Issue 4: "When Jonah Comes Marching Home..."

1863:

Captain Bates hadn't been asleep more than a few hours when there was a knock on the door to his quarters. He tried to ignore it, pulling the quilt over his head, but whomever was making that racket wouldn't let up. "For God's sake," he growled, "can't you morons do anything by yourselves around here?" The captain had been in charge of Fort Charlotte since the death of the former C.O. a month before, and he soon realized that running this hellhole was possibly the worst job a soldier could get. Calling it a fort was almost a joke: a ramshackle collection of buildings surrounded by high walls made of split logs, Fort Charlotte had been hastily built by the Union forces when it began to gain a foothold in the area. Unfortunately, as often happens in war, the battlefields slowly moved away from there, but the encampment remained. As a result, the Federals simply didn't have the means to keep the place up to snuff like the posts closer to the fighting (and therefore the Union supply lines) so the troops still stationed there were virtually on their own. This made things especially hard on the captain, who soon found that, just as the fort got the worst in supplies, it also got some of the least-disciplined men in the whole Army. Within the first week, Captain Bates decided that someone in Washington must truly hate him.

The knocking continued. Conceding defeat, the captain tossed back the covers and, clad in nothing but a nightshirt, he yanked open the door leading out to the compound. A few choice curses were about to fly from his lips at whomever dared to interrupt what little rest he got around here when he realized that the man before him was wearing Confederate gray. The captain clutched at his chest, his eyes wide, and gasped, "Good Lord, we've been overrun."

"You all right, sir?" the Yankee private standing beside the Rebel asked, then looked at the "invader", saying, "Told you wakin' him up was a bad idea."

Bates gawked at the two of them for a moment. "W-what's going on around here? I didn't hear any shots...how many are inside the fort?"

"Just him, sir. He done rode right up to the front gate an' asked to see the commanding officer. Said he was surrendering."

"Thet's right, sir...Lt. Jonah Hex, 7th Virginia Cavalry," the Confederate soldier added, snapping off a salute as he did so. "Figured it weren't right tuh turn muhself over tuh yer subordinates, so Ah requested thet they bring me tuh y'all." He gave the captain a quick once-over. "Sorry Ah didn't give yuh more warnin'."

The private stifled a laugh, and Bates glared at him. He then noticed that many of the soldiers walking the perimeter that night were looking in his direction, and some of them weren't as subdued as the private before him. "If you two could give me a moment?" the captain said, then shut the door. When it reopened a few minutes later, he stepped out into the compound fully dressed, though a button or two had been missed in his haste. Doing to his best to recover his dignity, he turned to the Reb and said, "Now then, Lieutenant...Hex, was it? I believe you said you wish to surrender."

Hex nodded, and removed both the sidearm and officer's sword from his belt, handing them over to the captain. He then took a step back, placed his hat over his chest in a submissive gesture, and said with a note of reluctance, "Ah'm at yer mercy, sir...an' Ah hope yuh'll remember thet Ah came here of muh own free will."

"Of course...though exactly why you did is a bit of a puzzler to me. I've heard about you boys in the 7th -- you fight like hellcats. You don't strike me as someone who'd give up so easily."

"Ah've got muh reasons." The man's tone of voice didn't invite discussion.

"And what of the others in your unit? Can I expect any of them to come knocking on my door as well?" The captain smirked. "Or perhaps you'd be willing to point me their direction so I can beat them to it?"

Hex's gaze went as cold as his voice. "Sir, Ah may be willin' tuh turn muhself in, but Ah ain't about tuh betray muh friends, no matter whut Ah may think of this damn war."

"A man of principles, eh? Not surprising: you Southern boys are nothing if not stubborn." He looked to the private, saying, "Lock him up for the night. When morning comes, we'll figure out what to do with him." With a nod, the soldier did as he was ordered and led Hex away. Trying to ignore the stares still coming from the guards on the perimeter, the captain returned to his quarters. Hell of a night, he thought as he laid down the Confederate's weapons -- they'd make fine souvenirs when this whole mess was over with -- and began to remove his uniform. He'd just finished pulling off his boots when someone knocked on his door once again. Cursing, he threw his uniform jacket back on and answered the door barefoot. "Now what?" he snapped at the sergeant before him.

“Sorry, sir, but we may have found something that’ll help us track down that Reb’s regiment.” He stepped aside, revealing a colored man standing behind him -- since the Proclamation went into effect two weeks before, more than a few Negroes had shown up on their doorstep, asking to be taken in. Bates, while a Northerner, couldn’t abide colored folk, and managed to ship off most of them to encampments that could spare the rations to feed them, but some that displayed useful skills were allowed to remain at Fort Charlotte, performing the same menial tasks as “free men” that they spent their whole lives doing as slaves. The sergeant grabbed the man by the arm and yanked him forward, saying, “Tell him.”

The former slave cast his eyes to the ground as he said, “I was bunkin’ out over by the corral when that johnny-reb came in, so’s they brung me that hoss he rode in on. They said, ‘Strip the saddle an’ rub ‘im down,’ so’s I did that...”

“Is there a damn point to this?” Bates snapped.

The colored man flinched, but managed to continue. “I was cleanin’ off the hoss’s hooves, suh, an’ I saw a lot of red clay mashed in ‘tween the shoes an’ splashed up the legs. That Reb had rode through a mess of it, an’ recent too. I don’t know how it is up North, suh, but red clay’s pretty common down South...’cept ‘round these parts. Nearest place I can figure for him tuh have rode through tuh get so much on his hoss is Henderson Plateau. That’s a marshy patch of land less’n thirty miles south of here, suh.”

