It took Marshal Tory longer to gather up his volunteers than he’d hoped. Even an operation as simple as burning a shed involved too much proximity to the cowboy’s corpse for the more squeamish of Lincolntown’s citizens to be entirely at ease and of those who were willing to go several had their wives definitively veto the idea, or at least they claimed.

  In short, everyone agreed with equal ardor that the unpleasant task needed to be done and needed to be done by someone else.

  It took Tory an hour to get even four men willing to ride out to the shack and even they drug their feet about it. It was near noon before they began to collect in the marshal’s office. Tory was impatiently checking his watch when the last of his little posse swaggered in through the office door.

  “Took your damn time, Bronnell,” grumbled the marshal.

  “I thought maybe you fellas left without me,” said Bronnell.

  “Why would you think that?” asked Tory, only half listening to Bronnell’s excuses as he passed out jars of kerosene and tar.

  “On account of the smoke,” said Bronnell.

  Tory looked at Bronnell, dumbly at first but with a growing grimace as comprehension dawned on him. Without a word, Tory stomped across the office floor and flung the door open and shaded his eyes with his hand to peer into the distance to the west.

  As he expected, he found what Bronnell had been alluding to; a thin curl of black smoke rising out of the western horizon. The same horizon where the shack and the dead cowboy within it would be.

  “What are you up to, Mr. Geets?”

  “What’s that, Marshal?” asked Bronnell, staring dumbly in his turn.

  “Nothing,” said Tory, “Mount up! I want to see that shack.”

  *** *** *** *** ***

  They found Randall Geets on the road, well before they reached the shack. Marshal Tory called his little company to a halt as they neared him, not that he needed to. The men had already pulled in their reigns, watching the drover from a mere handful of yards as he struggled by with his burden dragging behind him with a mixture of grotesque curiosity and apparent sickness. Even Tory felt his stomach turn.

  Geets was trudging along the road dragging the corpse of a cowboy behind him. He had looped a rope under the body’s arms around the chest and ran the ends over his shoulders. Hunched over, clasping the ends of his rope tight, Geets could drag the body behind him, even if he occasionally kicked the rotten thing on his back step. The pull on the arms made the corpse look almost like it was sitting up, watching as the road slipped slowly behind the heaving drover, but one look at the face of the thing, what remained of it, was enough to erase any suspicion of lingering life. It scarcely looked human, that swollen and purplish face oozing yellow fluid, bloodshot eyes bulging in their swollen sockets. The stench made Tory dizzy, even with the distance between them.

  Tory grabbed a handkerchief out of his pocket and held it over his nose. His four volunteers immediately followed suit, clearly thankful that Tory’s action had given them implicit permission to react in disgust.

  Tory clicked his heels against his horse and nudged her forward.

  “Don’t get too close, Marshal,” said Bronnell, “That corpse is already putrifying.”

  “Thank you, Bronnell, for that timely advice.”

  Tory brought his horse alongside Randall, though he made sure to keep at least three yards between them. Randall had not looked up or even acknowledged the arrival of the five riders in any way.

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  “What are you up to, Mr. Geets?” said Tory, trying to keep his tone friendly and inquiring. Randall did not say anything in return. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground in front of him and Tory could see he was mumbling to himself under his breath as he strained against his dragging load.

  “Mr. Geets!”

  No response. Tory decided a more direct approach was needed. He spurred his horse forward and pulled into the road in front of Randall and pulled the reins. The horse snorted.

  “Geets! I’m talking to you,” said Tory.

  Randall finally looked up. He almost looked startled to see someone else on his road but he came to stop and stared at the marshal with that same wild look he had first shown in town.

  “What do you think you’re doing, Randall?” said Tory.

  Randall didn’t answer.

  “You ain’t taking that body into town.”

  Randall was clearly distracted. His eyes weren’t focused on Tory, or anything else that Tory could see. They kept shooting around all furtive like and he kept wiping nervously at the back of his neck with his hand.

  “You hear me?”

