Depravity wears many faces, but nothing is more vile than one visage using violence as a tool to achieve one's ends. The Old West was steeped in this depravity, a place where men clawed and scraped for whatever shred of life they thought they deserved. They'd lie, cheat, steal, or kill—anything to protect their hides. The kind of depravity I witnessed that day turned my stomach, and I couldn't shake the feeling that it was all somehow my fault. If I'd still had a conscience back then, I wouldn't have let that bandit suffer. But in that single day, I grew up faster than any child ever should. What child could grow into any sort of righteousness, raised within just a single sun and moon? Shelley touched on something like this with Frankenstein's monster.
But this isn't about literature; this is about the matter at hand.
The room we stood in was crowded with the Misfits.
I kept myself away from them—near the door.
Hachiman sat cross-legged on the bed, drinking from that gourd flask of his, and the Man Named Gambit had his gun pointed right at the Lost Corsair's head, poised to shoot at the first hint of suspicion. George Ravenscroft sat by the window, with the wounded outlaw I'd dragged in earlier tied to a chair in front of him—tied so tight in the Man Named Gambit's Gordian Knot he couldn't even twitch.
This was it. My first taste of true depravity—the worst of its kind.
Ravenscroft was at ease, smiling, his eyes gleaming like embers in the gloom. You'd have seen him as a mere shadow, save for his teeth—pearly white—and those unnerving green eyes. His knife glinted in his hand, his fingers sliding over the flat of the blade like a man absently toying with a tea cup. He was calm, disturbingly so, as if we were all sitting down for a gentleman's tea time.
'Now, my man, what's your name?' Ravenscroft's voice was smooth, almost too polite. 'George of London. A pleasure.'
He had a way of introducing himself, as if he knew his reputation preceded him.
The bandit didn't speak out of fear—not because he feared us, but because he knew what awaited him if he survived that night. There'd be no mercy in his future. His leader would hunt him down, string him up, and fill his body with lead while he swayed in the wind. The Old West was gruesome, but the worst rot always came from the bad apples of a poison tree. Still, the outlaw hadn't a clue who he was dealing with.
Ravenscroft, the Thieving Crow, began trailing the knife's edge along the bandit's leg. He smiled as he worked, his face obscured by moonlight, his body a mass of shadow and sable. The bandit's leg twitched, his breath hitched, and for a moment, I thought he might start to sob again. Ravenscroft seemed to enjoy that, pressing the blade into the skin just enough to draw a thin line of blood.
The bandit's scream was shrill, like a fox caught in a trap.
'JOHN! JOHN KESSLER!'
Ravenscroft stilled his hand, leaving the knife buried shallowly in the outlaw's flesh.
'A pleasure to meet you, John Kessler,' he said, his voice almost cheerful.
Hachiman chuckled, tipping his flask to his lips again.
'Now, John,' Ravenscroft continued, 'tell me—unless you'd prefer to suffer so intensely you'll beg for death—where's your camp? Your hideout?'
The outlaw spat blood and mucus onto the floor. Ravenscroft smiled in response, placing his knife down with unsettling care. His eyes, still locked on Kessler's face, drifted slowly to the man's wound. He chuckled, the sound low and cruel, relishing the torment in his mind. It never got easier to watch, no matter how numb you became to it. Every stroke of Ravenscroft's sadism etched guilt onto my soul, and I knew I bore some responsibility. After all, I was the one who'd dragged the outlaw into this room.
'I can't! They'll kill me!'
'Who's 'they'? Your dead friends?' the Man Named Gambit's voice cut in, cold and mocking.
'No, you don't understand!' Kessler stammered. 'There's more of them. They'll come back—they'll come back! A-a-and when they do, this town'll burn like hell. If they see me, they'll do much worse!'
'Them? Ain't you one-a them?' snickered Hachiman, drinking thereafter.
'Y-yeah…' forced out the outlaw.
'Then,' the Man Named Gambit drawled, pulling his other gun free from its holster, 'you best start talkin', or I'll put a hole in your head.'
Kessler didn't even flinch. He wanted to die. The blood loss, the pain—it was all too much. He figured death now was better than what lay ahead. But this wasn't how things worked. I stepped forward, placing a hand on Gambit's arm, pushing his gun away from Kessler's skull. I could feel everyone's eyes on me—especially Ravenscroft's. He seemed entertained by my sudden involvement. Anger burned in me. I wanted to find the man who shot me, the Hangman, and repay him with a bullet of my own. One shot wouldn't be enough—I'd fire twice, just to make sure.
Luckily, Gambit holstered his gun and leaned back, yet keeping his other gun close to the Lost Corsair, content to watch.
'Listen, Kessler. These people—' I leaned in, lowering my voice, barely a whisper; '—they won't just hurt you. They'll rip you apart, piece by piece, like a carcass picked clean by vultures. But here's the real kicker: you won't die. You'll be conscious for every second of it, feeling every inch of pain until God himself decides you've had enough.'
I paused.
'I've read the Bible. I know that the God in those old pages wasn't always kind. Vengeful, they called Him. Wrathful. He destroyed cities for less. So tell me, Kessler, what makes you think the God you've angered—by cheating, stealing, killing, breaking every rule He placed—will show you an ounce of mercy? You've spat in His face. And believe me, mercy's the last thing you'll find from him. The same goes in this room.'
I stepped back.
'Now, I suggest you start talking. Otherwise... you already know how this ends.'
I saw it then, in his eyes—Kessler had made his decision. His lips clamped shut, defiant. I glanced at Ravenscroft, who smiled and gave me a nod. I returned to my corner. As I turned away, Kessler's scream tore through the room. Outside, the piano fell silent. The Man Named Gambit sighed, walking out the door.
