The cold cloth bit into Matthew’s hand with icy teeth as he dabbed his father’s forehead. The room stank; Jackson never opened his bedroom door, and the air in the room grew stagnant and putrid, saturated with the scent of sickness. His father’s skin had grown paler as the days had worn on, yet his eyes still held a sparkle of determination. Matthew knew his brother wanted Pa to die as soon as possible. One less mouth to feed, one less voice to listen to. He was not subtle about it, either. Every time he visited Pa’s room, and every time he noticed his green eyes, which Matthew had inherited from the patriarch, a flare of anger and hatred rippled through his visage.

Of course, Jackson had been the one to take after Ma. Jackson had been the one to get educated, to read books, to go to school, to marry the pretty wife and have the picturesque family. When they were children, Ma had given him everything, too. She would dote on him, even though Matthew had learned to walk before Jackson, had learned to speak in more than unintelligible syllables. She would hug him and kiss his brother, ignoring Matthew at every opportunity. She would beat Matthew on a regular basis, hitting him with a leather strap or Pa’s belt whenever she got the opportunity. Jackson never had to endure the harsh, metal bite of a belt buckle against his buttocks.

Pa had always understood him, though. After Ma had died, Pa looked Matthew in the eyes – back when he could still walk, before the tuberculosis had infected his lungs – and said they were going to be all right. Matthew didn’t much care that Ma had died; he just cared that Pa was there for him.

“You need anythin’, Pa?” Matthew asked as he finished dabbing his forehead.

Pa coughed, the rattling whoop deep in his chest. Matthew turned away as he did – he could not bear to watch his father suffer. Pa leaned up in bed and bent over the edge, spitting a gob of mucus spotted with crimson blood.

After the fit passed, he leaned back against the pillow. Jackson would never change the sheets, and they were rank with sweat, urine, and death. Flies buzzed in the room. Matthew wondered if they relished the heat.

“I don’ need nothin’,” Pa said. “Just need some sleep.”

“Did Jackson come in to check on ya?”

“Came in to yell at me, more like. I started tellin’ him about the noises in the farm, and he started goin’ apeshit about me bein’ a bigot or somethin’.”

“He said the same horseshit to me,” Matthew said. He rolled his eyes. “Sometimes I wonder whether Jackson actually wanna protect this land.” He paused. “Sometimes I wonder whether he’s really lookin’ out for all o’ us.”

Pa leaned up in bed. “You can’t trust nobody but yo’self’,” he said. His voice was raspy, but still held a preacher’s power. “Most times you can trust blood, that’s true, but sometimes you can’t. This is one of them times. Jackson lookin’ out for hisself. Or maybe he ain’t. Maybe Jackson knows who’s takin’ the food and don’t care. Bottom line is he’s not lookin’ out for his family. And that’s gonna put us all under the ground faster than this cough will for me.”

“He did seem awfully defensive when I asked him about the crops,” Matthew said. “You know, I do wonder now if he knows what’s goin’ on out there. Maybe he made friends with that Mexican fella.”

“Maybe he did,” Pa said. Rage burned in his eyes. “And if he forgot so quick about the man who shot your Ma, then maybe he’s worth leavin’ to the wolves when trouble hits. He said a black cloud was comin’. Is that so?”

“Yeah, I saw it myself.”

“You know what that means, don’t ya?”

“It’s gonna rain.”

“That’s right, it’s gonna rain. But it ain’t gonna be no normal rain. No, this rain gonna flood the Red River. It’s gonna bring winds the likes of which you never seen. It’s gonna keep us locked up in this house for days. By the end of it, when we’re all running on no sleep and the food runs out, there’s gonna be one man responsible for that.”

“Jackson,” Matthew seethed.

“That’s right. It’d all been solved if Jackson had listened to us, if he weren’t off running to town to make friends with that thievin’ Mexican. So I need you to listen, boy. You ready to listen?”

“Yes, Pa,” Matthew said.

Pa leaned up in bed and reached his emaciated hand out, grabbing Matthew by the shirt. He pulled him close, so close that Matthew could smell the rank, diseased odor of his breath.

“You need to protect this family,” Pa said. “We need to look out for ourselves. When that storm hits, you need to make sure it’s our blood that’s in these walls. If anyone tries to harm that – even Jackson – you gotta do what’s good for the group. You gotta make sure nobody tries to harm us. ‘Cause I’ll tell ya, the devil himself will try and bust through that front door. But if Jackson’s leadin’ things, the devil’s gonna be able to walk through by hisself, with a spread of food before him and the warmth of our blankets to keep comfort.”

Pa released him and fell back onto his pillow, his cough bursting from his chest again. He leaned over and spat out bright, red blood – no mucus.

“I understand Pa,” Matthew said.

“You can take that and go,” Pa said, gesturing at the cold cloth. “I appreciate you lookin’ after me like this. One more thing before you go, though.”

“Yeah, Pa?” Matthew asked.

“If it comes to it, and you gotta protect us from folk that Jackson won’t, you’re gonna need a gun.”

