The Price of Salvation: An American Legend

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Chapter 1: Trains and Other Prospects

Chapter 2: The Illusion of Choice Is Only Seen in the Presence of Desperation

Chapter 3: Doers of Evil

Chapter 4: The Night Will Burn Bright with the Fires of Saintsfire

Chapter 5: You Will Walk Among Angels

Chapter 6: Pardon the Interruption

Chapter 7: Acceptance Is the Start of a Long and Tiresome Trial

Chapter 8: I Am Not Your Keeper

Chapter 9: We Are All Enactors of Fate on the Road the Least Will Travel

Chapter 10: This Throne Is Built on My Lies Alone

Chapter 11: The Sun Still Shines through the Mightiest Rain

Chapter 12: The Legend of Mt. Restmoore

Chapter 13: Peaceful Are the Keepers Who Keep the Peace of Man

Chapter 14: There Is No Pit of Hell for Any Devil to Hide That Is Safe from My Retribution

Chapter 15: The Price of Salvation

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The Price of Salvation

An American Legend

John Anderson

ISBN 979-8-88851-789-5 (Paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88851-791-8 (Hardcover)

ISBN 979-8-88851-790-1 (Digital)

Copyright © 2023 John Anderson

All rights reserved

Saint Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Covenant Books

11661 Hwy 707

Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

www.covenantbooks.com

ANDERSON BOOKWORKS

PRESENTS

For Tom Anderson and Tomás Perez Sr.—

tremendous inspirations

Once upon a time, in a world much like our own…

Chapter 1

Trains and Other Prospects

he wind whipped with a cold, wild flurry as the train hurtled down the tracks of the Westward Desert, rattling from the force of the gigantic metal beast. The train was a significant black metal creation with a wood gable roof held together by metal bolts the size of fists. On the sides of the train was a freshly painted name that read Crimson Flowline in a bright and magnificent yellow, naming the robust transporter of man for all to see. The train was full of passengers that could be seen through the surplus of dusty windows, each lining both sides to ensure those dressed in the richest and fluffiest clothing were shown in their moment of terror. Some wore bright purples; others wore ripe reds. Some wore the most enormous feathery hats, while others sat with the simplicity of a bowler style. The men with mustaches had them gelled and combed, while the women kept their hair in a fluffy and circular coiffure.

To the right of the train was an open desert with a vast, mountainous tree line in the distance, seeming to pass by the windows with a fashion most would recount to the authorities as a nightmarish blur. To the left, the desert hill led down to a surplus of trees, thick in pine and mysterious in shadow, that passed in a similar blur of nightmarish proportions the same.

The folks inside had signaled to those who scouted the train that they had riches and jewels ripe for the taking. Then, based on their clothing and looks alone, it was clear that this was a perfect target for robbery.

Now, everyone, sit down and keep calm! I will check with the driver so we can slow the train! hollered the conductor.

As the passengers grew frantic, he began his walk down the train's aisle. Most held to their fur coats made of local skins while others grabbed for their briefcases of rich Corinthian leather. Feathered hats whipped about as the women shifted their heads in a panic, for their fear had breathed new life into the feathers as though the presence of danger was enough to resurrect the dead.

The passengers sat in the train chairs made of shining red cloth as the conductor opened the freight door leading to the driver's cabin.

But unbeknownst to the conductor, he would never arrive at his desired destination.

As he opened the door, he was greeted by a most dastardly squint of the eyes—a squint only perfected by the likes of a most accurate and deadly outlaw, further solidified in wanted posters as the highest of all dangers. He was the outlaw known then, as he will be known now, as Thomas Saint Hart.

Evenin', Thomas greeted as he stood in the doorway.

The conductor stared, frozen, standing his ground in front of the people. Evenin', He greeted with a firm and low tone.

Thomas sized up the conductor with hazel eyes, revealing the fire that burned within them. They contained hints of yellow that sparked within the greens, handsomely placed in his sockets' darkness. His face was unseen by anyone within the cabin, for the blackened bandana he wore covered his nose and mouth, raggedy and torn from the bountiful robberies it had seen in the many years prior. He wore a leathery brown cowboy hat made rugged in its years, topped with a brown strap braided just above the brim. His vest was a brown suede piece, worn in the back, revealing the fibers of the vest that held it together. Underneath, he wore a black button-up shirt that fit loosely, often flapping in the wind in all its frayed and faded glory. His jeans were black all the same, connecting to his maroon-colored suspenders.