The captain’s expression brightened -- there had been a skirmish not far from there yesterday. “Are you suggesting that he and his men might have been camped out around there?”

“It’s possible, suh, that’s why I told the sergeant ‘bout it.”

“With your permission, sir,” the sergeant said, “I’d like to take some men out that way under cover of darkness. If we’re lucky, they might still be in the area, and we’ll able to get the jump on them before they even know we’re there.”

“Granted.” Bates started to grin. “Seems only fair that we rouse them out of bed as well.”

"He's doing what?"

"He's digging his way out, I swear to God," the guard said as he stood before Captain Bates' desk. "You may not believe it, but we had something like this happen a couple months before you arrived. There was this big fella named Luke...used to get drunk a lot, and he'd get kind of crazy, so we'd toss him in there 'til he got sober. Last time we did, Luke went and dug right under the damn shed so's he could get out, but he was so big, his shoulders got stuck." The soldier paused, laughing. "We found him the next morning chewing on the wall to make more room. After that, we said to Hell with him and shipped him out."

"And what does a ridiculous story like that have to do with our current prisoner?"

The guard stopped laughing. "Um...well, sir, I noticed that he had his blanket wadded up in the same place where Luke had dug out. I mean, we filled in the hole right after, but maybe we didn't do as good a job as we thought."

That wouldn't be the first time for you men, Bates silently mused, then said to the guard, "Do you think there's a chance the Reb can get out like that?"

"Well, he's skinner than Luke was...plus he's sober...so he's got better odds. You want me to move him in with the other prisoners to be sure?"

"Of course I want you to..." The captain stopped as he was struck by an idea. "Actually, Corporal, leave him be. In fact, cancel the night watch for both him and the others."

"But, sir, if he gets out, he'll probably head straight for his men and..."

"I know that, and I want him to do so. We have enough problems around this fort that we shouldn't have to deal with feeding and housing a bunch of unruly Rebels. The War Department says we have to, of course, but it also says that we can take necessary action if they try to escape. So, if Lieutenant Hex manages to break himself and his fellow prisoners out...we'd simply have no choice but to shoot them all."

The guard's eyes widened. "Sir, you're talking about a slaughter!"

"This is a war, Corporal, and they are the enemy. Do you suddenly have a problem with shooting the enemy?" The soldier said nothing, and Bates nodded. "Good. Now let's go and arrange a little surprise for our departing guests."

When questioned later about what happened to his platoon, Hex would only say that they had been captured, then killed during an escape attempt. He never made mention of trying to surrender, or that he may have been responsible for their capture -- better to let that horrible mistake be buried along with all those poor men. If anything, the massacre at Fort Charlotte had shown Jonah how wrong he’d been in thinking that perhaps the North had the better intentions. There were no good guys in this war, no room for altruistic actions or notions of honor, just thousands of men on either side butchering each other, and gallons of blood being spilled on both sides of the Mason-Dixon line. No matter who won, Jonah realized, nothing would change: the dead would still be dead, the Negro would still be under the thumb of the white man, and both North and South would still each hold the other in the lowest regard.

Despite these revelations, he fought on. After being reunited with his regiment, he went right back into battle, fighting with even more abandon than he’d shown before, taking risks that would make other men quail at the thought of them. The majority of Hex’s fellow soldiers in the 7th thought his new attitude was due to the nightmare he’d survived, and that he now fought purely to avenge the deaths of those who fell at Fort Charlotte. They were partly right: in his conscious mind, he did indeed push himself harder to make up for the thirty-six men who could no longer fight...

...but unconsciously, in a corner of his soul he refused to admit existed, Jonah hoped that he would one day come across a Yankee soldier who was a mite faster on the draw than him, just so he wouldn’t have to face the pain of living anymore.

Richmond, Virginia: once the proud capital of the Confederate States of America, now just another Southern city put to the torch by angry Federals. Blackened trees offered no shade to the skeletal houses lining the streets, upon which soldiers in blue strolled as if proud of the destruction they'd wrought. It took Hex some time to get his bearings once he reached the city limits, but enough landmarks remained intact for him to find his way to the Turnbull plantation. The place had fared better than other estates nearby, but that wasn't saying much: with no slaves left to attend to them, the great fields of tobacco surrounding the plantation were little more than acres-wide mudholes, and the house itself, while standing, had taken on a dull gray cast instead of its usual fine whitewash. He stepped up onto the front porch and rang the bell pull, unsure if anyone was even there to answer, but after a minute, a familiar visage appeared before him. "Hello, Solomon," Jonah said, "it's good tuh see yuh again."

The graying houseboy's eyes widened, and he replied in a frantic whisper, "I don't know why you come back here, Mistuh Hex, but you'd best move on afore..."

"Who is it, Solomon?" Turnbull called out from somewhere behind him.

"Just a poor Reb who done got lost, suh." He began to close the door. "I gave him proper directions an' sent him off."

"Nonsense. Who knows how far he's traveled already? Let him inside so he can rest a while before heading out once again." The master of the house caught the edge of the door and pulled it open, but once he saw who was standing there, any sense of hospitality he'd had evaporated. "You...how dare you set foot on my property!" he spat at Hex.

Though taken aback by their reaction, Jonah pressed on. "Ah'm sorry tuh just show up like this, Mr. Turnbull, but now thet the war's over, Ah couldn't think of no other place tuh go, an' Ah promised Jeb..."

