The honor of the Holy Order of St. Winchester hung in the balance on the desolate plains, their shining light becoming clouded with thick coal smoke. No longer did the townsfolk worship their ballistic lords, they worshiped the belching locomotives with their shattering whistles and roaring wheels. Bandits ran the rails, using pagan magic to shield their transports.

Cardinal Black prayed over his gunmetal grey six-shooters and bandolier. A thin slit of moonlight illuminated the crude altar of the field chapel. The Cardinal prayed upon his rosary of bullets, imbuing them with enough force to pierce the heathen's shields. To destroy their infernal locomotives. He loaded the chambers slowly, methodically, carefully. A kiss on the barrels before a dip in holy water.

Cardinal Black holstered his holy irons, he strode with haste into the center of camp, it was almost time. He gathered his flock, they knelt before him, he blessed his posse.

"Now is the time we strike, my sons and daughters of the lord! These heathens threaten our way of life with their manifest destiny! This land is our land, and forever shall be! While the lord may favor us he cannot protect us, we shall all not return from tonight but you shall live forever on the glorious plains of heaven! To arms!"

Cardinal Black shepherded his platoon into the trees to lay in wait for the beast. Rumbling shook the valley, roaring wheels ground on tracks, black smoke blotted out the moon. Cardinal Black liked fighting in the dark. The platoon readied their weapons. Many said their final prayers.

Brimstone bullets flew from armored gattling guns atop the locomotive, the heathens were ready, but out of position, train can only follow the tracks. Piercing bolts of holy lightning cracked from six shooters, shattering the pagan shield. Divine justice delivered swiftly to the gunners. Cardinal Black leapt onto the train, quickly reloading as he shimmied down the side, smashing a window for an entrance.

He pushed towards the front, irons akimbo. The cramped hallway an ideal shooting gallery, heads popped as Black advanced to what he sought to steal being held in the cargo car, the dead sea shotgun, the weapon of prophecy. Black collected himself as the fight raged atop the train, a quick prayer before storming the car. Two guards, not a problem, two fans of the hammer relieved them of their lives.

Black opened the lead box, it glowed when opened. A gleaming silver shotgun seemed to hum with a heavenly voice. Black snatched it quickly, a perfect fit in his hands. The rack of the shotgun reverberated through Black's body, white feathered wings burst from his back. Time to win back the west.