  Randall cocked his head strangely, as if to incline his ear behind him.

  “I know,” he mumbled, “I can feel it.”

  “What’d you say?” asked Tory.

  Randall looked started at Tory’s tone.

  “I need to be on my way, Marshal,” he said and gripping his ropes in both hands start off again, trying to simply walk past the mounted lawman. Tory bristled and turned his horse to head Randall off again.

  “No stop there, Randall,” he said, “I’ve told you you ain’t taking that body into town and that’s just how it's going to be.”

  “No.”

  Randall’s defiance surprised Tory in spite of himself. Before he had fully processed the refusal, Randall started into walking again, dragging the rotting body along. Tory was at the end of his rope. His mind groped for a solution and failing to find one he settled for going for his gun instead.

  The big colt left Tory’s holster in a smooth motion and the barrel lowered at Randall with deliberate calm.

  “I’m telling you to let go those ropes, Randall. That corpse is full of plague and you ain’t taking it into town. Now, do as I say or I’ll have no choice but to stop you here.”

  Randall stared at the gun and the cool grey eyes beyond it. Then he snorted and began to laugh, a gnashing unnatural sound devoid of joy, born of desperation and grief. It made Tory’s skin crawl.

  “All this trouble on account of one corpse and you want to make another one, Marshal?” Randall was still making that horrible sound was he raised his hands, palms out, for Tory to see. They were covered in blood.

  “Dead man’s blood, Marshal,” he said, choking back more laughter, “I got them bad vapours now, don’t I?”

  Randall looked at the marshal’s men as if seeing them for the first time. They shifted uncomfortably as Randall smiled at them and waved.

  “Which of you boys is the lucky bastard that gets to drag my stinking carcass off the road when the Marshal puts a hole in my head, eh? Try not to breath in if you do. The stench is something terrible.”

  The men looked away, refusing to meet Randall’s eyes which only made the insane cowboy smile wider as he looked back at Tory.

  “You can’t kill the devil with bullets, Marshal,” he said, “Nor the plague, neither.”

  “Little comfort that’ll render you,” said Tory, thumbing back the hammer of his revolver for emphasis, “If you continue to press me.”

  Randall’s smile faded. He regarded the gun with bland indifference. He glanced back down the road from the direction he’d dragged the body, looking at nothing as far as Tory could tell. A gentle breeze gusted down the road, cooling the sweat on Tory’s cheek, but he kept his pistol trained on Randall.

  Randall again regarded Tory and when he spoke he spoke with all the authority of a mind decided that would not be dissuaded.

  “I’m keeping my promise, Marshal. Me and Billy are going to town and that’s just how it's gonna be.”

  Randall deliberately turned his back on Tory and with heavy steps began to drag the corpse down the road again.

  “Stop where you are!” demanded Tory, “Not another step!”

  Randall made no reply and did not stop. The time for words had passed. Tory’s finger tightened on the trigger. His arm was steady, his aim true. At this range, he could scoop the back of Randall’s skull with three pounds of pressure. Peach of a shot.

  But that would mean shooting an unarmed man in the back of the head. Things like that bordered on murder if they weren’t outright evil. And what had been Randall’s crime, really? Trying to bury a friend? Tory could imagine the headlines and they did not look good.

  His gunhand wavered. Tory sighed and relaxed his aim, let the hammer down easy and returned the colt to its holster. He watched Randall diminish down the road and the backward-facing blackened eyes of the corpse stared across the distance at Tory, the purple head bouncing along almost as though nodding at him. Tory grimaced.

  “Dammit,” he said.

  He turned his horse and returned to his company who waited for him to speak in an uncomfortable silence.

  “Bronnell, you follow that smoke and take a look at the shack, though I suspect you’ll find it burned already. The rest of you are with me. We are making double time back to Lincolntown and if you can ride faster don’t bother waiting for the rest. Just get there and get people inside.”

  “What’s gonna happen, Marshal?” asked Bronnell.

  “The plague is coming to town, boys. And I want everyone off the damn streets when it passes through.”