Earlier that morning, in Olsen's Falls, at approximately the same time as Johnny Lancer and Jesse Logan were horsing around at Apache Springs, Sheriff Malcolm Orr was awakened by a clatter in the back of the Sheriff's office. It had sounded like the door to one of the jail cells being slammed shut. The office consisted of a front room that held a beat up desk that had numerous scratches on the surface inflicted by the spurs of Sheriff Orr when he leaned back in his chair and placed his boots atop it. The wall behind it had a gun rack containing a various assortment of repeating rifles and a sawed off shotgun. In the far corner was a cot where the sheriff often caught naps or slept when the town was quiet or there was little to do.

He was currently lying on the cot with his boots off, where he had been since the doctor had done his best to patch up Orr's great left toe where one of the Foggs had wounded him earlier. As he had come awake to the sound, he was quickly reminded of his toe, which was throbbing painfully again. Nevertheless, he ignored the pain and strained his ears intently for any further sound coming from the next room where the jail cells were located. There was only silence, as there should have been, since at present, they were unoccupied-- or should be. All of a sudden, he heard another noise which sounded as though a cot in one of the cells had been turned over. Perhaps, he thought, it was old Bob Farley, the town drunk, who sometimes came here of his own accord to sleep, when he felt he was near the point of passing out anyway from too much rotgut whiskey.

Bob began coming to the jail to sleep after he'd passed out one night in the street in front of the Silver Palace Saloon, and some cowboys had as a prank, stripped him down to his long underwear and hauled him out of town about five miles, in order to teach him a lesson concerning the impropriety of napping in the middle of the street.

Sheriff Orr decided that it had to be Bob Farley causing the commotion as he heard the noise again. "Be quiet in there, Bob, I'm tryin' ta sleep. I got me enough problems without havin' ta wet-nurse your drunk ass tonight!" Orr growled disgustedly, as a sudden increase in the pain of his toe made him wince.

Just then, he heard the sound of one of the cell doors being slammed shut. "That's it, Bob, I'm gonna slap some sense inta ya an toss ya back on the street!" Orr said as he came painfully to his feet.

He hobbled over to the partially opened door leading to the cells and entered. It was dark and he was unable to see the menacing figure looming in the darkness. As he dug into his jeans pocket for a match with which to light the lamp, his eyes, beginning to adjust to the darkness, caught a glimpse of a sudden movement just before his head exploded into stars and he was knocked unconscious.

He came to as his face was being splashed with water from a canteen. His hands were tied behind his back and he was lying upon his side. He was blindfolded, or else would have realized that he was in Buzzard Gulch, a twelve mile long rain-washed ravine, anywhere from ten to twenty-five feet in depth, which began just outside of Olsen's Falls and continued to the north and west. It was the same gully where Zach Baynes had earlier accosted Charlene Lancer as she was heading toward Apache Springs, only they were some three miles further up. "What the hell's goin' on here?" Sheriff Orr asked shakily.

There was no reply to his question. Instead, a huge figure reached down to adjust his blindfold. As he did so, Sheriff Orr caught a brief glimpse of high-topped moccasins and his stomach knotted up in fear. Nighthawk!

"Look, Mr. Nighthawk, I was only doin' my job. I didn't mean fer ya ta take it personal. I had ta do something, what with that woman all hysterical an cryin', and with Reverend Phelps lookin' on like that. I-- I can make it up to ya. Please, let's talk it over!" The hapless Sheriff pleaded.

There was no reply and the Sheriff continued, "I won't say nothin', if ya let me go. If ya kill me, the Army will hunt you down and hang ya. But if ya let me go, I promise, I'll leave the country and never say a word!"

The only response he received was a brief, guttural, "No." The dark figure then began slicing the sheriff's clothing off with a large, razor-sharp, Bowie knife. He then sliced the bonds holding the sheriff's hands, and began securing them to stakes he'd earlier driven into the ground, one behind his head to the left, and one on the right. The sheriff briefly attempted a struggle, but the powerful figure held his arms as easily as those of a child, and the feel of the razor edge of the Bowie against his throat soon brought an end to the sheriff's struggles as the man secured his wrists to the stakes behind his head.

