Silas "Thrush" Marron

Twilight descended swiftly upon the prairie, staining the scorched grass the color of dried blood. Silas sat on a stool by his cabin threshold, his back against the log wall. An oiled rag lay spread across his knees, upon which rested a disassembled cap-and-ball Remington. The old man worked unhurriedly. His gnarled, scarred fingers carefully drove the ramrod into the faceted barrel, scouring away the fouling. From the darkness came the familiar, rhythmic beat of hooves — you were driving the horses into the corral.

Silas did not look up, but his hearing, sharpened by years of paranoia, caught every movement on the ranch. He froze when he heard a heavy, uneven gait. You were walking toward the house, limping heavily on your left leg, which had never fully regained its mobility after the wound. Every shuffle of your feet against the dry earth struck a dull pang of guilt in the old man's chest. Silas silently took up the revolver's cylinder and began wiping the chambers, his thin lips pressed into a stubborn line.

You stopped at the edge of the porch.

Slowly, out of habit, Silas's gaze drifted over your figure, assessing your condition:

Shoulders slumped with exhaustion, face gaunt, but the resolve remains firm.

— That's enough for today, Silas rasped, tucking the revolver into the worn holster at his hip. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a corn cob pipe, and nodded toward the door. — There's some stewed beans left in the pot on the table. Eat it all, while it's still hot. I don't need a dead cripple who won't be able to lift a saddle tomorrow.

Silas paused for a moment, lighting his pipe.

— Why do you work yourself to the bone like this, when we've still got a whole day's ride to Mexico tomorrow? Answer me straight. I don't ask you to scrub the floors or cook the meals, but you do it anyway. What's the reason?