His holsters were a worn and torn leathery brown riddled with scratches and scrapes, connecting to the thick leather gun belt on his hips. Each holster was frayed at the ends and tied to his thighs, both having the privilege of holding two revolvers that had killed many. Ammunition filled his gun belt's bandolier, for the belt held two dozen bullets fastened throughout the canvas.

On Thomas's left side rested his silver revolver, only to be used when necessary. The grip was made of a darkened brown wood, worn and scratched from its years of service; the silver metal was scratched and tattered the same, though cleaned nonetheless. Within the other holster on Thomas's right side was a black revolver, ready to be used with an intent to kill, eagerly awaiting its next victim. The black revolver's wooden handle was worn far more than the silver's, for it had brought far more death than its silver twin. Six bullets were loaded into each loader that revolved each time a firm and accurate thumb pulled the hammer.

The revolvers were not the only items that hung from Thomas's belt, for next to the silver revolver was a hunting knife encased inside a sheath of hardened leather. A tiny feather dangled from it and was attached by Thomas's handiwork. The blade was a sharp six inches long, with a leather grip around the handle.

Thomas's boots were a light buckskin color, faded and scratched, from his many years as an outlaw. This faded and rugged look extended to his satchel, which hung from his right shoulder, and held many valuable goods. It was an old patched-together satchel that was made of faded sheepskin. The strap and bag were rough to the touch, given Thomas's materials were flaky and old, but big enough to hold all sorts of jewels and bills hidden within a pouch covered by a flap of rabbit skin. His clothes contrasted against the olive color of his skin, and the brown of his hair extended down just behind his ears in waves.

Thomas's voice was one most believed to be unmistakable; it always came out in a deep, twangy growl getting right to the point of most of his interactions. His eyes were permanently fixed in a tenacious squint, and his mouth never seemed to extend beyond the end of an angered frown. His face had a slim and athletic complexion, just like the rest of his body. He was not intimidating when facing larger foes, given that he stood at five feet and ten inches.

You ain't never been robbed before, have you? Thomas teased.

Can't…say I have, the conductor responded annoyedly.

Really? Well, since you appear to be new to this whole interaction, allow me to explain how this works.

Thomas drew his silver revolver and fired off a round clear through the roof of the train, leaving a hole in its place that gave light to the specks of dust floating within the transport. A beam of light shined down to the floor as wooden shards launched around the terrified passengers. Thomas quickly loaded another bullet into place, followed by a speedy aim at the chest of a middle-aged woman sitting in the chair next to him. Thomas quickly lifted his satchel and flipped it open with a flick of his hand, awaiting the loot that would soon pour forth.

Ma'am, would you mind makin' an example of yourself by donatin' to our charity? Thomas asked snidely.

The woman fearfully and quickly pulled every bit of jewelry from her person, detaching her earrings and removing her necklace and rings made of the purest gold and the finest jewels from her body. She threw her valuables into the satchel as all in the transport watched in fear, slowly huddling backward into the comfort of their wives' and husbands' arms, the outlaw taking control of the situation. Thomas slowly dropped the gun's hammer and holstered it with a hefty clop, flipping the satchel flap back over and dropping it to a dangle on his left side.

See, Thomas smirked as he looked back at the conductor cockily. Simple as that.

Thomas stepped forward, rising an inch above the conductor, who was an angry five feet and nine inches. He stepped backward, fumbling a bit, and continued to read the situation, grabbing the seats behind him and trying to gain his blind, backward balance. Each member that sat in their chairs scooted closer and closer to the windows and their loved ones beside them. As Thomas continued to walk forward slowly, two men entered through the door behind him weapons in hand, aimed and loaded with murderous intent. One stood behind Thomas's left shoulder, and the other stood behind him on the right.