He then spread the sheriff's legs open wide, and secured his ankles to two other stakes in the ground. Thus the sheriff was staked out upon the ground, totally naked and spread eagle. The man then went over and suddenly thumped the injured left toe and asked, "Hurt?"

"Hell yes it hurts!" Sheriff Orr hissed through clinched teeth.

The man then grabbed the sheriff's toe, twisted and squeezed down hard. The sheriff screamed in pain. As his scream subsided, he caught the sound of deep, mirthless laughter. He then heard the figure moving away and began to hope against hope that the halfbreed would leave it at that, as a warning, and nothing more. As he began believing that such might be the case, he started planning how he would see Nighthawk hang for this atrocity. However his hopes were suddenly dashed as he heard the sound of the man returning.

The man began piling brush and sticks between the sheriff's legs. Sheriff Orr, as had many others in the west, had heard of Nighthawk's infamous methods for compelling prisoners to talk and began pleading again in earnest. "No, please, not that, I'll do anything you want! I'll work for Fogg an help 'em bring down Tanner. I'll even shoot Tanner in the back! Please, don't!" the sheriff cried piteously.

The man calmly ignored him however and continued his task. He piled up wood and kindling beginning from the sheriff's knees and culminating at his crotch where the pile became the densest. He packed up brush, kindling and sticks tightly against the sheriff's private parts and then rose from the ground. By now, knowing what was in store, the sheriff voided his bladder, wetting the kindling. The man snorted in disgust at the sheriff's cowardice. He would have to get fresh dry kindling in order to light the fire. First however, he moved around to the back of Orr's head and roughly hoisted it off the ground. Noticing that the sheriff was balding he though to himself that it was not much of a scalp, but it would do. He then produced the Bowie once more, and began slicing the skin down to the bone all the way around the hairline of the scalp. The sheriff struggled in vain as the man then began using the knife to separate the flimsy scalp completely from the skull. Sheriff Orr was now moaning pitifully.

The man then casually pulled out his pistol, and began shooting off the sheriff's toes. Sheriff Orr was now struggling desperately against his bonds, and the man noticed that a couple of the stakes where he had been secured, were coming loose. He just sighed and walked over to the sheriff's arms. He then sliced deeply into the base of the sheriff's biceps, then moved around and sliced through the major tendons in his legs. The sheriff was no longer able to struggle against the stakes, and lay there in immobilized agony, his mutilated body shuddering spasmodically as the man returned with more kindling and wood, replacing that which the sheriff had soaked in his fear. He then calmly lit a fire at the beginning of the pile between the sheriff's knees.

About twenty feet up above the ill-fated sheriff and his tormentor, a group of three Comanches gazed down at the scene below. They knew and feared the man in the gully who was causing the sheriff so much distress. The man had not been unaware of their arrival, but went about his business as though their presence were of no consequence whatsoever. Finally, acknowledging their presence, he casually signaled for them to come down, and they did. He spoke to them briefly in their language, then offered them some tobacco, and they dismounted, lit cigarettes, and sat back to enjoy the spectacle.

Sheriff Orr was now alternately crying and muttering incoherently as the fire moved rapidly toward his groin. Soon the air was filled with the odor of searing flesh and rent by the sounds of the sheriff's agonizing screams as the fire did its work, completely obliterating all evidence of the sheriff's masculinity. By this time, the sheriff had mercifully passed out from the excruciating pain. The figure sighed in dismay. He wished the man had not been such a weakling. Had the sheriff been stronger, he could have tortured him for several more hours as he had done to others. Oh well, he didn't really have the time for that anyway.

One Comanche expressed the same sentiments recounting a time when they had captured an Apache warrior. He had endured far more than the weakling sheriff and had never uttered so much as a whimper. Such was life. After Sheriff Orr had passed out, the Comanches, considering the amusement now at an end, departed, thanking the man for the tobacco. But the man had yet a little more to do before his task that morning would be complete.

