“You lied to me,” Adam said after he was sure that Whietchapel was dead.
Breathing heavily and laying on the ground with his back against a rock, Samuel looked over at Adam as he approached, surprised to see him.
“Yes I did, about somethings, not about everything.”
“I didn’t see it, I was a fool to trust you. That whole sob story about that gun and your mother.” Adam kicked the Deringer away, confident that it could only hold a single round, but still not taking any chances.
“The Deringer did belong to my mother. She was a strong women, told me on her death bed to give it to the girl I married. She said it was a cruel world out there and that a gun was more important then a diamond ring.” Blood now trickled from his mouth down to his chin.
“She was wrong.” Adam said mater-of-factly.
“She was different, I’ll give you that, from a different place and time.”
“We need to get you some help.” Adam said as he kneeled down, ready to sling Samuel over his shoulder.
Coughing violently, Samuel motioned for him to stop. “Leave me. There are things in the world worth living for and thing worth dying for. I have lost everything worth living for and lived to accomplish all the things worth dying for.”
Shaking his head Adam kneeled down once again to pick him up.
“No!” Samuel did his best to yell. “I am a bad man, a true monster who has done bad things his entire life. I can only hope now that I am forgiven in the after life. Take that,” he pointed to the Deringer, “and bury it. It has brought everybody nothing but bad luck – my mother and now me.”
Adam looked over at the Deringer and picked it up, wondering if it was possible that an object – any object – could be the cause of somebodies misfortune. He had heard of stranger things; haunted houses, ghosts, possessions, but never a gun with a destiny all its own, and one that spelled doom for all that touched it.
When he looked back at Samuel, his chest had stopped moving with his struggled breaths and his gaze now starred at nothing.
Adam buried Samuel in a grave in the open desert. He then got on his horse and rode towards the town he new to be a handful of miles to the west, hoping to catch-up with Ann-Bell before sunset. When he reached a stone arch bridge that was slowly crumbling into the Bent River on the outskirts of town, he threw the gun into the muddy waters below, hoping the mud would bury it for all eternity or that the current would take it far, far away.