The worst part of dying was not the degradation of his body or the constant feeling of weakness. No, the worst part was the way the cough erupted in his lungs like fire, pushing its way up his throat with angered, barbed fingers. Every time the demon in his chest attempted to expel itself from his lungs, he was reduced to a withered, coughing bug who could do nothing more than stick his neck over the edge of his bed and hope the blood and bile that he spewed would land in the spittoon Matthew had brought in.

He had become accustomed to the stench of his own demise long before Jackson had stopped talking to him. Matthew had offered to wash his sheets a few times, but Pa always refused. There was something degrading about his youngest son washing his own sheets – something that was simultaneously disturbing and depressing. If Jackson wanted him to waste away in the bedroom, then he would do so with resolve.

Yet, with each passing day he wished for death just a bit harder. When he prayed at night, he often asked God why this frail, sickened shell of a body was still allowed to exist on Earth when he had long before begged for the siren song of angels and white light. Each night his prayers went unheeded, and he would try to sleep. The cough would rarely allow for more than a couple of hours at a time, so most nights he lay awake in the dark, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the sounds that surrounded him.

It was only a few months ago that he had first heard the sounds of rustling in the corn stalks. Having grown corn of his own on his farm, before Jackson had insisted they come stay with him and the bank had made refusing impossible, he knew that sound in every sense – the distinct shuffling of dry or wet leaves, the crunch of a boot against the dirt, the satisfying snap of someone tending to a harvest they should not have.

The moment Matthew had told him a Mexican lived across the river with a dead farm of his own, he knew in an instant that something fishy was going on. Couldn’t grow your own crops, so you came to our farm to take our hard work? Our sweat, blood, and tears? Yes, that was what was happening. Pa was sure of it. In fact, he was more sure of that than he was of most things.

Of course, he had a lot of time to spend in his own head nowadays. Mary would bring him whatever she had made that morning, afternoon, and evening. She never forgot about him, but she also never talked with him. In an odd way, she reminded him of his own wife, now long in the ground from the bullet she had taken. God had granted her the gift of death, of course. Maybe this was what Hell was? Pa sometimes ruminated about that in his bed late at night. His bedroom had no windows, so he could not even look out at the dark land and wait to catch a glimpse of a rabbit or a deer. No, instead he had to waste away in his own bed while being fed pitiful excuses for food, listening to his sons’ yield get stolen away by starving Mexicans, and philosophize about the meaning of Hell.

If his father told him one thing that was true, it was this: never trust anyone who isn’t ready to give you their ear. When he was a kid he had been too dumb to understand that. When he was a kid he had spent too much time wondering what he was going to be when he grew up. President? No, of course not. A writer? No, what was the point? Writers died in squalor, like that Edgar Allen Poe. How had he died? In his own vomit on the street in Baltimore? He couldn’t remember exactly. Pa scoffed at the thought of dying in a similar way, which led to another coughing fit and another pitiful extension over the edge of the bed.

Hell – that was a rich idea. Maybe he was in Hell this entire time. Father to an ungrateful child and an idiotic kiss ass. Widower to a wonderful woman who had been taken from him far before her own time. Worker of a farm that had been usurped by the bank. The church had always told him that Hell was full of fire and brimstone, of weird, red men with horned tails and eerie smiles. Maybe Hell was a man in a black suit. Maybe Hell was an invisible thief. Maybe Hell was one’s own family once they stopped caring about you and wished you would die.

He had done his best to raise his kids right. The world was not always a kind place. Jackson seemed to pick up on that right away. His mother was always offering him words of advice, but he had already taken everything in stride. The boy was just too damn nice. When they went into town, he made sure to give an apple to a beggar just because the beggar had nothing. Pa had always tried to straighten him out and tell him what’s what – this is a capitalist country, where a man earns his keep and his money. If you give away your money to the filth on the side of the street, you’ll be right where he is in no time at all.

Another important lesson his own father had imparted when Pa had been a young boy.

Matthew had the smarts to survive in the world, but he lacked the resolve he needed. When he and Jackson would play outside – whether it was stickball or something else of their own creation – Matthew would always give up before he could lose. He never learned how to swing a fist and catch his brother in the gut, to throw him off balance so he could have those final, precious seconds he needed to succeed. Pa had spent more time with Matthew because of that. He tried to teach him, to take him out to the farm more often, to show him how to fight. He tried his best, but some things just couldn’t be taught.

