Chapter Text
The Lord is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.
Refuge. A simple word that holds so many different meanings. To a traveler in the desert, it was the shade of a tree. To a child, it was the arms of their mother. To Dennis, that refuge was God.
Dennis believed in a forgiving God. The God his mom used to tell stories about — all knowing, all seeing, made of pure love for his creation. A good refuge for a lost soul like him. The only one where he could get to his knees and pray for forgiveness and feel embraced by his mercy. Living for it was a noble task in the eyes of the faithful, but it remained a disgrace and an act of cowardice in the eyes of his family.
He fought hard not to think about it. Following the path of God meant leaving his old life behind. The material world wasn't part of his world anymore, and neither were his past sins.
An all forgiving God would surely see his repent and accept his soul when his time came. And Dennis lived for this moment. He clung to it like a life boat in the middle of the sea. His faith was the only thing capable of cleansing the impurity of his core, so he stayed. Despite a very small voice in his head begging him to run and live a different life, he stayed. He took refuge on God, praying that one day his efforts and sacrifices would allow him to be with the Lord, far away from the hell fire of his sins.
Dennis had always been religious. He remembers his mom pulling him out of bed at four a.m on a sunday so the entire family could walk to church and attend to mass. His mother followed the bible like a rule book, while his father, much like many other men from his hometown, only obeyed God's word to keep the good image of his family to society. No one would make business with a non believer back then.
His father was an important man — or he used to be before Dennis left to join the church. They had a big farm, best horses one could find in this side of the country, and his life growing up wasn't bad. He had three older brothers, cousins, friends and nice neighbors. Even surviving his father's bad temper was doable if he had the patience for it. Dennis adored that place, he had climbed every tree within their property before the age of six, and he had a special name for each horse that passed through their lands. Back then he had promised himself he'd never leave if he could help it.
Things started changing when he grew up. He saw his older brother get married to some girl from a farm two towns over. It was a beautiful ceremony, his mother cried a lot, and the house got quieter. Dennis adapted to the changes each time it happened, but then he was sixteen and suddenly he became the only one left. Meaning he was next.
The fight that followed when he declared his calling to the church was a bad one. He felt the words weight on his heart to this day, and he still thinks he'd run off into the wild desert if the church option became impossible. He didn't know if he was running from his fate, or running from his sins.
But, alas. Better be a coward than a sinner.
Life in Silver Creek was much easier than back at his seminary in St. Louis. He spent almost a decade there, following every step one should trace to dedicate themselves entirely to the work of God. He learned Latin, Greek, German, spent long hours reading about theology and philosophy out of books older than the seminary itself. He followed the strict schedule like a soldier because he wanted so bad to be good.
His efforts were repaid as one last assignment in a city that barely functioned. A one year mission before he took his final vows and left the post of deacon to become a priest. The town was quiet, in a way. Peaceful. It almost made Dennis want to stay after his ordination. Father Miguel was kind and treated Dennis like a son. He showed him the ropes, trusted him to carry on tasks when he was needed somewhere else, helped him gain the confidence he needed to believe he'd be a good priest in the future. He enjoyed his life as a deacon. Dennis could only hope that the same happiness would be there waiting for him when he becomes a priest in three months.
His day began before the sun rose in the sky. It was a routine that had been engraved to his mind by now. Wake up, get dressed, pray, walk to the chapel, pray again for Lauds with father Miguel. Doing so required little to no effort for Dennis. In fact, prayer was one of the easiest parts of it all to him. Thank you Lord, for your blessings. My heart is one with You. I apologize for my wrongdoings, please forgive me for my sins.
He felt light after doing so, as if his connection with God was the only way to take away some of the weight he carried. Not completely, of course. But enough.
Later came morning mass. A time where Dennis could shut his mind off from his worries and serve as Father Miguel guided the faithful. A couple of miners always attended before leaving to work, with them people like Mrs. Chen from the general store and her husband. All good people. Dennis had listened to their confessions one by one during his year here — worries about the drought, about illnesses, about the rising danger on the land as reports of violence increased. They had secrets, much like Dennis. Sins whispered through tears that dried when he told them that the Lord would forgive, that God never abandons his children.
The same words never brought him comfort when he thought about his own deeds.
After mass, when Dennis was putting things away and organizing the altar, Father Miguel came to him.
