“Here lies William Peterson, cowboy far from home.”

  That’s what the headstone would say, when it was ordered. That’s what Randall had requested. He’d even paid for it. Tory thought that was pretty big of Mr. Geets but it was hardly the biggest thing he’d done for Billy Peterson.

  For now, Billy just had a simple wooden board to mark his resting place with a name written in charcoal. Marshal Tory stood looking at it as the rain poured down over Lincolntown, turning dusty streets to mud.

  Randall Geets was the talk of the town. Admiration for his devotion to his friend had definitely won out over the suspicion. Tory didn’t blame them. He could have shot Randall early on, preventing the whole thing, if he’d wanted. He hadn’t wanted to, that was the thing. Sometimes, even when every logic center in your brain is firing, telling you the right move, you can’t do it. Sometimes the human impulse wins out over the humane impulse.

  Mr. Bunsall had been confined to his home and all the clothing he’d been wearing was burned. The Preacher was probably fine, Tory figured, he really hadn’t been too close to Randall. He’d been asked to quarantine in the church anyway, just to be safe. Hopefully, neither of them would start to show symptoms. It was too late to do anything now if they did.

  Randall had dragged Billy pretty well through town. That certainly couldn't be helped. The rain was well timed. Maybe that would rinse most of Billy’s blood out of the dust. Maybe that was God’s way of giving His approval. Tory hoped so.

  He was glad to see Billy buried. He prayed it would cost the whole town to see it done.

  It had already cost Randall.

  Officially, as far as Lincolntown was concerned, Randall left town immediately after burying Billy. That was true enough. Tory’s version would have been that he had spoken to Randall for less than two minutes and then the cowboy had wandered off into the growing summer storm laughing maniacally and muttering to himself and devils and deserts. Not a surprise really. Hallucinations are a known symptom of onsetting fever.

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  There were others. Overheating, loss of energy, shortness of breath, muscle aches. God only knew if Randall had any of those. If he did, it would take a whole lot of prayer to save Lincolntown from following right behind him. It could end up putting the whole town in the ground beside Billy.

  A whole lot of risk to bury one lost cowboy.

  Tory did not expect Randall would last long on the plains in his condition. Though, he doubted a body would ever be found either with all the scavengers about. Might as well let the good citizens of Lincolntown have their legend. As far as they needed to know, Randall Geets lived happily ever after.

  And maybe, on some level, that was true. Randall had raved like a lunatic, clearly his mind had broken under the strain his body had pushed through and yet Tory could not shake his last words. Just after he had finished burying Billy, Tory had come up behind him.

  “I hope it was worth the effort, Mr. Geets,” he’d said.

  Randall had looked at him with those weary eyes. If his face hadn’t been dripping with rain, Tory would have sworn he was weeping. He had smiled. Not a madman’s smile either but a real, honest, joyful smile.

  “She had auburn hair,” Randall had said, “And freckles on her nose. And blue eyes that sparkled when she laughed.”

  “Who?” said Tory.

  “Pollyanna,” said Randall.

  The name hadn’t meant anything to Tory, but it sure must have meant a lot to Randall. That had been the end of coherent conversation. Randall had wandered off into the gathering dark and Tory had let him go.

  The last he’d seen of Randall the cowboy had his arms spread wide like he could embrace the rain, his face turned toward heaven, smiling wide as he disappeared down the road out of town into the prairies.

  Whatever peace his trails had brought him, Tory was glad he’d found it.

  Tory shook his head and turned away from Billy’s grave and started shuffling through the mud back out into the Lincolntown streets. He paused for a moment at the courtyard gate, sparing a glance out toward the plains where the endless grey expanse stretched under glistening skies out to meet the distant horizon.

  “Poor Randall,” he said.

  THE END