In Lincolntown, Randall had tried to see about Billy’s burial. He had first visited the prudent Reverend but found him “indisposed.” He tried the local doctor next, then the coroner but everywhere he got the same vaguely sorrowful head shakes and little else. No one wanted to touch poor Billy.

  By the time he made it to the marshal’s office, a square little room adjacent to the post office, to plead his Randall could have recited the refusal word for word as it came out of the marshal’s mouth.

  “I got money,” protested Randall after the conversation took the only turn he allowed himself to expect.

  “Not enough,” said Tory, “Not nearly enough.”

  George Tory had been Lincolntonwn’s marshal for a little over a year. A portly man with a bushy gray mustache, Tory’s best years may have been behind him but the quiet fortitude in those solemn blue eyes left no impression of softness despite his rotund figure.

  “Ain’t nobody in this town got that kind of death wish,” Tory continued, “A body with the pox can be contagious for months after the passing. I’m too old to take the risk. Hell, I wouldn’t get near enough that body to catch a whiff of it even if I were twenty years younger.”

  Randall shifted uncomfortably in his seat and the wooden chair squeaked in protest.

  “I can’t just leave him layin out there,” he said.

  “He won’t be laying long,” said Tory, “We’ll be burning the shack. It's the safest thing to do.”

  “He asked me to bury him properly. In a churchyard,” said Randall, “I promised him I would.”

  Tory’s expression softened. He was not a man without compassion and he knew something, from his long years, of promises made to comrades, even on their deathbeds.

  “I’m sure your promise was a comfort,” he said, “But his troubles are over. I can’t in good conscience ask anyone to risk their health by going in there to fetch him and we can’t leave it out there to rot all the year long. I’m sorry, Mr. Geets, but burning is the best thing for it.”

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  Randall could acknowledge the reason behind Tory’s arguments but he could bring himself to tolerate the idea.

  “I got money,” he said again, “Mr. Larson gave me twenty dollars to take care of Billy and all Billy wanted in the end was a proper grave. Somewhere his sister could leave him flowers.”

  Tory sighed, recognized he would get not further with brute logic.

  “Twenty dollars is a heap of money,” he said, “But not enough to die for, far as I see. That’s all there is to it, Mr. Geets. I’m sorry.”

  Randall’s shoulders slumped. The marshal had been his last and best effort. There was no one left to ask that hadn’t already refused to help and if Randall was being honest with himself he couldn’t blame them.

  “Yeah,” he said, “I s’pose burning makes the most sense.”

  Tory folded his hands on his desk and looked at Randall with a fresh intensity in his eyes.

  “The pox is a terrible thing, son,” he said, “It's a damn fine thing what all you done for your partner, make no mistake. Don’t you go feeling low because you can’t make good on that last bit about his being buried. You done all you can and if your friend were here to see the effort you’ve made on his behalf, I’m sure he’d be much obliged.”

  “Yeah,” said Randall, “Sure.”

  Randall made no mention of the sacred letter clutched in the dead man’s hand.

  “Go get yourself a hot bath and a bed to sleep in,” said Tory, “Get a drop of whiskey in your guts. Tomorrow afternoon, I’ll get some volunteers and take care of this thing. You’ve done enough.”

  *** *** *** *** ***

  Randall left the courthouse feeling somewhat relieved. Marshal Tory had been right, after all. He had done all he could for Billy.

  Did you, though? Came a still, small voice into his mind, Did you really?

  Randall winced at the accusations sprung from his own mind and the images they brought of poor, bloated, rotting Billy laying on the floor of that dirty shack like an overripe sack of peaches, a blood-stained letter to his sister clutched in a hand already curled with rigor mortis.

  He shuddered and tried to push the images and voices out of his mind. When that failed, he sauntered over to the saloon to try and drown them out with whiskey.

  The bartender wasn’t thrilled to see Randall come into his establishment but Randall flashed his two shiny gold pieces and, for once, he found someone willing to take his money. He bought a room for the night and two bottles of the house rotgut and paid for a bath to wash off the range dirt and stink of death. He’d choked down the first bottle before the bath was done and took the second to bed with him.

  By the time his heavy eyes closed, he was well and truly besotted.

  Even so, the last thought he had before he reeled off to sleep was a faint, accusing voice in his head:

  You promised.