Randall followed Boss Larson a short distance away from the flurry of renewed activity in camp before he spoke.

  “We’re leavin Billy?” he said.

  “Got no choice,” said Alex, “We’ve burned through our lag days and he’s getting no better.”

  “He still might pull through. It’s happened that way before.”

  “You know he ain’t.”

  Randall said nothing. He knew. Larson knew. Every man in the outfit knew that Billy was as good as gone. It was just a matter of time. And suffering. If God were kind both would be short.

  “You’re a friend of Billy’s, aren’t you?” said Larson.

  Randall nodded. He hadn’t known Billy any longer than the rest of the outfit, but he had no shame in admitting he’d become fond of the lad. Billy made him laugh. He saw something in Billy’s carefree smile, his easy way of cracking stupid jokes and telling stories that made himself laugh around the campfire, that reminded him of younger nights spent in the warmth of different fires.

  “Yessir,” said Randall.

  “Good, good,” said Larson, nodding to himself, “I’m going to ask a favor of you, Randall. And it ain’t going to be an easy one.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I’m asking you to stay on here,” said Larson, “Until Billy passes.”

  Randall could feel his stomach lurch. He looked away and couldn’t help digging the toe of his boot into the dirt.

  “Shoot, Boss, It’s not that I don’t feel for Billy, but-”

  “I know,” said Larson, “I know time’s have been lean and I know you're itching to get some cash in your pocket as much as the rest of the boys.”

  “It ain’t that,” said Randall, “Well, it ain’t just that. It’s just- I’ve seen what the pox does to folks. I’ve seen it eat them alive. I- I don’t want to watch that happen to Billy.”

  He spoke truthfully but he left a great deal unsaid. He did not tell Larson of the nightmares that had been plaguing his sleep since Billy’s condition turned sour. He did not describe the terrible visions of BIlly, lying on a soiled bed, his skin blotched with red and yellow boils. That would have been bad enough. But worse than the sight of the sick man was the strange presence that seemed to hang around him. It was like an invisible fog that had descended onto the room, bringing with it a chill and a sense of dread. And the faint smell of acrid smoke.

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  Randall suppressed a shiver at the memory. If Larson noticed, he took

  Larson sighed.

  “It’s a hell of a thing to die of pox,” he said, “But it's worse to do it alone, a castaway on the prairie a long way from home. To face the long dark with nary a friendly voice to offer comfort.”

  Larson watched Randall carefully as he spoke, searching his face for any sign the gentle prodding had gone too far.

  “I think, having seen the pox before, you may be in a position to offer him more comfort than and of rest of the boys,” he said, “I know it mean the world to Billy and I consider it a personal favor. ‘Course if you’re sure your not up to it, I will ask one of the others to stay behind. This is a request. Not an order.”

  He reached into his coat pocket and dug out two shining twenty-dollar gold pieces. He held them out toward Randall.

  “Take this if you stay,” he said. “But do it for Billy. Not for me. Not for money."

  Randall gazed at the coins, then glanced back at the sad little shack where poor Billy lay heaving, and he knew what he had to do.

  *** *** *** *** ***

  That evening, Randall returned to Billy’s shack as he had promised to give him a cup of beans and the news from camp. He approached the door of the shack, stepping over the plate of eggs and the coffee that still sat as full as they had been when Mark had laid them down, and knocked.

  “Billy?”

  Randall heard the ruffling of blankets and the sound of wet coughing.

  “That you, Randall?”

  “It’s me. Got some news, Billy. Herd’ll be moving on tomorrow but the Boss gave me the go-ahead to stay on with you until you’re feeling better.”

  More wet coughs stifled something that could have been a laugh but Randall wasn’t sure.

  “I brought you some beans. Care to give them a try? Cooky wants to hear you’ve been eatin.”

  “Leave them by the door,” said Billy.

  Randall didn’t press the issue. He set the cup of beans beside the cold eggs and coffee.

  “Boss gave me some money, in case you’re needing anything from town. You want another blanket or anything?”

  “No.”

  “Anything I can get you from camp?”

  “No.”

  Billy’s voice broke off into more coughs. It sounded painful enough that Randall winced. After the coughing came a silence almost as painful in its severity.

  “Well,” said Randall, awkwardly, “If’n there’s nothing else...”

  “Paper,” said Billy, strained with effort, “And a pencil. If’n it’s not... too much.... trouble.”

  “Sure, Billy, that’s no trouble at all. Taken a notion to do some writing?”

  “A letter...to my sister...”

  “Good, Billy, that’s a good idea," said Randall, a sticky lump rising in his throat, "I didn't know you had a sister."

  Billy muttered something incoherent. Randall was afraid of losing him.

  "Anything else I can bring you?” he asked.

  “Bible. Ain’t got... a Bible...”

  “I’ll fetch you a Bible, sure. Anything else? A drop of whiskey?”

  A long silence followed, as oppressive as the last. As oppressive as the grave.

  “No,” said Billy.

  “Alright, then,” said Randall, reluctant to leave Billy alone for the night but thankful, in a way, to have been given something to do on the poor boy’s behalf, “Suppose I’ll head on back to camp. I’ll be back in the morning with paper and a Bible.”

  After a long pause, Billy’s exhausted voice whispered through the door.

  “Thank you... Randall.”

  “‘Course, Billy,” he said, “Goodnight.”

  Billy didn’t answer.