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The leaves rustled in the autumn air, the only sound to be heard for miles. Quietly, carefully, two men approached a solitary cabin on the cliffside. A single repeater was slung over each of their backs, handguns holstered at their sides. A sturdy canvas bag was tucked away in a satchel, ready to hold the contents of their haul.
John, the youngest of the two, led the way. He had chosen to run point on the mission, proud at having collected his first lead earlier that week. He had been promised a small, unguarded cabin with a safe full of expensive heirlooms. It had sounded too good to pass up, and east enough that the now 16-year-old could safely lead the way.
They had waited until shortly after sunset before making their way through the surrounding forest and up the mountain, careful to mask the light of their single, dim lantern in the trees. When they arrived at the cabin, it was shortly past midnight. Snuffing out their lantern, they crept closer to the home.
It was small, secluded. The darkness masked any signs of disrepair, but it was evident that this was not the house of a rich family. The light of a dying fire shining through the windows, but otherwise no sign of life could be seen. Opposite the house, two men crouched in the trees, shoulder to shoulder.
“You shoa this is the place?” asked Arthur, the older of the two, taking off his hat to run his hand through his light brown hair. He was confused, the house sure as hell did not look like it would holding stacks of cash. In fact, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he decided that it rather looked as if the owner hadn’t seen a dollar bill in years.
“‘Course! Girl down at the saloon told me so,” John spat at his companion, his voice low. “Just because this is my first plan, doesn’t me I don’t know what I’m doin’, Arthur.”
“Well how am I supposed to know, dumbass?” hissed Arthur. He knew John was smart enough, and wouldn’t get them into a sticky situation intentionally, but the kid had a habit of jumping the gun when he got excited about things. “You shoa have fucked shit up before.”
“If you’re talking about-”
“You’re damn right that’s what I’m talking about, John,” Arthur cut him off with a smack to the back of the head. Their first job together a few years back flashed before his eyes. Dutch and Hosea had been there, providing a distraction as he and John were to sneak into the house and rob them blind. John had been far too excited and ended up knocking over a stack of crates, which led to them running away amongst a rain of gunfire. He still had the scar as a reminder of the lovely memory. “Don’t think I’d forget a bullet in my ass.”
“I said I wassorry,” his voice was slightly whinier than he had anticipated. “But I’m older now, I’ve got this.”
“You’re 16. You don’t got shit. Now shut up before someone hears us,” Arthur’s scolding was enough for John. He was 16, practically an adult, and sure as hell didn’t need to be told what to do by Arthur Morgan, of all people.
Despite this, he stopped talking. On that front, at least, Arthur was right. If they kept on like this, the owners of the house would surely notice them.
They continued watching for a few minutes longer. It was well past midnight, and no sign of movement had been seen for at least a half an hour. They should be safe.
Reassured by the stillness of the night, John gave Arthur a nod, and the two men quietly crept toward the decrepit cabin.
The light from the fireplace was slowly dying down, only embers remaining by the time they reached the window. Whoever lived there had to be asleep by now. They listened for a moment for any further signs of movement.
Nothing.
Satisfied, John slowly peeked head over the window ledge to look inside.
And then it began.
The sound of a sad, lonely violin echoed through the surrounding forest, serenading the trees with its somber tune.
John nearly jumped out of his as the man playing looked him directly in the eye.
“Shit,” John ducked again beneath the window and pressed his back against the wall. “Shit, shit, shit, shit.” The violin continued its sad chorus in the background.
“The hell did you do?” came Arthur’s angry hiss from beside him.
John looked at his companion and then gestured to the window above them. “Bastard saw me.”
Arthur began to massage the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Goddamnit, John,” he groaned. This time, John agreed. He deserved whatever scolding he was about to get. This was his chance to finally plan something, to finally bring in a big score, and he had gone and fucked it up already.
“Don’t just stay out in the cold now, you two,” if the violin had made John jump earlier, it was nothing compared to the feeling he had upon hearing the man’s voice. Until that point, he could have at least pretended the man hadn’t seen them. Until that point, they could have walked away without risk to life or limb. Still penniless, but alive at the very least.
Logically, they should have run. They should have high-tailed it into the trees and never come back to this cabin again. But apparently Arthur was right - he was a goddamn idiot.
Something drew John into the cabin, whether it was the sad melody of the violin, or the strange loneliness in the man’s voice, he would never know. But either way, he soon found himself opening the wooden door as Arthur looked at him in shock.
“What the hell do you think you’re doin’?” he started, his voice still an angry whisper. “John? John!”
Arthur sprang up to grab his younger companion by the collar and drag him away, but immediately stilled as he caught a glimpse of the house. The man sat in a single chair by the fireplace, a dusty old violin held gently under his chin. Although the fire was barely illuminating the small room, he could make a wall lined with momentos: photographs, a pair of ox horns, a horseshoe, bottles. Nothing of monetary value.