With a quickness that surprised Hex, Turnbull slapped him across the face, cutting him off mid-sentence. "A traitor like you isn't fit to speak my boy's name," the older man told him evenly, "much less wear that uniform, not after the way you betrayed everything the South stands for." Jonah opened his mouth to object, but Turnbull wouldn't let him, saying, "You thought you'd gotten away with it, didn't you? You thought that every one of those patriots had been cut down outside Fort Charlotte, but you were wrong: a few managed to escape, only to be recaptured later by more of those damn Yankees. Now those prisoners are coming home, and they've been coming to me, telling me of your betrayal." He stepped forward, making Jonah backpedal on the porch. "How many pieces of silver did the Union give you for the lives of your men? How much was your loyalty to the Confederacy worth? How much was my son worth?"

Jonah's foot hit empty air as he reached the edge of the porch, and he pitched backward, his hat flying away as he landed flat at the bottom of the steps. Pushing himself up on his elbows, he looked up at Turnbull, saying, "Yo're wrong...they've got it all wrong. Please, yuh got tuh believe me. Ah tried tuh save them all, Jeb included, but them Yankees done tricked all of us."

Turnbull wasn't hearing it. "You've brought nothing but death to this family. First my niece Cassie, now Jeb...you're a walking pestilence, and you need to be wiped out." He turned to Solomon, who stood beside him on the porch. "Go fetch my gun," he ordered.

"Mastuh Turnbull, maybe you should let him speak his piece," the servant replied. "Mistuh Hex always seemed like a good man...maybe he's tellin' the truth."

"No, he's not, he's a traitor and a murderer, and I'm not going to let him get away with it. Now do as I say!"

Jonah climbed back to his feet and glared at the man. "Yuh ain't got no right tuh speak tuh Solomon like thet no more: he's a free man now, same as every Negro. As fer yerself...yo're just an old man who's too damn blind from grief tuh see anything but whut y'all want tuh see." He scooped up his hat from the ground and put it back on, running his fingers along the brim with a snap. "No matter whut them fellas told yuh 'bout Fort Charlotte, Ah ain't no traitor. Ah loved Jeb like he was muh own brother, an' if'n muh death could bring him back, Ah'd gladly lay it down fer him. But it won't, an' Ah sure as Hell ain't gonna stand around here an' let yuh shoot me like dog fer something Ah didn't do." Spinning on his heel, he began to walk back to the road without another word.

"Come back here, damn you!" Turnbull yelled, and started to follow Hex, finally stopping in the middle of the yard, leaning heavily on the eagle-headed cane he'd been given four Christmases ago, before his world had fallen apart. "Don't think this is the end, Jonah Hex!" he called out as the young man made his way down the road, never looking back once. "I swear, if it takes the rest of my life, I'll make you pay for what you've done to my family! And when I do, I'm going to dance on your grave! Do you hear me? Someday, I'm going to dance on your grave!"

He left Haverville behind without a second glance and continued on across the open plains of Texas, albeit with a slightly heavier heart -- the feelings that seeing his hometown stirred up lingered on, though he tried to convince himself that he felt nothing as always. But at night, as Jonah slept beneath the stars, the old ghosts of childhood would return to haunt his dreams, never leaving until the first light of dawn, where he would awaken with an unrested body and a weary mind.

A few days after leaving Haverville, his path took him alongside a small river -- there was an Indian encampment on the other side, and some women and children were gathered on the far bank collecting water. Keeping a respectful distance, Jonah led his horse to the bank on his side of the river for a drink, then knelt down and began to refill his canteens. All the while, he watched the Indians from the corner of his eye, and he saw a few watching him as well, but none seemed to mind his presence. From what he could tell, they appeared to be Apache, and Mescalero at that. Makes sense, he thought, taking a drink from one of the canteens, reckon this is roundabout where me an’ Pa met up with...

Jonah froze, his eyes wide, then turned his attention directly at the Apache women across the river. To most white men, they probably all looked alike, but one of the women had a certain look about her, one that had never fully left Hex’s mind after all these years.

“White Fawn,” he whispered, and his canteen dropped from his hand and into the river. Seconds later, he was in the river himself, wading across the shallow water to the other bank, calling her name in Apache the entire time. The women let out a cry of fright as he did so, thinking him some sort of madman, and many ran back to camp, but White Fawn stood her ground.

“Who are you?” she asked him in Apache as she pushed one of the children behind her. “How do you know my name?”

“Do you not recognize me?” He took off his hat so as to better show his face, then got another idea: he reached beneath his uniform and removed the deerskin pouch that still hung from the back of his belt. “Perhaps you might recognize this.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “No...no, you are dead...”

Hex closed the distance between them, saying, “Not so long as I have you to come back to.” He then picked her up and kissed her, putting into it over twelve years of unsaid passion and regret, his heart filling with emotions that he thought had died along with Cassie, but instead were reborn at the sight of White Fawn. To his surprise, though, White Fawn tried to push away from him. “What is wrong?” he asked. “Do you not love me anymore?”

“I do, Mark of the Puma,” she said, calling him by his Apache name, “but my love is no longer mine to give.” Jonah was about to ask what she meant by that, then saw the child standing behind her: a little girl who bore striking resemblance to White Fawn when she was younger.

Crestfallen, he let go of her -- it had been foolish to think that she was unmarried after all this time. “Kin Ah at least meet the lucky man?” Jonah asked in English. Before White Fawn could respond, however, he noticed some of the Apache men coming his way from camp...and in the lead was Noh-Tante.