Pa looked over at the door to his bedroom. White veins ran down the wood, joining cracks and scratches that had appeared with its age. There was a clear dent in the wall from where the door handle would hit the wood. Every day, that dent grew a bit larger. Most times it was Mary who pushed the door open that hard. Carrying food in both hands, she would have to resort to a careful balancing act of opening the door with one hand and pushing it open with a foot. The door handle would crack against the wall. At first, she had winced when it did so. Now she barely even recognized the sound.

Surprise took hold in Pa’s chest as he heard a knock at the door. Matthew had been in that morning. While sometimes he visited twice in a day, often he did not. There was not that much to talk about, and as the sickness had rotted away his innards and given birth to his bloody coughing fits, Pa found he liked talking less and less.

“Yeah?” he called out in his raspy, weak voice. He hated how it sounded – like he had swallowed a bag of nails.

“Do you mind if I come talk with you?” a strange voice said.

Pa balked at first. He did not recognize the speaker, nor did he trust the airy, sophisticated tenor with which the request was spoken. It sounded like bankers, like politicians. Still, curiosity clattered around in his mind.

“Who is it?” Pa asked.

“A friend, Mr. Barker,” the strange voice said. “I think I have something that may be of interest to you.”

Pa thought about his words for a moment, but eventually agreed to allow him to enter. “Yeah, come on in.”

The door opened, and in the frame he saw a tall man in a black suit. His blond hair was combed back and held in place with grease. His blue eyes were piercing and confident, though behind them Pa could sense something – plotting, cunning, maybe even evil. Then he smiled, and Pa knew he was okay. He had a wide, even smile. Even though his hands were soft and his features were that of the people he hated most, there was something friendly and unassuming about him.

“Please forgive me for interrupting. Jackson told me more times than I can count not to enter this room, but I was curious what was kept back here.”

Pa laughed, leading to another cough. To his surprise, no blood or bile came up. Maybe he was losing his ability to create them. “Just their father,” he said.

He gestured to a wooden chair at the end of his bed, and the stranger closed the door behind him before walking over to it. Attached to his wrist with a metal cuff was a black briefcase. Pa had rarely seen briefcases. Common folk like him didn’t carry them. His was made of genuine leather – Pa could tell that even from the position he was in. This stranger was the real deal, whatever he was.

“You come here to take the farm away?” Pa asked, his tone souring as he remembered what the bankers had been wearing and carrying on the day they decided to destroy his livelihood.

“Oh, no,” the stranger said. “I asked Jackson if I could have a roof to sleep under while the storm passed overhead. I don’t know if you know about the storm, but the rain started recently. It’s going to be a big one, I hear.”

“I don’t see nothin’ much anymore,” Pa said. “Jackson keeps me back here like a dirty secret. It only makes sense that he tried to stop you from comin’ in.” Pa laughed. “Maybe he’s got a point, ya know? Wouldn’t want you catchin’ whatever plague I have.”

“Well,” the stranger started, flashing his friendly smile, “I’m not here to take your farm and I’m certainly not here to catch tuberculosis if I can avoid it.”

“None of us are, son,” Pa said. He sat up in bed, surprised to feel new strength climbing into his limbs. “What’s your name?”

“You can call me Arnold,” the stranger said.

“Arnold, alright.” Pa paused and searched his eyes for deceit. “What do you think of Jackson?”

With casual ease, the stranger shrugged. “He seems nice to me. Though perhaps a bit simpleminded.”

“How so?”

“Well, he let me into your home without even asking me what my name was, or what I do. For all he knows, I’m a killer.”

“Are you?”

The stranger smiled. “Of course not.” He paused. “But even if I was, I wouldn’t tell you that.”

Pa laughed, the sound catching in his throat as his lungs ran out of breath. “That’s a good thing,” he said. “Ain’t no killers allowed on this land.”

“No, I’m a businessman. Not a very good one unfortunately, but I’ve been trying to get a business off the ground.”

“What’s your business?” Pa asked.

“I’m trying to create a weapon that can fire multiple rounds without having to reload. More than your regular revolver, but roughly the same size.”

Pa raised an eyebrow at that. “Why are you makin’ that?”

“Well, I think it’ll be good for home protection,” the stranger said. “A lot of folks around here are farmers. Hell, my Pappy was a farmer. I know what it’s like to have to defend your land from people trying to steal your crops, or invade your land. It’s hard to defend that land with just a six-shooter, you know? Even if you’re lucky enough to afford a repeater, reloading your weapon is a serious time issue. With my design, you would have a single device, which I call a clip, which would store all your bullets. You could put that clip into your weapon, and you would be good to go for a long while.”