Both were dressed in black button-ups, black jeans, and black bandanas. They were dark-skinned brothers who often accompanied Thomas on his many robberies. The men's eyes looked at the passengers gripped by fear, waiting for the moment they would catch a bullet. They lifted their shining Henry Repeaters, flicking the lower handle forward with a fluid crunch, ferociously cracking, signaling to all that the gun was ready to fire. They aimed their rifles toward the passengers, who screamed.

Hand it over! Jewels! Bills! Whatever you got, now! demanded Calamar—the man standing on Thomas's right—holding out a canvas bag, his brother Jackson snatching the loot from the passengers' hands and dropping it inside.

Thomas slowly approached the conductor as the men robbed the people behind him. The conductor slowly stepped back, watching handfuls of jewelry and money get tossed into the bags.

All right. Now since you're new to this, I'm gonna give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you won't be a problem. In case you don't believe me, I want you to notice that there are two things you have gifted to you at this exact moment in time. Thomas lifted his right hand and raised one finger. One: that you are still alive and breathin' through those shotgun-sized nostrils you have plastered to the front of your face. Thomas then raised his second finger as he continued. And two: my revolver is still currently holstered and is in no position to take your life and send you to death's dark embrace. That bein' said…you behave yourself 'n you can get right back to stoppin' this train, just as you intended to do. Sound good? Thomas offered threateningly.

The conductor laughed tensely, staring at the outlaw, who walked him further and further toward the back door of the coach. Good isn't how I would describe it, he responded.

Well, that's all right. I ain't askin' you to.

The two got closer to the back of the coach as more jewels were stolen close behind, the conductor and outlaw continuing their conversation.

So…you always in the habit of robbing trains? the conductor stalled.

Trains and other prospects, the outlaw answered.

Then you must understand that given the protective custody of this train, we got plenty of boys with guns in the back which, as I'm sure you know, have heard that gunshot you let loose through this ceiling.

Thomas smiled wickedly. "Yeah. We do. We've been doin' this for a long time, and in a long time, we've learned quite a few thangs. One of those thangs bein' that if you offer a man his life in exchange for not doin' his job, he almost always will take said offer. Just as we speak, we got two of our finest makin' those boys an offer that they are most absolutely takin', just as I have done to you. Thomas pulled out a pack of cigarettes and casually bumped one from the box. So much so that if you listened to their conversation and ours simultaneously, you'd swear we was makin' poetry. So though I may have fired such a bullet through your very nicely carved wood ceiling, those boys of yours…they ain't comin'. Matter of fact, you do anythang other than keep your mouth shut, and you may never see them boys again. Not alive anyway."

Thomas slammed his left palm into the conductor's chest, grabbing him by the collar and pushing him back while charging down the aisle. He grabbed Thomas's forearm as he fumbled, his feet weightlessly sliding across the floor. The conductor stared fearfully into Thomas's eyes rid of all patience and furrowed into an angry scowl. Thomas slammed him into the coach's door that led to the outside, the conductor's head bashing against it.

"Keys! Now!" Thomas yelled, throwing the cigarettes and reaching out toward the conductor.

The conductor angrily clenched his jaw and breathed heavily through his nose, holding on to Thomas's extended arm with both hands.

Fine, he said grittily as a furious idea entered his hazy mind.

He rifled through his pockets in search of the keys that jangled within his hands, pulling them out and regretfully placing them in Thomas's open one.

Thomas smiled underneath his bandana. Good boy, he said.

He threw the conductor to the left into the seat beside him—the conductor flailed over the top of a few passengers before clumsily falling into the opening at their feet. Thomas tried each key within the coach's door, running through the key ring to find the working one. The conductor slowly rose to his feet as he watched the outlaw fumble.

We are runnin' out of time! informed Jackson.

I know we're runnin' out of time! Just let me focus! Thomas bit back.

I don't know why you gotta always add your two cents. It ain't gonna help, Calamar remarked.

Thomas continued to try the keys as the train rattled and shook vigorously.

It's a reminder—a tenseful reminder. I'm remindin' him that we are in a tense situation in a tense time, Jackson defended.

"Don't you think I'm aware of the intensity?!" Thomas snapped.

Are you aware you're talking to a nimrod? Calamar joked.

"This is not the time!" Thomas scolded as he continued to fumble through the keys.

Why didn't you ask the conductor to open the door?

