Even at a distance, the thick plumes of crystal-blue smoke that rose above Main Street were intimidating. The town of Shadydale was in trouble, which brought a slightly deeper scowl to Vulcan's naturally glowering expression. Not many towns in the Weird West had ever managed to get on his good side, but Shadydale wound up being the closest thing he had to a home between excursions into the outback.

Vulcan grumbled under his breath at the prospect of having to endure another chaotic spat with some troublemaker before he could sit down and have a drink. Infernal demons weren't known for their cheerful mannerisms, and he was no exception. On horseback Vulcan was an especially intimidating presence: nearly two-hundred pounds of bone, scale, and hellfire wrapped up in the attire of a western mercenary.

Spurring his steed forward, Vulcan made haste towards Shadydale, ready to confront whatever was ruining his prospects of taking it easy for the afternoon. The blue tinge of the smoke was a helpful clue—only Angelfire could be responsible for such a vibrant color. It made his molten skin crawl with hate, and Vulcan reached for the brimstone revolver at his side on instinct.

Turning onto Main Street, he saw a large gathering of townspeople moving buckets along to try and put out the raging florescent flames without much success. Though the situation was certainly still volatile, his paranoia receded slightly, since people wouldn't be making efforts to put the fire out if the area wasn't safe from more pressing threats. Taking a closer look, Vulcan could see that the bucket-runners were fetching water straight from the well—a classic mistake.

Not wasting a moment, Vulcan tied off his horse and hustled towards the men and women gathered at the well. Those that knew him greeted his approach with looks of relief—those that didn't went slightly pale at the sight of a flaming desperado running in their direction. Thankfully, he stopped a short distance from the pack of people to avoid spooking anyone too thoroughly.

Vulcan didn't mince words, immediately pointing to the buckets of water. "You need Sulfur. Fresh water is just gonna turn to steam when you pour it on that Angelfire, you understand?" he explained, gesturing towards the glowing blue flames that were still raging across the street. "Y'all got sulfur stored around here somewhere, don'tcha?"

Two or three of the men nodded hesitantly.

"Then you better hurry up and fetch it," Vulcan said with the snap of his fingers.

While the men ran to fetch the sulfur, Vulcan continued to spread the word, and soon enough the townspeople were pouring buckets of sulfur-water on the fire in a smooth rotation. Though the blaze was extinguished handily, the damage was still nasty. Three entire buildings on Main Street were reduced to smoking rubble, with considerable damage to two more.

Assessing the carnage on foot, Vulcan caught sight of Sheriff Brown standing at the foot of a ruined building, similarly taking stock of the destruction. Still observing the blackened timber with an irritated sneer, Vulcan decided to approach him and strike up a conversation.

"Afternoon Sheriff," he greeted the lawman curtly. "What's the deal with this whole mess?

"Afternoon Vulcan," he greeted in return, tipping his hat. "It's grim. You're lookin' at the ruins of the Thirsty Imp."

"You gotta be shittin' me," Vulcan groaned, rubbing his forehead with gloved forefingers. "Who the fuck burnt down my favorite watering hole?"

"That little prick Sammael, if you can believe it," Sheriff Brown scoffed derisively. "Got into some kind of spat at the bar with a clown who didn't take him serious. Got what was comin' to him and then some."

The irritated frown on Vulcan's face turned into a malevolent glare. Sammael was a Fallen Angel known far and wide across the Weird West for his life of crime, extremely petty attitude, and abysmal anger management issues. The bounty on his cracked halo was exceptionally high, and Vulcan had considered turning his bones in to the Marshal more than once.

Now, standing in front of the ruins of a bar which he had frequented for years, Vulcan had all the motivation necessary to make clipping Sammael's wings once and for all his main agenda.

"Any idea where he went?"

Hearing the murder in Vulcan's voice, Sheriff Brown's expression turned slightly more fearful. "Well, I got a fella or two that says he hit the road going northwest, towards Scorchville. Listen, Vulcan, I can ask the Marshal to put a guy or two on this and—"

"This one's mine," he spat without objection. "That runaway child of His just officially wore through the last of my patience. I've had it with the big man upstairs and his forgotten kiddies burning down my shit."

The Sheriff's expression became one of resignation. "Well, I know better than to cross a demon on the warpath. You need anything before you set after his trail?"

"I'll be fine. I'm gonna start tracking him down right now. Tell the Marshal to expect my bones soon."

"Sure thing Vulcan. Stay safe out there," the Sheriff said as he began to walk away. "And don't forget about your manners!"

Vulcan snorted in response and turned back to the smoldering remains of the Thirsty Imp. He took a moment to survey the wreckage, looking over the charred husk of the building with a critical eye. After a few moments, he turned to leave, but paused and looked back over his shoulder.

