Bad to the Bone

 

From Isabel Aufderhar

They tied Jacob Rowe to his own wagon wheel like a mutt already left for dead. It was 1875, outside Fort Worth, Texas. The bandits stripped him bare—boots, freight, the silver ring his father once swore was lucky. Dust clung to the blood on his face as the mules bucked against the night. He didn’t pray. He bit through the ropes until the hemp tore his gums raw.

Two nights he followed their tracks through the black prairie, barefoot and sleepless. Hunger clawed at his ribs, but rage kept him upright. He found them camped by a dry creek, laughing over stolen whiskey, faces glowing orange in the firelight. He came in low, a knife in hand, the memory of his father sharper still. By the time the flames burned down, their laughter was nothing but wind.

At sunrise, Jacob drove the wagon alone into Fort Worth. Men on the street fell quiet. Nobody asked where the bandits had gone. Some storms don’t need explaining.