I thought there'd be fewer keys!

"Oh, see? Yup. He overcompensated with intimidation to make up for common sensibility. Happens all the time to fellas like him," Jackson joked to the passengers.

They nodded confusedly.

Got it! Thomas exclaimed as the door opened. He turned around slowly, proud of himself as he cockily held his arms out to the side. See? Easy, Thomas joked as a smile formed.

The conductor leapt forward, slamming his right shoulder into Thomas's torso. He tumbled back, out of the door, and off the side of the train, seemingly down onto the railroad tracks that rushed beneath him. Jackson and Calamar grabbed the conductor and restrained him.

"Thomas! You all right?!" Jackson yelled.

There was no reply.

At that very moment, Thomas thought about how he managed to get into these types of situations and how he needed to rethink his strategy to handle confrontation one of these days.

He dangled from the undercarriage of the train, the tracks flying by rapidly beneath him. What did we say about sayin' our names on the job?! he scolded.

A sigh of relief was heard from the two outlaws as Thomas climbed up from under the train. He pulled with strength as his boots bounced against the railroad track beneath him. The metal wheel of the train spun rapidly between his legs as the railing yanked down on his lower body. He grabbed the bottom corner of the undercarriage, letting his legs struggle on both sides of the train's wheels. Thomas grabbed the oily, blackened hitch that held the two railroad cars together, bouncing furiously and lifting his legs, wrapping them around it. He held on from underneath the hitch and twisted himself over, pushing his body up and trying to regain footing. Finally, he hopped back into the train and looked at the conductor with heavy breath, his eyes angrier than before under the brim of his hat.

Now why'd you have to go and do something like that? Thomas asked with a harnessed fury.

The conductor stood silent in overwhelming disbelief as Thomas stared for a second, waiting for a response. The conductor slowly opened his mouth, but Thomas's patience ran thin. He did not care what the conductor had to say; he only wanted a reason to fight.

He grabbed the conductor by the collar—his hands, arms, and clothing covered in the blackened grease—and slammed his knee into the conductor's stomach. The outlaws let him go as the conductor let out a breath of pain, curling over onto his knees to the ground. Thomas lifted him back to his feet with both hands and launched three meaty punches into the conductor's face.

The passengers screamed.

Thomas looked over the conductor to determine if he was still conscious. He looked around in a haze as Thomas released him, allowing him to drop to the floor, blood oozing from his lips, his eyes bruising.

I told you this was gonna happen, said Thomas. But here you go, actin' like some hero—

Before he could finish, the conductor jumped up again with a mighty yell, slamming into Thomas's stomach and sending them both out the door, over the hitch, and through the other freight car's wooden door. It splintered in every direction, the commotion terrifying the passengers.

The outlaws followed behind Thomas quickly, jumping over the hitch and watching as Thomas struggled to his feet. The conductor held Thomas by the collar and punched him twice in the ribs, forcing him to curl over. Thomas put both hands underneath the conductor's arm and pushed it off, regaining his footing and standing up with a slow walk backward. He raised his fists, ready to fight, balancing clumsily. The two sized up one another once again. The train loudly whistled. The outlaws peered around the side worriedly. Thomas looked at them.

Oh, come on… Calamar complained.

What's wrong? Thomas questioned.

It's that town. It's a bit more developed than we thought!

‘Developed how?!

"There's lawmen, Thomas! Lots of 'em!"

How's that even possible? Town barely started building a few months ago!

The conductor cracked Thomas across the jaw amid his distraction, regaining his attention instantly. It's the railroad! This damning, developing railroad! the conductor informed with a smile. Thomas countered with a heavy slug, flicking the conductor's head back.

Those lawmen gonna be on us any second! Jackson exclaimed.

The conductor punched. Thomas ducked and sent a quick jab into his ribs. Law or no law, the rest of the gang should be at the same spot with the horses just past the town! Tell our driver not to stop the train, no matter what!

Jackson ran into the train's coach as Calamar stayed beside Thomas. Conductor, Thomas stopped. You need to step aside right now, or you're gonna be doin' a lot more than bruisin', he threatened with a low tone.

