The Ghost of the Garrison (Part 3)

            The night after the ruckus over the Man's conundrum began to surface the Drifter went missing. His throwing axe was found lodged between a member of the Garrison's eyes, but he was nowhere to be found. Though was it really all that odd for a drifter to just get up and leave for no reason? No, not at all. And so there was hardly any discussion on the topic other than why he must have felt it necessary to take out a miner before he skipped town. Maybe that's just who he was. It's not like any one knew much about him. They let the matter slide though as a more pressing one started to unfold in the streets outside the inn.

            It was quite strange, really. Normally the Garrison would have been geared up and at the mines by this time, but instead they gathered around in the streets, held up by some sort of commotion. Storming out the door the Man was in an uproar. The Poet quietly followed him out just to get a glimpse of what was going on. Calling the sight strange may not have been doing it justice. Two miners were in hand-to-hand combat, duking it out. That alone wasn't too outrageous, but once one man knocked the other out he turned, picked up his pickaxe, and hurled into another miner. At that point one of the militia men gunned him down.  And it didn't end there. That was only the beginning. He then turned his gun on the rest of the Garrison until a hunter took him down with his fillet knife. Only a second or two of silence washed over the crowd before the hunter went on a rampage with his knife, striking those defenseless on the ground who had ducked for cover when the gunman had started shooting. His spree was ended by the only militia man still standing, who for his troubles got a pickaxe through the back of his throat. It then became a grand melee between those still left. By the time the Man reached his Garrison only a handful remained. Pulling out his trusty revolver he shot the miner currently wreaking havoc and then lowered his gun. The pistol had nearly reached its holster when the Man paused, raised the barrel and shot the rest of his men.

            Still unable to take his eyes off everything that was happening the Poet watched as the Man spun his way. For a split second their eyes met and for the first time in a long while the Poet forced himself to blink. He wasn't sure what he was seeing. The Man's pupils were a bright, blazing red. Not bloodshot, but rather distinctly red in color. It was just as strange as the events that preceded it, if not stranger. He was given little time to marvel at the fact though as the Man began to point the revolver in his direction. Instinctively diving back toward the tavern the Poet heard the bullet strike the outer wall of the inn as he rolled safely inside. It was madness out there. Just what exactly was going on? Not really having the time to ponder the whole ordeal he quickly returned to his feet and shut the door behind him, locking it in the same motion. The other guests in the inn were staring at the Poet the way he had been staring at the Man when he finally turned and faced them; such accusation and uncertainty in their eyes. Not knowing what to say or how to start the Poet felt relieved when the Pestilence took over. She had been watching the events transpire from the Drifter's window seat. Retelling the scene outside did let to set the story straight though. It was just so odd. Where did such a lust for blood come from? Sure the Garrison and the Man weren't on the best of terms, but it hadn't gotten this bad, had it? The Beacon interrupted their trail of thought by asking how many of the Garrison had survived. The Poet and Pestilence looked at each other before replying to her that only the ghost of the Garrison awaited them outside. That and a mad man with a revolver. At this point the Librarian finally lifted his head from his book. The story unfolding before him was starting to get just as good as the one he had been holding in his hands.