The Midnight Men and Other Stories by Lee Moan

squinting against the sunlight to find the figure of Saul, the blacksmith’s boy, silhouetted in the doorway.
    “Sheriff!”
    The boy sprinted down the aisle and stopped at the end of the pew, hands on his thighs as he fought to regain his breath.
    “We’ve been looking for you everywhere, sir!” Saul gasped.
    “What’s the matter, Saul?” he asked.
    “Bad man,” Saul said, pointing to the exit. “Bad man’s coming to town.”
    ***
    At first it was difficult to see what he was looking at. A strong wind blew in from the desert plains to the south, stirring up a wall of dust devils along the edge of town.
    A dark figure was approaching; a solitary man without a horse. The stranger was filthy dirty, his skin a deep brown colour and leathery, as if the dirt had been burnt into his skin over a period of months, maybe years. Wild moustaches drooped over a sore-encrusted mouth, and his unwashed clothes hung from him like oily rags. When he came close enough to see the man’s eyes, Wade felt a chill like never before. These were the eyes of a man who knew no law, who abided by no code, moral or otherwise.
    Just one man, but Wade could have been mistaken for thinking it was an army.
    A train of shadows drifted in the bad man’s wake. Dozens of swirling, twisting shapes crowded behind him, all jostling and wailing in combined torment. Wade had no time to count them, but he estimated the number to be around thirty, maybe more.
    The stranger approached the saloon, his dark eyes fixing on Wade’s own. He stopped and glanced round at the crowd.
    “Quite a welcoming committee,” he said, spitting a mouthful of amber juice into the dirt.
    “You’re not welcome here,” Wade said.
    The stranger raised a hand to his ear. “Whawassat? You say something, little fella?”
    Wade tensed, the insult striking directly at his already battered pride. But he fought the urge to retaliate. If the entourage of souls was anything to go by, this man was evil beyond his imagining. He had to maintain his composure.
    “Perseverance is a peace-loving town,” he said, raising his voice for all to hear. “We don’t entertain the likes of you.”
    The stranger took a step back. “The likes of me? Why, Sheriff, what do you take me for? A killer?” His gaze narrowed on the dark shape on Wade’s shoulder. “You sayin’ you’re better than the likes of me? Why, we seem to be afflicted with the same curse, wouldn’t you say?”
    “No,” Wade said, “I am nothing like you.”
    “Sheriff, I am just a simple man who has walked thirty long miles from Bridgetown. I’m passing through, is all. Let me take some food and water, maybe a little entertainment this fine evening, and I’ll be on my way by morning.”
    “No,” Wade said, more forcefully this time.
    The grin died on the stranger’s face. “My, my, Sheriff, you’re beginning to sound a mite unfriendly. What if I decide to stay anyway, without your permission? What you gonna do then?”
    “Put you in a cell,” Wade replied.
    “Not without killing me first, and the last sheriff tried that is standing right in back of me.” The stranger cocked a thumb over his shoulder. “Somewhere,” he added.
    Wade could find nothing to say in response. He felt the situation slipping from his control.
    “Now I suggest you stay out of my way and nobody will get hurt in this here peace-loving town. That’d be the sensible thing to do, Sheriff.”
    The stranger stepped up onto the walk and brushed past Wade. The stench of the man filled his nostrils: sweat, piss, and worse. He felt paralysed by this dark presence, the overwhelming sight of so many souls filling him with an all-consuming dread. He was about to let the man pass without further argument, keep the peace, when he saw young Saul standing on the walk just a few feet away. The look of disillusionment on the boy’s face burned deep. He was the sheriff, wasn’t he? And this man had swept him aside like a fly.
    He reached out and