"My fate is myself alone,

and I'm headed there fast.

With darkness approaching,

it's not my heart that wants to go.

.

So excuse me, darling,

while my heart explodes.

I've spent my whole life paving

this disaster road."

.

– Needtobreathe, "Disaster Road"

.

It took Arthur a little longer to track down Leroy. He imagined he'd been more or less the brains of the brothers' operation, though it wasn't saying much.

As he camped out under the stars on the night he felt he was closing in, he dwelt heavily on both Isaac and Eliza. He jotted something down in his journal and tore the page out, holding it above the fire:

When I brushed your hair away from your eyes, and your tears and dreams came away in my hand like little glass pearls

When I saw your smile and twisted it into a frown, never once looking back as I walked away, breaking both our hearts

When I knew I was no good for you, and I made myself no good for you with each and every single thing I did or didn't do

He dropped it and watched the flames crumple and burn it to ashes.

It was about dusk the next evening when he finally found Cartwright in an old, secluded trapper town at the northernmost foot of the Grizzlies. He'd studied his wanted poster enough to be almost certain it was him, even from his profile. Leroy was about to take some poor girl he was jamming up against the wall and keeping from screaming in a dark alley.

"Hey, beat it. Scram, buster," Cartwright said over the girl's muffled screams when he heard footsteps crunch in the dirt behind him. "I'm sure you can tell a private affair when you see one. Can't you see I'm gettin' mine?"

Arthur rested his revolver over Cartwright's shoulder, cocking it as he pressed the barrel into his ear. "You Leroy Cartwright?"

Cartwright groaned and held up his hands. "What's it to ya?"

The woman sucked in a breath as he removed his hand from her mouth.

Arthur addressed her but never took his eyes off Cartwright. "Ma'am, I think it'd be best if you leave now. We got some business to sort, he and I."

"Thank you," she managed with a breathy cry and scurried off.

With his hands up, Cartwright slowly turned. "I ain't never seen you before. What business we got?"

"The fatal kind." Arthur kept his pistol aimed over Cartwright's chest as he took a few steps back. "Deer Head Ranch."

Cartwright looked down, and a smile slowly crept up on his face. He started chuckling. "Fatal. I see. In more ways than one, you mean. You oughtta be on stage, tellin' funnies for a livin'." He looked up at him. "How'd you find me?"

"Your brother pointed me in the right direction. Before I sliced him."

"Jeb? You sliced him?" he smiled as he raised his eyebrows.

"After I dragged him."

He wheezed a laugh. "Well good for you. They oughta give you a medal. I'd shake your hand if you didn't have a gun on me. One less chicken shit in the world to worry about."

"Yeah, and we're about to be down another." Arthur stared at him. "He didn't seem to be takin' it too well, what you two did back there."

"He always was weak," he spat. "Couldn't take the reality of livin' in this cold, cold world. Me? I embraced it. Made me stronger. But him…well, there just ain't no helpin' some people. And he was annoyin' as hell. Came outta our mama's rat bag that way. Really, you done us all a favor."

"He's done away with; now I'm on to you. Why?" Arthur growled, pointing his barrel up over his nose. "Why'd you do it? They never did nothin' to you. You coulda left 'em be."

He scrunched his nose and squinted at him. "Why? There ain't no why." He gave a long sigh. "Whaddya want me to say, partner? You want me to tell you how she scrambled to get to him? How she weren't faster than my bullet? How he never even cried out? Or about the look on her face when she saw what I'd done, what her scream sounded like before I grabbed her by the hair and made her look again, before I laid her out and wasted her? I'm a bad man, I got no problem sayin' it."

"She— He—" Arthur cocked his chin to the side and shook his head, his jaw tight. "He was just a kid."

"Yeah, and—" Cartwright stopped short and peered at Arthur, pointing at him. "Wait, wait. You ain't tryin' to tell me he was your son?"

Arthur didn't say a word but glared at him.

"Oh, this is too good!" Cartwright burst out into laughter. "Well, she weren't your woman, that's for goddamn sure! I didn't see no ring on that dainty little finger! Mm! I bet she gave you good lovin', I bet she did," he nodded as he grabbed his belt. "Can't blame you. Hell, I would've dipped my spoon into that sweet little honey pot a time or two, taken my share." He lifted his chin to the side and shook his head in remorse. "Turned out we didn't have the time to spare that day. Cryin' shame." He lifted a brow and eyed Arthur. "Sorry to tell ya," he hissed. "Your little insurance policy didn't pan out. She couldn't get to that gun you left for her in time." He spoke with a tilt of his head and a sigh, "It was in workin' order though." He looked up at him. "When she made a move for it and I realized where it was, I turned around and shot her with it, nice and neat." An ugly sneer spread across his face. "Played that hand wrong; shouldn'a left, partner."

In an instant Arthur was there again, on the first night of the last time he'd visited them, making love to Eliza.

.

Her petal-soft skin trembled beneath his hands, and she whispered as he kissed her neck:

"Be kind to me, Arthur."

.

He hadn't heard it until now. And there it was before his eyes: he saw what he couldn't see when he'd had her in his hands—the soul that had had everything stripped from her and went on being selfless—he saw at the same time both how strong a woman she'd been and how fragile he had made her.

