[Hippie]

On the Lone Prairie

In a land far, far away, the scorching sun's last trickles of flame heated up the golden sands of the West. The coyotes wailed and barked in desperation for their next meal. Vultures circled high above with their glassy eyes fixed on the prize below. Skies tinged orange as the sun descended behind the horizon, the chilly night closing in bit by bit.

"... but we buried him there, on the lone prairie."

Tired feet trudged through the heavy sands, the last rock held in between skeletal hands. An ethereal voice hummed to itself in song in a tone devoid of the life it once carried. Finally, did the looming figure come to a halt in front of the pile and deposited the last of the rocks adorning the grave. Said skeletal hands finally dropped to its sides, its white gaze drifting on over to the wooden cross.

"Where the rattlesnakes hiss and the wind blows free..."

It had no tears to shed, for it had long since lost its humanity. Its voice, though ethereal and lacking a throat to voice itself with, wanted to scream. A feeling it had not felt in a century, at last, manifested itself in its soul. All it could ever do was sing that song she used to love.

"In a shallow grave, no one to grieve..."

"'neath the Western sky, on the lone prairie..." filled in a voice foreign to the Lich's, one that he had not heard in a long, long time.

Two metallic clicks filled the air at an almost simultaneous instant. The Lich found itself staring down the barrel of its sawn-off shotgun pointed at a man not far to its side, who held a revolver in his own and pointed straight back at it. The two stood there in their showdown, no words to fill the air. Once white orbs had turned bright red with choleric emotion, similarly-colored fumes pouring out from the boney jaws. One skeletal index hovered right in front of the trigger.

"Lower yer' gun, demon. Ah' ain' 'ere to fightcha'" requested the man in a tone all too polite.

And yet the sawn-off didn't lose its target. Not until the man himself lowered his own revolver, twirling it and sliding it back into its rightful hip holster. The red rage died down, finally replaced by the mundane white orbs all too commonly present. Slowly, the shotgun retreated back into the red poncho.

"You have no business here, Martinez," piped up the ethereal voice sternly.

"Business? Ah' ain' 'ere for business, demon."

Martinez's gaze turned on over towards the shallow grave the Lich so adamantly stood by. His wrinkly expression contorted into a frown. The old man reached up to remove his hat and run a hand through his white hairs. Despite the Lich's wary stare, Martinez made his slow approach towards the bundle of piled up rocks. The last rays of sunlight flickered in the horizon and finally vanished away, replaced by the faint moonlight in the night skies. He held his hat to his chest - in respect for the fallen.

No words were uttered. Upon the old man's solemn display, the Lich eased up. Likewise, their gaze turned to the resting place of Maria. That feeling returned; that of a pain so great that it could not get rid of. Even as someone as eloquent as the Lich found themselves stumbling over the words they wished to say, and the words they never got to say to the deceased woman.

His tone was gentle. Showing an empathy he had never shown before.

"She was an angel, eh?" he chuckled to himself. "Th'time comes fer' everyone. Even noble souls like 'ers."

Cadaver could not find the strength within himself to reply. His own gaze adrift, mind lost in 'why's, 'what if's and other nonsensical thoughts.

"Took me dis' long ta' figure out what she was tryna' do all alon'," continued the old man. "All these years, n' all those bullets she coulda' put right between mah' own two brows. She 'ad so many chances ta' finally stop me and she neva' did. And here I was just thinkin' she was a softie. All she ever wanted ta' do was redeem ma' fucked heart."

Noting that the Lich barely registered his words prompted Martinez to finally turn his head and look at them. His frown grew more pronounced.

"Ya' listen ta' me, demon. Yer' the one she was closest ta'. Yer' ain' supposed ta' be here sulkin' and sobbin'. Yer' a fucken' demon, Ryart's sake. Go out there an' honor what she stood fer'. Tis' the only thing ye' can do now."

But Cadaver wouldn't budge. Even with no face to glance into his soul, the despair and hopelessness of his loss were visible enough through his lost-orbed gaze. What words Martinez had spoken barely got a reaction out of the looming figure. He finally backed off from the grave and took a seat upon a nearby rock.

"'m sorry, Cadaver..." Martinez apologized with a small grumble.

The white orbs finally focused, slowly, onto the seated old man.

"All ah' ever did ta' ye' two was jus' cause ye' trouble. Ah' hurt innocent folks jus' fer' my own gain. Ah' did terrible things, an' all she ever wanted ta' do was redeem me. She was jus' too nice of a woman. Ah' don' deserve all she did fer' me. How many people ah' robbed... how many people ah' held mah' six-shooter ta' their 'ead n'... n' all she wanted ta' do was ta' make me good 'gain."

A wrinkly hand rose to wipe at his eyes and nose, a suppressed sniffle managing to break through his steely features.

"Am' old, Cadaver. There ain' not much use fer' me now. Mah' posse's long gone, and ah've tried ta' mend all mah' pas' mistakes. This 'ere? This is mah' last stop. Mah' last chance ta' make things right again. Ah'll honor 'er wish. Ah'll be a good n' honest man. Fer' 'er blessed soul."

As if time passed slowly, Cadaver's white orbs observed Martinez' hand swiftly draw his revolver and place it to his temple. The man's eyes were fixed on the cross contrasting against the moon behind. The hammer was cocked with a metallic click.

"So long, demon."

In a pitiful attempt to try and stop the old man, the Lich reached out his skeletal hand from his poncho with his sawn-off shotgun in a tight grip to try and fire a slug to knock the six-shooter out of the man's hand. But for the first time in his immortal life, Cadaver had failed to be the fastest draw in the West.

"Martinez!" the ethereal voice called out.

But there was no reply. Only the wails of coyotes filled the cold desert air. After a long moment, the looming Lich finally dared approach the slumped body of the old man. It lowered closer to the sand and reached out both of its skeletal hands to pick up the man, nesting him close to its poncho as if holding a young child.

Martinez was placed down by Maria's shallow grave, and so Cadaver picked up the first rock to lay over his body.

His song had begun anew.

"Oh bury me not..."