Old habits die hard.

Duke had walked the mile stretch to Pleasant Valley and back again every night since his father passed away. The coroner said it was a lightning strike but there were whispers to the contrary:

“I never heard o’ no lightning slitting a man’s throat before.”

“It weren’t even raining that night.”

”’Twas the Marauders, they was biding they time but they back now. Didn’t I say they’d be back?”

That was six years ago. Duke couldn’t bring himself to face the body, charred black and mangled as it was. He and his brothers had a small funeral with a closed casket and tried to get on with their lives, but the true story of their father’s death would remain a mystery.

Duke patrolled the Tennessee Road with an air of solemn purpose. There are no Marauders, and there never were. Father just had an accident. A horrible, horrible accident. A tragic act of God.

Tonight Duke marched with jaw firmly set, canteen draped around his neck, Winchester rifle in hand. For snakes, he told himself. Snakes.