"You seemed distracted today," he said, but wasn't unkind. Dennis closed the cabinet and turned to look at him. "Something on your mind, son?"
Dennis immediately felt guilty for it. "My apologies, Father. I… I haven't slept well this week."
Father Miguel hummed in acknowledgment. "It's getting close, isn't it? Your ordination."
Dennis gulped. Yes, yes it was. Terrifyingly close. While most would be beaming and proud at the opportunity, the date sat on Dennis' heart like a stone. A final destination he could never run away from. He told himself that he was just nervous, but the excuse tasted like a lie.
"Yes," he replied, giving him a weak smile. "Three months from today."
"I understand. Back in my time, I didn't sleep for a week before taking those vows. We always tend to wonder if we're enough for the Lord at this stage," he said empathetically. "But you're a good soul, Dennis. I have no doubt that God will welcome you with open arms."
Dennis gave him another smile, trying so hard to make those words seep into his brain that it hurt. "I hope so, Father. It's an honor to serve him."
Father Miguel looked at him for a while, like he was trying to see past the calm act Dennis had put on. No one ever did, although they tried. At his age, Dennis had become a master of hiding his true feelings about any matter.
"I need you to go to the general store before this evening's Mass. We're running out of candles and flour," he said, handing Dennis a small bag with a few coins inside. "Tell Mrs. Chen this includes the payment for last week's provisions as well. If you see Mrs. Johnson, please ask her about her son's baptism. Tell her everything's ready if she wishes to do it at the end of the week."
"I will, Father. Thank you," Dennis said, putting the bag on his pocket and letting the air he was holding come out. He liked going out, although he shouldn't. A moment outside might just be what he needed to go back to normal. "Anything else we're missing?"
"No, no. You go, and when you come back you can help me with some readings I think might be important to you," he said. Dennis nodded and turned to leave trying not to seem too excited about stepping out of the church. As he reached the heavy doors, he called again. "Oh, and Dennis?"
Dennis turned to look at him. Father Miguel had a kind smile on his face, the one a father gives to a child when they know something. "Yes, Father?"
"Whatever weight you're carrying, give them to God," he said. "He can carry it more adequately than you."
The words brought him a small sense of peace. Small, but good nonetheless. It was a reminder that no matter how hard his life were, he could always rely on God. Or, at least, he could try.
Dennis smiled at him and gave him a brief nod before opening the door and stepping out into the unforgiving sun.
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The walk to the general store didn't take long. Dennis was used to the path by now, a five minute downhill walk from the chapel to the main road of the town. Before he could reach the entrance arches he was already intercepted by the familiar group of three little children, the twin girls from the Williams and the boy from the Daltons. One of the little girls — Macy, with a gap on her front teeth — pulled on his coat while he walked.
"Father Dennis, Father Dennis, you have to see what we found in the field!" she said, her voice full of wonder. "It's magic! Mary won't believe me."
"Because you're lyin'. Butterflies don't do that," her sister Mary complained. "And John found it, not you."
"We found it together, Father Dennis. I promise you!" John said, walking beside him. "We saw a butterfly come out of the cocoon."
Dennis smiled despite the weight he'd been carrying all morning. The children had a way of doing that—pulling him out of his own head and into the simple wonder of the world.
"A butterfly emerging from its cocoon?" he asked, slowing his pace to match their smaller steps. "That is special. God's creation at work."
"See!" Macy tugged his coat harder. "I told you it was magic!"
"It's not magic, it's nature," Mary corrected, but her eyes were bright with excitement too. "Mrs. Patterson said so when we learned about it in school."
"Mrs. Patterson is right," Dennis said. "Though I think there's something magical about nature too. God's design is full of wonders."
John, who'd been quiet, spoke up. "Do you think the butterfly knew it was gonna change? When it was still in the cocoon?"
The question caught Dennis off guard. He looked down at the boy—maybe six years old, dark hair sticking up in all directions, eyes serious with childhood philosophy.
"I don't know," Dennis admitted. "I'd like to think it did. That it knew something better was waiting."
"But what if it was scared?" John persisted. "What if it didn't want to change?"
Dennis's chest tightened. What if it didn't want to change. The words echoed in a way he didn't want to examine too closely.
