A lot of things can change within a few years, and the Marston family was well aware of that. It was due to John, of course, that preached to his family to be wary of the future. More so Jack than Abigail, however, in his attempts to become a much more stellar father. Abigail was experienced, and was well aware of how the world works. She was a hardened and tough woman, who struggled in her attempts to become more lady-like. Style of dress wasn't a problem, but most other things were. She was never a good cook, of course, so she was grateful that the government gifted her a cooking class. It didn't help as much as she thought, but she did improve, although still not exceptional at cooking, but still serviceable. Abigail would never admit it, but she took a great displeasure in being a conventional housewife. Knitting was okay, since she found harmony in that, but that remained the only exception for most of her life as a housewife.
After the incident, Abigail was, as many would expect, devastated. After seeing the brutal conclusion of it herself, feeling her husband's blood upon his lifeless body, his leather jacket soaking it up like cloth, and her eyes pouring out her sorrow while her son Jack watched helplessly behind, for he knew nothing could be done to save her from the horrifying sight. Jack stomached it much better than both of them expected. Abigail's grief and constant sobbing lasted a few days after John's burial. Jack could only comfort his mother to a certain point. He himself had developed depression, although he lacked the words to describe what the mental condition was. He'd feel a lack of desire to do things, and locked himself away within the delves of his room to write and read like he always did, refusing to eat at times for he didn't feel the need to. Jack reluctantly forced himself to eat, though, as he wished for his mother not to feel disrespected somewhat by not eating her food at all. Jack also hardly talked, which was not as uncommon, so his mother did not see anything wrong. Unbeknownst to Abigail, her son was plotting revenge against his father's murderer. However, in the law days of Abigail's grief, Abigail unknowingly thwarted Jack's attempts to prepare for revenge via practicing his shooting and draw time outdoors.
Two afternoons after the incident, Abigail found herself on their living room's couch, knitting out the basis of a scarf for her son in red yarn. She had seen John wear the red scarf every once in a while, but could not locate it when she wished to pass it down to Jack. She was a mess, whether she'd admit or not, and for better or worse. Her short hair was misplaced here and there, while her clothing showed evidence of little to no care whatsoever. Buttons were undone, and wrinkles were present in her sleeves and shirt that screamed for an iron to flatten them out. The ruins of sobbing was still present in her eyes. When she caught her son trying to head out from the corner of her eye, she swiftly stopped him a gentle voice, with emotional hurt still prevalent in her tone. "Jack? Where you think you're going?" She asked, without looking up from her knitting, and the semi-southern accent she had noticeable.
Jack's heart jumped, not realizing his mother had spotted him. He shifted nervously in his spot. He was donning his usual ranch outfit of a gray sweater vest over a blue dress shirt with working trousers, fitting neatly upon him, a subtle backdrop to the gun belt around his waist. "Just heading out for some air, Ma." Jack replied to his mother. He stood there waiting anxiously for her reaction.
Abigail barely reacted, actually, to Jack's surprised and bit of relief. She simply continued on with her knitting. "Not now, Jack." She said softly in her low tone. What she didn't realize, nor did Jack, was Abigail's steady road to becoming clingy as a result of John's death. She knew she was stalling, however, as Jack would try to go out another time as a result of her word choice. Letting Jack go out would let fears of losing him as well run rampant. She gathered herself with a sigh. One of them would have to go out eventually. Their food and other necessities would dwindle at some point. In the meantime, though, she'd have to coddle her son. Sobbing or breaking down in front of him would do little to help either of them right now. "Sit on down, Jack. Tell me of those stories of yours." Abigail, added stopping the awkward silence before it started.
"Alright, Ma." Replied Jack. He sat down beside his mother, on the opposite end of their beige couch. The material felt smooth and comfortable, despite the color being faded to a point from years of use and giving away to different families. It's age did not show through a creak when Jack sat down despite that. Jack had a smile upon his face now, pleased for the opportunity to comfort his mother, and talk about one of the amazing books he had read. "What kind of story should I tell?" He asked.
Abigail did her best to replicate the smile, for his sake. "Just whatever comes to mind and you find interesting, Jack. Don't bore your mother now." She replied. Her eyes never left her knitting, although anticipating Jack's story. It'd be nice to hear something from the outside world for once, as they both had been locked inside for some period of time now.
Jack chuckled. "I'll try not to, Ma." Jack replied before he briefly recollected one of his readings. "There was this one where a brave man went on a quest to save his family, but ended up dying in the process. His son took after him, and set out to avenge his death." Jack knew very well that this story could apply to their life. He had mixed expectations of his mother's reaction.
Abigail didn't seem to catch on as Jack expected. She wasn't as intelligent he was, but she was intelligent in the way she understood the Old West, in contrast to Jack's understanding of literature and storytelling. "Sounds like a man who had something worth fighting for." Abigail replied, giving Jack a smile. "Anymore stories out there?"
