Chapter Seven: No Peace for Old Men
At seventeen, Orion's life was as simple as the dirt roads he had grown up on.
Most mornings began before sunrise.
There were crops to tend, fences to mend, animals to feed, and tools that somehow managed to break faster than anyone could repair them. When harvest season came, the days stretched even longer.
It wasn't glamorous.
It wasn't exciting.
But it was steady.
And in a world where stories of outlaws, bounty hunters, and Five Points officers occasionally drifted through taverns and newspapers, steady wasn't necessarily a bad thing.
Orion had never thought much about leaving.
Why would he?
His family had land.
They had food.
They had each other.
And a few times each week, Orion got to escape the farm long enough to help haul produce into Augustine.
Augustine wasn't the capital.
It didn't pretend to be.
The city had grown around trade roads and farmland, its streets packed with wagons, livestock, merchants, laborers, and travelers passing through on their way somewhere more important.
The place smelled constantly of dust, sweat, horse manure, baked bread, tobacco, and spilled ale.
Orion loved it.
At the center of those trips was Cyrus.
Or, as Orion had called him for as long as he could remember—
Old Man Cy.
They weren't related by blood.
That had never mattered.
Cyrus had been around for birthdays, harvests, bad winters, broken fences, and more family dinners than Orion could count.
As far as Orion was concerned, that made him family.
Cyrus was somewhere in his late fifties, though Orion often joked that nobody could prove he wasn't older.
Years of labor and travel had weathered his face. Gray had begun creeping through his hair, and old scars occasionally showed when his sleeves rolled high enough.
He was quiet.
Patient.
Dependable.
The sort of man who listened more than he spoke.
But there was something about him Orion had never quite understood.
Sometimes Cyrus knew things he shouldn't.
Sometimes he reacted to sounds before anyone else noticed them.
Sometimes travelers would pass through Augustine, glance at him once, and then suddenly become very interested in looking somewhere else.
Whenever Orion asked about his past, Cyrus usually answered the same way.
Nothing worth telling.
Orion had never believed him.
Morning Delivery
The sky was only beginning to brighten when Orion walked toward the wagon.
Cyrus was already there.
Of course he was.
The older man lifted a heavy wooden crate and placed it into the carriage with barely any visible effort.
Orion yawned.
"Morning, old man."
Cyrus glanced over.
"How long are you gonna keep calling me that?"
Orion stretched until his shoulders popped.
"I don't know."
He grinned.
"How long are you gonna keep being old?"
Cyrus shook his head.
"Smart mouth for somebody who can't lift half these crates."
Orion scoffed.
"I can lift them."
Cyrus pointed toward one.
"Go ahead."
Orion stared at it.
Then toward Cyrus.
"I don't feel like it."
"Of course."
"I'm conserving energy."
"For what?"
Orion climbed onto the wagon.
"Supervising."
Cyrus chuckled.
"Your father should've worked you harder."
"He tried."
"Should've tried harder."
Cyrus lifted another crate.
Orion watched.
The smile faded slightly.
Cyrus wasn't a huge man.
Strong-looking, sure.
Years of farm work would do that.
But sometimes the things he lifted didn't match his age.
Or his build.
"Seriously, though."
Cyrus placed the crate down.
"What?"
"How do you do that?"
"Do what?"
Orion gestured toward the cargo.
"That."
Cyrus looked at the crates.
"I'm picking things up."
"You're almost sixty."
"Almost?"
"Probably."
Cyrus gave him a look.
Orion continued.
"You're stronger than you look."
Something changed in Cyrus's expression.
Not much.
Just enough for Orion to notice.
"Looks can be deceiving."
His voice had become quieter.
"And strength..."
Cyrus wiped his brow.
"...doesn't always look like what you think it does."
Orion raised an eyebrow.
"That supposed to be wise old-man advice?"
"You're really committed to that joke."
"Very."
Cyrus climbed into the driver's seat.
"Come on."
He took the reins.
"Augustine won't wait forever."
Augustine
By midmorning, the city was fully awake.
Wagon wheels rattled across packed roads.
Shopkeepers shouted prices from open storefronts.
A delivery truck coughed smoke farther down the street, earning angry gestures from several carriage drivers forced to move around it.
Orion and Cyrus made the same stops they always did.
The baker.
The general store.
The local healer.
A small restaurant near the market.
At each stop, Cyrus knew someone.
Or someone knew Cyrus.
Sometimes both.
"Morning, Cy!"
