For men like Amos, the saloon never sleeps. He pushes past the swinging doors, the scent of tobacco clinging to the air with each step. The rowdy patrons are gone—only to be replaced by figures hidden behind cloaks, their requests kept secret to the outside word.

"Evenin', Flossie," Amos quietly greets the older woman, hat tipped in acknowledgment. She smiles and slides him a glass of whiskey. A wary glance is cast at the people around them. Most of them are unfamiliar; he recognizes the sigil of the church woven into their cloaks, a sight that makes his brows furrow together.

What the hell are they doing here?

"Got some new patrons, y'see," Flossie muses, observant as ever when she catches sight of Amos' lingering gaze. "Traveled all the way to the West. Said that some inhumans were lurkin', taintin' their spaces."

Ah. Supernaturals. Amos runs a hand through his beard, thinking. It's a day's trip without rest; what reason could them church folk have for coming so far? "The law don't got enough silver to kill 'em?" he asks slowly.

Shaking her head, all Flossie can do is shrug. "Ask the young man in the corner," is all she says to him, "He can tell you."

For some ungodly reason, Amos makes that day's trip.

He knows what to expect. Walking in the thick forests surrounding the church, it's only the whistling of the wind keeping him company tonight. Nightbiters—or vamps, whatever they're called—and lycanthropes are easy to kill: one shot of silver through the heart, and they're down like a dog. The undead are even easier—no bullets needed as long as he's smart.

The minister who gave him the request was adamant that this wasn't no common supernatural, though. That it was smarter, more deadly. Well, he'll be the judge of that.

Grass crunches beneath his feet with every step. The wind picks up, leaves dancing around him—and through its song, he can hear the footsteps tailing alongside him.