He moved over to the sheriff's head and removed the blindfold, noticing that he had awakened. Orr didn't move however because he was mercifully, in a deep shock. The man calmly gouged out the sheriff's eyeballs, then taking out a needle and thread, patiently sewed them to his lower lip. He next sewed back the eyelids exposing the ghastly eyeless sockets. He next led the sheriff's horse over, cut Orr's bonds, then slung his inert but still living body over the saddle and tied his arms and legs together under the horse's belly. It was now time to pay a visit to the good Reverend Phelps.

Reverend Phelps' house was located just on the northern outskirts of town, off by itself where it was quiet, and peaceful. It was a small, neat, mostly wooden affair with two rooms, a kitchen, living room and study. There was a white picket fence enclosing a small front yard. The yard contained a large mesquite tree about twenty feet high, and a nine month old Irish setter puppy who began to bark and cheerfully wag its tail at the man's approach. An arrow silently whisked through the air burying itself in the animal's chest and silencing it abruptly and permanently.

After delaying a few moments to assure himself that the dog had not awakened the occupants of the house, the man quietly led the sheriff's horse up to the edge of the fence and tied him there. He then cut the sheriff lose, hefted the body over his shoulders, approached the mesquite tree and laid out the sheriff at its base. He threw a rope over a stout limb that was about ten feet off of the ground, then fashioned a hangman's noose to one end of the rope then placing it around the sheriff's neck, pulled it tight. Next, he hoisted the sheriff up until his feet were dangling about a foot and one half off of the ground, pulled the rope taught over the branch, then held the other end tightly, letting the sheriff go. He then secured the other end of the rope to the tree-trunk.

The sheriff began moving spasmodically as the air was being choked out of him. The man then produced his Bowie once more, sliced open the sheriff's stomach and pulled his entrails out until they reached the ground. Sheriff Malcolm Orr finally passed away as the man stepped back and admired his handiwork. A smile crept to his face as he briefly wondered what kind of a sermon Reverend Phelps would preach next Sunday, which would in fact be, the following day. Perhaps the horrors of Hell? He had to restrain himself from laughing aloud at the thought.

Light was just beginning to appear on the eastern horizon as the man calmly rode off, circling the northern outskirts of town until he reached the back of the jailhouse. He then retraced his the path he had taken when he had earlier approached the jailhouse in the first place, then, at the eastern outskirts of town by the Boar's Head Saloon, headed south toward the Glass Mountains. He followed the route the Foggs had taken the previous night as they'd raced out of town, reasonably certain he had not been seen. He was correct, no one had seen him. * * * * * * *

The Phelps awakened to brilliant sunlight streaming through their bedroom window. "It looks like its going to be a beautiful day, Dwight." Beulah Phelps remarked sweetly to her husband as she got out of bed and began getting dressed for the day.

"Yes, honey, it does. Its a shame that I have to be performing a funeral service on a beautiful day such as this. Poor Brother Joe Bolton, his son was all he had. I hope I can at least bring him some comfort and reassurance somehow." Reverend Phelps said solemnly.

"Well, maybe the pretty day symbolizes the beauty of the place Dan is in now. He did accept the Lord Jesus as his Savior, after all. So we know that his travail here on earth is past and he will spend his eternity in perpetual bliss with the Lord. I would think that this would be some consolation." Beulah Phelps said.

"That's true Beulah, but its often difficult to enable the grieving family to perceive that clearly, even when they believe it. We as humans are so frail, and our faith sometimes is so shallow. We don't realize that our loved ones are actually better off. We say things like, `What a shame that the boy was cut off in the prime of his life.' Yet, were one to ask Dan Bolton right now if he would like to return, he would most certainly answer, in the negative. However, even believing that our loved ones are happier now than ever before, safe in the Bosom of Abraham, we often selfishly want them back here with us. And we must always be aware of this weakness in mankind, and seek to bring them solace in any way we can. Funerals are never easy."