Regardless, Arthur found himself following John into the room.
The creek of the floorboards and groan of the closing door momentarily drowned out the notes of the violin as they made their way toward a second rickety chair and small stool next to the fireplace. Without a word, they sat, listening.
“My son’s used to sit there, just like you are now,” the man mused as he drew the bow through one final chord. “Good boys, they were,” he continued, setting the violin by his side. “Lost ‘em both a few years back. Railway accident. And war.”
With an exhausted groan, the man stood from his seat and looked from John to Arthur. “Whisky?” His entire body shook as he stood, but not from the cold.
To say the two men were confused would be putting it lightly. They were here to rob the man, he had to know that. If he hadn’t known it before they came in, he had to have seen the guns strapped to their backs and come to that conclusion already. And yet… Here he was, despite very obvious signs of danger, offering his two burglars a whisky.
“Shoa…” Arthur finally murmured, hesitantly. “Thanks…” He remained suspicious as the man poured three glasses - thankfully from the same bottle - and took his when it was handed to him.
Neither John nor Arthur drank a sip until their unintentional companion had also done so. He lifted the worn glass to his lips with shaking hands, the ends of his mustache brushing the rim. Satisfied, both the men took small sips of their whisky in turn, keeping their eyes on the man.
“Now,” he said, clearing his throat. “I ain’t stupid enough to think you ain’t here to rob me.” Another cough came as he stood again, reaching out to the fireplace mantle for support. Unsteadily, he reached up to set his glass on the wooden surface. “And I tell you what, everything I have is in a lockbox under the bed.”
Without moving their heads, John and Arthur eyed each other in shock. This man, their target, was just giving over his belongings to them? He was perfectly fine with being robbed?
“Now, you two can take it all, I don’t mind.... Just need you to do one thing for me,” he continued before pouring himself another round of whisky.
“‘N’...” Arthur found his voice to be strangely high and hoarse when he first spoke, as if he hadn’t used it in years. He cleared his throat and started again. “‘N’ what would that be?”
The man sighed, his breath shaky. “I…” he bit his lip and stared into the amber liquid in his glass. “I been alone up here for so long. M’ wife died years ago. Sons came around as much as they could after that, but now they’re gone too.” He paused for a moment and raised his glass to his lips. “‘M an old man, boys. ‘N’ I don’t want to die alone.”
John nearly choked on the whisky he had just sipped. “Die alone?”
The man let out a breathy, despondent chuckle. “You didn’t know when you came up here? Didn’t realise you was sent to the house of a dyin’ man?”
“We-” John started, but found himself unable to continue.
“Shouldn’t be long. Tonight if ‘m lucky. Tomorrow if ‘m not,” he explained. His eyes were now trained on the photos on the wall. Now that they were inside and their eyes had adjusted to the dim light, they could make out some of the aged images.
A man and a woman, dressed for a wedding. A family with two small boys. A dog. Two children on a horse. A man in military uniform.
His family. His life. This was all he had left of them.
He was completely alone.
And he didn’t want to die that way.
After a moment of solemn quiet, he spoke again, “Doctor said it’s consumption. ‘N’ I outran the reaper long enough... can feel him closing in on me.”
Arthur opened his mouth to speak, but found his voice was gone.
This man, this poor man, had lost everyone. His wife, his children. They were all gone, and no one was here to hold his hand until he joined them. He had spent so long on his own, and would have likely died that way if the two of them hadn’t showed up.
John looked at Arthur for a moment, considering the options. They both knew what it was like to be abandoned. Knew what this kind of loneliness felt like; the deep, dark yearning for someone, anyone, to show some sign that they cared. To show that you mattered . They couldn’t just leave this man to die on his own.
“Alright, we can stay.”
The night passed by slowly, and in quiet conversation. Aside from their voices, only the sounds of the rustling leaves could be heard through the night. Eventually, the fire burned to cinders and the man closed his eyes. John and Arthur sat together by the fire, drinking their host’s whisky and listening to his weakened, rattling breaths without a word.
Finally, as the sun crested the horizon, painting the sky shades of pink and gold, the man drew his final, shaking breath with photographs of his family watching over him, with his newfound companions by his side.
He wasn’t alone.
When the sun had finally risen, they laid him to rest in the ground near his cabin. Clutched in his now-cold hand were several photographs. A man and a woman, dressed for a wedding. A family with two small boys. A dog. Two children on a horse. A man in military uniform.
And as the sky began to grow dark, the two men stood over the fresh grave, lockbox in hand and saying a silent goodbye to their fallen companion. They left in the quiet, somber chill of the evening, casting only a single glance back to the house.
In front of the house, in the fading evening light, stood a roughly hewn grave marker, carved with only a first name - Isaac.