"Your sorrow—

no, it can't save you.

It won't answer

for what you've done."

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- Needtobreathe, "Let Us Love"

.

"There's a window in this cage I'm in,

I can see what kind of man I've been."

.

- Needtobreathe, "Cages"

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Return to the Present

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Arthur felt the powdery earth crumble beneath his palms as he ferociously emptied the contents of his stomach onto the ground.

Her face had been so young and bright. And though loss and hardship had already touched her life, she'd still had the ability to smile then—really smile—and mean it.

It was a time when he'd still had the chance to choose to be someone better.

Eliza… Just a kid. She'd never asked for this, to get caught up in an outlaw's world. Only had been caught up in the moment like any other teenager. And he'd taken her by the hand and led her there.

But when life presented her with a child, she didn't back down. She'd loved and cared for their son with all that she'd had in her, to the last. And after everything Arthur'd done and said—and hadn't done nor said when he should have—she still loved him, whether she chose to or not, whether against her better judgment or not. That kind of love…he didn't have a context for it in his world. Apparently the world as it was didn't have a place for it either.

She'd never told him what she'd been doing, never told him she'd been giving money to help the poor. Probably because he would've bitten her head off. Even with the meager cash she'd had, she'd set some aside and given it away. Even picked up extra jobs to make sure she could both take care of Isaac and give it away. And in that way, she'd ensured that his money had ended up going to those in need. Money he'd shot and bashed people's heads in for. Money soaked in blood. She'd known where it had come from. So she'd put it in a pot with her own. After all that breath spent tormenting her with reminders that she didn't really know him because he wouldn't let her, only now did he realize he'd never taken the time to know her. She gave and gave of herself until there was nothing left. It only spoke for the kind of woman she'd been.

But he was nothing like Eliza. He harbored venomous anger. He didn't think he could find the compassion and loving-kindness in the recesses of his heart that she'd found. He didn't think the world deserved someone like Eliza.

Eliza. "An angel in human form…" Why he couldn't have spared a soft, kind word for her or shown her an ounce of affection from a place of real love, he'd never know. Only knew he was a broken person; and maybe she was too, but at least she'd tried—tried to love, and to hold on to what she'd had. As unassuming as she was, her love was quiet and fierce. She'd tried to show him. To show him what it means to love. And there had been glimpses in his time with her that he'd started to believe he wasn't quite what Dutch wanted him to be, what he made him out to be. But it was all too late now.

He'd always remember her as beckoning him gently to lay his burdens down and come and lay by her side. Though he never did release his burdens.

He shut his eyes and gripped his belly as his stomach revolted and another bout of sickness sprang up into his throat. He loved her more now than he ever had when she was alive, and he hated himself for that simple fact. It was fate's sick twist of the knife in his gut. But it wasn't just the sharp irony of it, and it wasn't just the anger and loss; it was his new love for her—the sheer force of it hitting him square in the chest—that was making him sick.

Once the waves of sickness subsided, he sat back against the wall and rested his arm on his knee, his belly sore and emptied of everything.

This store owner had known his son better than he had. The shame flooded him like ink in water.

Ten dollars. Ten dollars was all they'd had of worth in the house when the reaper came knocking. He hadn't provided for them better than that.

He'd been the villain in their story. All he'd ever done only ever hurt them. Slept with her and got her pregnant. Bought them the ranch. Left them. Came back.

If he hadn't slept with her, she wouldn't have been pregnant and alone, and had to raise their child alone. If he'd never met her, she wouldn't have been forced to pine after a man she could never have. If he hadn't left so often, he wouldn't have made his own son so solemn he'd stolen his voice away from him. And if he hadn't bought them the farm—or at least if he had stayed with them—they wouldn't have been murdered in cold blood.

He had entered a life and mangled it until it was snuffed out completely.

Was it all he knew how to do?

He had killed enough people. Maybe this was his just reward. Maybe he never should've expected to be able to cultivate and hide away for himself what he regularly deprived others of.

He had loads of regrets. It seemed it was all he had left—regrets piled high on top of each other. He'd give anything to go back, to make a different choice. But it seemed to be his personal curse: to only know what was best long after it was far too late.

After all that time and energy spent worrying about leading someone with a vendetta against him back to the ranch, it happened that some folk who had nothing to do with him took their lives on a whim one sunny afternoon because they had nothing better to do. That was the kind of cold, heartless world this was.

He could've protected them—would've protected them—if he'd just been there. He could've chosen to stay with them, as a real man should, and married her and been a husband and father. Made their house a home. God knew they'd deserved it. And maybe…maybe he had too. He'd been running for so very long, it felt like a lifetime. He was tired of being alone. And they'd wanted him. After everything he'd done, they'd actually wanted him. But his spiteful, cruel heart had pushed them away. Because he knew he didn't deserve them. He hadn't gone looking for it—love had just happened to him; and still he couldn't bring himself to accept it. He was his own ruin. None of that mattered now.

At least he could've been there when it mattered most. But he wasn't. And they'd paid with their lives.

He sat up. He would find them. He swore on his own life, he would find the men who did this and make them pay hell's highest price.

Fuming, he got up and went back into the mercantile.

"You," he said to the man he'd spoken with earlier as he came up to the counter. "You have any idea who did this to Eliza and Isaac?"

The man's eyes went wide, and he began to stutter. "W-well…"

"Any idea at all?"

"Well, they haven't arrested anybody for it; but if you ask me, I think it was the Cartwright brothers."

"Cartwright?"

He nodded, pointing to a wall replete with newspaper clippings and wanted signs with sketches. "Nastiest of the nasty. They were in the county area raisin' Cain around the same time, but they're still at large. Haven't been caught for anything they've done yet. Slick sons of bitches."

"Do you have any idea where they are now?"

"That I couldn't tell you, son. I only keep up on the news they give me in the paper, not anything further. You might try the saloon; there's always someone knows somethin' dirty on somebody and willing to talk for the right price. Might find yourself the first link in a chain that'll lead you to 'em."

"Thank ya, sir. Been real helpful."

"Hey, son," he said as Arthur turned to leave. "You're up in here askin' about recent murders and where you can find the killers. I know you ain't no law man. But rest assured, I ain't plannin' on bringin' up this conversation again." He peered at him. "You find those Cartwright boys, you send 'em straight to hell, where they belong," he nodded. "Give 'em my regards."