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Description
On the day that he was to be killed, Samuel Burke awoke earlier than usual, dressed, and brewed himself a cup of stale instant coffee. He scraped out the bottom of his last can of beans and placed them on the stove to reach a more palatable temperature. He’d have to try to buy something to eat later.
It’d been a hard year on the plains for Sam and everyone else, and it seemed that the New Year had brought a new wave of misfortune and misery that had swept across the ranches and towns like a dust storm. Samuel’s main source of income had been the sale of his cattle, but this year, he had watched helplessly as disease had thinned the ranks and left the survivors pockmarked, thin, and unfit for slaughter.
Finishing his modest meal, Sam headed out to check his herd. The morning had brought with it two fewer head, and as he saw them lying motionless in the morning sun, nothing more than skin stretched across bones, he sighed like a man who has suffered this kind of misfortune innumerable times. Feeling worse than yesterday, he shambled to gather the equipment to dispose of the dead before the birds did it for him. Shading his eyes, he looked up. Confirmation was in the skies; the vultures had already begun to circle above the ranch.
When he had finished the disposal of another part of his life savings, he walked into his kitchen and washed his hands, drying them with the threadbare washcloth that hung askew from the wall. Sam then slowly walked to his bedroom—careful not to trip on the uneven landing—sat down on his bed, and began to cough violently. He slammed his open palm against his chest to try and nip the fit before it started, but it happened anyway. He struggled for air, and it stopped of its own accord several seconds later when his eyes were red and his cheeks wet with tears. “Christ” he muttered, half-choking, to the room.
As he always did after a fit, he reached to the front pocket of his shirt, and after probing momentarily with his fingertips, seized the pack of cigarettes. He opened the lid and found nothing more than a few loose pieces of tobacco. Unleashing a barrage of curses at no one in particular, he tossed the empty pack aside—missing his wastebasket—and started to search around his room for any cigarette that had escaped. Nothing was by his closet, nothing under the piece of lumber that rested atop two sawhorses he used as his nightstand. Annoyed, he looked under his bed.
At first, he thought that it too was fruitless; then he saw the bit of yellow paper hugging the wall. With a small cry of victory, he seized his treasure and dragged it into the light. With a pang of disappointment, he saw that it was crumpled and mostly useless. He lit it anyway, only to have the tobacco fall out of the paper onto his lap. Cursing, he brushed it off onto the dirty floor. Knowing that this meant one more expense he couldn’t afford today, Sam looked for something he could pawn. There wasn’t much. Just about anything of value was already sold when his cattle had first started to die; he promised himself that he’d buy it back when they recovered. They hadn’t, however, and the squat, fat, pawnbroker with a fake Western accent had kept Sam’s valuables.
Sam found there was nothing of value in the bedroom—he had known that, but looked anyway—and checked the storage closet in the living room where he had always stowed his guns. There was plenty to sell in there, but up until now, straits hadn’t been dire enough to warrant parting with his firearms. He found the old .22-rifle his father, long dead, had given him for his twelfth birthday and wiped the dust off as best he could with his shirt. Filled with a kind of angry shame, he walked to the door of his rusted and peeling truck that had once been red, and climbed inside, placing the .22 in the passenger seat. Sam turned the ignition, it sputtered at first, and he had momentarily feared he’d have to walk into town, but the engine soon roared to life and coughed and whined as he drove away.
The bell above the pawnshop’s door jingled as Sam entered, gun in hand, and approached the front counter. Responding with Pavlovian greed to the sound of the bell, the fat, beady-eyed pawnbroker waddled out from the back to greet whatever poor soul had just wandered in. Seeing that it was only Samuel, his face took on a smug expression as he laughingly exclaimed:
“Damn, son, back so soon? I still ain’t sold that damn TV from March.”
“Spare me, I’m not in the mood for yer insults today, Jeb.”
“Aww, you know I’m joshin’ with ya,” said the pawnbroker Jeb.