"I think," he said carefully, crouching down to the boy's level, "that even if it was scared, it was still worth it. To have wings. To fly. Don't you think?"
John considered this gravely. Then nodded. "I do. Flying would be good."
"Can you bless it?" Macy asked suddenly. "The butterfly? So it stays safe?"
"Macy, you can't just ask for blessings for everything," Mary sighed, in the long-suffering tone of a sister who'd had this conversation before.
"Why not? Father Dennis blessed our chickens when they were sick and they got better!"
"That was different—"
"I'd be happy to," Dennis interrupted gently. He stood up, placed his hand on Macy's head. "But I should probably see this butterfly first before I bless it. Otherwise how will God know which one I mean?"
Macy's face lit up. "Can you come see it? It's in the field by the creek. Please?"
Dennis glanced toward town. He needed to get the supplies before the store got too busy with the Friday miners coming in to spend their pay. But the children were looking at him with such hope, such pure uncomplicated joy.
"I tell you what," he said. "I need to run an errand for Father Miguel first. But if you meet me back here in—" he checked the sun's position, "—an hour? We can go see your butterfly together. And I'll say a blessing for it."
"Promise?" John asked.
"Promise," Dennis said.
The children cheered and ran off toward the creek, already arguing about who would stand guard to make sure the butterfly didn't fly away before Dennis returned.
He watched them go, their laughter carrying in the warm morning air. So easy to make them happy. So simple, at that age, to believe in blessings and butterflies and promises that would be kept.
Dennis continued toward town, the coins heavy in his pocket.
What if it didn't want to change?
He pushed the thought away and focused on his task ahead. Get supplies, talk to the people, return in time so Father Miguel doesn't think he's procrastinating. Just put one foot after the other, Whitaker. You can do this.
He entered the shop and was immediately by Mrs. Chen, who smiled wide at him. She came from over the counter to pull him into a warm hug, straightening his shirt when she pulled back.
"Oh, Father Dennis. You're a sight for sore eyes. Arthur and I wanted to say hello after mass but that old man kept complaining about being late to receive our shipment. Can you believe him? No manners!" she said, going out on a spree of words as she always did. She was an old lady that reminded Dennis of his grandmother. Same kind eyes, he thought. "You're here for the candles, aren't you? Father Miguel mentioned it yesterday. I got some of the best ones for you."
"Yes, I— Thank you, Mrs. Chen," Dennis said, following her to the counter as she moved to get his things. "We're low on flour as well. Father Miguel is sending you last week's payment too."
"That stubborn man. I told him he didn't have to worry about it," she complained as she set the products on the counter. "You two have enough to worry about out here."
"Render therefore unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's," Dennis recited from memory. Mrs. Chen made a face at him like she just realized she needed to scold him like she did with Father Miguel. "We want to help as much as you do."
"I like the kid, Betty," Mr. Chen said as he came from the back of the shop to join his wife. "We could use 10 more of you in this town."
"Don't embarrass him, John. He's a priest, not your drinking pal," she scolded him, which made Dennis smile.
"It's alright, Mrs. Chen. I'm not officially a priest yet, no need to scold him," he joked, even earning a smile from good old Mr. Chen. He considered that a win. "I'll be seeing you both tomorrow for Sunday mass?"
"I'll make sure to drag this old man to the front pews. I'll keep him awake this time," she said, an annoyed John leaving to the back once again. After he's gone, Mrs. Chen took something from under the counter and handed it to Dennis, a small bundle wrapped in a soft tissue. "Here, some sweet biscuits for you two. Lord knows you need to eat more."
He blushed and tried to hand it back. "Oh, Mrs. Chen, I can't—"
"Yes you can, take it as a thank you for all your prayers. I heard back from my son in Texas. He says his little girl hasn't coughed in two weeks," she said with a warm smile. Dennis remembered that story. Mrs. Chen came to church a few months ago because her granddaughter had fallen ill, and she'd been scared about the tuberculosis outburst. Dennis sat with her and prayed for an entire evening.
"I'm glad to hear it. I'll keep praying for their health and safety," he said, handing over the small bag with the money and putting all the groceries on his canvas bag. He sent her a small blessing and waved her goodbye, then went back to the street.
