It was a night like any other; it wasn’t raining, there was no wind and no one on the streets (despite for the Lower Town, where lives took place at night).
The sound of horseshoes hitting the ground echoing through the night air did not created any suspicion to the sleeping minds after a long day of decent work.
The only person that would have to get up when the loud and dry sound of boots hitting the ground bypassed his house, didn’t. A strange thing, considering who he was.
Gilead, center of the baronage of New Canaã, was a city based on dignity and morality precepts, therefore the strange volume wrapped in a lush blanket of green velvet on the door of a simple wooden house remained there until its owner opened it by the morning and find the bundle.
The irony on that was not what contained the wrapped basket, but to whom it has been delivered.
When Cort, a middle-aged man, very strong and corpulent, responsible for the training of young gunmen, opened the door, he stood watching for a while before picking up the square shaped package, with a cloth piled over, and taking it inside. There was an envelope too.
He didn’t have to open it to know its content, he noticed by its weight what it was and anger started growing in the deep of his mind.
After putting the basket over the table, he removed the fabric and took a closer look; it was a child as he thought, and wasn’t even one year old. The anger grown bigger as he opened the envelope and read what was written: “Merry Allice Smithson”.
There was nothing more, in the front or in the back, so he kept the envelope to use the paper latter.
- Crap! – He cursed, folding up the paper. – Holy crap! A girl to boot!
There was nothing he could do with a child, let alone a girl. He was not the kind that has much to do with little girls.
- Let’s see… - He speculated, while sitting on a chair, unconsciously scratching his chin. – Smithson…
But he couldn’t remind any family that had Smithson as a last name, neither a rancher pregnant wife, and, well, Smithson was a nice name, that wouldn’t belong to a rancher man.
It was a gunslinger’s name.
But there, in Gilead, was no Smithson gunman. Maybe many years ago, but he wasn’t sure. The only certainty he had was that he should get rid of that responsibility.
Original text: Caminho do Eld
Translation: Julia Rizzoli