The word spread through Lincolntown like wildfire: the cowboy was coming back and he was bringing his dead friend with him. There was the expected burst of panic, of course. The old, young, and sickly were quickly sequestered well away from the path of infection. But once the initial shock of the approach had worn off, the general attitude in Lincolntown began to change from fear to one of grudging respect. The cowboy’s approach was the topic of every barroom conversation or front porch gossip. Everyone had to admit that, wise or not, no one could deny that the cowboy was certainly doing his friend a damn good turn.

  As the citizens of Lincolntown began to admit this, first to themselves then to each other, first reluctantly and then with growing conviction, the attitude began to soften even further. What had begun as begrudging admission evolved into a genuine respect which, in turn, birthed a growing curiosity.

  Who was this man gone mad with devotion to a friend’s last request? Lincolntown wanted to know.

  Little by little, the coltish folk began to gather in parlours and shop windows, finding excuses to loiter about in any place where they might catch a glimpse of the doomed cowboy.

  They did not have to wait long.

  *** *** *** *** ***

  By the time he reached the outskirts of Lincolntown, Randall’s pace had diminished to a weary plod. His hands were scraped raw by the rough rope and stung like he had a fistful of hornets. His shoulders lost skin with every step and jostle of Billy's body and the blisters on his feet burned with every aching step. His body was wet all over, from sweat or blood or some combination of the two he couldn’t say. Still, he pressed on, not daring to stop for the stench of the devil’s breath on his back and every step, mile by agonizing mile, bringing him closer to the church and the grave and the end.

  He smiled when he saw the first of Lincolntown’s buildings looming in front of him, signaling the last step of the journey.

  “We’re gonna make it, Billy,” he said, “We’re almost there.”

  Billy didn’t answer. Randall was grateful for that. He gripped the ropes in his bleeding hands and lowered his head and pushed his aching feet against the earth, dragging himself along into the town.

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  He felt their eyes on him before he saw them but once he started looking he began to see them everywhere, peering at him from behind windows and from open doorways. Just watching, some shaking their heads, some nodding approvingly. He ignored them and pressed on.

  The heat was merciless in town, the sun baked streets burning white and hot even on his boots. He grit his teeth and forced himself forward even as the strain on his back tightened and grew taut, almost pulling him backward off his feet. He looked back and found Billy had gotten stuck in a rutted patch of street, some eroded depression from the last rainy season. Randall gripped his rope and pulled. The body tilted but remained where it lay. The slope was not a deep one, but Randall was exhausted, his reserves spent, his body aching. His shoulders drooped and he fell onto his knees in the dust in a stupified daze.

  “Back! Stay back!” came a familiar voice. Randall weakly opened his eyes, he didn’t even remember letting them shut, and looked for Tory. He found him, arms outstretched trying to keep a group of about a dozen people, all citizens of Lincolntown, well dressed and clean, herded onto the sidewalks away from Randall. They were all watching him, Randall realized, with more curiosity than hostility. Even, he thought, approval.

  “Stay back!” said Tory again, “That body is still contagious, for God’s sake keep your distance.”

  Randall stared mystified at the growing crowd, but they only stared back at him. Almost like they were waiting for him to do something.

  “Seems we’ve got an audience, Billy,” he said, “Sorry about that. It's not especially dignified, I know.”

  Randall put the crowd out of his mind. He took up his rope and, standing, made a herculean effort to drag Billy forward. The ropes strained and, with a jolt, Billy rolled free of the rut and slid out onto flat ground. Randall heaved an exhausted and thankful sigh. Behind him came the sound of applause.

  Randall couldn’t believe it. He looked back at his audience to be sure and his eyes confirmed him. The observers, gentlemen mostly but one or two ladies even, nodded their support and offered him applause.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” said Randall, “I think they’re on our side.”

  Randall turned and started dragging Billy along again, slowly and painfully making his way toward the church at the other end of town. This time, the people of Lincolntown followed behind, watching.

  Randall could feel them, moving in a mass behind him. Some of them shouted encouragement as he tramped along, saying “You’re almost there!” or “Hold in there!” Randall could hardly believe he was in the same town that had all but given him the cold shoulder a day ago but he had to admit, the general feeling of support now drove him forward with renewed tenacity.

  As if to reassure himself he hadn’t imagined the whole thing, Randall glanced over his shoulder at the crowd. They were still there, even larger than before, still looking on with encouraging words and reverent faces. But they were not alone.

  Over the gathered crowd another figure towered.

  Tall and gaunt it seemed, it's hunched proportions inhuman and angular and something like putrid slime dripped from the shadowed void where a face would be if not for the concealment of a thick hood pulled well forward to obscure all features.

  It wore a yellow robe.

  Randall screamed.