Silver Creek was up and running by now. People bustling the road, a big wagon arriving and stopping by the saloon. From a distance, Dennis spotted the children — already back from the creek, apparently. They were playing some game that involved throwing stones and jumping over them. An ordinary day. Almost good enough to make him smile.
Then he heard a commotion.
He followed the sound before he could stop himself. It came from inside the bank. Maybe there was some kind of renovation happening that Dennis didn't know about—
Screams. Gunshots.
This was wrong. There was something terribly wrong happening in there, and Dennis was too close to the main door. Too much for his liking. He saw two deputies run over in his direction from the corner of his eye, and he was about to take a step back and run, when the heavy doors opened all at once.
From them, came a tall man. He looked roughed up at the edges, a deep scar on his right cheek, eyes that looked like they'd seen too much. The black bandana that probably was being used to cover his face was pulled down completely. Dennis was almost sure he'd seen that face once or twice on wanted posters. Dennis froze.
An outlaw. A thief. Standing right in front of him with his pistol still raised, a heavy bag of money thrown over his shoulder. He didn't look like he'd shoot. Maybe Dennis could make him listen — make him understand that this isn't the way. Before he got the chance to open his mouth and speak, Dennis heard shots firing again, this time in their direction.
The bullets hit the wood beside the door and Dennis barely had any time to duck before a strong arm pulled him close and placed him front and center like a shield. Dennis moved to fight it but stopped as soon as he felt the cold metal of the gun pressing on his ribs.
"You're gonna stay real quiet for me, Father," the man ordered, his breath hot on his ear, roughly pulling them both to the middle of the road. "Tell your friends to stop shooting or else they'll be decorating this street with your guts."
"Please, please let me go—"
"Tell them to walk away," the man said, angrier this time. Dennis closed his eyes for a moment, a quick prayer coming out of his lips before he was interrupted as the man shook him and pressed the barrel of the gun deeper into his ribs. "Do it."
"D-Don't shoot!" he exclaimed, eyes opening to look at the sheriff and the handful of deputies at the end of the road. The whole town seemed to hold its breath and stop to look at the scene. "Please don't shoot me."
He saw the sheriff say something to a nearby deputy, but Dennis couldn't make out his words. Dennis whimpered when the man pulled him back, maybe walking backwards toward his horse. Oh God.
"Anyone moves and the priest dies!" the man announced, taking his gun off Dennis' ribs to point at the men. Tears were streaming down his cheeks before he could hold them back. "You let us walk away and nobody gets hurt."
"Let him go, Robinavitch!" the sheriff said, Joshua, if Dennis remembers. Robinavitch. He never heard that name before, and he was far too busy being dragged to a horse to think about it. "You're gonna rot for this."
"I bet," the man, Robinavitch, said. Dennis could hear the smile on his face. This was the voice of a desperate man. Dennis had heard it before — men who said they had nothing left, who wandered into the city for one last confession before disappearing into the desert. He was one against three, they had more guns, but he was betting it all that Dennis would be the perfect barrier between him and the bullets. Dennis wasn't so sure that would be true. "But first we're walking out of here, unless you want the death of a saint man on your hands?"
Dennis' blood went cold. He sobbed a little and tried to wrench away from his grip only to have the gun pressed to the side of his neck. "Please don't kill me, p-please, I beg of you—"
"Shut up and you'll be fine," he murmured into his ear, like there was some short of plan going on that Dennis wasn't aware of. Next thing he knew the thief was pushing the bag of money in Dennis' arms. Blood money. Stolen. The kind of thing condemned by every word knew from the holy book. Dennis wanted to drop it, but the cold metal of the gun pressed on the back of his neck stopped him. "Get on the horse, Father."
Dennis turned back to face the thief and face the gun. The horse beside him was beautiful — shiny black fur with a brown crest. It'd remind him of home if he wasn't so terrified by the situation.
"Up."
"I can't," Dennis uttered, his voice shaky at the edges. His legs felt weak.
"I wasn't asking," he said, voice calm despite the multiple guns pointed at his chest. A million ideas for his escape passed through his mind, none of which he walked out alive. "Now."
Dennis tried. But between his shaky hands and weak knees, the best he managed was a half attempt before the thief grew impatient and practically lifted him onto the horse. Dennis wished he had the time to ride off alone with the horse, but before he could move the man climbed behind him, a strong arm holding his waist in place.
