As was his custom, Jackson Lloyd struck the match against the side of his jeans. The phosphorus left a white streak on the denim, crackled and burst into flame. As the match struck the ground, the flame caught the kerosene and shot off along a thin path through the grass. The barn caught fire. Bags of flour exploded with a sharp crack. The building collapsed, and Jackson Lee Lloyd leaned upon a fence post watching; his face showing not a thing.

I

When he stepped off the small lifeboat onto the pier, it occurred to him that he should have procured a gift for the captain of Prometheus. He turned to one of the oarsmen, name of Copali, and asked him what he thought the captain might like. Copali, taken unaware, stuttered before producing a confused “no, sir?”

“Might he like a bottle of spirit?” asked Lloyd

“The captain don't drink while we're a'ship,” answered Copali's companion

“A piece of the local artistry?”

“I don't think he's one for artistry,” replied Copali's companion

After a short pause in the conversation Lloyd asked the two men if the captain would like a pistol. They exchanged glances and admitted that he would probably like a good pistol very much. Lloyd unstrapped his gun belt and handed it to the still befuddled Copali. “Give the pistol to the captain,” he said “with my regards and gratitude. Keep the belt for yourselves, it ought to fetch a few pieces in the market.” Then, after dipping his head in farewell to the two men, he strode away across the dock.
As was his custom when in new territory, Lloyd headed first to the tailor's. He had, like most men, certain insecurities of which he never spoke; one of which was an intense dislike of standing out as a stranger. He always sought to blend in with the population, and so bought a pair of second-hand denim jeans and a thin, black wool sweater. Over this he put on his greatcoat and a wide-brimmed hat, of the floppy variety common to the country where he was raised.
Certain persons leave an imprint of themselves wherever they go; a lasting impression that lingers subconsciously in the minds of those they encounter. Such an impression was left on the tailor, and on the town-folk and stall vendors Lloyd exchanged nods with. It felt like a coming thunderstorm. And it was purpose.
On the western outskirts of the small coastal town sat a crossroads. Lloyd leaned against the signpost, and began fishing through the numerous pockets of his greatcoat. The wooden arrows nailed to the post pointed north towards Duram, west to Brooke, and south towards the warm beaches and great cities of the continent.
After a brief search, Lloyd retrieved his packet of tobacco and began, methodically, to roll a cigar. He struck a match against his jeans, and puffed the cigar into life. The tobacco had retained the bitter taste of salty sea air, and Lloyd spent several dozen minutes remembering his trip on Prometheus, his earlier travels, his home, and his youth.
Eventually, a cart could be heard coming down the road from Brooke. Lloyd looked up to see Maxwell sitting atop the cart, handling the reins of a dusty brown horse.
“It's good to see you Maxwell,” said Lloyd placing a hand on the edge of the cart and hauling himself up to sit beside his friend.

“And you too Lloyd,” replied Maxwell. He was a short, lean man with a flop of blonde hair. To see him was to be reminded of farms, hard winters, warm fires, and family. “Still smoking those disgusting cigars?”

Lloyd chuckled and blew a cloud of smoke in his friend's direction. “Yes, yes I am. Are you still just as bothersome as ever?”

“Abby tells me I've gotten even worse. But we both know how she likes to exaggerate these things. Tell me about yourself though, Lloyd. It's been far too long since last I saw you, and I suspect you have a tale or two to tell.”

“I've been keeping busy, yes,” smiled Lloyd. He scrunched into a comfortable position, wrapped his coat about him, and began. “Well, when last we parted, as I think you'll recall, I was still looking for Pickipsi...”

II

Maxwell's house lay at the top of a small hillock, overlooking his acres of land. The two old friends passed beneath a weathered wooden gate, adorned with a sign identifying the land as the “Aretes Farm”. The house itself was a simple three room, wooden structure with a tin roof. A room for sleeping, a room for cooking, and a room for the various other activities the Aretes' did in-between sleeping and cooking.
As Lloyd and Maxwell opened the door and passed across the threshold the smell of stew filled their nostrils and reminded them how long and hungry the cart ride had been.
“Abby, Miranda!” shouted Maxwell “I'm back with Lloyd and we'd sure as hell love some of that stew you've got cooking.” Maxwell's wife and daughter emerged from the kitchen, each untying matching flowered aprons.
“Ahh, Lloyd, it's so good to see you again,” said Abby as she embraced Lloyd in the way of old friends seldom seen. “I trust Max wasn't unbearable on the way back from town? We've all been excited you were coming, but he's hardly talked about anything else since we got your letter.”