Beulah Phelps solemnly agreed then set about preparing breakfast as Reverend Phelps pulled out his Bible and began making notes in preparation for the funeral service he planned to deliver for Joe Bolton's son and his former hired hands. His stomach growled in eager anticipation as the pleasant, comforting odors of coffee, eggs, bacon and biscuits wafted into his study room. After the horrors of last night in Olsen's Falls, the sound of his wife busily bustling about in the kitchen both comforted and relaxed him. He was blessed indeed that the Lord had provided him with such a woman.

Reverend Phelps was about forty years old now, stood nearly six feet one, and was slender as a rail. His close-cropped hair was already beginning to gray about the temples. He'd served two years fighting for the Confederacy after being conscripted during the first part of the war. After that, he made the decision to become a man of God. He had spent too much time killing his fellow man, and would spend the rest of his days saving their souls, he reasoned. So he had spent time studying in a Baptist seminary first in Georgia, then after Sherman's troops had destroyed it during their march through Atlanta, he'd gone on to the Wesley Theological Seminary, which was of the Methodist persuasion. That was where he'd finally been ordained as a minister of God.

During the time he had been with the Methodist seminary, he had met, courted, and finally married Beulah May, the attractive twenty-five year old daughter of George May, a prominent Methodist circuit rider in the South. From there, Dwight Phelps had moved out west, going from town to town, establishing churches and training other men to minister to them before he left for another town in order to repeat the process. He considered himself somewhat of a missionary to the Wild West, a region obviously in desperate need of his services.

Although ordained as a Methodist minister, he still retained many basic Baptist beliefs as well, and once he'd established a local congregation, he never emphasized denominational status. He simply referred to them as "The Houses of the Lord." In his opinion, any man who truly believed in Christ as the Son of God, and sincerely gave his heart to Him, had become a member of the Church that Christ established upon His Death at the Cross. Denominational distinctions and disputes he considered both unnecessary and counterproductive. Out west, a man's life often ended abruptly, and violently, and such an ending could occur at any moment. Such people needed to become born again right away. Theological distinctions could await their spiritual maturity.

A bit later, as Dwight and Beulah were finishing breakfast, Beulah commented, "That's odd."

"What's odd, honey?" He asked, his mind still working on the funeral service he planned to deliver later that day.

"I don't hear Rebecca at the door. You know she's always scratching at the door by the time we sit down for breakfast, waiting for any leftovers we have."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about it dear, she's probably out chasing after a jackrabbit or something. You know how puppies are." He said disinterestedly.

As she finished her breakfast, she got up and said, "Well, I'm going outside to take a look. She never ever misses breakfast, and I've got a feeling that something may be wrong."

"Alright honey. I'll be right here if you need me." he said, casually dismissing her worries in his own mind, chalking them up to a powerful, maternal nature.

As he was finishing his last bite, he heard the front door shut then a sharp, horrified scream shattered the peaceful tranquility of the morning. Reverend Phelps leapt from his chair and raced to the door, flinging it violently open. Beulah had fainted and lay prostrate across the porch, her nine month old puppy Rebecca, next to her and staring up at him with still, glassy, lifeless eyes, an arrow protruding from her chest. He then glanced up at the tree and gasped in abject horror.

Up until that moment, he had thought that after seeing Nighthawk decapitate the gunman Charles Shade, that he never had, or ever would, encounter another such grisly manifestation of man's inhumanity to man, at least, not one of such macabre proportions. During his service in the Confederate Army, he had seen bodies mutilated beyond description due to cannons, explosions and sometimes even soldiers who had seemingly crossed the line between sanity and insanity under the stress. That, he had learned to understand. That, he could comprehend. Nighthawk's atrocity had been much worse because he had shown absolutely no remorse or feeling whatsoever.

It was as if what he had done had been nothing more than a natural matter of course. Routine! As if, after decapitating his foe (possibly understandable under the circumstances, gruesome as it had been, in the heat of battle), it had not been enough. He had set about removing the scalp as though it were nothing more than an article of clothing which he desired. Worse still, before he had begun removing the scalp, he had nonchalantly apologized to a horrified woman who had observed the decapitation, as though he had merely forgotten to tip his hat in her presence. Yet, he then immediately removed the scalp demonstrating absolute lack of concern if not utter disdain for her feelings! To his knowledge even then, the woman was still in a state of shock from which Reverend Phelps feared she would never recover.