He looked ahead and felt as if a whole move passed by his mind. His entire life — the farm, the fights, the running, his time on the seminary, his studies, his sins. Everything that resulted in this moment. The pinpoint turn of his life that would cut it short once in for all.
The thief pulled on the horse so he could turn and look at the sheriff behind them. He even had the audacity to dip his hat and smile at them like they were good friends. Dennis' mind raced — fearless, impulsive, nothing to lose. This man is going to get him killed.
"It was a pleasure doin' business with you!" he said in a cheerful tone, his smile widening when one of the young deputies looked ready to wipe him off this plane. "Maybe next time you can leave the vaults open for me, will ya?"
The young deputy stepped forward. "You son of a—"
The thief didn't stay to let him finish. In a blink of an eye they were moving, the horse rushing to the end of the road and out of the city. Dennis ducked when he heard gunshots firing behind them. The horse ran faster, the man turned to shoot at the deputies as they went, and it was amidst the chaos that Dennis felt it.
A sharp pain lacing through his left shoulder, spreading to his arm and to his torso like liquid fire. Dennis heard screams — his, the sheriff's, he couldn't tell. He tried to curl on himself because of the pain but the arm on his waist wouldn't let him.
"Shit, hold on. I got you," he said as their surroundings blurred around them. Dennis had forgotten how it felt to ride a horse, to be one with the wind. He'd be amazed if he weren't about to black out. "Tell me how bad it is."
"What?!"
"They—shit. They shot you. I gotta get you somewhere safe."
The world reduced itself to sound.
Hoofbeats — theirs, fast and desperate. Hoofbeats behind them — more, gaining. The wind cutting at Dennis' face like a blade. The sharp, unrelenting fire in his shoulder that made every stride of the horse a new kind of punishment. He tried to focus on something, anything, to keep himself from slipping into the dark that kept pulling at the edges of his vision.
"How many?" Robinavitch said behind him, his voice low and even, like a man taking stock of a bad hand of cards.
"I— I don't—" Dennis tried to turn and instantly regretted it. Pain flared white-hot from his shoulder to his jaw and he gasped, gripping the saddle horn with his good hand until his knuckles went pale. "I can't—"
"Don't move. Hold on to the saddle." The arm around his waist tightened. Not cruelly, just firm. Keeping him upright. "Count the horses. Can you do that?"
Dennis blinked hard and looked over his good shoulder. The road behind them was a cloud of dust and noise, but through it he could make out shapes. Moving shapes. "Four. Maybe five."
"Five," Robinavitch confirmed, almost to himself. Like that was a number he could work with. Like five men with rifles trying to kill them was simply a problem to be solved. "Alright."
A shot cracked through the air and hit the ground to their left, kicking up a spray of dry earth. Dennis made a sound he wasn't proud of.
"Stay down," the man ordered, and Dennis did, folding forward as much as he could manage over the saddle horn, the bag of stolen money pressing painfully into his ribs. He thought, distantly, that he was going to die touching blood money. He thought Father Miguel was going to have to explain this to his parents. He thought about the children, and the butterfly still waiting in the field by the creek.
I promised, he thought miserably. I promised I'd come back.
The terrain changed beneath them. The smooth packed road gave way to rougher ground — scrub brush and dry grass flashing past at the edges of his vision, the land opening up wide and merciless in every direction. No cover. No grace. Just the flat expanse of the valley and the sun blazing down on all of it like God was watching and choosing not to intervene.
Another shot. Closer this time.
"They're gaining," Dennis said, because someone had to say it and Robinavitch seemed like the kind of man who preferred ugly truths to comfortable silence.
"I know."
"We're going to die out here."
"We're not."
"You don't know that—"
"Father." The word was sharp enough to cut. "I need you to stop talking."
Dennis stopped talking.
He prayed instead, silently, fervently, the words tumbling through his mind in the same order they always did when he was frightened. Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy. He felt the absurdity of it even as he did it — praying for the life of a man who'd gotten him shot, riding stolen money across stolen land, pursued by the law like a common criminal. If his mother could see him now.
Then he heard it.
A sound beneath the hoofbeats, beneath the gunfire, beneath the roaring of blood in his ears. Low and constant and growing, a vibration he could feel in his teeth before he could properly name it.