"Cyrus! Tell Elias those tomatoes were better this week!"
"You still owe me for that fence repair!"
Cyrus would wave, laugh, exchange a few words, and keep moving.
Nothing unusual.
Nothing suspicious.
Just Old Man Cy.
Their final stop was always the same.
The Star Tavern.
Orion could hear it before they reached the door.
Laughter.
Shouting.
A piano struggling beneath someone's drunken attempt at music.
Glass breaking somewhere inside.
It wasn't even noon.
Orion climbed down from the wagon.
"How are people drunk this early?"
Cyrus lifted a crate.
"Dedication."
Orion laughed.
They carried the first load inside.
The Star Tavern smelled like old wood, smoke, liquor, and whatever had been spilled across the floor the night before.
A few customers sat quietly over breakfast.
Others clearly hadn't stopped drinking since yesterday.
Orion grabbed another crate from outside.
As Cyrus followed him through the entrance, a man stumbled through the swinging doors.
The drunk collided directly with Cyrus.
The crate tilted.
Cyrus caught it before it fell.
The drunk nearly hit the ground instead.
He caught himself against the wall.
"Watch it, geezer!"
Orion immediately turned.
"You walked into him."
The drunk blinked.
Orion pointed toward the glass in his hand.
"Maybe if you weren't drowning yourself in liquor, you'd notice where you're going."
The man's expression hardened.
"What'd you say?"
Orion set his crate down.
"You heard me."
The drunk stepped forward.
"Better watch your tongue, boy."
One hand drifted toward the knife on his belt.
"Unless you want me to cut it out."
Orion's jaw tightened.
Before he could respond, Cyrus placed a hand against his chest.
"Orion."
Orion looked toward him.
"Let it go."
"He threatened me."
"I heard him."
"And?"
Cyrus looked directly into his eyes.
"Let it go."
Orion exhaled sharply.
Reluctantly, he stepped back.
The drunk laughed.
"Smart kid."
Orion muttered under his breath.
Cyrus heard it.
Of course he did.
But he said nothing.
They returned to unloading.
One crate.
Then another.
Orion tried ignoring the men near the bar.
Tried.
Apparently, the drunk couldn't do the same.
As Cyrus stepped outside for the last load, the man deliberately moved toward the stack.
Orion saw him.
"Don't—"
The drunk slammed his shoulder into the crates.
Wooden boxes toppled.
Orion raised his arms.
Too late.
The stack collapsed onto him.
Pain shot through his shoulder as he hit the floor.
Laughter erupted.
That was enough.
Orion shoved a crate aside.
His hand found the nearest thing within reach.
A bottle.
He stood.
And threw it.
CRACK!
Glass exploded against the drunk's head.
The man stumbled backward.
The tavern went quiet.
Blood ran down the side of his face.
Orion froze.
The drunk slowly touched the wound.
Looked at the blood on his fingers.
Then looked at Orion.
"You're dead, kid."
Orion's stomach dropped.
The man lunged.
Cyrus stepped between them.
The drunk's fist stopped.
Not because he chose to stop.
Because Cyrus had caught his wrist.
The older man's hand closed around it like iron.
The drunk strained.
His arm didn't move.
Cyrus looked at him.
His voice was low.
Quiet.
Completely different from the man who had been joking with Orion only minutes earlier.
"You said he's just a boy."
The drunk's expression shifted.
"So if you want to act like a man..."
Cyrus released his wrist.
"...deal with me instead."
The man snarled.
He swung.
His fist slammed into Cyrus's chest.
Cyrus didn't move.
The drunk struck him again.
Nothing.
Another punch.
Cyrus barely blinked.
Orion watched from behind him.
Something felt wrong.
Not dangerous.
Not exactly.
Just...
different.
The drunk threw another punch.
Then stopped.
Cyrus had done nothing.
Hadn't raised his hands.
Hadn't threatened him.
Hadn't moved toward him.
He simply stared.
And whatever the drunk saw in Cyrus's eyes changed everything.
His breathing slowed.
His shoulders dropped.
The anger drained from his face.
Then the color.
His hands began trembling.
Cyrus didn't say a word.
The man took one step backward.
Then another.
Cyrus finally turned away.
"Orion."
Orion stared.
"Let's go."
"What?"
"We're finished here."
Cyrus picked up the surviving crate.
Orion looked toward the drunk.
The man hadn't moved.
"Orion."
"Right."
He followed.
