Chapter Twenty-Seven
The prairie stretched endlessly before him, an unforgiving expanse of tall grasses swaying in the wind, broken only by the occasional cluster of scrubby bushes and the distant silhouette of hills.
Silas stood beside his wagon, staring after the faint trail of dust the wagon train had left behind. His hands curled into fists, his nails biting into his palms.
“They threw me out,” he muttered, his voice low and venomous.
The words tasted bitter on his tongue, each one stoking the fire of his rage.
The wind whispered around him, tugging at the brim of his hat and carrying with it the faint scent of dry grass and earth. It was quiet out here—too quiet.
No murmurs of the group, no clatter of wagons, no voices raised in conversation or prayer. Just the empty expanse of the wilderness, pressing down on him like a weight.
Alone again. Abandoned again.
A seething hatred coiled in his chest, sharp and suffocating.
James.
“That sanctimonious, self-righteous wagon master,” Silas spat, kicking at the ground. “The whole group, with their holier-than-thou attitudes, pretending to be Godly people, passing judgment on him as if they were any better. “
Silas snorted bitterly, his lips curling into a sneer.
“Bunch of hypocrites,” he spat.
The horses shifted restlessly beside the wagon, their ears flicking back at the sound of his voice.
Silas reached up to pat one of their necks, his movements rougher than usual.
“Don’t worry,” he muttered. “We don’t need them. Never did.”
Turning away, he grabbed his rifle from the wagon and slung it over his shoulder. If he was going to survive out here, he needed to check his traps.
***
The sun hung low in the sky as Silas trudged through the prairie, the dry grass brushing against his boots with a whispering hiss. His rifle was a steady weight on his shoulder, and the worn leather strap dug into his skin as he walked.
The land around him was stark and empty, its vastness almost oppressive. A hawk circled high above, its sharp cry slicing through the stillness. In the distance, a creek wound its way through a stand of cottonwoods, their leaves shimmering silver in the breeze.
Reaching his first trap, Silas crouched low, his boots crunching against the parched dirt. The small snare was empty, the bait untouched.
“Figures,” he muttered, yanking the trap free and resetting it with quick, practiced movements.
The second and third traps were just as empty, and with each disappointment, Silas’s anger grew. By the time he reached the fourth trap—a small wire snare set near the creek—he was muttering curses under his breath.
The sun was beginning to dip behind the distant hills as Silas made his way back to his camp, the sky streaked with orange and pink.
The air cooled slightly, carrying the faint scent of water from the creek and the earthy tang of the prairie.
He was nearing the small stand of cottonwoods that marked his camp when he heard it—a sharp, unmistakable rattle cutting through the stillness.
Silas froze, his rifle sliding into his hands with practiced ease. His eyes scanned the ground ahead, and there it was, coiled and ready: a rattlesnake, its body tense and its tail shaking a deadly warning.
The snake’s dull, dusty brown scales blended almost perfectly with the dirt and grass, but the glint of its beady eyes caught the fading light. Its forked tongue flicked out, tasting the air as it shifted slightly, its head weaving back and forth.
Silas narrowed his eyes, his body taut as he sized up the creature.
“Not tonight,” he muttered under his breath.
The snake struck, its movement lightning-fast, but Silas was faster. He raised his rifle and fired, the crack of the shot echoing across the empty prairie.
The snake’s body spasmed once before going still, its coiled form slumping lifelessly against the ground.
Silas let out a low breath, lowering his rifle. He stepped closer, nudging the snake with the toe of his boot to make sure it was dead. Satisfied, he crouched down and grabbed it by the tail, holding it up to examine his prize.
“Well, looks like I’m having snake for supper,” he said with a dark chuckle.
The reptile dangled limply in his grip, its long body still faintly warm from the day’s heat.
He slung it over his shoulder, the tail brushing against his back as he continued toward his camp. His lips curled into a smirk.
“Guess it’s my lucky day, after all.”
As he reached the clearing, the firelight flickering against the darkening sky, Silas dropped the snake onto the ground beside his small fire pit. He pulled out his knife and set to work skinning it, the rough, scaly hide peeling away under the blade.
