Final Justice

Steve Crow

"Where is he?"

The voice rung clear and loud over the muffled scrams and shots that echoed in the streets outside. Charlie Landers poked his head up over the bar to see who had entered the Fat Chance Saloon. He kept his good right hand on the sawed-off shotgun, his favorite "enforcer," that he kept beneath the bar.

The sight of the man who had entered the bar almost elicited a sigh of relief from the bartender. Almost. These days, anyone and everyone was suspect. Even a Law Dog.

Charlie had to admit, though, that he'd heard nothing but good about Deputy Montreal. The man was reputed to be tough but fair, avoiding a showdown when he could but unwilling to look the other way. Like Coleman and Hunter, Lord only knew what Gomorra had done to deserve him.

Now Montreal looked battered and bloody. Smoke was still curling from the barrel of the Winchester he held on his right shoulder. Given everything that was going on outside, Charlie wasn't surprised. The man looked like he had fought his way through Hell to get to the Fat Chance.

Montreal glanced over the room. Business was light, and only a few die-hards were left in the bar. Apparently the man he was looking for wasn't in the main room. He strode over to the bar, his weight causing the floorboards to creak beneath him.

"Judge Gabriel. Is he in tonight?"

Landers was surprised. Nobody had been asking after Gabriel in months. Not that he could blame them. The "judge" gave him the willies.

Charlie shrugged and pointed with his bad hand towards one of the small curtained alcoves scattered along the walls of the saloon.

Deputy Montreal nodded then strode off and brushed through the curtains. Charlie listened for the sounds of a gun shot, or a fist fight, or...well, something. But nothing.

Shrugging, Charlie ducked back down behind the bar. It didn't look like Montreal wanted a drink, and no one or no...thing had come in after him. As far as he was concerned, anything else was none of his business.

* * * * *

Dave Montreal stepped into the small private room. There was only one man in there, and there was no doubt it was the one he was looking for.

The man was dressed in darkness. Black suit, black gloves, dark blue shirt. A black overcoat was slung over an adjacent chair, a black broad-brimmed hat perched atop it. His hair, what there was of it, was black. He had thin black eyebrows and a narrow black mustache. Even his pale skin was shading over to a gray pallor.

The only splotch of cover was the amber liquid in the glass before the man, and the brown-tinted bottle next to it. The bottle was half-empty, while the glass was full. The room's sole occupant was contemplating the glass before him, as if it were a crystal ball holding some secret of the future.

"Judge Gabriel? I've come to see you."

The man looked up from his drink. Montreal was heartened to see that the eyes that stared back at him were sharp, boring into him like a knife. He had feared for a moment that the Judge might have turned to alcohol. Why, Montreal couldn't imagine. But why else hide in a bar when Hell walked the streets?

"I am the man you name, ssssirr. What is your pleasssssure?"

Despite what he had heard, Montreal's hand tightened on his rifle. It was said that "Hangin' Judge" Gabriel's nickname was more than that, that it was associated with him certain hellspawn that stalked the Wild West.

Gabriel read the suspicion in the deputy's eye. Chuckling to himself, he shrugged. "My apologies. One must maintain the public facade. It tends to keep the lowlifes from bothering me. I'd even go so far as to say it's expected of me by now. One doesn't want to disappoint."

Montreal sighed. "Then you're not...?"

"An undead creature, walking the earth and meting out "justice" to the undeserving, claiming to serve the cause of justice?"

"Something like that."

"Not quite," Gabriel replied. "I've never had the "pleasure" of encountering such creatures. Although obviously I have been mistaken for them from time to time. If they do exist, they don't seem to have taken offense at my small impersonation."

"So you are the man I'm seeking, then."

"That, sir, depends on exactly what it is that you're seekin'."

Montreal took the chair opposite Gabriel and learned forward. "I've always looked up to you, sir. Your reputation for justice precedes you, so much so that the courts weren't good enough for you. There's all kinds of wild tales about how you've been gunned down a half-dozen times but keep coming back. I'd heard that you had come to Gomorra seeking someone who had escaped the law, and sent him to his just reward."

Gabriel chuckled. There was no humor in the sound. "'just" indeed. I dispatched the miscreant, true enough. And he was a lawbreaker, with a price on his head. Not that I sought payment for my deed. The act was "reward" enough."

Montreal nodded. "And now we need you more than ever. There's all manner of evil afoot in Gomorra. We've allied with Black Jack Jackson's men..."

"Including Blackjack himself?" Gabriel asked, showing the first signs of interest. "A wanted man, as I do recall?"

"Well, yes. But he's working for the law, like I said..."

"Then his death would be an...inconvenience to you?"

"I suppose."

Gabriel shrugged dismissively. "Then you do not want my involvement in your little 'posse.' I'm afraid his presence would force me to take measures that might inconvenience you. But go on."

Montreal continued, puzzled. "The Whateleys are apparently at the heart of all the evil that's been plaguing Gomorra. Rumor has it they've summoned some kind of demon at the Grimely Manor. We're going there later tonight to burn the place down."

"Arson is against the law," Gabriel said. And the Manor...private property, is it not? Trespassing is also a crime. Are the ones you plan on shooting it out with wanted?"

