Texas.

Crickets sang in the cool night air around the farmhouse. The pastures were empty, the barns full of sleepy livestock, the warm lights pouring from the windows. The ranch was quiet, winding down in preparation for slumber.

Everything ached. Everything burned. Mud, twigs, dirt, clung to his clothes, his sweat-drenched skin. The smell of iron, sticky, thick, warm, running down his face. Everything was dark, darkening. He clawed at the ground, fingers digging into the soil. Hot, haggard panting, his breathing dragging.

Leather scraped against gravel. He’d reached their driveway. Only so far to go now. He needed them. They had no obligation to help him. But he needed them.

They were winding down for bed when they heard the knock on the door. It was less a knock and more of a thump, heavy yet faltering. The wife exchanged looks with her husband, who unhooked a shotgun hanging on the coat rack next to the door and slung it over his shoulder. He reached out for the handle and carefully turned it, pulling on the door.

He had been leaning against the door, curled up. Everything was hot, he felt an utter mess of a human. Was he even human? The pain in his chest throbbed with a dull ache. The pain across his face stung like a jab. He coughed and it hurt.

He felt the door give way. No strength left. He accepted the pull of gravity, not even flinching as his ribs hit the threshold. “John!” he heard a woman’s voice gasp.

“Jesus, it’s–” Someone knelt beside him. “It’s 'im. The bounty hunter. Get some water and your healin'. Go! I’ll get 'im inside!”

Strong hands surrounded him. He could barely move, but he made the effort. “No, son, you’re gon’ hurt yourself. Don’t you move. I’ve got you.” By God, the warmth of his native accent was the most welcoming sound he’d ever heard in his life up until now.

His attention was wavering. Faltering. He tried, struggled, to keep his eyes open. Eye. His left eye burned. It burned. It was on fire. It bled. He was losing consciousness. Too much pain. Too much fatigue. The darkness came for him.

He couldn’t hear the rancher shout at him to keep him awake. Rest. He needed rest. Perhaps it would be wonderful if he didn’t wake for the next few hours…

The first thing he felt was the softness under his head. He felt like he was sinking into a cloud. It was so warm. It was not comfortable. His head felt like lead. His breath dragged, long and hard, his brain slowly waking up.

Where was he?

He opened his eyes– eye. There was something covering the left side of his face, thick, a little itchy, almost smothering. He tried to lift his arm, against the forces that made it like a bar of steel attached to him, and finally succeeded in lifting his hand to the left side of his face.

A bandage. Thick. A lot of bandages. He felt around. A brief sting ran through his face. He gasped sharply in pain. Nope. Fingers away, far away. Put hand down back on soft. Please.

He heard movement next to him and turned his head, with great difficulty. As if his neck didn’t want to turn. The rancher’s wife appeared next to him in his visible eyesight, though still greatly blurred. Yes, he remembered her.

Three nights ago he’d showed up at their doorstep, asking for information. Asking after Redsteel. They were not legally obliged to entertain him. But he remembered Redsteel had terrorised the town here long enough. They wanted their town to be safe again. Not after what Redsteel did. They told him where to find him.

God, everything hurt.

“Can you hear me?” She was anxious, he could tell by her voice, but she remained calm. He felt her warm fingers slip into his and he squeezed her hand. Yes.

“Oh, thank the Lord. How are you feelin’? Once for good, twice for not so much.”

Two squeezes.

“That’s quite alright. You get as much rest as you can. I’ll get you some water to drink.” He felt her hand draw away from his. “Take as long as you need. Don’t sweat takin’ up space in ‘ere. We’re havin’ a healer come see you soon and patch you up.”

Firm, gentle hands pulled him up a little, made sure he wasn’t fully reclined. The cold lip of a glass touched his own mouth, and for a second he was sure he was burning. Water flowed into his mouth, and he could not be more grateful.

“That’s it, take it slow.” He heeded her words and let relief rush over him. He could rest. He wasn’t in danger. It was alright. It was alright.

It was… alright. For now.

It took him a week and daily visits from a healer before the burning pain on the left side of his face subsided. Even then the bandages didn’t come off for a while yet, at least not permanently. Every time the healer changed them out he’d close his other eye. He didn’t want to see the mess of the wound on his face.

The healer confirmed what he suspected and already knew. It was still a punch to the gut. His left eye was utterly useless. Complete blindness with a wound that would horrify anyone who saw it directly, hence keeping it covered even when he was no longer bedridden. He found it difficult to get used to the loss of depth perception. He kept bumping into people and furniture. He grasped at objects like a drunk man. He felt just as useless as his eye.

The rancher couple let him stay to recover. Their children had all left the nest, and the ranch was empty. They could keep the house. But like his own family ranch, the ranch was no longer theirs. Times were changing, and not for the better. Not for ranchers like them.

Everything was slipping. Even his past. Even the bridges he’d built, as those who had lost their livelihoods like him drifted apart. Like sand slipping through his fingers. He could grasp at them all he wanted, but he felt like he would miss, and when he didn’t miss they slipped away from him, wanting only to be far away from their own losses.

The couple would notice how morose he was. Despondence overtook his countenance, his gait, his posture. The wife would give him simple tasks to do, like feed the chickens or collect the eggs in the henhouse. It would help him, she said, find his bearings.

In a way, it did. He treasured the gifts the livestock bestowed them. Even if it was just an ordinary hen anxiously watching him as he fished out two eggs from the hay in her usual resting spot. He could feel her anxiety, her worry. He’d turn to the nervous bird and reach out, careful to not startle her.

His fingers brushed her soft feathers. She stared up at him, head tilted. She did not run.