“Well, how many rounds would a clip hold?”

The stranger shrugged. “In theory as many as you wanted it to. I would start with designs created to hold up to twenty or thirty rounds at a time. But after that, I’m sure other folks who are smarter than I would be able to take the design further.”

Pa smiled. For once, Jackson had befriended a man who knew what he was talking about, who was doing something worthwhile. Salt-of-the-Earth, this man was. He could tell, and his mother had always told him what a good judge of character he was.

“That sounds like a real good invention,” Pa said. “I lost my wife to a Mexican back ten years ago or so. Pretty sure we got one sneakin’ around in our farm stealin’ our crops.”

The stranger grinned. “Well, with this weapon you’d be able to defend your home, your family, even your country easier and more efficiently. It’s going to be the weapon of the future.”

“Weapon o’ the future, you don’t say!” Pa said. He was more excited than he had been in years. “Weapon o’ the future. Do you think we could get our hands on one o’ your weapons? When you create them, that is?”

“Well, I won’t forget an act of kindness like this anytime soon,” the stranger said. “It’s not every day a family lets me into their home. With that kindness, I’d be inclined to give you one of these weapons for free once it’s created.”

“Well that’d be just great,” Pa said. His bones were jittering with excitement. It had been years since they had done so. “That’d be real great.”

The stranger leaned back in his chair as his eyes looked Pa up and down. “I apologize if this is too forward, but how long do you have left?”

Pa laughed and slid back down under the covers of his bed. “Not long I hope. Jesus takin’ his sweet time in callin’ me home.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” the stranger said. “Tuberculosis is a terrible disease. The worst.” He paused. “What if I told you I could help you?”

Pa shrunk back, his defenses forming around him as he sensed possible deception. “Whaddaya mean?”

“I mean, what if I could make the pain stop?”

Pa remained cautious, but he let his defenses down a little bit. There was something charming about this mysterious man – about Arthur, the inventor of the next defense weapon.

“I’m listenin’,” Pa said.

The stranger reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver key, with which he unlocked the cuff around his wrist. He picked up the briefcase with both hands and placed it on the bed. He turned it so Pa had a good look, and opened it.

Pa felt his heart skip a beat as orange light flooded his eyes. It was so bright it hurt, but after a few moments, his eyes adjusted and he was able to focus on the contents of the briefcase.

Inside, there were stacks of money pushed to one side. It was an astonishing amount – hundreds of dollars, at least. Next to it was a large knife. It took him a moment to recognize it was Jackson’s knife. The handle was distinctive, and the silver blade was engraved with a Baroque pattern.

The stranger removed the knife from the briefcase and closed it. He placed it at his side and held the knife in front of him in both hands. It looked like he was presenting Pa with a gift. Given the circumstances, Pa thought, maybe he was.

“If you would like, tonight, I can enter your room with this knife. I will stab you with it once, right here,” he said, putting his finger on Pa’s throat. “That way nobody will hear you scream.”

“Why would I allow that?” Pa asked.

The stranger returned to the chair, still holding the knife. He twirled it like a professional, flipping it end over end, catching it by the handle, and repeating.

“Tuberculosis is an awful thing,” the stranger said. “I can tell you wanted to die a long time ago. I can offer you a death that is quick and painless.”

He caught the knife by its handle and held it in his right hand. With his kind smile, the stranger leaned forward. His blue eyes gleamed in the oil light.

“You also mentioned an issue with a Mexican in your farm? Stealing your crops?”

Pa’s eyes narrowed. “That’s right. The guy across the river. Luis, Jackson says his name is.”

“Luis,” the stranger said to himself. “Well, I have a feeling he’s going to try and come to your home when this storm gets worse. He’ll have a sob story – everyone has a sob story. And Jackson will let him in, just like he let me in.”

“Jackson would let the devil into his own home without so much as a forethought,” Pa said under his breath.

The stranger smiled, and a strange glint flashed in his eye. “That’s right. I can make sure your family is protected from this menace. In fact, I can blame your death on this man. I’ll make sure he stops stealing your crops. I’ll make sure he can’t take over your home.”

“You would do that for my family?” Pa asked. Hope filled his heart.

“You bet I would.”

Pa thought about the stranger’s proposition for a long time. He couldn’t quite tell how long it was, but the stranger sat with calm patience in the chair while he did so. He mulled over the drawbacks and the benefits, just like his Pappy had taught him to do so many years ago.