“He made me do most of the talking, actually,” replied Lloyd with a fond look in Maxwell's direction. Maxwell, in turn, directed a look Abby's way, of the kind that conveys great meaning between spouses but leaves all other observers oblivious.

“Hi Lloyd!” piped up Miranda, and she came forward and planted a kiss on his cheek.

Lloyd took her gently by the shoulders and held her at arms length, to examine her. “I wondered if you'd remember me,” he said “you couldn't have been more than four last I saw you, and now Maxwell tells me you've gone and turned seventeen.”A smile, the mirror image of the one on Abby's face, shaped itself with Miranda's mouth. She had the same youthful, country beauty that still sparkled in Abby's eyes, and the wiry strength bound to be had by any child raised on a farm.
“I still have the dress you brought me,” she laughed playfully “though it seems to have shrunk in size.”

“Well we'd better go on in to the table,” Abby said “before the two of you die of hunger. Catching up will be far better over a bowl of warm stew than out here.” The rest of the night proceeded pleasantly. Lloyd told Abby of his travels, reminisced with Maxwell, and entertained Miranda with stories about her parents. As the last spoonful of stew was scraped out of Maxwell's earthenware bowl, Lloyd leaned back in his chair. A small smile spread across his face as he took in the scene before him. As was his custom when he beheld a family such as the Aretes', his heart was full to bursting with love; and he could, for a time, forget the darkness outside.

III

“I'd appreciate your company on an errand I need to run,” said Maxwell several nights later, after he had returned from the fields and Lloyd from the town. A grim frown had taken up residence on his brow, and Lloyd was surprised to see such consternation on the face of his happy friend. “You see, I picked a fight I shouldn't have,” Lloyd turned his full attention to the conversation, curious to hear the cause of Maxwell's troubles.
“Although we've been living here for twelve years now, I don't go into town much and I still don't know many of the folks there. You'd be surprised at all the politics and scandal you find in small towns like this.” Maxwell paused carefully, considering how to proceed.
“A couple of the local boys, friends of the judge and all, seem to be under the impression that I'm not as poor as I seem to be.” Here, Maxwell looked sheepish and Lloyd fixed him with a sharply inquiring look.
“I haven't been flaunting the gold!” Maxwell quickly reassured him “Abby, Miranda and I live quite simply. Certainly more simply than we have to. But somehow a rumors started that I'm sitting on top of piles of jewels, or god knows what else.
“Anyway, one of the boys I was telling you about owns the mill I sell some of my wheat to. A week or so back, this bastard tells me he's going to be paying me less for my harvest this year. On account of the wheat I'm bringing in isn't as good as it used to be, and he can get better wheat from other folks. Which, I assure you, is horse ****. There's only one kind of wheat in this region and every damn farmer around plants the same damn stuff.
“As you can imagine I was furious, and I told the bastard he'd pay me what he always pays me, and I gave him the same reasons I just gave you, albeit little more forcefully. He played dumb and told me I could take it or leave it, which I should have. There are other places to sell wheat and he probably would have taken it at the standard price come the harvest. But I didn't, and the argument became somewhat...physical” Maxwell dodged a disapproving look from his friend, and continued the story.
“By this time two or three of the miller's friends had come in to see what the noise was about, and I ended up getting thrown out of the place. I fumed for several days, but Abby told me to just wait till harvest and see how the situation stood then.” Throughout the tale Maxwell had slowly been gaining more energy and emotion, and at this point Lloyd could see the anger begin mounting behind his eyes.
“Then I got a letter from the judge,” continued Maxwell, and he pronounced the last word with all the distrust and skepticism of a man who has seen how cruel men may enforce the law. “It said I had broken several valuable items in the miller's shop, and that I owed him compensation in the amount of a hundred silver pieces.” This time surprise and disgust passed across Lloyd's countenance. Like Maxwell, he could recognize a scam when he saw one.
“Well tomorrow's the day I'm supposed to pay the...compensation. And a farmer like myself can sure as hell not walk up to the judge and hand him a hundred silver pieces without raising further questions about his monetary worth, not that I'm inclined to pay the sum anyhow. So I figured I'd head into town tonight and try and discuss the matter like a civilized man with that bastard miller and the bastard judge. They drink together every night at a saloon in town. I was hoping you'd accompany me,” finished Maxwell. He need not have asked the question. Both men had gone through hell and back for each other, as all friends do, and Lloyd quickly consented to provide all the support he could.
So it was that several hours later Lloyd and Maxwell strode into a nameless saloon in the small coastal town. The place was busy, it being the time of night when fathers and husbands leave their families for the company of their friends. Maxwell quickly identified the table at which the miller and judge sat, and pointed the two men out to Lloyd. They made their way across to the table, and Lloyd found a post to lean on, within earshot of the table, while his friend waited for a lull in the conversation.