The conductor stood his ground and shook his head slowly. Men like you… he breathed. Thinking they can have whatever they want. Take whatever they want. Someone has to stand up to you. And today, Thomas Saint Hart, that somebody's going to be m—

Three shots sounded within the railcar, igniting the freight with screaming passengers.

Thomas held his black revolver, smoke lifting from the barrel; the conductor looked down to his chest, then upward toward Thomas's right hand. Thomas looked at him in silence as his anger faded away.

His act of murder had been done.

The conductor stepped backward slowly, grabbing at his chest as the injury began to take hold; blood seeped from the three bullet wounds, oozing through his fingers. Calamar put his hand against the conductor's back, allowing him to fall to his knees with a controlled tumble. Thomas holstered his revolver and walked toward the dying conductor, menacing as all evil, looking into his eyes, kneeling before him, and watching as his life left him.

Tom, we need to go, Calamar said.

We ain't goin' nowhere till we get past that town, Thomas shut down calmly.

Lawmen been coming since more than a couple of minutes ago!

"You wanna leave, you go right on! I am doin' somethin'!"

Calamar stayed silent transitorily as the town neared, the lawmen gaining on the train. You make your peace then, he replied, upset, turning and jogging to the other freight.

Thomas looked back at the conductor, now nearly drained of blood.

I didn't wanna have to do this. I hope you know that, Thomas tried.

The conductor glared at Thomas, listening to what the outlaw had to say. B-but you did. You did do it, he uttered.

You didn't leave me much choice.

We all g-got choices. You made yours, no one else.

Thomas paused, pondered the conductor's words momentarily, then stood and adjusted his gun holster from left to right. He looked down at the dying conductor again, sighed, and walked past him.

You can't escape this, the conductor warned.

Thomas stopped behind him and listened.

This is how it ends for you—all of you. Change is comin'. Ain't nothin' you c-can do about it. You can't beat it, fight it, run from it. There is only…s-sanctuary…

The conductor toppled forward and hit the floor motionless, his back facing toward the heavens—dead. Thomas looked up at Calamar as he looked at him, both now standing outside their freights on their grates.

You done? he questioned.

Yeah. I'm done.

The wind flicked their hair. Calamar turned. Both looked forward as a rifle fired from the right side. A bullet shredded through Calamar's right shoulder. He grabbed his arm as Thomas tackled him through the door to the floorboard.

Bullets blasted through the train's wall; the passengers ducked and screamed.

Calamar! You okay?! Where you shot?! Thomas yelled as bullets ricocheted off the train's metal, whizzing by, hitting glass and shattering the windows and bursting the wooden infrastructure to splinters. The passengers dove to the floorboard under their seats as the speeding locomotive continued to race.

"They shot my arm right in my…my shoulder!" Calamar exclaimed in pain.

I know, I know, relax!

"They shot my shoulder!"

"Calm down, keep movin'! The horses gotta be near soon!"

The train hurtled past the small town of wooden buildings and dirt-laden roads. The authorities closed in on the Crimson Flowline. Jackson burst through the freight door at the front of the train and looked down at Calamar. What happened?! Jackson yelled in question.

What do you think happened?! Thomas answered irritatedly.

Jackson ran over, staying low, reaching down and placing Calamar's hand on his wound.

The two lifted a groaning Calamar as he attempted to stand. Three more bullets flew through the windows with a swift crash, one passing through the side of Jackson's skull with a hefty and hollowed thud. His head lolled side to side while Thomas hit the floor again, slamming down as well. Thomas reached over Calamar's back and held him down, forcing both to stay on their stomachs, covering their heads.

Jackson fell lifelessly to his side.

"Calamar! Stay down!" Thomas demanded as bullets continued to riddle the train's side.

"Jackson?! Jackson?! Calamar exclaimed as he looked at his fallen brother beside him. He reached out his hand and began shaking Jackson's body, but regardless, Jackson lay lifeless with no response. Jackson! Jackson, get up! Jackson!" Calamar begged as panic overwhelmed him.

Thomas looked at Jackson, realizing what had been done, then stood quickly as more bullets flew through the train car. He pulled Calamar up to stand, though Calamar remained focused on his dead brother. The bullet counts increased as more wood exploded, riddling the train's side with more bullet holes. Thomas unholstered his black revolver and held Calamar to a stand.