“Stop it, how much can you give me for this?” asked Sam as he lifted up the old .22.
“Well, I’ll tell ya,” said Jeb, practically salivating from Sam’s obvious desperation, “things ain’t sellin’ so well ‘round these parts no more. Hard times, hard times.”
“That’s why I’m here,” said Sam, frustration with the greedy man growing. “Now how much will ya give me for this?”
Playing coy, Jeb took the old firearm from Sam and pretended to inspect it. After he felt his charade had been sufficient, he announced, “I’ll be damned if I can’t give you no more than ten dollars for it.”
“Ten dollars?” asked Sam. “That’s absurd!”
“’Fraid it’s all I can do.”
“You can do better. Fifty.”
The pawnbroker let out a round of rancorous laughter at the word ‘fifty,’ and after wiping his eyes to show the hilarity of the whole situation he said: “I’ll tell ya what, Sammy boy, I’ll give ya thirty fer it, but that only ‘cause I like ya.”
Knowing that he was being robbed and that he had no other option but to comply, Sam said: “Fine, if that’s your final offer, I imagine I have to take it.”
“I’m bein’ nice,” hissed Jeb, his face with the look of a feral cat.
“I’m sure,” replied Sam.
Sam left the pawnshop with thirty dollars in pocket. To save the cost of driving, he left his car in front of Jeb’s and walked to the gas station down the street a quarter mile to buy a pack of cigarettes, four cans of beans and some bread, which he placed in his car before walking over to the diner across the way.
It was a greasy little place, but it was the only one. Sam entered in and walked across the faded checkered linoleum flooring until he reached his usual booth in the far corner, the one with the torn fake leather upholstery, and immediately sat down to wait for the waitress. A few minutes later, a middle-aged woman with cheaply bleached blonde hair, an incomplete smile, and a ragged and ill-fitting pink uniform with a soiled white smock that bore a tiny chipped pin on the front that read, “DONNA,” approached him.
“Well, I’ll be,” said Donna with a relieved tone, “if it ain’t Sam. How the hell have you been? We all thought you must’ve died out there! We ain’t seen ya in months!”
“I feel like I’m dead,” said Sam.
“We all do, hun,” commented Donna as she shook her head.
A moment of silence ensued between the two, Samuel, because he didn’t care to comment, and Donna, because she was shocked at how pale and haggard he had grown in just a few months. After a few seconds, Donna shattered the silence:
“Listen, hun,” she said, “you look like you could use a good meal right about now—you look like the dead walkin’!—so how ‘bout I get you your usual, on the house?”
Sam, relieved by her genuine kindness, accepted the offer gratefully. About ten minutes later, Donna brought out a plate stacked high with eggs, bacon, sausage, and hash browns. Only then did Sam remember how hungry he’d been.
“Eat up, hun,” said Donna as she set the plate on the table before Samuel Burke.
“I will,” he replied with a good-natured laugh.
When Sam had eaten until he felt content, Donna came back to collect the dishes and said: “See, you look better already. All you needed was a good meal.”
“Maybe so,” laughed Sam.
“Just remember,” said Donna, “no matter how bad things look out there with your ranch there’s always hope. Remember that.”
As Sam drove back across the dirt roads back to his ranch, with a full stomach for the first time in many months, he did remember what Donna had told him about hope. He was so lost in thought and the possibilities of a better next year that he didn’t notice the strange dark man waiting in the shadows as his truck pulled into the driveway with the sound of gravel crunching under tire.
“Maybe things will look up next year,” he said to no one.
Suddenly, the door to his truck was ripped open. He turned to find a man pointing a handgun at his skull.
“Get outta that car,” said the man.
Not wanting further trouble, Samuel obliged and began to step out. It wasn’t fast enough, however; the man grabbed him by his collar and tore him from the seat, tossing him into the dust. He kicked him in the ribs and then shot him—twice—in the chest before driving away in the truck.