'Continue ticklin' them ivories!' he commanded when he's outside of the room.
And the piano man played again. The door would close on him, and the ragtime playing would muffle, and the scream of the outlaw became prevalent once more.
I steeled myself, watching as Ravenscroft carved into Kessler's flesh, his strokes deliberate, almost tender, like a man slicing through a fine steak. The sight of the man's leg flayed open sickened me. Ravenscroft wasn't done—he pressed his hand to the exposed muscle, a grotesque caress. That's when I had to look away. My gaze fell on the Lost Corsair, his back turned to the violence, his eyes lost in some distant thought. He wasn't like the others. He didn't enjoy this, but he was numb to it.
Having had enough, I looked somewhere else; my eyes fell upon the Lost Corsair who has his back on the whole thing. It was strange to me then how a man who can kill so quickly was easy to dismiss necessary violence. He was different from the three. The Lost Corsair did not enjoy it, but he was a bit numbed by it. I can see it in the depths of his wandering eyes—staring somewhere farther than the wall he was seeing.
Hachiman must have noticed too, offering his flask to the Frenchman with a quiet 'Kampai.'
The Frenchman was quick to take it, drinking a large swig afterwards. His face was crumpled like paper, probably enduring the taste of whatever liquor was contained in Hachiman's flask. That made me more wary of drinking from the thing. If that man found the thing revolting, then I might actually die if I do take a sip from that thing. I was glad I didn't do that the first time he offered me to take one.
The whole thing went on for an hour before the man's psyche completely shattered. He cried river, still tied to the chair. His entire body was bloodied, and nearly every inch of it was marked with open wounds or stripped of skin. He languished there, like a man realizing for the first time that hope was gone the moment he set foot in a place he never should've.
'Alright… enough… I'm sorry—'
'Are you inclined to speak now, Johnny boy?' the Thieving Crow spoke softly.
'Y-yes…' Kessler's voice trembled.
'Very good,' Ravenscroft patted his cheek. 'Where's your mates' hideout?'
'Amister Crypt… just North of Devil's Fork…'
'Amister Crypt, North of Devil's Fork,' repeated Ravenscroft. 'And how many are you?'
'I… I can't… count…'
'Can't count!' chuckled Hachiman before going on full hysterics. 'You're a bad shooter. How do you even count bullets?'
The Lost Corsair nudged on him, he laid off after, drinking again with the Frenchman.
'Estimate, sir, how many do you think you are?'
'Nine…'
'Nine? HAH!' Hachiman turned to the depraved outlaw with a grin.
'Ninety… or more…'
'Ain't that a kick in the head,' the Drunk Demon muttered before passing his gourd to the Lost Corsair.
'I see,' paused Ravenscroft. 'By any chance, do you know a man named Morgan Ravenscroft?'
'The Butcher!'
'The what, sir John?'
'THE BUTCHER! THE BUTCHER!!!!'
Then the outlaw began biting his own tongue, tearing it off with his teeth. He succeeded, and minutes later, he was dead. The scene unsettled everyone in the room. Even the Lost Corsair, who'd kept his eyes averted from the gore, couldn't help but watch as the man chewed through his tongue with the last of his strength. Whatever that was, I thought, he wanted to stay silent—and he knew that death was the best silence of all.
If he hadn't died, Ravenscroft probably would've kept torturing him.
He was wise to understand that.
A thick fog of silence choked the room into silence. It was only cleared when George spoke up.
'Well, it seems that my idiot brother has quite the reputation. I'll be sure to discipline him when we catch up to him.'
The door opened, and the Man Named Gambit glanced around before his eyes settled on the dead outlaw, who looked like he'd been mauled by some precise beast. His eyebrows knitted in anger. He wasn't opposed to this, but he hadn't expected Ravenscroft to go so far as to treat the man like a slab of meat on a butcher's block.
'The hell did you do to him?'
'Only what was necessary,' retorted Ravenscroft as he cleaned his gloves, he kept his smile.
'You're gettin' on my nerves, Englishman. I don't like the way ya handle things,' grumbled the Man Named Gambit.
'Everyone gets on your nerves, good sir. Be it a butter or a gadfly, both would irritate you all the same.'
'Ya think this is a damn game, don't you?'
'Everything is a game, my good sir,' Ravenscroft replied, his smile widening. 'It's just a matter of who plays it better.'
The Man Named Gambit's hand hovered over his gun for a moment too long. The tension in the room crackled like a lightning storm, everyone's eyes flicking between the two of them. For a second, I thought Gambit might draw. But he didn't.
'Then I hope ya got what we wanted.'
'I have,' he said, smiling still. 'Have you heard of Amister Crypt?'
'Yeah…' the Man Named Gambit stopped, his eyes looking through Ravenscroft.
'Something of the matter, good lad?'
'No, nothing,' he shook his head slightly. 'We'll ride tomorrow. For now, let's burn the dead.'
He looked at me and nodded. I knew what that meant.
I grabbed the blanket from the bed and wrapped the body in it. Ravenscroft patted my back and left the room. The Man Named Gambit followed, and so did Hachiman. Everyone left, except the Lost Corsair. I didn't pay him much attention then. My focus was on the task at hand. I kept my eyes on the man's face, mostly his mouth, where his tongue used to be—a deep crimson mess from the blood. If he'd been alive, he would've drowned in it.
That's probably how he died.
But I knew the real reason why he had to die that way. It was because of me. I was slowly numbing to it all. My conscience's warmth was lifting from my shoulders, leaving behind a cold emptiness.
As I stared into John Kessler's eyes, I saw a reflection of my own face. It wasn't horror. It wasn't disgust. It was an expression that wasn't mine.
Nothingness.
Unfeeling.