. Preacher Ezra Cole, he knows more. Or he would... if he weren’t half mad."

He pulled a heavy pouch from inside his coat — the clink of silver undeniable — and held it out with shaking hands.

"You end this, you got more silver than you can carry. Let it go on... and there won't be nothin' left but dust."

Mercy weighed the pouch, then tucked it into her saddlebag without a word.

She looked down the ruined street, where the setting sun turned the bloodied earth black.

"Where do I find the preacher?" she asked.

The mayor pointed east, toward the hills, where the land was already swallowing the light.

"Out by the old mission. If he's still alive."

Mercy Vane nodded once, mounted up, and rode into the dying wind.