Hex left White Fawn’s side and approached him. “Yuh backstabbin’ sonovabitch," he snarled, "bet yuh never thought yuh’d see me again!” Without further preamble, he jumped on Noh-Tante and began to pummel him, the shock on the Apache warrior’s face plain to see. The others quickly pulled Jonah off, though he fought against them every step of the way. “Let go of me, dammit! Ah’m gonna make him pay fer whut he did tuh me!”

At that moment, High Cloud joined the group at the riverbank. “What is happening? Who are you?” he asked Hex, then turned to White Fawn. “Why did this stranger attack your husband?”

“Hus...husband?!?” Jonah felt all the blood drain from his face as he stared at White Fawn. “Yuh married Noh-Tante?!? How could yuh do such a thing?”

“He began courting me not long after you...” She hesitated, still in shock over her lost love‘s sudden return. “He said you were dead, that the Kiowa had killed you before his eyes while you were raiding their camp.” Tears rolled down her cheeks as she asked him, “If you were not dead, then where have you been all these years?”

“That is a very good question.“ The chief approached Jonah, recognition suddenly coming to his eyes, and motioned for the Apaches to let the young man go. “It has been twelve years since you disappeared, Mark of the Puma...why did you wait until now to come back to us?”

So Jonah told them, starting with how Noh-Tante double-crossed him that night at the Kiowa encampment, then about his miraculous escape and the months spent recovering from his wounds, while his friend Windy Taylor tried to track down the Apache tribe to no avail. “Ah tried tuh find yuh muhself after thet,” he said to High Cloud in English, “but it was like y’all vanished into thin air, an’ then...then other things happened, an’ the War...it was dumb luck thet brought me here today.” Jonah then looked over to where Noh-Tante stood, saying, “But thet don’t mean Ah‘m about tuh let yuh get away with stealin’ White Fawn from me. Ah’ve lost too damn much these last few years tuh let thet slide.”

“And I am not about to let you get away with saying such lies about me.” Noh-Tante waved a hand at Hex’s Confederate uniform. “It’s obvious that you reverted back to the ways of the whites the moment you were taken from us. That’s why you never returned to our tribe: you were ashamed of turning your back on everything we taught you.”

“Yo’re the one thet ought tuh be ashamed, yuh yellowbellied...” He began to move towards the Apache, fists clenched, but High Cloud stepped between them.

"I have heard both your tales, and while each of you told them with conviction, both cannot be true. There is only one way to settle this: a trial by combat, with the accuser facing the accused. The victor shall be the one who fights honorably, for he who speaks the truth has nothing to fear." He looked to his son, saying, "As the accused, you have the right to choose the weapon."

Noh-Tante glanced over to the crowd of Apache gathered around them, then said, "I choose the tomahawk...we shall see how much my white brother remembers of his adopted heritage."

"More than y'all ever did," Jonah answered. As High Cloud led them to the fighting circle, Hex stripped off his gunbelt and handed it to White Fawn in a show of fair play. When she took it, she pleaded with him to not go through with the fight. "Ah have tuh, darlin'," he told her, "Ah'm sick tuh death of folks thinkin' they kin walk all over me with no consequence. Thet man done me wrong, an' Ah aim tuh show him thet he cain't get away with it." Jonah then nodded towards White Fawn's daughter, following close behind. "Ah'll understand if'n yuh still want tuh stay with Noh-Tante when this is all over, though. Ah won't like it, but Ah'll understand why."

Black Raven was waiting for them in the fighting circle, a pair of stone-headed tomahawks in his hands. He gave one to each of the opponents, then stepped back to join the other Indians bordering the circle. Jonah hefted the weapon, reacquainting himself with the feel, then noticed that there was an unusual amount of rawhide wrapped around the handle. Upon closer examination, he saw that the wood beneath was badly cracked -- chances were that it would snap in half after a few heavy blows. Jonah started to say something, but before the words left his mouth, the chief called for the combat to begin, and Noh-Tante rushed forward, his tomahawk raised to strike. Ain't got no choice now, Hex thought, and blocked the oncoming blow, hooking the head of the weapon with his and using the Apache's momentum to fling him to the ground.

Noh-Tante landed hard, and Jonah swung his tomahawk at the prone man's arm, hoping to end this quickly. Unfortunately, Noh-Tante rolled out of the way, and Hex struck the ground instead -- he could feel the wood begin to splinter as he tumbled forward off-balance. To make matters worse, his opponent took advantage of the blunder and sunk his weapon into the back of Hex's calf, and he went down in a heap. "First blood is mine," Noh-Tante said, and moved in for another blow.

"An' thet's all yo're gettin'," Jonah growled. He brought up his uninjured leg and kicked Noh-Tante in the gut, making him step back a few feet. Blood trickled into Hex's boot as he stood up, gritting his teeth and advancing on his opponent. The two of them locked together, glaring at each other from behind crossed tomahawks. "Ah know whut Black Raven did," Hex said to him. "The two of yuh have always been thick as thieves...he slipped me a busted weapon so's yuh couldn't lose." He pushed his tomahawk against Noh-Tante's ever harder, trying to ignore to slow cracking noise coming from the handle. "Whut's the matter, were yuh afraid yuh couldn't beat a white man?"