Yes, Reverend Dwight Phelps had thought that absolutely, Nighthawk's cruelty in front of the woman was certainly the worst case of man's inhumanity to man that he had ever witnessed, or ever would again. Unfortunately, he had been mistaken, terribly mistaken, for the hideous scene that now assaulted his eyes was far more ghastly than anything his mind could ever have conjured up.

There, not fifteen feet away, hung the naked and mutilated body of a man, his entrails spilling out from the gaping maw that once had been a stomach, to the ground. Flies covered eyeless sockets which were staring emptily at everything and yet nothing. A large portion of the skull was exposed and covered with dried blood, and it appeared as if the man's eyeballs were hanging from his mouth. His groin area had been melted and seared beyond recognition and some of the toes appeared to be missing from the ends of badly mangled legs and feet. Although butchered beyond belief, the body was yet recognizable as that of Sheriff Malcolm Orr. Reverend Phelps suddenly doubled over sick, disgorging his breakfast quite unintentionally all over his wife's lifeless pet.

The news of Sheriff Orr's untimely demise finally began to break to the general public a little after seven o'clock that morning. After Reverend Phelps had revived his wife, he was unable to coax her to speak. She was still in a state of shock after what she'd encountered that morning. It was a sight that her civilized and sheltered sensibility was as of yet, totally unprepared to accept. Reverend Phelps then decided to take her to doctor Macdonald, in his opinion, the most reliable of the town's two doctors.

Doctor Brion Macdonald had been up most of the night, and had managed only a few catnaps here and there. He'd done his best to staunch the flow of blood from Bart Jason's groin wounds, then patched up what was left of Sheriff Orr's left big toe. After Orr had left the office, he'd then proceeded to perform surgery on Jason, removing the residue of what once had been his genitalia and trying to repair his bladder. Unfortunately, severe infection had set in, and the doctor had known that despite his best efforts, he simply did not have the proper equipment to save the unfortunate gunman.

It was only a matter of time now until Jason passed on, and the doctor was just waiting until that moment occurred so that he would have the exact time to put on his death certificate. He had just finished checking in on the still unconscious gunman and was giving the facts to the newspaper man, Jeremiah Morris of "The Tribune," Olsen's Falls' only newspaper at the time. At that point, Reverend Phelps entered his office with his wife Beulah. She appeared to be in a state of catatonic shock..

Reverend Phelps slowly stammered out an explanation of what had happened and stated that he did not know what to do. Doctor Macdonald, himself somewhat shaken, tried to calmly explained how the mind was sometimes simply unable to accept certain things and that she would probably come out of it soon. Jeremiah Morris scrawled notes as fast as he could and wanted to know if the sheriff's body was still out there at the Reverend's house. Phelps told him that it was, and that he hadn't the stomach to move it. He said that he did not know whom to report it to since Orr had no deputies, Olsen Falls, no town Marshal, and thus, no duly constituted authority at the moment. Morris advised Reverend Phelps not to worry, that he'd take care of it.

The opportunistic journalist had remembered something Phelps had overlooked in his overwrought state of mind. Lieutenant Scott McCormick was still in town. Yet he had no intention of informing him of the incident before he had gone over the scene personally. He quickly set out to tell the photographer to hurry over to the Phelps' place and take some photographs before anyone else arrived there and disturbed the body.

Just as he had walked out the door, Beulah Phelps came out of her trance-like state and began screaming hysterically. Doctor Macdonald swiftly administered a sedative which put her to sleep temporarily. He then advised Reverend Phelps that he might as well go get some coffee somewhere, since his wife would doubtless be out cold for another two hours. He then informed him that he should be present when she awakened however, because she would need a great deal of comforting. Phelps agreed, then stepped out of the office and headed toward Ma Cunningham's Cafe.

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