“'Scuse me sir,” Maxwell addressed the judge “I was hoping I might speak with you and this gentleman,” here he made the slightest of nods toward the miller, “about our problem.”

The judge appeared caught completely off guard until the miller whispered something in his ear. “So you're Aretes?” the judge asked.

“Maxwell Aretes, sir.”

The judge fixed Maxwell with a dull stare, and from his vantage point nearby Lloyd would have bet his hefty purse that he was drunkenly trawling his memory in an attempt to recall what the “problem” was. The miller saved the judge from further embarrassment by joining the conversation. “It's a hundred pieces, Aretes, and you owe it to me at my shop tomorrow mornin'.”
Maxwell ignored the man and continued speaking directly to the judge, who was slowly catching up. “Sir, not only do I not have a hundred pieces with which to feed my family, much less pay to this man,” and he shot the miller a contemptuous look, “but I am innocent of everything he's accused me of. I never broke-”
“Like hell you don't have the silver!” interrupted the miller, who was also quite drunk, “the whole town knows how you got rich off 'f war loot. We all know you got the silver!” In a display of patience that impressed even Lloyd, Maxwell once again turned back to the judge and began explaining his side of the story. He had made it only several words into his explanation, however, when the miller stood up angrily and drew from his belt a pistol, which he placed on the table. The room quickly hushed, and the saloon's patrons became an intent audience of the drama being enacted at the back table.
“Don't bull**** us about the money, Aretes,” shouted the miller as he drunkenly shoved Maxwell back several paces. “We know you got it. We know you got it hidden up at that house. Maybe we'll take a trip up to that house t'night, huh mates? Maybe while we're there we'll visit with your wife and your pretty little kid-” Lloyd was beside Maxwell the instant he heard the miller utter his last sentence, but he wasn't quick enough to prevent his friend from slamming his fist into the miller's jaw.
The room became a saloon once again as worried patrons made for the door and the miller's friends dove to catch a hold of Maxwell. Lloyd had Maxwell firmly by the arms and was attempting to hustle him away from the table when the miller stood up slowly, blood streaming from his nose and mouth. He picked his pistol off the table, pointed it first at Maxwell's head, and then shot him twice in the foot.
Maxwell cried out and went limp in Lloyd's hands. The chaos of the room increased tenfold, and a mad rush for the door ensued. The miller's friends, even the judge, had all produced pistols. Lloyd carefully set Maxwell down and turned to face the five men.
“Who the **** are you?” spat the miller, noticing Lloyd for the first time. When he received no answer but Lloyd's furious stare, the miller turned his gun on Lloyd and said “If you know what's good for you and your pal there, you'll stay far away from his house t'night. Me and my boys are goin' treasure huntin' and that man don't want to run into us again.” For a brief second, the miller's pistol pointed straight between Lloyd's eyes, and, as was his custom, Jackson Lloyd stared back; his face a canvas of contorting emotions, but fear was not one. The darkness he had forgotten while with Maxwell's family rushed back. It fused with the image of the miller before him and it begot a hatred deeper than mere men are capable of.
Then the miller and his posse were gone from the saloon without a name, and Lloyd turned his attention to the bleeding Maxwell.

