Some men die scared. My pa weren’t one of ‘em. But when his time came, he weren’t
afraid of dyin’—no, sir. He was afraid of who’d be waitin’ for him on the other side.
My pa was a hangman. Put down the worst of ‘em—war criminals, killers, folk so rotten
inside you could smell the evil on ‘em. He carried the weight of judgment on his back,
and in return, the world filled his head with stories. He used to sit me down by the fire,
pipe in his hand, and tell me ‘bout the days when men shaped the world with their own
two hands. But his favorite stories… those were the ones where the earth got good and
soaked with blood. Where men did things to each other so terrible, so twisted, you’d
swear the devil himself was takin’ notes.
Pa had a way of seein’ folk. Said there was only two kinds of men: the decent and the
indecent. Decent men built things. They gave more than they took, held the line when it
mattered. They was the civilized ones, the ones that made the world just a little less
cruel. The indecent? Hell, that was everyone else. And if you lived long enough, you’d
learn there was a whole lot more of the latter than the former.
He used to say any man could kill, given the right time, the right place. But there were
some who didn’t need no reason. Some that killed ‘cause it called to ‘em, like a song
only they could hear.
There was one boy, no more’n seventeen, caught in the Great Revolution down in the
Red Desert. My pa judged him himself. That war left towns full of ghosts, bones sittin’
under the sun like forgotten prayers. This boy, though—he weren’t just a soldier. He
used to nail folks to the ground, drive iron through their hands just to watch ‘em twitch.
He’d take babies—God help me, I swear on my soul—tie ‘em up to trees and swing ‘em
‘til their tiny bones cracked.
Pa asked him why. What made a boy turn into a thing like that?
The boy just grinned. Said he ain’t do it for no cause. No grand reason. Said he just liked
it. Said if he had the chance, he’d do it all over again.
My pa had seen a lotta men die. He’d seen killers weep, seen cowards beg, seen the
truly wicked grin all the way to the gallows. But none of ‘em, not a damn one, compared
to the last man he put down.
They say the eyes are windows to the soul. That fella’s eyes weren’t windows to nothin’.
They was a door—no, a road—straight down to Hell. And Pa knew it.
When he was dyin’, he told me he weren’t scared ‘bout meetin’ his maker. What rattled
him deep down in his bones was the thought that, wherever he ended up, that man
would be there, too. And even for all the devils he sent to Hell, it weren’t fair—weren’t
right—for any of ‘em to share the same fate as something that evil.
‘Cause even in Hell, some men deserve worse.
Spring had just begun in a quiet little frontier town near Oak Creek—the last stop before
the wilderness swallowed up the land whole. Past that point, there weren’t no roads, no
laws, nothin’ but endless trees and the promise of adventure for the kind of folk who
had the guts to chase it.
Outside an old wooden church, a bunch of kids were foolin’ around, kickin’ up dust as
they played with a ball—some new game the priest from Northhelm had taught ‘em.
They laughed, hollered, ran about without a care. But then Morgan, the biggest of ‘em,
kicked the ball too hard, sendin’ it flyin’ off the road and straight into O’Malley’s field.
Now, folks round these parts didn’t talk much about O’Malley, but everyone knew the
stories. Some whispered he was a man-eater, a creature more monster than man. A
few years back, a girl went missin’. When they found her, she was violated, torn up,
and half-eaten. Could’ve been some wild beast, sure—but there were signs, things no
animal could do. Everyone had their suspicions, but the sheriff? He figured the law
didn’t stretch too far out here. Said a town like theirs—so close to the edge of
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civilization—couldn’t afford to go throwin’ blame without proof. So O’Malley walked
free, and the town learned to keep their doors locked at night.
Rumors travel faster than a gunshot in a place like this.
Morgan turned to one of the smaller boys, a scrawny kid named Eli, younger and much
weaker than the rest. He jabbed a finger toward the field. “You. Go get that ball.”
Eli swallowed hard. He didn’t move. His feet felt like they was planted in the dirt. “I… I
ain’t goin’,” he mumbled, barely above a whisper.
Morgan stepped closer. He had his father’s eyes—cold, mean, the kinda eyes that
didn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. “You best go get that ball, Eli. Else I’m gonna bust your
face open.”
The other kids didn’t say a word. Wouldn’t even look at ‘em. Morgan’s father had been a
bounty hunter once—a legend, said to have gunned down over two thousand men in
his time before settlin’ as a farmer. Morgan’s father was a crack shot, and Morgan
himself had been taught how to fight since the day he could walk. No one dared cross
him.
Eli stood his ground, but his hands were shakin’.
Morgan didn’t wait. He slugged him hard across the face. The crack of bone and flesh
echoed in the dusty air. Eli hit the ground, nose gushing blood, gaspin’ through his
teeth.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then Jasper, Morgan’s younger brother, stepped forward. He was different from
Morgan—quieter, softer, with kindness in his eyes. “Let him be,” Jasper said. “I’ll get
it.”
Morgan just stared down at Eli, breath heavy, eyes dark. He didn’t say nothin’.
Jasper walked into O’Malley’s yard, his boots crunchin’ on dead grass. He didn’t wanna
be there any more than Eli did, but someone had to do it. He snatched up the ball,
walked back, and dropped it in the dirt.
Nobody moved.
Nobody wanted to play anymore.
They all hated Morgan in that moment, but no one said a damn thing. They kept playin’
with him ‘cause of Jasper, ‘cause Jasper was different. ‘Cause Jasper had a heart.
One by one, the kids walked off, headin’ home, leavin’ Morgan alone with the ball and a
town that would always remember what he did that day.
The brothers walked home in silence, their boots kickin’ up dust along the way. Morgan
was still stewin’.
“Ma, Jasper made me look bad again in front of the others,” Morgan grumbled the
second they stepped inside.
Jasper shot him a glare. “Ain’t me makin’ you look bad. You do that just fine on your
own.”
Their ma was at the table, settin’ down plates. She was young, younger than their father
by near fifteen years. Born into one of the wealthiest families to ever settle in this
town—back when there was still law here—but married off to a man whose name was
whispered in saloons and spoken in fear. Their father had put some of the most
powerful men in Newland in the ground. Some called him a bounty hunter. Some
called him a killer.
She didn’t look up, just let out a tired sigh. “Enough.”
The boys fell silent.
She turned to them, eyes sharp like a blade. “You’re brothers. That means you ain’t
got nothin’ in this world but each other. If your father and me ain’t here no more,
it’s you, Morgan, who’s gotta watch over your brother. And you, Jasper—you show
your older brother some respect.”
Before either of ‘em could say a word, the door creaked open.
Their pa stepped inside, his boots heavy, his coat smellin’ of blood and the wild. He
still liked to hunt—maybe it reminded him of the old days, back when he was trackin’
men instead of deer. He weren’t a tall man, but his shoulders were broad as a
buffalo’s, and even in his fifties, there wasn’t a soul dumb enough to test his strength.
His black hat was worn, his beard streaked half-white, but his eyes? His eyes hadn’t
changed a bit.
No one said much after that.
They bowed their heads and prayed. Then they ate. The night fell, and in the quiet of that
little house, the only sounds left were the distant howl of coyotes and the restless
thoughts sittin’ heavy in the hearts of two brothers who mighta been born from the
same blood—but sure as hell weren’t cut from the same cloth.