Description
On the day that he was to be killed, Samuel Burke awoke earlier than usual, dressed, and brewed himself a cup of stale instant coffee. He scraped out the bottom of his last can of beans and placed them on the stove to reach a more palatable temperature. He’d have to try to buy something to eat later.
It’d been a hard year on the plains for Sam and everyone else, and it seemed that the New Year had brought a new wave of misfortune and misery that had swept across the ranches and towns like a dust storm. Samuel’s main source of income had been the sale of his cattle, but this year, he had watched helplessly as disease had thinned the ranks and left the survivors pockmarked, thin, and unfit for slaughter.
Finishing his modest meal, Sam headed out to check his herd. The morning had brought with it two fewer head, and as he saw them lying motionless in the morning sun, nothing more than skin stretched across bones, he sighed like a man who has suffered this kind of misfortune innumerable times. Feeling worse than yesterday, he shambled to gather the equipment to dispose of the dead before the birds did it for him. Shading his eyes, he looked up. Confirmation was in the skies; the vultures had already begun to circle above the ranch.
When he had finished the disposal of another part of his life savings, he walked into his kitchen and washed his hands, drying them with the threadbare washcloth that hung askew from the wall. Sam then slowly walked to his bedroom—careful not to trip on the uneven landing—sat down on his bed, and began to cough violently. He slammed his open palm against his chest to try and nip the fit before it started, but it happened anyway. He struggled for air, and it stopped of its own accord several seconds later when his eyes were red and his cheeks wet with tears. “Christ” he muttered, half-choking, to the room.
As he always did after a fit, he reached to the front pocket of his shirt, and after probing momentarily with his fingertips, seized the pack of cigarettes. He opened the lid and found nothing more than a few loose pieces of tobacco. Unleashing a barrage of curses at no one in particular, he tossed the empty pack aside—missing his wastebasket—and started to search around his room for any cigarette that had escaped. Nothing was by his closet, nothing under the piece of lumber that rested atop two sawhorses he used as his nightstand. Annoyed, he looked under his bed.
At first, he thought that it too was fruitless; then he saw the bit of yellow paper hugging the wall. With a small cry of victory, he seized his treasure and dragged it into the light. With a pang of disappointment, he saw that it was crumpled and mostly useless. He lit it anyway, only to have the tobacco fall out of the paper onto his lap. Cursing, he brushed it off onto the dirty floor. Knowing that this meant one more expense he couldn’t afford today, Sam looked for something he could pawn. There wasn’t much. Just about anything of value was already sold when his cattle had first started to die; he promised himself that he’d buy it back when they recovered. They hadn’t, however, and the squat, fat, pawnbroker with a fake Western accent had kept Sam’s valuables.
Sam found there was nothing of value in the bedroom—he had known that, but looked anyway—and checked the storage closet in the living room where he had always stowed his guns. There was plenty to sell in there, but up until now, straits hadn’t been dire enough to warrant parting with his firearms. He found the old .22-rifle his father, long dead, had given him for his twelfth birthday and wiped the dust off as best he could with his shirt. Filled with a kind of angry shame, he walked to the door of his rusted and peeling truck that had once been red, and climbed inside, placing the .22 in the passenger seat. Sam turned the ignition, it sputtered at first, and he had momentarily feared he’d have to walk into town, but the engine soon roared to life and coughed and whined as he drove away.
The bell above the pawnshop’s door jingled as Sam entered, gun in hand, and approached the front counter. Responding with Pavlovian greed to the sound of the bell, the fat, beady-eyed pawnbroker waddled out from the back to greet whatever poor soul had just wandered in. Seeing that it was only Samuel, his face took on a smug expression as he laughingly exclaimed:
“Damn, son, back so soon? I still ain’t sold that damn TV from March.”
“Spare me, I’m not in the mood for yer insults today, Jeb.”
“Aww, you know I’m joshin’ with ya,” said the pawnbroker Jeb.
