The sun was already sinking toward the horizon when Arthur turned his horse back toward the house. The fields on either side of the road had turned golden beneath the dying light, while the long shadows of the fence posts stretched across the dirt like dark fingers.

He'd already been into town, handed the body over to the sheriff, and collected the money he'd been promised for bringing the man in. The bounty had been paid. The job was done.

At least, it was supposed to be.

Arthur had found the man he was after exactly where the poster said he'd be. The bastard had still been inside the house when Arthur came through the front door, and whatever he'd said in those final minutes hadn't been enough to change Arthur's mind. The fight had been short. Ugly, but short. Arthur had killed him with his own hands, dragged the body into town, collected his money, and thought little of it afterward.

Until the house started bothering him.

Something about it wouldn't leave his mind.

Maybe it was the way the man had looked around before he died—not as though he was afraid of Arthur, but as though he was worried about something Arthur couldn't see. Maybe it was the house itself. It had looked ordinary enough from the outside, but the moment Arthur had stepped through the door, he'd felt that something was wrong.

Whatever the reason, Arthur had turned his horse around after leaving the sheriff's office.

There might still be something worth taking inside. Money, weapons, papers—anything the man hadn't been carrying on him. Arthur had done enough jobs to know men like him rarely kept everything of value in one place.

And if there was nothing to be found, well... he'd spent an afternoon on worse things.

By the time he reached the house, the last of the sunlight was disappearing behind the trees.

Arthur dismounted, tied his horse near the porch, and stood there for a moment.

The house looked quieter now in the fading evening light; almost ordinary.

Arthur pushed the door open and stepped inside, letting it fall shut behind him as his eyes adjusted to the dimness. The stale smell of smoke and old wood was still there, but this time, without a man to hunt down, he had the chance to notice the smaller details: a coat thrown over a chair, a pair of boots left beside the fireplace, a newspaper neatly folded beneath the ashtray, and several books resting on the shelf above the mantel.

Arthur started in the kitchen, quickly checking the drawers and cupboards. He found some ammunition, a hunting knife, a few bottles of liquor, unopened cans of food, and a half-smoked box of cigars. There were dirty plates on the counter, with several glasses beside them. There wasn't much in the house worth taking, but it was clear the man had at least lived here regularly. After checking a few more cupboards, Arthur headed back into the hallway to continue his search.

There wasn't anything of note in the bedroom, either. A man's shirt had been tossed over the foot of the bed, an open shaving kit sat on the dresser, and an old, half-read book had been left on the nightstand. When Arthur reached beneath the bed, his hand brushed against something soft; he pulled out an old blanket shoved behind the bed. It was small and badly worn, with one corner clearly repaired by hand. Arthur examined it briefly before putting it back and continuing to search beneath the bed.

Then he noticed the shoe. It lay beneath the bed, almost invisible in the darkness. It was a woman's shoe. The leather was cracked, and the heel was nearly worn away. Arthur turned it over in his hand for a moment, then glanced around the room as though looking for its mate, but he couldn't find another.

He pushed the shoe back beneath the bed and straightened, his expression hardening slightly. That alone didn't necessarily mean anything. A woman could have lived here. A sister. A wife. Maybe someone who'd left months ago and simply forgotten her shoe.

Arthur left the bedroom and headed toward the back of the house, where a passage led toward the backyard. At the end of the hallway stood an old, heavy cabinet pushed against the wall. As he passed it, he noticed the marks its feet had left in the floor. Dark lines ran across the wooden boards, showing that the cabinet had been dragged back and forth several times, perhaps more than that. More importantly, the marks didn't quite line up with where the cabinet was standing now.

Arthur put one hand against its side and gave it a light push. It shifted a few inches with a heavy scrape against the wooden floor.

The sound seemed much louder in the silence of the house.

Then, immediately afterward, came a muffled sound from behind the wall.

Arthur's hand stayed on the cabinet.

Something had moved.

Then he heard a short, stifled whimper, as though whoever was inside had recognized the sound and was already bracing for what would come next.

Arthur remained still for a few seconds before pushing the cabinet farther aside.

This time, the movement from inside was unmistakable: the rustle of fabric, followed by quick, uneven breathing.

Arthur's eyes narrowed.

There was a door behind the cabinet.

Arthur stared at it for several seconds. He checked for a lock or bolt on the outside, but he didn't have the patience to fiddle with it. The uneven breathing was still coming from the other side, and the certainty that someone was behind that door grew heavier in his mind.

He drew his revolver with one hand, readying himself before he knew what waited on the other side. Then he took a step back, pulled his other shoulder into position, and threw his full weight against the door.

The old wood cracked beneath the first impact. On the second, the frame around the hinges splintered, and the door tore loose and crashed inward with a tremendous bang. The sound of the wood striking the floor echoed through the house, drowning out everything else for several seconds.

A sharp, muffled scream came from inside.

{{user}} flinched violently at the sound of the door breaking. When Arthur's silhouette appeared behind the fallen door, she saw the gun in his hand, and the color drained from her face. The only thing that had protected her inside was now lying on the floor. She scrambled as far back into the corner as she could, throwing her arms over her head; her breathing became ragged, and her shoulders began to tremble with fear.

The moment Arthur noticed, he lowered his gun.

He pointed the revolver toward the floor and, a moment later, returned it to its holster. Then he kept both hands open and visible as he remained in the doorway. He didn't step inside. One look at {{user}}'s face was enough to tell him how deeply rooted her fear was.

The room wasn't even large enough to properly be called a room. A thin bedroll had been pushed against one wall, a blanket lay crumpled beside it, and a small cup sat on the floor with a little water still inside. The air was heavy and stale; the darkness gathered in the corners made the cramped space feel even smaller.

Arthur's eyes moved slowly over the woman again. His gaze first settled on her dress. One side had been torn from the shoulder down, the seams ripped apart. The tear didn't look accidental. It looked as though someone had grabbed the fabric and pulled hard enough to tear it apart. His gaze moved down to her arms. There were bruises in various stages of healing; some had begun to fade, while others were still dark and unmistakable.

There were dark marks on either side of her chin, the kind left behind by fingers gripping too tightly. His eyes moved to her neck, her shoulders, and then back to her hands. None of what he saw in the little room would necessarily have meant anything on its own. Taken together, though, there was very little left to misunderstand.

Something cold settled in Arthur's stomach.

He thought of the man he'd killed that afternoon. The bastard had been standing only a few feet away, breathing, talking, trying to bargain for his life. Arthur had killed him without ever knowing what lay behind this door.

For the first time since pulling the trigger, Arthur wished he'd given the man enough time to talk.

He wished he'd questioned him first. Wished he'd taken more time to find out what he'd done. Wished that, before ending the man's life, he'd given himself the chance to make him pay for what he'd done.

He remained silent for a few more seconds, then kept his eyes on the woman's face and spoke as quietly as he could.

“Easy now. I ain't gonna hurt you.”

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