IV

With the help of the innkeeper, Lloyd hoisted Maxwell into the back of the cart. He fashioned a poor bandage out of a bar towel and wrapped it around his semi-conscious friend's foot, before mounting the cart and whipping the horse into a run. By the time the cart had turned onto the road towards Brooke, the horse was at full gallop.
Not long after, Lloyd, with one of Maxwell's arms thrown about his shoulders, knocked on the door of the Aretes farm. Abby answered cheerfully, not realizing her husband was injured for several seconds. Then she gaped silently at Lloyd, her eyes requesting an explanation. Miranda walked into view and uttered some sound between a gasp and a scream.
Certain persons inspire fear or awe, among those they encounter. Jackson Lloyd inspired trust and obedience. “Miranda, take care of your father. He's been shot in the foot, but he'll be fine. Abby, where does Max keep the guns?”
Lloyd laid his friend upon the table, under the terrified eye of his daughter, then followed Abby silently to a chest in the bedroom. He removed a long rifle, inspected the the barrel and tested the trigger, as was his custom, and placed one box of ammunition in the pocket of his greatcoat. He then removed a pistol and several more boxes of ammunition, which he handed to Abby. A long look passed between them. The seriousness of the moment was made clear to Abby, and then Lloyd walked back out of his friend's house to unhitch the horse from the cart.

V

Sitting upon Maxwell's horse, and concealed by darkness amid the ripening harvest of Maxwell's field, Lloyd waited. For a score of minutes he sat with the rifle across his thighs, and even the horse knew to be still. A posse of five riders appeared upon the plain before Maxwell's hillock; the leader and his companion carrying lanterns.
Lloyd raised his rifle to his eye and drew a bead. Three, sharp cracks echoed out across the field, and the three trailing riders fell from their saddles. All five horses reared to a stop, and the three without riders galloped back the way they had come. The judge and the miller corralled their mounts and raised their lanterns to observe the scene behind them. They quickly allowed their mounts to follow the horses of their dead companions back through the woods to the town.
Lloyd raised his rifle again, a sharp crack echoed out, and the judge fell, but his lantern did not go out. The miller and riderless horse crashed into the wood. Lloyd lowered his rifle and rode to the spot where the judge had fallen. He dismounted Maxwell's horse and knelt to pick up the judge's fallen lantern. He raised it above his head, and by it's light saw the judge kneeling; his right foot covered in blood. As was his custom, Lloyd spoke:

“To thee, I am thy messenger
When I walk amongst you, you shall not know my face
You will feel my presence
And those who are good, shall do good
And those who are evil, shall do evil
The good shall receive but good
And the evil, but an eternity in hell.”

and he raised his rifle.

From the edge of the wood, the miller reappeared on foot. Though nearly paralyzed by fear at the figure before him, he raised his rifle, and took aim at the head of Jackson Lloyd. As he pulled the trigger, a sharp crack rang out from the miller's rifle, and though he was a fine shot and it was a short distance, the bullet flew astray, hitting instead the judge's heart.
The miller fled from the road and into the woods, and Lloyd abandoned his horse to follow on foot. The forest was several leagues from the town, and night had long fallen. Lloyd tracked the miller by the light of the judge's lantern; and though the lantern did not hold much oil, it lasted throughout the night.
The miller had run at a sprint through the woods until reaching a barn belonging to Maxwell's neighbors. Exhausted, he entered the barn, hoping to rest and hide from the figure tracking him.

VI

As was his custom, Jackson Lloyd struck the match against the side of his jeans. The phosphorus left a white streak on the denim, crackled and burst into flame. As the match struck the ground, the flame caught the kerosene and shot off along a thin path through the grass. The barn caught fire. Bags of flour exploded with a sharp crack. The building collapsed, and Jackson Lee Lloyd leaned upon a fence post watching; his face showing not a thing.