Well, if Jesus wasn’t going to take him by natural causes, what was the harm with going out in a bit of blood? Pa was certain he’d already spit up more blood in the spittoon by his bed than he could ever bleed out from the neck.

“Painless and quick?” Pa asked.

“Painless and quick,” the stranger confirmed.

Pa waited a moment longer before nodding. He leaned up in bed, ignoring the pain that erupted in his chest as he did so. “You got yourself a deal, Arthur,” he said as he extended his hand.

The stranger’s smile spread across his face. His pasty white skin and oiled hair gleamed in the kerosene-lamp light. He took Pa’s hand with a firm, strong grip. His hands may have been soft, but his grip was that of a farmer. He wasn’t a bullshitter. He wasn’t a banker. He was the real deal.

He released his hand and put the knife back in the briefcase. After snapping it closed and locking the cuff around his wrist, he gave Pa a knowing nod and left the room. When he closed the door behind him, Pa felt a wave of relief wash over him, bathing him in a warm light he had not felt in a long time.

Maybe this was God’s word. Maybe this was what he had been waiting for. Of course, God couldn’t take him until he knew his family was safe. With this plan, his Matthew would be protected and the crops would not be harmed.

Rain was pattering on the roof overhead. Pa reclined in his bed and pulled the grotesque covers up to his neck. He didn’t even mind that they smelled like rot and sour sweat. He embraced the odors – they were the last things he would smell in his entire life.

As he closed his eyes to drift off to sleep, someone else knocked on his door. With an annoyed back, Pa inquired who it was.

“It’s Matthew.”

Pa rolled his eyes. So Matthew had wanted to talk twice in one day after all. Well, better to talk with him before dying than not be able to impart some final wisdom before his demise.

“Yeah, come in,” Pa said. His voice was getting hoarser by the minute. All of the talking with the stranger had taken its toll on his body, but it was a pain he wouldn’t have to deal with much longer.

Matthew entered the room and closed the door behind him, though he did not walk over to the chair. Instead, he stood in front of the door with his hands in his pockets and a shy look on his face.

“Well, spit it out,” Pa said.

“Jackson let someone into the house,” Matthew said. “You said he would, and now he has. I’m worried.”

“Unless he let a Mexican in, you don’t need to worry,” Pa said as he grinned widely. “Arthur is his name, and he paid me a personal visit. We’ve been talking for a while now. I must have lost track of the time, but we were talking for a long while.”

“He’s trustworthy?” Matthew asked.

Pa wished he could walk over and hug his boy. He had done the right thing – he had asked questions. He had done more than Jackson had.

“He is,” Pa said. “You have my word on that.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do. Are you gonna question your own Pa about somethin’ like that?”

“No, Pa,” Matthew said. “I just wanted to make sure.”

“Well, I’m sure.” He paused and mulled over some final message to give to his son. It had to be something heartfelt, yet useful. None of this I love you bullshit. That was for mothers. No, it needed to be something manly. Something his Pappy would say to him. Of course, his Pappy had died out on the land, shot in the head by a bounty hunter who claimed he owed money to someone back east. Pa knew his Pappy had never been back east, not since the War.

“Son, you know Jackson isn’t going to defend this house,” Pa said at last. “I love the boy, I do, but he’s too damn nice. Too damn kindhearted. That shit don’t get you nowhere in this world. So what I need you to do is to protect this family from anyone who tries to harm it, ya hear? No matter if it’s a man who walks through our door or Jackson hisself, you take that six-shooter on your belt and you put a bullet in that person ‘till he’s good and dead, you understand?”

“Pa, Jackson’s blood,” Matthew said.

Pa could sense the resolve – which had been so passionate and present that morning – leaving the boy. He shook his head and maintained a stern countenance.

“Yeah, he’s blood,” Pa said. “But even blood can put you in danger. Would you protect Jackson if he put a damn knife in your back?”

“No, Pa.”

“That’s right, you wouldn’t. So if Jackson tries to let someone come into our home, eat our food, live on our land all without puttin’ so much as a finger up to help with the crops and the housework, then he’s puttin’ a knife in your back, ya hear?”

“I understand, Pa.”

“Good. Now get outta here, I wanna sleep.”

Matthew stood where he was a few seconds longer, then turned and exited the room. Once he heard the satisfying click of the latch, he closed his eyes.

To his surprise, sleep came rushing to meet him like an old friend.

Next Chapter: Luis