Author's note: This story is inspired by and very loosely based on the song "Folk Bloodbath" by Josh Ritter. You're at no disadvantage if you haven't heard the song, and if you have, don't freak out: Loosely based means loosely based. This won't be a tragedy (probably). However, there will be blood. This story probably takes place in the early 1890s, and it is indeed a Western. :) I don't own the song or its lyrics, which show up in the chapter titles and occasional other places.

Warning, only for the first chapter: character death.

Here's the link to the cover, which can also be found on my profile: art/APH-Folk-Bloodbath-220976744

Louis Collins took a trip out west;
When he returned, little Delia'd gone to rest.
The angels laid her away.

Chapter 1: That's the sad thing with life

Arthur showed up at the outpost some time in late autumn. They expected him to stay perhaps a day and then move on in an attempt to beat the cold, as all the travelers did at that time of year. Arthur didn't pass through after a day, or even a week. It took them a while, but eventually the people who lived there realized that Arthur's intention was to stay for good.

The town that made up the outpost was small, and there wasn't any way to live there for long without meeting everyone. Matthew was the cook's assistant. The first time Arthur met him, he was covered in flour from head to toe. Arthur was setting down a crate of potatoes when Matthew came out behind the back of the bakery to pick up a bag of sugar. When he saw Arthur, he beamed. "How you doin', Mr. Kirkland?"

Arthur straightened, startled that someone he didn't know knew his name. "J–just fine, thanks."

"I'm Matthew, Matthew Williams," he said, and stuck out a hand.

Arthur took it, and saw that despite his clothes (and his forehead), his hands were flour-free. "A pleasure to meet you," Arthur replied. And no matter how hard he tried later, that was how he always thought of Matthew: Smiling, covered in flour, his gentle eyes squinting just slightly through his flour-dusted glasses.

It didn't take long for Arthur and Matthew to strike up an easy, almost-friendship. Whenever they passed each other in their daily lives, they would pause and exchange a few words. Matthew seemed to understand, if he never said as much, that it was hard for Arthur to really talk to any of the townspeople. There was an underlying distrust of strangers in that place, even though during the trading season they dealt with dozens of them every day. Arthur could see that Matthew, with his naturally quiet ways, didn't quite fit in either. He had found a place of sorts, though, and seemed to be happy in it. However, Arthur had always thought that there was a slight sadness to his smile, and he gradually learned that the reason for it was a brother – Al, or Alfred, who was in the wilderness now, wrangling cattle. "He comes back here every now and then," Matthew said with a sad smile.When he can, seemed to be the unspoken words. They had traveled out west together, but for some reason Matthew was here while Alfred was there. "It's all about the money," Matthew said softly the only time Arthur asked him. "Alfred's just doing what he's best at."

The winter months were harder by far than what Arthur was used to, but he managed, they all did – and then spring rolled around, and they all felt like they could breathe a bit easier again. With the spring thaw, Matthew said excitedly, Alfred would be sure to come back to visit soon. Arthur looked forward to it, wanting to meet the man that Matthew seemed to love so very much, but not nearly as excited as Matthew clearly was. The months passed without word. Summer came around, and Arthur noticed that Matthew was practically being courted by another young man, a native of the village: Gilbert, who worked in the smithy. Arthur had always associated Gilbert and Matthew, for whenever Matthew had an errand around town, Gilbert wasn't far behind with taunting, sarcastic comments. "Hey, little duckie," he'd say, "Hear about what Louis and Sarah were doing behind the barn last night?" He'd snicker, and Matthew would frown a little, but Gilbert would keep talking and it wouldn't be long before Matthew was smiling. At first, Arthur thought he was just being a nuisance, but he eventually realized that Matthew didn't just tolerate Gil; he treated him as someone he would almost consider a friend. That summer, though, Gilbert got bolder, and it seemed that anywhere Matthew went, Gilbert was there too, leaning against a wall or post and teasing Matthew relentlessly. Matthew's behavior did not change at all as far as Arthur could tell, and Arthur was not sure if that was because Matthew did not notice, or because he did not want to.

