1888
Benton suffers from mental illness. He tries to cover it with alcohol, but Sunday can smell the madness beneath the whiskey.
His rants fill their tent. He brays. He prays. He elaborates on the matter that consumes him. The Pressure he feels. The Eyes that watch him. The Pressure to be good. The Eyes that judge him.
This time he tries to hurt her. She’s ready, bashing his head with a pot then turning her father’s gun on him. Benton is bleeding as he stumbles into the night, still braying, still praying.
She gathers her stuff. It’s time to leave town.
A thought stops her.
——————————-
The preacher halts mid-sermon. The congregation can hear it too. Someone is shouting outside the gospel tent, bellowing like an injured animal.
With a sudden WHOOSH, the tent behind the preacher is streaked with fire. Worshipers scramble and scream. The altar erupts in flames. The preacher is trapped. He’s doomed.
But through the fiery wall rides Sunday Warring, bareback on a charging stallion. She grabs the preacher at full gallop and lifts him into the saddle.
“Got a name, Padre?”
“David.”
“Yah!!” Sunday gives her mount the spurs and horse and riders leap over believers.
The bellowing from outside takes form “Shut his Eyes! Shut his Eyes!” as a burning hay wagon hits the tent and explodes in a enormous fireball.
This Ends the Fourth Cycle of BURNT
