Jethro slouched in a rickety cane chair in front of the door. The rectangle of daylight before him shimmered with the desert heat and illuminated the dirt floor leading to his boots. They were grimy and worn. Scuff marks and signs of a working life etched the brown leather. Faded and creased canvas pant legs lay over the tops of his boots, and on his lap a gnarled hand rested on an old lever-action rifle made of well-wearied wood and time-etched metal. A wound on his right leg oozed blood from a large broken scab just above the knee.

Dirt cake his fingernails. His weathered and cracked hands eased into the sleeves of his plaid shirt. Wooden buttons scaled the front of the shirt like a row of farmers fresh from a long day in the fields. There were five of them originally, but the fourth one was missing and there was only a buttonhole in its place. Where the two sides of his shirt met in a V-shape, his collar rose, the red and brown sun-washed pattern partially faded. With the shirt collar his beard also began. It was dirty brown and speckled with gray, and the edges grew wooly onto his neck.

His face was almost as weathered as his hands, except for the fact that for many years the long shadow of his cowboy hat had offered some meager protection from the incessant sun. His inset eyes were clear and green just like those of his Pa, and he gazed in deep reflection at the ceiling.

Memories of Corrinha and the girls flashed behind his eyes and his lips twitched into a painful smile. Megan was so headstrong like her mama, and she was tough as nails. On the other hand, Elsie was bright and sweet and happy. She was his favorite, if only slightly, but he would never admit that in front of the family. He loved and provided for them all equally. They were his life – or at least they had been.

Jethro had not lived a hard life, at least no more difficult than folks around him. Hard work with a smidge of suffering was normal, and he knew that he had more opportunity than many. He did not consider himself to be a poor man. He and Corrinha had met at a young age and fallen fiercely in love. She was the daughter of Irish settlers and had lived in New Mexico her whole life, whereas he had come west from Kansas to seek his fortune. Together they had claimed a homestead and built a life from the land. He had learned that difficulty bred satisfaction.

One day in early spring Jethro had come home to find a thin plume of smoke rising from the house. Corrinha lay bloody and unmoving on the front porch, her blue dress gently ruffled by the wind. He wept outwardly as he checked for breath, noticing that her skin was still warm to his touch. He then ran inside to look for the girls. He found them as still as their mother, and nearby was a young Indian brave with Corrinha’s kitchen knife sticking out of his chest.

Jethro carried the girls outside one after the other and lay them away from the fire before dragging Corrinha to be near them. Sobbing, he checked each one for signs of life again, and despair welled up in his heart when he found none. Lastly he dragged the young indian out and then doused the fire with several large buckets of water.

It was only then that he rested, head in his hands, and cried uncontrollably. In time his tears ran out, and he felt as if he was made of stone. What did he have left without his family? He looked out onto the farm and could not imagine life here without his girls.

Soon enough, he rose and began to dig shallow graves. He had scarcely finished saying goodbye to his wife when he heard horses in the distance. Quickly he took the bloody knife out of the chest of the young man and threw it onto the porch. Then he ran inside and grabbed his rifle.

The rifle action made a soft click-click as he cycled it. Five horses burst over the hill with more braves riding bareback in their way. Jethro cradled the rifle in front of him and waited. One man stopped and dismounted while the other four waited on their restless horses. The man looked at the dead young brave and gestured loudly with his hands and voice at Jethro.

Jethro quietly said, “He killed my wife and daughters.” He pointed at the graves and he pointed at young brave.

The man bellowed something at him again and then struck him in the face with his fist.

His face blazing with rage. Jethro stumbled backward, and one of the other braves hollered something from his horse. It was at that moment Jethro realized that he was in serious trouble. He ran like a coward and felt terribly ashamed of himself, but it was dusk and he knew that he would not survive if he stayed.

He was hunted for two days. The braves were dogged, following him and firing their rifles into the air. Finally, Jethro found an old, one-room, hunting cabin nestled against the rock wall of the valley. He was exhausted and injured, but mostly he was no longer willing to run. He did not know if the young brave was kin to those who pursued him. He did not know what Corrinha had done, if anything, to cause the confrontation. Everyone who witnessed his family’s last words was dead, and now Jethro was gravely injured. He held little hope of living another day.

Now, muffled voices carried on the wind through the trees, and he knew that time was short. Slowly, he raised the rifle and pointed it at the blazing doorway. He slid his hand into the lever, ready to enact a heavy cost for the life of his family. The voices grew louder and he waited patiently with a faint buzzing in his ears. When a shadow appeared in the doorway he pulled the trigger.

BANG!

He heard a muffled cry, and he began to work the lever to load another cartridge into the chamber.

BANG!

Jethro slouched slowly, blood flowing quickly out of his chest. His body toppled onto the dirt floor, and he saw boots and spurs just as his vision left him. There were muffled words spoken above him, and as his ears failed him, he recognized English.

“…did it, Marshal. He shot Seth.”