He could still make new connections. He could. She let him, and he did. A sliver of hope amidst the darkness in his heart.

On the tenth day he sat down with the couple.

“Tell me about Redsteel,” he said softly. “Why's he doin’ what he’s doin’? Tell me the truth.”

“It’s an ugly truth, son,” the rancher kindly told him.

“Ain’t uglier than my left eye.” The couple looked at each other. There was no refuting that. “Tell me. I need to know. I need to confirm that I know ‘im.”

“You do?” The wife broke the silence first.
“Yeah. Back then he weren’t like this. Back then, he weren’t holdin’ a steel bar spearin’ ‘is victims with it. He weren’t laughin’ like a madman about how we’re all slaves to the system.”

“Tell me his name,” said the husband, gravely.
He’d hesitated. But he knew that someone’s days were numbered. It was either him or the other man. “Liam Johnson. My dead friend’s fiancé.”

The bouquet in his hand crinkled in his grasp as he strode up the path. Rows and rows of grey stones lined the grass on either side of him. He paid them no mind, hand tucked in pocket and brow lowered in thought.

It was a lovely sunny day, with a bright blue sky and barely any clouds. The sun was hot, but the heat reminded him he was still alive. The birdsong in the cemetery, the cool breeze on his skin passing him by - lifting his hair to brush against the dark eyepatch covering the left side of his face. If anyone bothered to look any closer they would see the stitches on his face.

He finally broke away from the path to tread upon the grass, and finally came to a gravestone. It had been a few years, but the stone still looked as good as new. Another bouquet lay before it. He knelt down and laid his own to rest. Next to the posy of red roses, the mix of carefully cultivated Texan wildflowers seemed so much smaller and less impressive.

But he knew she would have loved it all the same.

A sound came from behind him as he got to his feet. He turned around and saw the older woman looking between him and the gravestone.

“Afternoon, Mrs Johnson.” He stepped aside for her respectfully. “Visitin’ Lindsey?”

“More like visitin’ you, Garrett.” She looked at his mien, her eyes searching. “Did my son do that to you? To your face?”

“Uh, well.” It had become incredibly uncomfortable, incredibly fast. “...I guess I can’t ‘ide it, can I?”

“Oh, I heard from the ranchers it was you what was chasing after Liam. Redsteel, was it? Yeah.” She looked down at the stone. His gaze followed.

They both stared at the engraved name into the gravestone. Lindsey Walker.

“You liked ‘er, didn’t you?” Mrs Johnson asked, softly. “Why didn’t you bring it up?”

“Yeah.” There was no point hiding it. None of that mattered, now that she was gone. “I figured if… if she was happy with someone else, that’s all that matters to me. Y’know? She found someone she could spend her life with. Ain’t me, but that ain’t her business. I can find someone else.” He shrugged. “Maybe.”

Mrs Johnson looked up at him. “I know you had to put an end to my son’s deeds,” she said, still softly. “I ain’t angry with you. I ain’t upset. You did what you had to do. He chose that path for ‘imself. For all that I did for ‘im and he chooses to represent us Johnsons by his crimes.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs Johnson.” He truly was. “I don’t ‘old it against you that he took my eye out. He lost it after she died. He tried to convince ‘imself it was justice for ‘er.”

“Pah. There’s no justice what can be done against God’s will.” Mrs Johnson shook her head. “I’m not gon’ tell you not to feel how you feel after killin’ him. Not especially after ‘e did that to you ‘imself. I’m just glad it’s over.”

He looked back at the grave. “Same ‘ere.”

“Thank you.”

He looked back up at her in shock, opening his mouth - but he knew not what to say. A mother, thanking him for… killing her son? On top of all of his feelings, muddled by how murky the entire situation was.

She looked at him, her steady gaze never leaving his face. “I know what you thinkin’. I know you were tryin’ to  bring him alive. I ‘eard the rumours, ‘eard the story ‘bout your fight with ‘im. The way it was gon’ go, only one o’ you were gon’ make it. Now, it’s real hard for me to say it. Of course, he was my son. But after all that ‘e did, I’m glad you won. None of his victims deserved what ‘e did to ‘em just because your friend died.”

“She was his fiancee, Mrs Johnson,” he tried to interject, but she shook her head, silencing him.

“That don’t give no excuse to murder and violate. He won’t be sittin’ by the hand o’ God, but at least ‘e won’t be here tearin’ up people’s lives and justifyin’ it with what he lost. You just don’t do that.” He could agree with that. “So thank you. You freed us.”

He hesitated. Saying “You’re welcome” felt horribly out of place and insensitive. He could hear the man’s words, the pleading for him to see the misplaced justice in this world. The decision he had to make after Liam had tried to kill him anyway, feigning defeat. She was right - one of them had to die.

“...yeah alright,” he replied lamely. Mrs Johnson nodded at him and turned on her heel. He watched her depart.

His stomach churned with disgust and confusion. The pain of loss, and grief. He’d won, but was it a victory when so much had been lost? He was no child and knew that freedom always came at a cost, but when it was this painful knowing that all of it led back to a system that he alone could not break, let alone change…

He looked back at the gravestone. Once upon a time he had dreamed of asking her hand and living with her for the rest of his life. It had been a blow when she’d passed. Another, when he’d found out she had fallen for another and hadn’t told him, putting their friendship into question. A third now, for the death of the man who had loved her too, for what he had turned into, at his own hands.

Perhaps it was time to take a break from his work. To rethink everything. Rest, and recover. In the absence of the security of a dream that no longer existed or could exist, he had gotten injured, seen the brink of death more times than was comfortable and lost more than he gained.

But if there was one thing he knew, it was that he could never go back to it.