"What kind you want this time, Ma?"
"Horror. Don't scare me too much, now."
"Well... This man butchered a man he didn't take a liking to and he hide him under the floorboards. I thought that one was interesting." Jack replied. The wording of that story in particular was complicated, and he was happy he understood it enough to retell it.
"Wow! Did he get caught?" Abigail raised her eyebrows. She was intrigued by this story.
"He did, but not in the way you think." Jack gave a smile, wagging his finger at his mother to show this was a twist in the story. His mother was enthralled for a few moments, looking over to him with a smile, the knitting kit set down in her lap. "He started hallucinating, started to think the man's heart was beating under the floorboards. When the lawmen came to question him, he confessed because the sound drove him insane."
Abigail looked enthralled despite the retelling of the tale being so short. "I like that one too! Is that one famous?"
Jack gave a bit of a shrug, neutral to whether he should give a nod or shake of his head. "Well, it's pretty well-known by people who like to read a lot these days, but one day it'll probably be taught in classrooms, because it's so good!" He said with enthusiasm. He was clearly a fan of the original writer's work.
Abigail opened her mouth to respond, but was abruptly stopped by her ears catching the sound of hooves galloping against the sand and dirt trail of their ranch. "Jack! Get to your room and lock the door!" She shouted in a panic, dropping her knitting set and sprinting over to her bedroom. Jack reluctantly did so, his mother's sudden yelling giving a sense of intimidation his way. Abigail hurried into the bedroom and searched forth, through the dresser drawers. The top drawer had a purple cloth wrapped in the corner, in the shape of a revolver. She unsheathed the cloth from the revolver that her husband valued so much, and clicked the barrel out, checking if it was loaded. She spun it a few times, looking at the bullets. Six rounds in the chamber were filled. Abigail then hurried out, exiting the front door and pointing the gun out at the man who stood there by his horse. To Abigail's surprise, the man didn't seem to mean harm, and casually laughed when the gun was pointed on him.
The man was elderly, but still seemed to have some good vibe and energy left in him upon his later years. He had a scruffy grayed mustache, and an outfit normal of an outlaw from the last century. He tipped his hat to Abigail and then walked over casually, onto the porch, the footsteps of his boots sounding against the plain wood. Abigail's gun was shivering, shaking in nervousness. It's not that Abigail was afraid to pull the trigger, she was being cautious about not pulling it accidentally. She got a sudden feeling that this man was indeed of good intentions. "Landon Ricketts, madame." The man greeted in his older, rough voice, worn out from years of experiences across the Old West. He held out his hand to her with a smile upon his face.
Abigail nearly dropped the gun. She set it down, making it face the wood of the porch. She took Landon's hand in hers, shaking it briefly. "Mister Landon Ricketts! My, my… the world-famous gunslinger himself is right here in the flesh. Where you passing through, sir? It'd do my pleasure to get you a hot meal or a place to rest your head, sir." Abigail was nervous around this legend, offering her womanly services, although not good for a housewife, once their hands let go of one another.
Landon shook his head. "Thank you, but, I don't believe I'll be staying long, mam. Your husband John was a good man." He said with a nod, stepping back down the first step of the porch staircase, his left leg at an angle on the porch, with the other on the stair, as he leaned against the railing. The wood creaked while he did so. "Just wanted to come bring my condolences." Landon gave a nod as he uttered the words.
Behind Abigail, Jack poked his head out the doorway, looking between his mother and Landon nervously. Abigail was smiling profusely, as anyone of the time would once they knew they were in the presence of a legend. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Jack going against her orders. She motioned for Jack to come out. "It's okay, Jack." She let her smile reassure him. "This is Landon Ricketts. I'm sure you've read of him before." She then looked back at the man himself.
Jack stepped outside in awe, his eyebrows raised. "Landon Ricketts? Himself?" He could be heard saying nervously, stepping outside. He seemed to be patting down any folds of his clothing in an attempt to look better for this living legend. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Ricketts, sir." He added, his anxiousness still obvious.
Landon stepped up the porch and held his hand out. After a hesitation from Jack, they firmly, shook hands. Jack hadn't expected the firm handshake at first, but returned the handshake. Landon chuckled at the boy's nervousness. "You look just like your father, Jack." He said with a grin. "Misses Marsten should let you do some work with me sometime. I'll finish what your father was teaching you." Landon said with another chuckle, patting Jack's shoulder.
Abigail's eyes lit up with an idea. "Oh yes, if it wouldn't be too much trouble." The thought of Jack getting out of the house and being trained in the arts of the Old West by the best teacher out there was an enticing thought. It'd be good for her son to get out for once. She was sure that if John was still around, he'd be teaching Jack about life more often that he used to.