"You forget your place...slave!" Noh-Tante shoved him backwards with all his might, and Jonah's wounded leg crumpled beneath the strain. He tried to catch himself as he went down, but his efforts were only met with a final snap from the wood handle when his tomahawk struck the ground. Then Noh-Tante was upon him, one hand around Hex's throat as he pinned him to the ground, the other holding his sturdy weapon high above the white man's head. Jonah braced his own hand against Noh-Tante's wrist so as to keep the weapon as far from his skull as possible, but his strength was flagging, and the chiseled stone edge was inching closer. "I should thank you, 'brother', for coming back so I could kill you myself," the Apache said. "I will remember this day fondly...especially whenever I take White Fawn to my bed." He leaned close, a manic look of glee on his face. "It's a shame you were never able to do so yourself...her skin tastes so sweet..."

That was the final straw. Blind rage enveloped Jonah's brain, devouring any sense of civility he still possessed. The man before him was void of honor, so why should he fight honorably? With barely a thought, Jonah reached behind his neck with his free hand and unsheathed the knife he still kept beneath his coat, then drove it between Noh-Tante's ribs, twisting and jerking the blade to the side as he did so. The Apache's expression didn't change right away -- he kept on leering at Hex, tomahawk raised -- then realization crept across his features as blood began to seep out of the corner of his mouth from his punctured lung. Jonah pushed him aside with no trouble now and stood up as High Cloud came forward, falling to his knees beside his dying son. "He cheated," Jonah said, "he an' Black Raven rigged muh tomahawk so's it would break."

"The only evidence I see of cheating is in your bloodied hands," the chief replied, never taking his eyes from Noh-Tante. "You fought like a white man, with cowardice and deception, while my son fought with nothing but honor till his final breath...I declare him the victor." He looked over to the braves standing nearby and nodded towards Hex. "Seize him."

They did as their chief ordered, grabbing Jonah by the arms and forcing the knife from his hand. He struggled to free himself, calling out to White Fawn that this wasn't what it looked like, but she turned away from him, afraid to show any sympathy in front of her people. Taking the tomahawk from Noh-Tante's hand, High Cloud walked over to one of the cooking fires, gesturing to the Apaches holding Jonah to follow him. "Long ago, you saved my life at the risk of your own, and I made you part of my family because of that," the chief said as he knelt down in front of the fire, sticking the stone blade deep into the embers. "I thought you were different from the other whites, and that perhaps our two people could truly learn to live together...but now I see that the evil I have witnessed in your people dwells within you as well, though it lies much deeper. Perhaps if you had never left us, we could have fully driven the spirit of the white devil from your heart, but it's too late for such things now. The most I can do is send a warning to anyone else who crosses your path, so they will not be fooled as I was." He pulled the tomahawk from the fire and approached Hex, grabbing hold of his red hair and tilting his head up. "From this day forward, the name of Mark of the Puma shall never be spoken again -- you are dead to my tribe, and are forbidden to ever return here. The shame of what you did shall remain with you for the rest of your life, and all who look upon you will know your true name: Mark of the Demon!"

With that, High Cloud pressed the red-hot tomahawk to the right side of Jonah's face. He tried to hold in the scream, but it was impossible as the skin beneath the blade burned away, the pain shooting though his head like a bullet -- he'd been burned before, but never like this, never with such intensity. He squirmed in the grip of the Apaches, wanting to turn his face away, to escape the agony for even a moment, but it was no use, it went on and on, the smell of his own seared flesh filling his nostrils, coating the inside of his mouth. Mercifully, shock began to overtake his senses, shutting down his awareness of what was happening to him...until he screamed anew as High Cloud finally pulled the tomahawk away, the burned flesh sticking momentarily to the blade before tearing free. Only then did the men holding Jonah let go, letting him fall bonelessly to the ground. He never felt the impact, though: to Hex, it seemed like he fell straight through the earth, sinking like a stone into black, unknown depths as consciousness left him completely.

A full moon hung over the town of Burnett, Texas, a fitting counterpart to the Halloween festivities taking place that night. Little boys jumped out of shadows in an effort to spook the girls, while their parents danced in the square and imbibed on hard cider. Even the local saloon was decked out for the evening with bundles of dry cornstalks flanking the doors. Not that the regulars cared about the ambience -- so long as the drinks kept coming, they didn’t give a damn how the owner dressed it up. A few men had commandeered the piano in the corner and were singing bawdy songs, most of them directed at the barmaid. She’d been through such things before, however, and ignored them as she went over to the bar to pick up another round.

“You might want to check on the Reb in the corner,” she said to the owner as he reloaded her tray, “he ain’t moved in a couple hours.”

“Why don’t you? That’s what I pay you for.”

She shook her head. “I ain’t superstitious or nothin’, but he gives me the shivers something awful, especially on a night like this.”

“Fine, fine.” He left the bar and walked to the back of the saloon. A man dressed in Confederate gray was slumped over a table there, an empty bottle laying next to his hand. “Hey you, wake up,” he said, shaking the man. “If’n you ain’t buyin’ no more, you gotta get out.”

The Reb stirred, then slowly sat up -- as always, the owner tried not to react when he saw the horrid scars on the man’s face. Jonah had first stumbled into town two days before, and had proceeded to get sloshed in this particular saloon ever since, much to the owner’s chagrin. A moment passed by as the message filtered through Hex’s pickled brain, then he reached into the deerskin pouch on his belt. The owner figured the guy must have a couple dollars still stashed in there, but instead of money, he tossed a tarnished gold ring onto the tabletop without a word.

“What the Hell do you think this is, a pawn shop? Cough up some money or I’m tossin’ your sorry butt out the door!” But Hex didn’t move, he just sat there, his bloodshot eyes fixed on his old wedding band. “That’s it...adios, rummy!” The owner grabbed Hex by the collar and dragged him to the door, the other patrons whooping as the former Confederate was shoved out into the street. "An' don't forget your cheap jewelry, too!" the owner said, and threw the ring out after him.

