Today is a slow day, and like many days I often find myself lost in things that happened before. I recalled a time when I was younger. I was sixteen years old, nearly seventeen, and less of a child than I'd been only a month earlier.
It hadn't been long after my Pa died, and I saw a man approaching the ranch. He wore a long duster coat and his cowboy hat hid his face. I wasn't quite sure what to make of him, but I didn't trust him. I didn't trust any strangers then.
He approached the house and glanced around outside. That's when I snuck up behind him and pressed the end of my rifle to his head.
"What do you want?" I asked him. He didn't tense up, or even seem all that concerned. He turned towards me and I kept the gun pointed at his face.
"If you think you could kill me with such a poor grip on his gun," In a flash, he grabbed it out of my hands and hit me with it. I fell over, clutching the side of my head. "You're sorely mistaken." The man continued to glance around. He was old, with long grey hair and a long grey mustache to match.
"What are you doing here?" I asked again, trying to calm the throbbing above my ear.
"I came to see if the rumors were true." He replied. "And I guess they are. John Marston is dead. I'm assuming you're his son? He mentioned you once or twice." I nodded and he offered me a hand to help me up. I shoved it away and stood on my own.
"You're almost as sloppy with a gun as your father was… At least, before he met me." He grinned.
"If you're here to insult me and my dead father, you may as well leave now." I pushed past him and made to go into the house, but he stopped me.
"I'm not here to be rude. I came to offer my condolences."
"Condolences don't help me much." I frowned. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."
"Don't you have ranch hands for that?" He crossed his arms and looked around.
"No." I tried to keep my shoulders from slumping. "It's just me now."
"Where's your mother?" He asked. As if she'd heard, her loud coughing could be heard from outside of the house.
"She's having a tough time." I told him. "She doesn't need to be burdened with ranch work." The man shook his head and sighed.
"Look, kid. You seem to be in a really tough situation right now." He said. "I can help you-"
"I don't need your help." I interrupted. "I don't need anyone's help. I'll do what I have to do to keep food on the table and to help my mother. That's all I need."
"You're being too proud, kid." His lips tightened. "It's gonna get you in a lot of trouble."
"Fuck you." At that, he laughed. He shook his head and looked around the ranch one last time.
"Okay, kid. I get it." He put his hands up. "I wish you the best of luck in whatever it is you're trying to do. Sometimes, we just need to figure things out by ourselves. I get that." He patted me on the shoulder and I pulled away. "You're a lot like your father." And at that, he walked away.
It was only later that I figured out who he was, and I felt the fool for a while. He died even before my mother did. After I heard about that, I figured it was good that I never accepted his help, or else he would've died on me too. Just like everyone else.