Peyton and Hollingsworth looked at each other and then again at the holy man. Peyton bit at his upper lip. He was sure that Hollingsworth was staggered by the preacher’s revelation to a belief in ghosts, but Peyton was not surprised. He’d always believed that religion was a concept needed by the average mundane person to get through their day-to-day existence. An evolved, more intellectual man did not need myths and superstition to explain things he did not understand. Men like him knew there was an explanation, other than supernatural, for the ghouls and goblins of folklore.
“The women in town took to calling Colonel Morvain “Diablo de Sangre” or ‘Devil’s Blood’ and many believe that he has brought great evil with him.”
Tales of ghosts and risen dead aside, Peyton’s disgust upon learning of the Colonel’s treacherous cruelty prompted him to gather several armed men to ride out to the ranch with him and deliver their message to Morvain personally. Hollingsworth, a superstitious man by nature, was apprehensive about sending his friend after hearing the preacher’s tale, but eager to bring the Colonel to justice. With little argument the lieutenant granted Sergeant Peyton permission to take a company of men the five miles west to locate Morvain.
The trek from ‘Diablo de Sangre,’ as Peyton decided to call the unnamed small town, took two hours on horseback. As they approached the entrance gate to the ranch Peyton’s mount began to act strangely, uncharacteristically challenging him. She refused to move forward and when he urged her on with a slight nudge of his spurs she turned her head and nipped his leg. She was not willingly going to pass through the gate. Peyton dismounted her and handed the reins to another soldier. He brushed his fingers lightly through his mare’s mane whispering into her ear. She snorted and whinnied, but seemed to calm slightly. Peyton strolled up to the boundary of Morvain’s property. Sweat drew clean lines through the desert grime collected on his cheeks as he gazed up at the blazing noonday summer sun.
“Helios’ chariot appears to have broken a wheel,” he said aloud. “I don’t think that sun has moved across the sky one bit since we began our journey this morning.”
There was something ominous about the high fence of grey stone blocks that seemed to extend as far as Peyton could see on both his left and right. The style was odd for the south Texas desert; the wall was more befitting Walpole’s Otranto than a Texas ranch. The top of the fortification was crowned by a black iron railing with pointed railheads every two feet, the likes of which he had only seen in the architecture of New Orleans. A smaller, ornate gate of black iron was the only provided entrance that the sergeant could see and above it was a homemade wooden sign with red words scrawled across it that read:
