Randall did not sleep that night so much as fall into a vacant-minded stupor. Only when the first light of dawn did he manage to pull himself off the floor and into a sitting position where he remained for another few hours trying to piece together the events of the previous night through a haze of exhaustion. He found the task more difficult than it should have been, either from continued shock or sleep deprivation, he didn’t know. His memories came back to him in flashes of horrible images of blood and pus and shrieking skeletons and the lingering stenches of smoke and sick. The recollection made Randall shudder.

  After a long while pondering, he thought he had a pretty clear idea. Impossible or not, he remembered enough to know what he saw and, having seen it, he knew what had to happen next.

  Slowly, aching from the long cold hours laying doubled over on the floor, Randall pulled himself to his feet and collected his clothes. He was still pulling his shirt over his head as he walked through the empty gambling floor and out through the swinging saloon doors into the Lincolntown street.

  The sun burned his eyes and he held up a hand to ward off the light. It was even later than he’d expected, past ten o’clock.

  Not much time, he thought.

  He turned on his heels and started down the street to the marshal’s office at a hurried pace.

  *** *** *** *** ***

  “I thought we had discussed all this,” said Marshal Tory. He had looked decidedly unhappy when Randall had come into his office for a second time and his mood had only soured as Randall said his piece.

  “You can’t burn him,” said Randall, “That weren’t what he wanted. I promised I’d see him buried right.”

  “Its the only safe option, Mr. Geets,” said Tory.

  “I promised him,” said Randall again, emphasizing every word with stubborn defiance, “That I would see him buried right.”

  Tory heaved a deep sigh and settled back into his chair, regarding Randall with cool indifference. The drover was clearly strained, he had deep black circles under his bloodshot eyes. He reeked of sweat and liquor and his eyes shifted around the room like a morphine addict searching out a fix. Wild or otherwise, everything in Randall’s stance and tone made it clear that his mind had been firmly set and would not be dissuaded.

  He’s going to crack, thought Tory grimly. He’d seen it happen before. It was never pretty.

  “I think,” began Tory slowly, “That if your friend were here, knew the risk we would be running in the midst of all these healthy people, he would want to be burned. He would want you and us to be safe.”

  “No,” said Randall, “You’re wrong.”

  His tone carried all the weight of unquestionable certainty. Tory’s eyebrows raised involuntarily.

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  “Why do you think that?” asked Tory.

  “My sister got the pox when I was ten,” said Randall, “My mother and father, too. We burned them.”

  Randall’s admission hung as heavy as lead between them. Tory searched for something to say.

  “Well, I’m sure that-”

  “I watched them burn,” said Randall, interrupting. His eyes were vacant, he wasn’t even looking at Tory anymore. His gaze was fixed somewhere inward and very far away.

  “I heard my sister scream,” he said, “She was dead but I heard her scream.”

  Tory didn’t say what he thought, that the steaming hiss of gasses escaping from a burning body sometimes whine, not much like a scream but perhaps enough like one to a ten year old boy. The gulf between himself and the drover was growing wider by the second. The cowboy was becoming lost in his memories, confused. Tory could sear the beginnings of tears welling in his eyes.

  “The dead don’t want to burn,” said Randall, talking so softly Tory had to strain to hear him even in the quiet office, “There is no rest in the flames. In the ground you can rest, in the cool and damp, but not in the fire. When you burn, your ashes are scattered to the winds; to blow through the dry places. That’s where the devil lives. He gnaws on bones of traitors and oathbreakers. The devil… the devil…”

  Randall’s voice trailed off. He stared at noting. Tory leaned forward.

  “What about the devil, Mr. Geets?”

  Randall’s eyes flashed up and alert. He looked directly into Tory’s face and for a moment, Tory hoped that he could reach through the fog in Randall’s brain and pull him back to the world. When Randall finally spoke, it wasn’t the words Tory wanted to hear.

  “The devil wears a yellow robe,” said Randall, his red eyes bulging in earnest need to be understood.

  But Tory couldn’t understand. He doubted anyone could. Randall’s brain had gone to a place no one else could follow.

  Hopefully, thought Tory, He’ll find his way back.

  All he said out loud was, “Ok, Mr. Geets.”

  Tory stood up, feeling for the key of the office cell hanging on his belt. Randall watching him vacantly.

  “You look tired,” said Tory, “Why don’t you have a lie down and we will talk about this again in a little while?”

  Randall stood mechanically with a gentle push on his shoulder from Tory’s hand. Tory guided him gently around the desk and toward the rear corner of the office.

  “I’ve got a cot here,” said Tory, “You’re free to use it.”

  Randall nodded weakly as Tory turned him toward the cot but then he froze. He saw the cot, and he saw the cell around it, and that wild look crept back into eyes clouded with suspicion.

  “I don’t want to go in there,” he said.

  “You’ll feel better if-”

  “I’m not going in there,” said Randall.

  Tory’s hand tightened on his shoulder, his voice took on a solemn tone that made clear his expectation of obedience.

  “Mr. Geets,” he said, “It’ll be best for everyone if you lie down. Now.”

  Randall tensed, like a coiled spring. Tory half expected what happened next, but when it happened it happened faster than he would have thought possible. Randall twisted on his heels and sent an elbow into the aging lawman’s guts and followed it up rapidly with a blow across the jaw with a balled fist. By the time he knew what was happening he was already on the floor, blood oozing from his mouth. Randall stood over him, panting and trembling, cussing at him through clenched teeth.

  “I promised to bury poor Billy and so help me God I’m gonna do it so you, marshal, better just stay the hell outta my way.”

  Without another word, Randall bolted out of the office, leaving the door flung open behind him. Tory tried to stand, took half a step and stumbled over onto the floor again. He clenched his eyes and shook his head but the world was still spinning.

  I’m too old to be getting my bell rung by cowboys, he thought and gave up on trying to stand and simply crawled on hands and knees to the open door instead. As he half emerged from the office, he could still see Randall, running at full speed down the road out of down, growing smaller by the second.

  Tory pointed after him.

  “Somebody stop that man!” he yelled to no one in particular.

  A few of the young men loitering through town tried to run Randall down but even as he’d said the words, Tory knew it was too late. Randall had a long head start and was running like the devil was on his heels.

  “Dammit,” he said.