Jack was hesitant about the idea. Normal teenagers would've said yes right away. His depression prevented him, strangling his thought processes like a murderer in Victorian London. "Would I have to be out for long?" He asked.
Landon shrugged. "How about we go for a ride out to Manzanita Post? Buy some goods for your mother here." He motioned with his head towards the horse waiting nearby. "Come on now. Your father would've done the same." Landon patted Jack's shoulder, then tipped his hat in Abigail's direction. "We won't be long, Misses Marsten."
Abigail nodded, grinning herself in anticipation of her son getting taught by a legend in Ricketts. Another thought hit her head, however, as she waved goodbye to both her son and Landon. If Ricketts, a living legend himself, had word of John's death, perhaps his other friends might pay their condolences. For now, however, she had to focus on the present. She looked over the porch, the revolver still in her hand. She waited until the sound of hooves was out of range before she sat down in the old wooden rocking chair that Uncle used to use. She rested the gun in her lap, running her hands over the cold silver metal of the Cattleman Revolver that John had trusted so much. It was the one she'd found beside his body. Although she would've loved to bury it with her husband, she desired to pass it down to Jack one day. For now, Jack holstered a LeMat Revolver that John had brought up from his travels in Mexico. Escalara was the name of the city he had used when speaking of where he had acquired it. The steel of the gun was inspiring, in a way. How many men had her husband killed with this gun? How satisfying would it be for the men who killed him to receive a bullet from this very weapon?
Abigail shook off thoughts of vengeance. She moved on to the barn, holding the gun low as she walked over, twirling it a bit on her finger, careful not to pull the trigger. What was she to do? A widowed mother with a gun in her hand. That was what Abigail had been reduced to in this day and age, of the dying Old West. What was she to do? The only woman she could recall that did the things a man was capable of was Misses Bonnie MacFarlane, whom of which she only met once. Perhaps she could visit her. No, no need to bother her. If she wanted to assist, she would. She'd hear word eventually. That bit of jealousness still existed, although she knew her husband was faithful. It bothered her that she was not the one who saved her true love from death. What was she to do? That's the question that arose within the core of her brain, rattling like a venomous snake on the prairie fields, just waiting to strike at her ankles and bring her to her knees.
What she planned to do first, however, was fire the steel killing machine that laid within her hand. She set it down a small wooden crate within the barn, taking a second to admire the brown wood beams that held the loft up, as well as the dirt floor that their sole horse duo scratched their hooves against every now and then while they loitered within the stalls they called home. Abigail tended to the two, with hay and water that lay nearby, the hay in an organized stack while the water was rested in a barrel. Struggling somewhat with the barrel, she soon made sure they both were fed and filled to their belly. Abigail spent less time tending to the horse on the right stall, however, recognizing it as the horse that carried both she and Jack out into the fields while John made the biggest sacrifice of his life. That's the last time she talked to him, the last time their lips met in affection. She had already teared up at that point when she saw the look in John's face, despite the smirk he gave. He knew very well what he was doing, she assumed. Or maybe he was taking in one last glance of his family with endearment. "Dammit, John. Always were a man of mystery." Abigail found herself saying aloud, the horses only neighing in confusion.
Abigail picked up the gun once again and exited the barn, out the back entrance. She twirled it within her finger, holding it up towards the tree in the distance. She held it firm, as John had always did, squinting just so she was able to get a good view of the iron sights with one eye. Bang! She let a few shots ring out, the horses within the barn letting their startlement be heard, while the crows in the distance flew off at the sound of it. Abigail quickly put the gun down, feeling her heart beat fast within her chest. She had fired rounds from a gun before, both rifles and revolvers alike, but it had been much too long. Gathering herself, she took a deep breath and focused her eyes on the tree. On the branch, a robin sat casually, perched on the branch as it chirped gently. The bird likely thought the gunshot was in another location, as it had not been there on the tree before. Abigail slowly lifted her revolver again, ready this time around for a real target. If she got through this without a heartache or heart attack, of course, she'd be able to go hunting soon enough. She was skilled enough with skinning to put up with the daunting task. She focused, pulling a breath into her mouth and squinting. John would do this when he was ever in a duel (a scenario that she hated as his lover, of course.) or trying to hit hard targets. Her heart raced, butterflies running through her veins with adrenaline. She fired in what felt like split-seconds. The bird in the distance screeched, falling down from the tree face down.
Abigail pumped her fist in excitement, proud of herself. She pointed the gun down once again, letting the adrenaline rush through her head and veins once again, pleased with herself. Not bothering to see the carcass of the bird she killed, Abigail turned and began to stroll back to her home with newfound confidence. The fire was ignited once again, her very soul pumping with anxiousness, both for her chance to support her ranch, along with other motives…
Revenge.