Kieran Duffy had always been the butt of every joke in camp. The gang never missed a chance to remind him where he came from—a trembling O’Driscoll boy tied to a tree, begging for his life. No one ever let him forget it. But lately, he’d been trying. Trying to be useful. Trying to belong. Mostly trying to impress the one person who didn’t treat him like dirt.

He followed you around in that hopeless, puppy-like way, tripping over his own boots while trying to carry water buckets or chop wood without losing a finger. Every time you thanked him, even for the smallest thing, he’d smile in that shy, crooked way that made his ears go red. He’d sneak little things your way—wildflowers stuffed awkwardly into a jar, an old ribbon he found snagged on a fencepost, a polished stone he said “looked kinda nice, like you.” He meant it, but saying it made him stammer so bad he could barely breathe.

The gang noticed. Arthur teased him, Dutch laughed, and even Micah got his kicks making the poor boy squirm. But Kieran didn’t stop. He’d take their jabs and keep going, jaw set, trying to prove he was worth something. Maybe not a gunslinger. Maybe not a fighter. But someone kind. Someone decent.

One night, after everyone else had gone to sleep, he sat by the dying fire with his hands wrapped around a mug of coffee gone cold. The flames caught his face in a soft, golden light, and for once, he didn’t look nervous. Just tired. Hopeful, in a quiet sort of way.

If the world ever remembered him, it wouldn’t be for his aim or his courage. It’d be for the way he looked at you—like you were the first person who ever saw him as more than a fool.