"Sheriff?" he called. "I hope you get that asshole Sammael's hide nailed to the wall of your office. It'd be a nice touch."

"Oh, sure thing, Vulcan. Sure thing," the Sheriff said, waving goodbye.

Vulcan smiled and gave the sheriff's retreating figure a nod, then turned around and started walking westward, towards the town of Scorchville.

***

Scorchville was a small frontier town nestled in the foothills of the mountains surrounding the Great Salt Lake. A dusty, windswept place filled with the echoes of gunfire, the smell of gunpowder, and the sound of horses hooves kicking up dust.

It was also home to one of the few people Vulcan knew who would have the answers he needed.

As he rode into the town's outskirts, Vulcan spotted a lone rider galloping along the edge of town. As the rider came closer, Vulcan recognized him as an old friend of his named Blackjack.

Blackjack was a seasoned gunslinger from the Old West, a legendary gunman who lived by the code of the Wild Bunch and had never lost a single duel. He was known as the fastest draw in the West and always carried a revolver in each hand. When not working as a hired gun, Blackjack was an expert marksman, often using his skills to track down and bring in fugitives like himself.

"Howdy, Vulcan!" Blackjack called out as he slowed his horse to a stop alongside Vulcan's mount.

"Hey yourself, Blackjack. What brings you out here?"

"Just riding the range for a bit, taking in the sights and sounds of the Wild West," Blackjack replied. "What about you? Got any leads on the Fallen Angel?"

"Not yet, but I've got a pretty good idea where he might be headed," Vulcan answered. "I think I found a lead on Sammael's last known whereabouts."

"Sounds like it'll be a fun chase," Blackjack said with a grin. "So what's this new lead you got?"

"Well, let me tell you about this town we're about to ride into."

"Sounds good to me! Lead on!"

"Okay, follow my lead," Vulcan said, then urged his horse forward.

Blackjack followed close behind, keeping his guns trained on the town ahead.

They approached a small collection of buildings clustered together on the western side of the road. There was a general store, a saloon, a church, and a hotel, all surrounded by wooden fences.

"There's something strange about this town," Vulcan remarked.

"You don't say?" Blackjack asked sarcastically.

"I mean, look at it. It's so small, so isolated, and there's nothing else around for miles. How is a town like this even surviving?"

"You can thank the locals for that," Blackjack said, gesturing to the saloon. "The folks in Scorchville are tough, hard-working folk, just trying to make a living. They don't ask questions when someone shows up with a pair of guns, and they certainly don't give them away. Hell, they'd probably throw us a welcome party if we wanted to settle down and stay awhile."

"That's what worries me," Vulcan replied. "We're going to have to get past these people somehow, and they're likely to resist. This could turn into a real problem."

"Yeah, well, I'm sure you'll figure something out. You always do."

"Don't sell yourself short, Blackjack. You've been a big help so far."

"Thanks, Vulcan. But I don't want to hear it from you. When it comes to getting things done, you're more than capable."

"Oh, you're right about that," Vulcan agreed. "Now let's get to work. I'm gonna try to sneak into town, see if I can find any clues inside one of those buildings. If I need your help, I'll holler. Otherwise, stay back here and watch our backs."

"Whatever you say, boss," Blackjack said, giving Vulcan a salute.

Vulcan rode towards the saloon, leading his horse by its reins. He dismounted, tied his horse to a post outside the saloon, then stepped inside.

The saloon was dark, lit only by lanterns hanging from the ceiling. A few men sat at tables drinking and playing cards.

"Hey, mister!" a man called out. "Whatcha doin' in here? Ain't no ladies allowed!"

Vulcan ignored the man, continuing to walk towards the bar.

"What do you want?" another man asked.

Vulcan reached the bar and placed a hand on it. "Give me a glass of water."

The bartender stared at him for a moment before reluctantly pouring him a glass of water. Vulcan took a sip, then handed the glass back.

"Why don't you go sit down?" the bartender suggested.

"No thanks," Vulcan replied. "I'm looking for somebody."

The bartender's eyes narrowed. "You got a name?"

"Sammael," Vulcan said.

"You ain't him."

"No, I'm not."

The bartender looked at him suspiciously. "How'd you know that?"

"My partner and I heard you talking earlier. We thought maybe you knew where he was."

The bartender shook his head. "Nope. Not a clue."

Vulcan nodded. "Well, thanks anyway."

"Sure thing, mister."

Vulcan turned around and walked out of the saloon.

He approached the door, and waited for a moment. Then he heard the sound of footsteps approaching.

"That was close," Blackjack said.

Vulcan smiled. "Good job, Blackjack. Now, let's go."

They headed north, towards Scorchville.