Jonah lay in the mud for a few minutes, not paying any heed to the people staring at him as they passed by on the boardwalk. Then he sat up, reaching over to pluck the ring out of the mud. He carefully wiped it clean before slipping it back in his pouch, though he couldn't think of why he was bothering: it was worthless, just like him, not even enough value to it to buy him a drink. And he needed one so badly, just a little one to stop the pain for a while -- the scars didn't ache so bad now, except in wet weather, but the ache in his soul never went away. He had nothing left to live for, nothing to fight for, all he had to look forward to every day was his next belt of whiskey...and now that the money had run out, that was gone as well. He rested a hand against the gun on his hip, thinking of what the saloon owner had said about pawn shops. A fine pistol like this should fetch a few dollars, Jonah thought, an' the ring might get me a few more, maybe enough tuh hold me 'til Christmas. He staggered to his feet and began to walk to an alleyway near the saloon -- he'd find a place to curl up for the night, then try to sell off what little he had left in the morning.

As he approached the mouth of the alley, Hex thought he heard a woman crying. He stopped, cocking his head to listen, then he heard a man's voice say, "Don't lie tuh me! Ah know whut yuh been doin' behind muh back! Did yuh think Ah wouldn't find out, yuh damn whore?" followed by the sound of someone getting slapped.

Hex froze, the familiarity of the words striking home. Slowly, he crept over to the alley and saw a grizzled man holding a woman against the wall, her blonde hair in disarray. She was begging him to stop, but the man wasn't listening, he just kept on hitting her, cursing her. Jonah pressed himself against the wall, arms hugging his chest, all the old fears coming back to him. It cain't be them...it's been so long... But despite the fog of alcohol on his brain, he knew what he saw. He also knew that he wasn't a little boy anymore. With a conviction that he hadn't felt in months, Jonah strode up to the man and grabbed him, throwing him against the opposite wall of the alley. "Ah ain't gonna let yuh hurt her no more, Pa," he growled.

"Whut the Hell are yuh talkin' about? Who the Hell are yuh?"

"Yuh forgot all 'bout me, didn't yuh? Well, Ah didn't forget yuh, Pa, an' Ah sure as Hell didn't forget all the grief yuh used tuh give me an' Ma." Hex pointed at the woman behind him, still crying as she crumpled to the ground. "Ah swore Ah'd show yuh someday how wrong yuh was, an' today's the day!"

The man scoffed and pushed Hex away. "Yuh damn crazy drunk," he said as he reached down to draw his gun, "yuh picked the wrong night tuh go pickin' fights." He pulled leather, but before he could even clear the holster, Jonah drew his own and blasted a hole in the man's chest, the gunshot echoing all though the alleyway. The ex-soldier had done so more out of instinct than thought, and now that the deed was done, he felt no remorse -- he'd threatened to shoot his father once before, this was just the culmination of that earlier attempt.

"It's all over, Ma," Jonah said, and knelt beside the woman, putting his arms around her. "He's finally dead, yuh don't have tuh run away now. We kin go home an'..."

She slapped Jonah across the face, screaming, "Get away from me, you freak! Help, somebody help me!" Hex couldn't understand why his mother was reacting that way, then the truth began to sink in: aside from the blonde hair, this woman didn't look anything like his mother. A chill went down his spine as he turned to look at the man he'd just shot -- despite the similar twang in his voice, that was most certainly not his father. Good Lord, he thought, whut have Ah done?

People began to gather at the mouth of the alley, attracted by the shouts and gunplay. The woman wrenched free of Jonah's weakening grip and ran to them, falling into the arms of a deputy just arriving on the scene. "He's crazy...he just came up and started shooting!" she said, pointing at Hex. The deputy drew his gun and ordered him to put his hands up. Jonah did as he was told, too much in shock to offer any resistance.

The night he spent in jail was the longest of his life: he lay awake on the tiny bunk in his cell, staring at the wall and replaying the incident in his head. He'd killed a total stranger in cold blood for no reason other than he was too blind drunk to distinguish between reality and memory -- had he really sunk that low? The morning brought no relief, only a terrible hangover to go with his guilt, and to top it off, he suddenly remembered what day it was: November first...his birthday. Yo're a real piece of work, Jonah boy, he thought as he sat up, trying to hold his head together with both hands. Here yuh are, just turned twenty-eight, an' whut do yuh got tuh show fer it? Nothin' but empty pockets an' a splittin' headache. He thought back on all the Hell he'd been through over the years, all the attempts he'd made to lead at a good life...why did it always go so terribly wrong for him? Why did he always become the scapegoat? There was only one person he could think to ask, but it had never been in Jonah's nature to do so, having been raised by a father who valued the belt over the Bible. At that moment, however, sitting in a jail cell with no hope of a future, it seemed like the best thing to do. With a sigh, he closed his eyes and clasped his hands before him.

Lord, Yuh know Ah ain't muh of a prayin' man, but Ah ain't got nowhere else tuh turn. Ah ain't gonna ask Yer forgiveness fer killin' thet man, 'cause thet ain't right -- murder is murder, there ain't no excuse fer it, an' Ah'll do muh time fer it when the time comes. All's Ah'm askin' is fer Y'all tuh show me whut Ah'm supposed tuh do with muh life. Ah hear-tell thet Y'all put everybody on this here Earth fer a purpose, but Ah cain't seem tuh figure out whut mine is. Ah've failed at everything Ah've ever done, an' Ah've lost everybody thet ever showed me an ounce of love or respect...Ah'm tired of sufferin'. Ah ain't askin' fer much, just show me whut purpose Yuh done put me here fer. If'n it's so folks kin keep spittin' on me...well, just let these lawmen hang me, 'cause Ah don't want thet job no more. But if'n Yuh got something else in mind, show me whut it is...