"Calamar, we need to go now!" he yelled.

I'm not leaving my brother! Calamar said through his gritted teeth.

You don't leave your brother now, you're gonna join him!

Calamar got to his feet as Thomas turned to look outside the broken windows, lifting his black revolver and firing off three rounds in rapid repetition at the lawmen riding their horses outside. Five men of the law were on black and brown stallions, all armed with rifles of the highest grade. Their uniforms were easily identifiable: white button-ups and black vests, all displaying a badge to match, imprinted and shining.

More bullets flew as the passengers held their heads to the floor and screamed as the world erupted into a fiery cluster. Thomas sprinted toward the front of the freight with Calamar, bullets whizzing and ricocheting by their ears and heads, heated wind rushing by.

Thomas burst through the door connected to the locomotive, stumbling on the stairs and falling painfully onto the metal floor holding the coal engine. The engine room was hot; the fuel burned and blew fiery air onto their faces. Smoke from the chimney flowed high into the air above them in thick, black and gray clouds.

Thomas looked to the right and noticed Calamar standing beside the ladder leading to the Crimson Flowline's top.

The driver, Deangelo, and the engineer turned in wide-eyed surprise as Thomas slowly rose to his feet, regaining his bearings. The engineer sat tied up and gagged beside the coal train's engine as the train driver—another gang member—stood at ease, piloting the Crimson Flowline with a careless and smooth expression.

Tommaso! Dov'è Jackson? Deangelo asked.

Thomas looked at Deangelo as Calamar looked at Thomas, but neither said a word. Deangelo breathed a heavy sigh, walked over to the door, pulled it open, and looked into the coach to see Jackson's body, as dead as the wood the train was made of.

Calamar, you keep your head down, and you keep 'em pinned. Don't you let 'em gain on us! Thomas ordered, motioning him up the ladder.

Calamar nodded blankly as he unholstered his revolver with his injured arm, using his good one to climb the ladder. Deangelo looked back at Thomas, who had just finished loading six more bullets into his black revolver rapidly and fluidly. Come on. We gotta go, Thomas commanded.

Can't argue with that! Deangelo agreed airily. He pulled out his revolver and aimed it at the helpless engineer, hammering a round into the chamber.

"No! I need you up there with Calamar—he's only got one arm, and it ain't his good one. I'll take care of the engineer," Thomas saved.

All right. Your call, amico, he agreed, climbing up the ladder.

When you get up there, keep an eye out for Marta and Rosaline! They're gonna be runnin' up from the back!

Thomas looked at the engineer. His eyes widened as he fidgeted to get away. Thomas pulled his hunting knife from its sheath and walked over hastily, angling the blade forward. The engineer wiggled and screamed behind the muffling cloth that covered his mouth, but to his surprise, Thomas reached down, pulled the gag free, got directly in his face, and stared him down.

I ain't gonna say this twice: you slow this train down before we hop off, and I promise you, I will shoot you so square in the back of your skull, your brain'll be studied as a new form of geometry. You understand? Thomas threatened.

The engineer cowered with no reply.

"I said, do you understand?!"

"Yes, yes, yes, yes!" the engineer responded, whining backward into his chair and closing his eyes.

Good. Lotta people gonna die here today. Don't make another one of 'em you. He reached down and grabbed the wrappings on the engineer's hands, cutting the captive free. Thomas stood without a moment wasted, hustling up the ladder that shook wildly beneath him; the engineer stared, confused but thankful.

Thomas climbed onto the roof of the freight, struggling to retain his balance on the slanted top, letting out a sigh of relief as he looked at Calamar and Deangelo. Deangelo reloaded his revolver while Calamar struggled to do the same. Suddenly, a gun fired from the left, followed by three more, forcing Thomas to his belly next to Calamar. Calamar rolled to his back as Thomas reached his hands down to his revolvers. Bullets flew by, narrowly missing their heads. He lay down on the roof and stared at the open sky, wondering what it would look like if there weren't bullets flying through it.

Thomas! You mind sharing what the plan is? Deangelo interrupted.

"We need to find Marta and Rosaline! They should be runnin' up