"Well, no. Sheriff Hunter's been a little busy to swear out a warrant these days. And if the creature the Whateley's have summoned is what it says it is...how do you put out a warrant on a demon from the bowels of Hell?"

"Then I'm afraid, Deputy, that my involvement is out of the question. I only seek those wanted by the law, or in violation of the specifics of man's law. Your own actions may force me to take an interest in you. An interest you would not desire."

Puzzled, Montreal scratched his head. This wasn't exactly what he had expected from Gabriel. "I don't understand. This is a matter of survival, and we need all the hands we can get. Surely you can overlook the letter of the law..."

Gabriel threw back his head and laughed. Loud. "Overlook the law! Deputy, despite my current lack of official employment, I cannot overlook the law. The law is my life. Literally. If I so choose, I can end the life of any wrong-doer in the eyes of the law."

Seeing the look of frustration on Montreal's face, Gabriel sighed. "Let me tell you a story, son. There was a judge, once. A hard man, this judge. He valued the letter of the law above all else."

"Then a man came before him. What some call a "huckster." He had killed a man, ripped his soul screaming from his body. He claimed "self defense," but every killer down through the ages has made a similar claim."

"It didn't matter, though. He had a jury of his peers, and they found him guilty. The evidence said he was guilty. The Law said he was guilty. And so he was hung up and killed."

"Could this judge maybe have made an exception? Possibly. The case wasn't iron-clad. How do you prove a man can blast a man's soul with a hand of cards? And was the jury unbiased? Well, maybe not. When the word "witchcraft" starts getting tossed around, good sense leaves a lot of folks' heads."

"But the judge didn't do that. He prided himself on how he had handled the trial. And he stood there as the huckster was strung up. But with his dying words, this huckster laid a curse on this judge. That any wrongdoer he came across, he would have to end their life. At the cost of his own. But it wouldn't stop there. The judge would come back. Again. And again. Because the judge was sworn to the Law, he would give his life to it."

"Well, the judge thought the man was raving mad. Standing on the gallows will do that to a fellow. So he didn't give the huckster's words much heed. But the next time a wrong-doer came before him in court, he was compelled to throw himself at the criminal. The man, a robber, grabbed a gun and shot the judge even as the judge choked him to death with his bare hands."

"But this judge, you see...he didn't die. Or rather, he didn't stay dead. They buried him, and he had a fine ole time digging himself out of his grave when he revived a couple of days later. Not nearly as fine a time, though, as he had laying in that grave, feeling the bullets in his body slowly being pushed out and the agony of his body re-stitchin' itself."

"Well, there's a word for folks that come back like that. "Harrowed." But this judge wasn't Harrowed. Although you could see how folks might think he was if he showed his face back in town. Dozens had seen him killed."

"So this judge...he didn't know what to do. He decided to head out of town. But on the stage out, he found himself sitting across from a woman. A prostitute. She had never been convicted, but it didn't matter. He knew she was a criminal, even though no one else could see it. He realized he had a sense for such things. He pulled out a knife and stabbed the woman through the heart."

Gabriel chuckled. "As you can imagine, the driver and the other passengers didn't take too well to that. They gunned the judge down, and tossed his body out of the coach. It took himself longer to come back this time, though. What with the wolves and the vultures chewing on his body, the healing took a long time."

"So what could this judge do? Well, he could try to keep a low profile, and stay away from people. But from time he was compelled to seek out those who have run afoul of the law and kill them. Sometimes a week might go by, sometimes a month. But eventually, the huckster's curse drives him out into the night."

"And every time, the judge dies at the hands of the lawbreaker he kills. Or bystanders shoot him down. Or he and the lawbreaker are killed in a burning building, or going over a cliff on a coach. And each time he comes back. Sometimes slow, sometimes fast. As long as it takes."

Gabriel sighed wearily, sitting back in his chair. "Now, Deputy, I've been in Gomorra for nearly a year and I've died three times so far. As you might have gathered from my little tale-tellin', dyin' hurts. A lot. You'll pardon me if I give a pass on repeating that experience until I absolutely have to."

"Besides...like I said, you've got wanted fellas from Jackson's gang with you. If I were to join you...well, you can appreciate there's very little I can do to help. I'd get to them before I got to the Whateleys.."

For a few moments, Montreal just stared at the man (or whatever it is a voice whispered in his head) before him.

Then he asked, "And there's no way to escape this curse?"

Gabriel shrugged. He pulled a revolver from beneath his jacket and placed it on the table before him. Idly he traced one finger over the pearl trim of the handle.

"There might be one. Like I said, only a wrongdoer can end my life, or someone after I've ended a lawbreaker's life. I've killed a lot of folks since this curse was placed upon me. I suppose if anyone qualifies, it might be me. It's just a matter of workin' up the guts for the job." Gabriel reached over and finished off the glass of rotgut without flinching.

There didn't seem to be anything more to say. Montreal turned and made to leave, but Gabriel spoke up.

"Oh, one more thing, Deputy."

Montreal paused, but didn't turn.

"You're a good man. At least, I figure as much. Otherwise neither one of us would be leaving this room on our feet."

"But those "Law Dogs" that you're with...well, not all of them are quite as pure as heart as yourself. Even Hunter. You watch your back, and hope that I never run into any of them. Otherwise...who knows? Maybe next time you'll be the one who gets to gun me down."

© Stephen Crow, 1999

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