Arthur was stacking old crates onto an empty cart when he realized it: Gilbert, with his sharp tongue and foreign appearance, probably had no real friends. Then again, neither did Arthur. Arthur frowned at the worn wood in his hands. Matthew pities us. He put the crate in the cart and latched up the back. One person, he thought, should not be able to hold as much capacity for empathy and pity as Matthew.

Summer ended suddenly. One week it was boiling hot, and the next it rained. It was hot again, and then an early frost struck. Matthew's body couldn't take it. He fell ill before autumn had officially begun. Within five days, it was serious.

Gilbert took whatever time he had to sit with Matthew in his little room. Arthur occasionally came to check in on him, and Gilbert was always there. Matthew, against all odds, was often smiling. One time, Matthew was asleep when Arthur came in. Gilbert was holding Matthew's hand, but he quickly released it when he heard Arthur's footstep behind him. Arthur smiled, left the food he had brought, and turned to leave. He put a hand on Gilbert's shoulder. "It's good you can be with him," he said. Gilbert just ducked his head.

Later, when it was worse, Arthur accidentally overheard them talking.

"–sorry Gil. I really–" Matthew coughed, "I really am, Gil, I'd return your feelings if I could." Matthew smiled and weakly pressed Gilbert's hand between his own. "I just can't." Arthur took a few steps back and then walked up loudly, letting his boots click against the worn wooden floor. He knocked on the open door as if he had just arrived. Matthew looked up and smiled. Gilbert jumped, stood, and left without a word.

"It's good to see you, Arthur," Matthew said. "You look well."

It took eleven days. On the tenth day, Arthur came in to see him. Matthew was barely conscious, and when he had a rare moment of lucidity and spoke it was clear that he was already somewhere else. He didn't even seem to realize that Arthur was there. Gilbert wiped the drool from Matthew's lips with a white cloth as Matthew's eyes lolled, seeing nothing but looking everywhere. Arthur left. Gilbert was holding Matthew's hand when he died the next morning.

It was already dark when Alfred reached the small outpost town. Exhaustion made his shoulders sag, but as he neared the rough wooden gate he raised his head and grinned tiredly in the dim light. He was home.

"Hail, stranger!" called the gatekeeper.

"Hail yourself," Alfred called back. His voice rang out easily in the cool air. "I mean to find a place to lodge, if I may."

"Of course," the gatekeeper called back, and the gate opened slowly before him. Alfred urged his horse through it, and stopped it on the other side. He tried to force his eyes to stay open as they started to slide closed. The gatekeeper closed the gate and came over to Alfred. "It's late now, but I can care for your horse if you'd like. Lodgings is over that way." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Knock and they'll answer."

"Thank you. I've a person I'd like to see first, though, if it's not too much trouble. Do you know of a man named Matthew Williams? He's my brother."

The man's face fell. He removed his hat and pressed it over his heart. "I'm so sorry sir. Your brother Matthew passed away this morning."

He left his horse with the gatekeeper. When he knocked on the door to the house that Mattie lived in, an elderly man opened the door with tired eyes – the owner of the house, apparently. He led Alfred to the room. Mattie had been dressed in clean clothes, and he lay on the bed on clean sheets. His eyes were closed. "I reckon he should be buried soon, afore the ground freezes up."

Alfred stared at Mattie. He had a gauntness to him that Alfred didn't remember, and he was paler than usual. He didn't look asleep; he looked dead. When Alfred spoke, he hardly realized he was the one talking. "Tomorrow, then. After noon."

The man nodded. "An', sir, I hope you don't mind, but we'd already sorta picked out a spot. It's beneath some trees, before it gets to be real forest. I thought he would have liked that."

Alfred nodded, and the man left him alone with Matt in the small, cramped room.

Author's note: As far as I can tell, what we think of as "glasses" today existed during this time period, even if they weren't common or exactly what we think of as glasses today. (It will come up again later, if briefly.)