He looked up.
The train tracks cut across the land ahead of them like a scar — two iron lines running east to west, gleaming dully in the afternoon heat. And from the west, maybe a mile out, a black shape was moving toward them. Moving fast. Trailing a long white plume of smoke that bent sideways in the wind.
Dennis felt his stomach drop clean out of his body.
"No," he said. "No, no, no—"
"I see it."
"You see it and you're still—we have to stop, we have to turn around—"
"If we turn around, we ride straight into them."
"If we keep going we ride straight into that—" His voice cracked. The train was closer now, the low thunder of it becoming something physical, something that pressed against his chest. "We're going to die. We are going to die, that train is not going to stop for us—"
"It won't have to."
"What does that mean—"
"It means," Robinavitch said, with a terrifying, inhuman calm, "that we're going to make it across before it gets there."
"You can't know that."
"I've done this before."
"You've— what kind of person does this—"
"The kind that's still alive," he said, and then he kicked the horse harder and Dennis' words dissolved into pure animal terror as the ground flew beneath them.
The train filled the world. The sound of it became everything — a roar, a scream of iron and steam, a wall of noise barreling toward them from the left with no interest whatsoever in the small drama playing out on its tracks. Dennis squeezed his eyes shut. He felt the vibrations through the horse's body, through Robinavitch's chest behind him, through the very air around them. He couldn't pray anymore. He couldn't think. He could only hold on and wait to find out if this was how it ended.
The horse launched over the tracks.
The world split open with sound — the shriek of the train's whistle deafening, the rush of displaced air hitting them like a wave, so close that Dennis swore he felt the heat of the engine on his face. His shoulder screamed. The horse landed hard on the other side, stumbling once before Robinavitch steadied it with a firm hand and kept them moving without breaking stride.
Behind them, the train thundered past.
A long, unbroken wall of steel and noise, car after car after car, filling the gap between them and the deputies like a curtain being drawn. Dennis turned — he couldn't help it — and through the blur of passing carriages he caught a glimpse of the sheriff's horse pulling up short on the other side, rearing back. The deputies behind him doing the same, milling in sudden, furious confusion.
The train kept going.
And going.
And going.
Robinavitch didn't slow down. He turned the horse east and rode, and Dennis watched the last car of the train disappear behind them until the tracks were just a line of silver in the distance, the deputies nothing but a smear of dust on the wrong side of it.
The shooting stopped.
Dennis turned back around. He became suddenly, viscerally aware of how quiet the world was without it — just the wind, the steady drum of hoofbeats on dry ground, the horse's breathing, and the fire in his shoulder that had never stopped, had only gone unnoticed in the terror of everything else. It came back to him now in full.
He exhaled. A long, shaking thing that seemed to come from somewhere very deep.
"You're insane," he said, at no one in particular.
He didn't answer. The land opened east ahead of them, flat and gold and endless under the late afternoon sky.
Dennis thought he should say something more. Something meaningful. Something about Providence, about the madness of being alive right now when he had been so certain, so completely certain, that he wouldn't be. But the words weren't there. Nothing was there. Just the exhaustion settling into his bones like sediment, and the warmth of the sun on his face, and the steady rise and fall of the chest behind him.
His good hand, he realized, was still gripping the saddle horn. He let go slowly. His fingers ached.
Lord, he thought, and nothing followed it. Just the word, offered up with no particular request attached. An acknowledgment. A breath.
His eyes grew heavy. The pain in his shoulder had shifted into something duller and more insidious — a deep, constant throb that pulsed with every step of the horse, spreading across his chest and down his arm until the distinction between pain and simple exhaustion became impossible to draw. He tried to hold himself upright and found he had nothing left to hold himself with.
The arm around his waist shifted. Adjusted.
"Easy," Robinavitch said, quiet. "Stay with me now."
Dennis leaned back. He didn't mean to — or perhaps he did, perhaps some part of him decided that if this man was going to be responsible for his death then he could at least be responsible for keeping him upright for a little while longer. The solid weight of the man's chest against his back was an anchor. Dennis closed his eyes.
The hoofbeats counted out a slow rhythm beneath him.
East, east, east.
The sun pressed warm against his lids, and the darkness that had been waiting patiently at the edges of his vision finally, gently, came to collect him.