“I know, Pa, I already carry my iron wherever I go.”

“No, I mean you’re gonna need his iron,” Pa said. “He don’t carry it ‘less he gotta. If things get bad and he ain’t gonna protect us from the evil that tries to penetrate our home, you gotta make sure you’re armed and ready.”

Matthew gave his Pa a brusque, firm nod. “Yes, sir.”

Pa smiled, the remnants of his yellowed teeth sticking out at odd angles. “That’s ma boy.”

*

The brightness of the sun had been dampened, its yellow rays barely noticeable, when Matthew left his father’s room. The house was quiet, except for the sound of Mary whistling from the kitchen. He did not recognize the tune, but the noise floated through the house with an ethereal quality. Matthew waited for a few moments with bated breath, listening for creaking, wooden floorboards or the distinctive sound of Jackson’s voice. When silence retained is control over the home, he took a left and walked toward Jackson’s bedroom. The door was closed, but Matthew was confident his brother was somewhere else. Probably helping the Mexican across the river or handing out their food on the street to random pedestrians.

The door’s hinges tended to creak, so Matthew made sure to lift it as he turned the knob and entered. Doing so helped eliminate the loud squeal they would make, which would have alerted somebody in the house – Mary, most likely – that he was entering a room he was not supposed to be in.

He closed the door behind him as fast as he could. Once he was sure it was securely latched, he turned to look at the bedroom spread out before him. Jackson liked to live without excess, reducing his room to the bare essentials. Through the window on the right wall, which was half-covered by a curtain, he could see the black clouds rolling across the sky. The bed in the middle of the room had been made, tucked with neat precision. Matthew scowled and walked over to the writing desk that was pushed against the left wall. He pulled open the center drawer, wincing as the wood emitted a high-pitched squeak. He scowled as he saw the silver revolver in a reddish-brown leather holster inside. Beside it was a box of ammunition. Both were covered in a thin blanket of gray dust.

Jackson never had appreciation for things that were given to him. When he had become a man, Pa had gone into town and bought him the gun: a Colt Army Model 1860. He had spent twenty dollars of his own money – money he had earned with his sweat and his blood – to get Jackson a revolver that a man could be proud of. Jackson had fired it twice in his life: once at a bottle in the backyard of their own home and once into the air when a wolf had come onto their property.

He wouldn’t even shoot a damn wolf to protect his family. How was he supposed to keep them safe if some crazed person decided to knock down their door in the middle of the storm, when food needed to be doled out in specific amounts?

Matthew reached his hand out and pulled the revolver from its leather holster. The metal gleamed in the remaining rays of yellow sunlight. Curling, gold inlays spread up the silver barrel of the gun. Anger flared in his chest, though it was cooled by waves of satisfaction as he took the revolver from its place on the desk and checked the cylinder.

It wasn’t even loaded.

Matthew shook his head and pulled six .44 Colt cartridges from the box. Rain started to patter on the roof with tinkling pronouncements. He slid the cartridges into the cylinder with practiced care and snapped it shut. His deed complete, he slipped the revolver into the back waistband of his pants. He pulled his shirt out to cover it and returned to the door. After listening through the wood for any creaks or voices, he lifted the handle and opened the door.

Easiest thing I’ve ever done, he thought.

As he was walking down the hallway to return to the living room, he noticed John and Emma standing at the end of it staring at him. Their clothes were damp, though not soaked through. Their eyes were wide with confusion.

“What’re you doin’ down there, Uncle Matthew?” John asked.

Matthew felt revulsion roil in his gut. He had his father’s voice.

“Nothin’,” Matthew said. “Run along, you two. Gotta be somethin’ better for you to do then interrogate your uncle.”

He walked past them and moved into the living room. As he did, the front door opened. Matthew’s stomach plummeted, and his father’s words echoed in his mind, as he saw Jackson walk into the house with a man in a dark, black suit. The man smiled, his thin lips spreading across his pale face.

“Good morning,” the man said. He extended a hand. Matthew took notice of the other one, which had a metal cuff wrapped around it, the chain of which was attached to another cuff that had been clasped to the handle of a leather briefcase.

“Mornin, sir,” Matthew said. He took the stranger’s hand, trying to give it a good squeeze and a gruff shake to let the man know there wouldn’t be any funny business going on.

“This gentleman got trapped in the storm,” Jackson explained. “He asked if he could stay with us until the storm is over and I agreed.”

“You know this storm is gonna go on for a while, right?” Matthew asked. How could his brother be this stupid? Just like Pa said, he never thought of his own blood – just that of the stranger passing by their fence.

“I’m aware o’ that,” Jackson said as his eyes narrowed. “And I decided of ma own free will and desire to allow this man into our home. His horse died as he was on his way into town, and he was just walkin’ in the rain, soaked to the bone. I couldn’t let him get trapped in this storm, not with the black clouds swirlin’ around us like Satan’s retribution.”

“And I am most thankful that he consented,” the stranger said. “Who knows, with a little rain I could have just been washed away.” He smiled as he finished his sentence, using his free hand to embellish the phrase.