“Just like everything else,” he muttered, staring into the fire. “You either kill it or let it kill you.”
A while later, the snake was roasting on a spit over the flames. The smell of cooking meat mingled with the smoke, sharp and acrid in the still evening air.
Silas stared into the fire, his eyes narrow and unblinking. The flames danced and flickered, their light casting shadows across his face.
“All my life,” he muttered, his voice low. “People have tossed me aside. Like garbage. Like I don’t matter.”
He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as the memories surged up, sharp and bitter.
The home he’d been thrown into as a child, full of cruel, pious people who beat him for not meeting their impossible standards.
His older brother, the only person he’d ever trusted, walking away and leaving him behind.
The townspeople who treated him like dirt, the lawmen who sneered at him as they dragged him to the edge of town.
And now this.
James Whitaker and his wagon train. Preaching unity and righteousness while turning their backs on him. Casting him out into the wilderness to fend for himself.
“They’ll regret it,” Silas muttered, his voice hard. His hand went to his coat pocket, where his fingers brushed against the cold metal of his knife.
***
The bones of the snake lay scattered around the ground as the fire popped, a shower of sparks drifting upward into the star-strewn sky.
Silas tilted his hat lower over his brow, letting the heat of the flames seep into his bones. Sleep came grudgingly, his mind churning with anger and resentment until exhaustion finally dragged him under.
The dream came suddenly, vivid and sharp, pulling him back into the shadows of his childhood.
He was small again, crouched in the corner of a cold, dark room. The walls were bare, the air thick with the smell of mildew and despair. Outside, the wind howled, rattling the loose panes of the single cracked window.
“Silas!”
The voice was sharp, cutting through the air like a whip.
He flinched, curling into himself as heavy footsteps approached. The door creaked open, and the dim light of the hall spilled into the room, revealing a tall, thin man with a face like a vulture. Mr. Gilbert.
“Didn’t I tell you to clean this up?” he barked, his bony finger jabbing toward the pile of tattered rags in the corner.
“I—I was going to,” Silas stammered, his voice small and trembling.
“You were going to,” he mimicked with a sneer. “Lazy, good-for-nothing brat. You think anyone’s going to take care of you when you’re out on your own? You think anyone’s going to care about a useless orphan like you?”
The words hit like stones, each one lodging itself deep in Silas’s chest.
Mr. Gilbert’s hand shot out, gripping Silas’s arm with bruising force.
“Maybe this’ll teach you to listen,” he said, dragging Silas to his feet.
“No! Please!” Silas cried, his small hands clawing at the man’s grip.
But the pleas fell on deaf ears.
Silas woke with a start, his chest heaving and his face damp with sweat. The fire had burned down to embers, casting faint shadows across the ground.
He sat up, running a hand through his damp hair as his heart pounded in his chest. For a moment, the raw emotions from the dream lingered, clawing at him with their sharp edges.
But then, like a steel trap snapping shut, he shoved them down, burying them deep where they couldn’t reach him.
“Useless memories,” he muttered, his voice rough and bitter.
He stood, brushing off his coat as he stepped away from the dying fire. The cool night air bit at his skin, but he welcomed the discomfort. It was better than the hollow ache left behind by the dream.
In the distance, he heard the sounds of the camp, voices carrying on the night breeze.
“They think they can get rid of me,” he said aloud, his voice low and cold.
The prairie stretched out before him, dark and empty, a vast wilderness that mirrored the emptiness inside him. He balled his hands into fists at his sides, his jaw clenching.
“They’re going to pay for this,” he growled, his eyes narrowing. “Every last one of them.”
Silas turned back toward his wagon, his mind already turning over the details of his plan. He didn’t need anyone. He never had.
The firelight flickered behind him as he walked away, his shadow stretching long and dark across the ground. Whatever sympathy his dream had stirred was gone, replaced by the cold, unyielding resolve that had kept him alive all these years.
No one would cast him aside again.