"You know, when I saw your name on the blotter this morning, I could hardly believe it."

Jonah looked up to see a Tejano man standing at the cell door. He appeared to be in his fifties, his long salt-and-pepper hair tied back in a ponytail, and a pair of Walker Colts holstered on a belt strapped across his chest, a sheriff's badge pinned above them. Something about his appearance plucked at Jonah's memory, and when he finally put his finger on it, he could only think of one thing to say: "Ah thought yuh was a Ranger."

Antonio Ramirez couldn't help but smile. "Back when we first met, yeah, but I retired from the Texas Rangers a few years before the War. That's a game for younger men, not old fools like me." He leaned against the bars. "So, you want to explain what happened last night?" Hex didn't respond, casting his eyes down to the floor instead. "It's alright, doesn't matter anyhow." Ramirez unlocked the cell door. "Whether it was intentional or not, you'll still get what's coming to you."

Jonah didn't like the sound of that. Despite the ominous implications, he followed the former Ranger into the front office. When they got there, he saw his gunbelt laying on the desk, along with a small stack of money. To Hex's surprise, Ramirez picked up the money and handed it right over to him. He stared at the wad of bills for a moment, then said, "Whut the Hell's this fer?"

"That man you killed was 'Mad Dog' Lucas McGill, wanted for murder in five states and at least as many territories -- Bart Mallory was a choirboy compared to him." He scooped up a wanted poster off the desk and showed it to Jonah. "From what I can piece together, he'd rode into town yesterday and tried to get an old girlfriend of his to hide him...that was the young lady you found him with last night. Unfortunately, she'd been seeing another man, and McGill wasn't very happy about it -- matter of fact, if you hadn't butted in and shot him, he may've very likely killed her too." The older man shook his head, saying, "If I hadn't been out of town last night when my deputy arrested you, we could've straightened out this whole mess then, and you could've used that bounty money to sleep in a nice hotel room instead of a cell."

"Bounty?" Jonah looked at the poster and noted the thousand dollar reward printed on it, the same as what he now held in his hand. "Ah cain't take this, Ah ain't no bounty hunter..."

"You don't have to be: a bounty goes to whomever captures...or kills...the person in question. You killed McGill, so you get the money. And I've gotta say, you really earned it: the reason the bounty's so high is because so many professional bounty hunters have died trying to bring him in. Somebody up there was keeping a close eye on you, Jonah."

"Reckon maybe they was," he said quietly. He looked at the wall behind Ramirez, at all the other posters there -- some of the rewards on them were as much as McGill's, others just a few hundred. "Whut do yuh got tuh do anyhow? Tuh be a bounty hunter, Ah mean."

"Same as you did last night, basically: be faster on the draw than whomever you're tracking down." He saw where Hex was looking, and pointed a finger at him. "You get that damn fool idea outta your head right now, though, it's a dangerous way for young man like yourself to make a living. Most bounty hunters I know ain't much better than the men they chase...some end up becoming criminals themselves. They drift along from one job to the next, no home, no friends or family, no one caring if they live or die...all they've got to depend on in life is their guns and their wits. The only good thing I can say about them is that they make my job a mite easier. They're willing to ride a lot further and put up with a lot more grief than most lawmen just to make a few extra dollars."

"So they do some good, then. Maybe not all the time, but they serve a purpose." Hex unbuttoned his coat enough to slip the money inside, then picked up his gunbelt from the desk and buckled it back into place. "Ain't glamorous work, but it's something thet needs tuh be done."

Ramirez put a hand on Jonah's shoulder and said, "Listen, son, I can tell that you've been through a lot since we last saw each other, and maybe you think you can handle that sort of life, but you've got to believe me: right now, it might seem like there's nothing wrong with hunting people down for a living...Hell, it might even seem like fun...but there might come a day ten or twenty years down the line when you look in the mirror and you don't like what's looking back. So before you do anything foolish, promise me that you'll take a day to think about what I said. Think about it real long and real hard."

Jonah looked Ramirez straight in the eye and said, "Yuh have muh word, sir."

1878:

All was quiet in El Gato Negro, the steady tick-tock of the clock in the saloon being the only sound heard. Those renting rooms for the night had turned in hours ago, and the elderly couple that owned the place had followed them upstairs not long after. But not long before midnight, a new sound could be heard: footsteps in the hall leading to the rooms. They fell softly, haltingly, until the shadowed figure taking those steps stopped in front of one of the closed doors. A hand reached out for the knob, giving it a turn and opening the door -- moonlight coming through the window gave the room beyond a silvery glow, outlining the sleeping form of Jonah Hex on the bed. The figure stepped inside, paused to take note of the gun in its holster hanging from the bedpost, then drew his own and advanced on Hex. The bounty hunter was turned towards the wall, the scarred side of his face pressed hard into the pillow as the figure crept up, pointing the gun at his temple...

...then Hex's left hand shot up, grabbing the pistol and forcing it down to the bed, while his right hand came out from beneath the pillow and pointed a gun identical to the one in his holster at the would-be assassin. Jonah glared at the figure, trying to discern in the dim moonlight who he had in his grip, then saw that it was the young man from the poker table earlier in the evening. Not easing up in the least, he said, "Huh...thought fer sure yuh was thet big Mexican."