Emma giggled behind Matthew.

“Now who’s that over there?” the stranger asked. “I find that a child’s laughter is one of the most precious things in this world. Show yourself, young lady. Let me meet you.”

“That’s my daughter,” Jackson explained. “Her name’s Emma. She just turned thirteen last month.”

Emma stepped out from behind Matthew. He could see her picking at her nails as she held her hands out in front of her dress.

“That’s better,” the stranger said. He knelt down so he was at Emma’s level and cocked his head to the side. “It’s always better when I’m able to see someone’s face. It gives me a better understanding of their character.” He paused and pointed at her with his free hand. “You strike me as somewhat of a trouble maker. Is that true, Emma?”

Emma’s face went crimson, and she looked down at the floor.

The stranger laughed and stood again. “Yes, I could see it in your eyes. Little girls are often trouble makers. They tend to take after their fathers in the most interesting of ways.”

“Don’t you want to meet me, sir?” John said. He walked beside his sister, his hands in the pockets of his trousers. Matthew felt another rush of panic flush his system, and the weight of the revolver against his back become enticing to an agonizing degree.

“Well, sure,” the stranger said. “It’s always good to meet new people. You look like a strong boy. Are you a strong boy?”

“You’re damn straight!” John exclaimed with a smile on his face.

“John!” Mary yelled. Matthew’s gaze snapped upward to see her standing on the threshold between the kitchen and the living room. “You watch your mouth. I ain’t gonna have no boy of mine swearin’ up a storm like this.”

“Oh, it’s quite alright,” the stranger said. “I’m not offended in the slightest.”

“No, it ain’t alright,” Mary insisted. “I’m raisin’ this boy right. He ain’t gonna find a nice woman, or even a nice job if he keeps a mouth like that.”

“How old are you son?” the stranger asked.

John stood up straight. “Just turned fifteen last week, sir.”

“Fifteen,” the stranger said with an air of respect. “Getting closer to being a man. Has your father taken you fishing? Hunting? Shooting?”

John’s smile faltered. “Uh, no sir. Dad don’t believe in none of that. He don’t like violence o’ any sort.”

“Well that’s a pity,” the stranger said.

“Dad took me fishin’ once!” Emma piped up.

“He did not!” John yelled. Matthew watched his skin turn a dark shade of red.

“Did too! Ain’t that right, Dad? We went down to the river outside o’ town. I don’t remember what the name o’ the river was, but we brought home Pickerel that day and Mama cooked it up real nice.”

John did not say anything further, though Matthew noticed he and his father shared a glance before the child broke it.

“Well, I don’t mean to stir up any negative feelings,” the stranger said. “Is there anywhere I can get out of these clothes? I’m soaked right to the bone.”

“We have a washroom in the back of the house, on the right side of the hallway.”

“The left of the hallway you said?” the stranger asked as he walked toward the back of the house. The briefcase was still handcuffed to his wrist.

“No, the right side,” Jackson said. “Don’t go in the room on the left. Here, let me show you.”

“No, that’s okay,” the stranger said. “I’d prefer to change in private. I’ll make sure I don’t creep in on anything unsavory on the left side, then.”

Once the stranger had left the living room, and Matthew heard the door to the washroom open and close, he stormed toward his brother.

“What right do you have bringin’ in some random fella?” he grunted. “And what’s that about Pa? Don’t want him to find your dirty little secret you hide in the back o’ the house?”

“It’s not that,” Jackson said. “I just didn’t want Pa to be disturbed. And the man was walkin’ into town in the middle o’ a rainstorm. What was I supposed to do? Let him walk?”

“Damn right you let him walk!” Matthew said. “You know nothin’ ‘bout this man. Why, he could be here to kill us for all we know.”

“He ain’t here to kill us,” Jackson scoffed. He took off his boots and placed them by the door.

“What about our food, then?” Matthew persisted. “We just supposed to take on another mouth to feed just ‘cause you got an attack o’ conscious?”

“We’re gonna do the thing that good Christian folk do,” Jackson said, his tone darkening. “We’re gonna help this gentleman. We’re gonna feed him. We’re gonna keep him warm. We’re gonna make nice conversation with him. Once this storm lets up, we’ll say our goodbyes and he’ll make his way into town like he was meanin’ to do ‘fore his horse died.”

“Jackson-”

“Let me remind you that you are in my house,” Jackson spat. “Let me remind you that you are afforded the luxury of livin’ here ‘cause you are my blood. You have no claim to who enters this house, who eats the food I grow, or who sleeps on the floor I built with my own two hands. If you have a problem with any o’ that, you can go bitch about it to Pa.”

Before Matthew could respond, Jackson had turned to walk into the kitchen to speak with Mary. Red-hot rage burned in his gut as he watched his brother walk away from his responsibilities. For a brief moment, he contemplated taking out the revolver and shooting him in the back. He would savor the irony to his grave. Sense caught hold of his brain before his hand moved from his side, and he stormed toward the hallway to take his brother’s suggestion.

Next Chapter: Emma