The Road Home
For several miles, neither spoke.
The wagon rattled along the dirt road as Augustine slowly disappeared behind them.
Orion sat with his arms crossed.
Eventually, he couldn't take it anymore.
"Why didn't you fight back?"
Cyrus kept his eyes on the road.
"I didn't need to."
"He hit you."
"I noticed."
"Four times."
"I wasn't counting."
Orion stared at him.
"You just stood there."
"Yes."
"But you could've stopped him."
Cyrus remained silent.
"You should've stopped him."
That made Cyrus look over.
"I did."
Orion frowned.
"No, you didn't."
"Didn't I?"
"You let him punch you."
"And did he keep attacking?"
"No."
"Did you have to hurt him?"
Orion hesitated.
"No."
"Did anyone else get hurt?"
Orion looked down.
"Also no."
Cyrus returned his attention to the road.
"Then I stopped him."
Orion wasn't satisfied.
"That's stupid."
Cyrus smiled faintly.
"Probably."
"If someone hits you, you're allowed to hit them back."
"Allowed?"
"Yes."
"That isn't the same as needing to."
Orion leaned against the seat.
"He deserved it."
"Maybe."
"So why not?"
Cyrus was quiet for a long moment.
Then—
"Because sometimes..."
His voice softened.
"...not fighting takes more strength than throwing a punch ever could."
Orion rolled his eyes.
"There it is."
"What?"
"Old-man wisdom."
Cyrus chuckled.
Orion looked toward him again.
"But seriously."
Cyrus glanced over.
"You could've beaten him, couldn't you?"
A pause.
Something unreadable passed through Cyrus's eyes.
"I stopped him."
He faced forward.
"Just not the way you expected."
Orion studied him.
Then eventually gave up.
For now.
Star Tavern
The drunk sat at one of the tables.
A bloody rag pressed against the side of his head.
His hands were still trembling.
His friend sat opposite him.
"You alright?"
No answer.
"Rolan?"
The man stared at the door Cyrus had left through.
"I know him."
His friend laughed.
"You know everybody after six drinks."
"I'm serious."
"He's a farmer."
"No."
Rolan shook his head.
"I've seen that face before."
"Where?"
"I don't know."
He rubbed his mouth.
"Poster, maybe."
His friend leaned closer.
"What poster?"
Rolan's eyes widened slightly.
"One of the old ones."
Silence.
"From the capital."
His friend stopped smiling.
"Wanted?"
Rolan nodded.
"I think so."
"For what?"
"I don't remember."
"What was his name?"
Rolan stared toward the road outside.
"Cyrus..."
He shook his head.
"No."
"Then who?"
Rolan swallowed.
"I don't know."
But he knew one thing.
Those eyes.
He'd seen them somewhere before.
And whoever Old Man Cy really was...
he had once been someone people were afraid of.
For Orion, the rest of the day passed like any other.
Chores.
Dinner.
His mother's complaints about the broken bottle.
His father's complaints about having to replace damaged produce.
Orion's very detailed explanation about why none of it had technically been his fault.
Cyrus laughing from the other side of the table.
Normal.
Safe.
Peaceful.
Orion went to sleep that night believing tomorrow would be the same.
It wouldn't.
Because beneath the ordinary life he had always known, something old had begun to stir.
A forgotten face had been recognized.
A frightened drunk had started talking.
And somewhere within Augustine, whispers began moving from one person to another.
Until eventually—
they reached someone who mattered.
A man stood beneath the dim light of an office lamp.
A file rested open on the desk before him.
An old wanted poster lay inside.
The paper had yellowed with age.
The face printed upon it was younger.
Harder.
But unmistakable.
A gloved finger tapped once against the photograph.
Then stopped.
"So..."
The man leaned back.
A Star Badge caught the faint light somewhere on his uniform.
"You're still alive."
Someone standing near the doorway shifted.
"Orders, Sheriff?"
The man smiled.
It wasn't a pleasant expression.
"Get the horses ready."
He closed the file.
On the cover was a name that hadn't been spoken aloud in Augustine for years.
Not Cyrus.
Something older.
Something buried.
The sheriff rose.
"We're going for a ride."
Outside, the wind moved through Augustine's streets.
A storm was coming.
And its name was—
Sheriff Malden.
For Orion, this would be the last night he went to sleep believing Old Man Cy was simply an old farmer.
By tomorrow, everything he thought he understood about family, justice, and the world beyond Augustine would begin to unravel.