he watched Smoke build a noose.
“This man has not been tried!” the marshal protested.
“Yeah, he has,” Smoke said. “He admitted to me what he done.”
The marshal looked at the smoke to the southeast.
“House fire,” Preacher said. “Poor feller lost everything.”
Casey spat in the direction of the crowd. He cursed them.
“This is murder!” the marshal said. “I intend to file charges against you both.”
“Halp!” Casey hollered.
A local minister began praying for Casey’s poor wretched soul.
Casey soiled himself as the noose was slipped around his neck.
The minister prayed harder.
“That ain’t much of a prayer,” Preacher opined sourly. “I had you beat hands down when them Injuns was fixin’ to skin me alive on the Platte. Put some feelin’ in it, man!”
The local minister began to shout and sweat. The crowd swelled; some had brought their supper with them. A hanging was always an interesting sight. There just wasn’t that much to do in small western towns. Some men were betting how long it would take for Casey to die—providing his neck didn’t snap when his butt left the saddle.
A small choir had assembled. The ladies lifted their voices to the sky.
“‘Shall We Gather at the River,’” they intoned.
“I personally think ‘Swing Low’ would be more like it,” Preacher opined.
A local merchant looked at Casey. “You owe me sixty-five dollars.”
“Hell with you!” Casey tried to kick the man.
“I want my money!” the merchant shouted.
“You got anything to say before you go to Hell?” Smoke asked Casey.
“You won’t get away with this!” Casey screamed. “If Potter or Stratton don’t git you, Richards will.”
“What’s he talkin’ about?” the marshal asked.
“Casey was with the Gray—same as my Pa and brother,” Smoke explained. “Casey and some others waylaid a patrol bringing a load of gold into Georgia. They shot my brother in the back and left him to die. Hard.”
“That was war,” the marshal said.
“It was murder.”
“Hurry up,” a citizen shouted. “My supper’s gettin’ cold.”
“I’ll see you hang for this,” the marshal told Smoke.
“You go to hell!” Smoke told him.
Casey swung in the cool, late afternoon air.
“I’m notifying the territorial governor of this,” the marshal said.
Casey’s bootheels drummed the air.
“Shout, man!” Preacher told the minister. “Sing, sisters, sing!” he urged the choir.
“What about my sixty-five dollars?” the merchant shouted.
All the memories had flashed through Buck’s mind in the space of two heartbeats.
“You’ve gone away again,” Sally said.
Buck looked at her. She was smiling up at him. “Yes, I guess I was, Sally. I apologize for that.”
They continued walking toward the hotel. Sally said, “Buck, are you here to slay dragons or to tilt at windmills?”
“Beg pardon?”
“Are you familiar with Cervantes?”
“Is he a gunhand?”
She looked at him to see if he was serious. He was. “No, Buck. A writer.”
“No, I guess I missed that one. I know what slaying dragons means. But what’s that about tilting windmills?”
“Oh, I suppose you’re not. I didn’t notice Sancho riding in with you.”
Now Buck was thoroughly confused. “I never had a Mex sidekick, Sally.”
“I have a copy of
“All right.” Buck was well-read, considering his lack of formal education and allowing for the locale and his