“Stop it, how much can you give me for this?” asked Sam as he lifted up the old .22.
“Well, I’ll tell ya,” said Jeb, practically salivating from Sam’s obvious desperation, “things ain’t sellin’ so well ‘round these parts no more. Hard times, hard times.”
“That’s why I’m here,” said Sam, frustration with the greedy man growing. “Now how much will ya give me for this?”
Playing coy, Jeb took the old firearm from Sam and pretended to inspect it. After he felt his charade had been sufficient, he announced, “I’ll be damned if I can’t give you no more than ten dollars for it.”
“Ten dollars?” asked Sam. “That’s absurd!”
“’Fraid it’s all I can do.”
“You can do better. Fifty.”
The pawnbroker let out a round of rancorous laughter at the word ‘fifty,’ and after wiping his eyes to show the hilarity of the whole situation he said: “I’ll tell ya what, Sammy boy, I’ll give ya thirty fer it, but that only ‘cause I like ya.”
Knowing that he was being robbed and that he had no other option but to comply, Sam said: “Fine, if that’s your final offer, I imagine I have to take it.”
“I’m bein’ nice,” hissed Jeb, his face with the look of a feral cat.
“I’m sure,” replied Sam.
Sam left the pawnshop with thirty dollars in pocket. To save the cost of driving, he left his car in front of Jeb’s and walked to the gas station down the street a quarter mile to buy a pack of cigarettes, four cans of beans and some bread, which he placed in his car before walking over to the diner across the way.
It was a greasy little place, but it was the only one. Sam entered in and walked across the faded checkered linoleum flooring until he reached his usual booth in the far corner, the one with the torn fake leather upholstery, and immediately sat down to wait for the waitress. A few minutes later, a middle-aged woman with cheaply bleached blonde hair, an incomplete smile, and a ragged and ill-fitting pink uniform with a soiled white smock that bore a tiny chipped pin on the front that read, “DONNA,” approached him.
“Well, I’ll be,” said Donna with a relieved tone, “if it ain’t Sam. How the hell have you been? We all thought you must’ve died out there! We ain’t seen ya in months!”
“I feel like I’m dead,” said Sam.
“We all do, hun,” commented Donna as she shook her head.
A moment of silence ensued between the two, Samuel, because he didn’t care to comment, and Donna, because she was shocked at how pale and haggard he had grown in just a few months. After a few seconds, Donna shattered the silence:
“Listen, hun,” she said, “you look like you could use a good meal right about now—you look like the dead walkin’!—so how ‘bout I get you your usual, on the house?”
Sam, relieved by her genuine kindness, accepted the offer gratefully. About ten minutes later, Donna brought out a plate stacked high with eggs, bacon, sausage, and hash browns. Only then did Sam remember how hungry he’d been.
“Eat up, hun,” said Donna as she set the plate on the table before Samuel Burke.
“I will,” he replied with a good-natured laugh.
When Sam had eaten until he felt content, Donna came back to collect the dishes and said: “See, you look better already. All you needed was a good meal.”
“Maybe so,” laughed Sam.
“Just remember,” said Donna, “no matter how bad things look out there with your ranch there’s always hope. Remember that.”
As Sam drove back across the dirt roads back to his ranch, with a full stomach for the first time in many months, he did remember what Donna had told him about hope. He was so lost in thought and the possibilities of a better next year that he didn’t notice the strange dark man waiting in the shadows as his truck pulled into the driveway with the sound of gravel crunching under tire.
“Maybe things will look up next year,” he said to no one.
Suddenly, the door to his truck was ripped open. He turned to find a man pointing a handgun at his skull.
“Get outta that car,” said the man.
Not wanting further trouble, Samuel obliged and began to step out. It wasn’t fast enough, however; the man grabbed him by his collar and tore him from the seat, tossing him into the dust. He kicked him in the ribs and then shot him—twice—in the chest before driving away in the truck.