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The oldest dream always comes first: his brother attired in the turned-out cloak of an Arabian peasant, only his head and shoulders are visible. A scenic mountain vista halos his brother’s crown; hues of spring soften his complexion into alcohol-blurred gold. For a moment, unfiltered altruism pours through his brother’s eyes for the object of his attention. The halo darkens and a colorless mass blots out the visage of his brother’s head. This dream frequents his restless sleep.
And by Cain’s namesake he always arrived at the same meaning.
But the most recent dream he knew to be true. As John Hardin rose to prominence in Texas, he already had left his own legacy. No matter what fiction historians may concoct, Cain was the last traveler to visit settlements with the Ghost Town moniker. And his method was brutally simple: Kill every living creature.
Cain never remembered his brutality and only knew of his activities by the odd places he found himself. And, murderous dreams haunting his slumber. He never stole anything, priding himself in preserving one commandment. Unless murder qualified as the theft of life. Possessions, those he never stole. Not from the living.