In the end, she'd proven too fragile for a bullet.

He cringed as her death flashed at him in segments. He saw her arm fall to the ground, her blood pooling and seeping out of her. His mind's eye wouldn't let him venture up toward her head.

And little Isaaac.

He erupted at the thought. "You shot him! A six-year-old kid!"

Cartwright smiled. "And it were easy too. Some people die young. What makes it cruel is they somehow still lived a whole lot of life in that time. But they die young nonetheless."

Arthur was pulled by the memory of the very last time he'd seen Isaac.

.

"Please don't go, Arthur! Please!" Isaac cried, throwing himself forward after Arthur as his mother tried to hold him back.

"Arthur has to go now, baby. It'll be okay," Eliza said, trying her best to calm him.

Arthur went to him and kneeled down in front of him.

Isaac sniffed. "Was it me? Was it somethin' I did, Arthur? D' I do somethin' wrong?" he said through big tears, his bottom lip quivering.

"What? No, no. God, no. Why on earth would you think somethin' like that? You're my—" A lump rose in Arthur's throat. He looked into his son's eyes and reminded himself what he and Eliza had decided long ago: that it would be so much harder for Isaac to part with him, to go without him if he knew he was his father. It seemed it didn't make much difference for the poor kid. The older he grew, the harder it seemed to get. This was the worst goodbye so far. He sighed. "Listen, I'll be back. I will. Sooner than last time, I promise." He smiled. "I'll have more buried treasure stories to tell." He put his big hand on his shoulder. "I'll tell your pa you said hello."

Isaac gasped. "You know my pa?"

"Yeah," Arthur chuckled. "I know him pretty well."

"You never told me! Will you tell him about me? Tell him to be good, even though it's hard sometimes. Will you tell him to come to me? Tell him I love him, even though I never met him yet."

Arthur frowned and struggled to chuckle as he said, "Might have to get you to write all that down for me."

"Let me go get a pencil and paper," Isaac said, moving for the house.

"No, no," Arthur held him back. "No need. I'll tell him." He smirked. "You're a good kid, don't you forget. You're a good boy." He cleared his throat as he looked into Isaac's eyes. "You know…I know somethin' about your pa that maybe you don't know."

Isaac looked up at him, his eyes big, hungry for his next words.

"Your pa loves you, Isaac." Arthur's voice grew husky and quiet. "Very much." He ran a hand across Isaac's temple, brushing the goldenrod hair back, and kissed his forehead.

Eliza covered her mouth tightly and hiccupped her sobs back, trying to keep quiet as her tears overflowed.

At Arthur's words Isaac's eyes filled, and he wrapped his arms around his neck. Arthur held him close, allowing himself to feel the gift of love from a son who didn't know him—who couldn't know him—and whom he didn't know. For that moment at least, he found it was all the love he'd ever needed.

Isaac pulled back and looked into his eyes. "Why do you have to go?"

His heart sank as he tried to piece together an answer he couldn't find. "Well, I, uh…" he whispered and cleared his throat, "I gotta give your pa that message. 'Member?"

"And then you'll come right back?"

He nodded. "I'll do my best."

.

Arthur stared at nothing. Why did you have to go? Of the few loves he'd known in his life, the love of that boy had been most important. And still he'd chosen to walk away. For what?

He looked down at his hands. He'd had the world when he'd had them. And he'd only truly learned it after they'd been ripped away.

He was a soul soaked in darkness, turned inward and mangled. He detested himself as much as he detested the man before him. He saw them as the same.

He caught a glimpse of Cartwright reaching for his gun. For a moment time seemed to slow as Arthur took aim and shot the gun out of his hand, shot his kneecaps, and each of his feet.

"Agh!" Cartwright exclaimed, gripping his hand and bending over.

Arthur walked over and pushed him to the ground. "Anything you can hold onto can be taken away from you. You taught me that, you son of a bitch."

Little Isaac. Arthur's mind wouldn't let him see anything about Isaac's murder, for his own sake. He would surely go mad. But to know was enough. It was enough for this moment, and for a lifetime.

He crouched down on top of him, spun his pistol around, and hammered him hard once with the butt, the spatter spraying up on his face. He immediately holstered it. He wanted to feel this man's blood in his palms and between his fingers.

He balled his fists and delivered blow after blow after blow until the man's face became mush. The anger and hatred overflowed into his eyes, and his face became red as he screamed and finally brought his rifle out, blowing away what was left of him.

He hung his head. Never again would he pursue vengeance.

He leaned back on his calves, closed his eyes, and caught his breath. His child and the mother of his child. His mind drifted to the image of the two of them lying side by side beneath the dirt, she holding their son close to her chest, made to be his only parent—permanently.

Never again would their names pass through his lips. He wouldn't even write about them from this point on. He had to stop resurrecting them, or he wouldn't be able to function. He couldn't keep them from haunting his dreams, but he'd keep all thoughts of them at bay. He'd fight to make them mere memories, not real people. He'd rid himself of this wound if he had to cut it out.

He rose, and felt nothing.

The moon could not cast a shadow as dark as what was now covering his heart. He was now a man with nothing to lose, nothing tied or attached to him in any way. The heady mixture of recklessness and freedom that he knew lay in his very next step was more than he could measure.

And the world was before him.