Randall collapsed breathless at the door to Billy’s shack. He knew he did not have long. The marshal would be right behind him with men and bright torches.

  Shielding his eyes, Randall checked the sun. Nearly noon. Not much time.

  What I wouldn’t give, he thought, for a damn horse.

  But Randall had no horse and so he put the thought out of his mind. When he’d caught his breath he reached up and rapped on the shack door.

  “Billy?” he said.

  Randall pressed his ear against the door.

  “I’m gonna keep my promise, Billy,” he said, “I’m gonna bury you right in that nice churchyard. I won’t let them burn you, Billy.”

  He listened again.

  “I’m going to camp,” he said, “I’ll be back. Don’t you move, Billy, I’ll be back.”

  Billy didn’t move.

  When Randall returned the door to the shack was already open, waiting for him, swaying slightly on creaking hinges. The smell of death soaked the air. Randall hardly noticed it.

  Squaring his shoulders, steeling his nerves, Randall took a deep breath and stepped inside the shack and for the first time in what seemed a very long time, he was face to face with poor Billy.

  *** *** *** *** ***

  The day had turned hot.

  Randall’s lungs already ached from the ragged breaths he heaved in and out through his open mouth and his tongue and throat felt crusty from the hot air. It was unpleasant but not as unpleasant as breathing through his nose would be. He’d stuffed both nostrils with strips of cloth torn from his shirt. It was a shame to ruin the shirt, but he knew he would have an easier time buying a new shirt than dealing with that awful smell.

  Randall’s tattered shirt stuck to the sweat already covering his body. The rope burned his hands and bit into the skin on his shoulders where they pulled tight. He tried to ignore the discomfort, fix his eyes on the dirt road ahead and the rhythmic plodding of his boots in the dust, one foot in front of the other, and behind him poor BIlly dragged along, kicking up a cloud of dust with the heels of the boots still on his feet.

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  “Don’t take this wrong, BIlly,” said Randall, gasping out the words haltingly through his exertion, “But you’re heavier than you look.”

  Randall’s boot fell on a smooth rock and it gave under him in the loose dirt. His leg stretched, Billy’s weight shifted, and Randall found himself pulled off his feet, landing hard on his side with a heavy grunt. He lay there for a moment, feeling the burning ache his shoulders and thighs, trying to catch his breath.

  “Why did it have to be so damn hot?” he said.

  Dry places.

  “What’s that, Billy?”

  The Devil in the yellow robe makes his home in the dry places, There is no peace for the restless dead without a coffin to lay their head.

  “My sister used to tell me stories about the devil to scare me when I was a kid,” said Randall. He could feel Billy watching him with those glassy, unblinking eyes. He didn’t look. He couldn’t bear the sight of Billy’s face.

  I see him. He follows me. He wants me for his own. He is ravenous.

  “Hush, Billy,” said Randalll, “I don’t want to hear anymore.”

  He’s here. He’s with us.

  “Enough!”

  Randall grimaced and pulled himself up onto his knees, despite the protests of his screaming muscles. He looked up at the sun and winced, the light and heat made him bow his head and seek the refuge of the shade cast by the drim of his dirty hat.

  “Why did it have to be so damn hot?” he said.

  It is the devil’s breath.

  “No, it ain’t,” said Randall, “It's the damn sun.”

  Are you sure?

  Before Randall could speak, he felt a sudden gust of hot air against the back of his neck and every hair stood straight on end. He sat stock still. A breeze, perhaps? It may have been. But, then there was no breeze now. And the air had not been dry, as one would expect, but damp and sticky. Randall cautions reached behind him and felt the skin on the back of his neck. It felt damp, sure enough, but was that his own sweat or…

  I see with dead man’s eyes. The King of the Dry Places, wrapped in yellow robe. He gnaws on the bones of oathbreakers. He wants us both, Randall. He follows.

  Randall felt another gust against his skin, hotter than before and heavy and damp. An involuntary shiver went up his spine and he felt a chill despite the heat. With a renewed energy bordering on manic, Randall jumped to his head. He did not even bother to brush the dust off his pants, he just picked up the ropes and pulled them over his shoulders and set to walking, straining with the effort of dragging the corpse of Billy behind him through the dirt.

  He follows. He salivates, ravenous, eyes like a hungry coyote, black tongue licking lips cracked and torn. He’s hungry. He follows.

  Randall tried not to listen, focusing instead on planting each boot in front of the other. He felt the air on his neck again. It felt just like breath and carried a smell of carrion that invaded even past the rags jammed into his nose.

  He follows! Run, Randall, run!

  Randall no longer felt the sweat or the heat, he felt only the cold grip of terror and the stinking breath of the unseen on the back of his neck. His grip tightened on the burning rope and he heaved at the corpse as his pace quickened, his eyes fixed on the passing blur of the dirt beneath his feet.