The young man was breathing hard, his eyes focused on the ivory-handled Dragoon just inches from his face, then flicking briefly over to the other pistol still holstered on the bedpost. "Wuh...w-where did...how did you..."

"Yuh know, if'n yo're aimin' tuh kill a man, yuh should pay closer attention tuh how many guns he's carryin'. Might live longer." Hex pulled the young man a little closer. "While we're on the subject...why are yuh tryin' tuh kill me?"

"I know...I know why you're here. I saw the way you looked at me downstairs."

Hex cocked an eyebrow. "An how was thet, boy?"

"You knew my face...not like we've met before, but like you've seen my picture. An' you bein' who you are -- a bounty hunter, that is -- you probably have." He tried to put some steel into his voice, but it was no good. "I ain't ashamed of what I did over in Casa Verde, but I ain't about to hang for it neither. I've killed every lawman that's tried to drag me back there, an' I knew it was only a matter of time before they posted a bounty. Just never figured it would be big enough to attract your attention." Hex said nothing, just regarded his late-night visitor with cold blue eyes. The young man swallowed hard and continued, "I've heard about you...more'n what those fellas downstairs said, I mean. There's folks that say you can't be stopped, that you've been killed an' buried a hundred times but you just crawl right outta the ground without a scratch on ya. Some folks say you weren't never human, you're...you're some sort of demon that pretends to be a man, an' you go about collectin' sinners. I don't think none of that's true, I think you're just an ugly old man that enjoys killin' a bit too much...but I ain't stupid enough to take any chances."

"So yuh thought yuh'd come up here an' kill me in muh sleep like the brave soul yuh are," Jonah said mockingly. "Yuh could've just walked away the moment Ah went upstairs, just rode off into the night an' been long gone by the time Ah woke up...but skunks like yerself just don't know when tuh stop, do yuh?" He jabbed the barrel of the gun under the young man's chin. "Yuh cain't let a man have even one day of peace."

"Y-you don't have to do this! I swear, if you let me go, I'll never hurt anyone again..." He fell to his knees, his gun hand still pinned to the bed by Hex.

"Thet a fact? Whut about the next fella thet comes along lookin' fer yuh? Ah reckon yuh'll forget all about yer promises right quick, an' maybe he won't be as light a sleeper as Ah am." Jonah cocked the hammer. "Best thet we wrap up the problem right here an' now."

The sound made the young man's eyes widen. "Wait...you said you wouldn't kill anybody tonight!" he blurted out in desperation. "You can't..." But as he said the words, the clock downstairs began to buzz and whine, the inner workings threatening to break down completely, until the chime started to mark off the final seconds 'til midnight. Panic overtook the young man, and he began to beat at Hex with his free hand, but the bounty hunter had a grip like iron, and the Dragoon never wavered. The young man begged, cried, bargained, cursed, but it didn't make any difference as the clock labored to sound out the hour: seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve...

Everyone woke up when the gun went off. The elderly couple was the first to come out of their room, with the cowboy and the salesman putting in an appearance not long after. They all stood in the hallway, staring at the closed door to Hex's room, none of them daring to approach. Then, nearly five minutes after the gunshot, the door opened, and Jonah Hex stepped out, fully dressed and a grim look on his face. In one hand was his saddlebag, and tossed over his shoulder was the body of the young man, his head and upper torso wrapped in a bloody sheet. Hex paid his audience no attention as he walked to the stairs, heading down to the saloon proper.

Enrique was the only one who dared follow, though his wife bade him not to. He stood on the porch outside the saloon, watching as Hex went into the livery next door. A few minutes later, he heard a yelp come from inside the building, then the two other men who'd been playing poker that night ran out, the sight of the bounty hunter with his grisly bundle scaring them right out of their bedrolls -- they hadn't met the young man before that night, and they certainly didn't want Hex to think that they knew anything about him now that he was dead.

When Hex emerged once again, he was leading two horses, the young man's body tossed over the back of one of them. He walked them over to the porch, looked up to Enrique, and asked, "How far is it tuh Casa Verde from here?"

"Three days east, senor." The bounty hunter nodded thanks, then tethered the other horse to his own and mounted up. As he did so, Enrique said, "Pardon me, senor, but I must know: is that why you came here tonight? To kill that man?"

"Nope. Ah was just lookin' fer some decent food an' a warm bed." Jonah glanced back at the corpse on the horse behind him. "Ah ain't got the foggiest notion who he was, but he thought Ah did, an' thet was enough tuh make him act a fool. Figure Ah'll take him back tuh Casa Verde, try an' get some answers there." He waved a hand towards the upper floor of the saloon, saying, "Sorry fer the mess...Ah left some money upstairs tuh help cover it."

"Gracias, senor...and vaya con Dios."

Hex merely grunted at the blessing, and spurred his horse into motion. The trail before him was long, but no different than the countless others he'd traveled over the years -- there seemed to be no end to his wanderings since he'd decided to become a bounty hunter. Sometimes he felt like he'd been tricked by God, and that the path he'd been directed to was the wrong one. That was why he always set aside that one day for himself, to reconsider the decision he'd made, just as he'd done for Ramirez so long ago. And every time, something would happen to let him know that, no matter what society thought of him, he was still needed, and the best he could hope for in life was that he would someday be able to lay down his guns with the confidence that his job was done.

But today was most certainly not that day.