“What do you think about President Garfield get-
ting shot?” he tried at one point.
“He was a damn fool to just let a man walk up and
shoot him.”
Well, what was there to say to that?
Then he asked whether or not he thought Mr. Bell’s
telephone would ever reach as far west as Denver.
“I heard it is quite something,” Glass said, to
which William Sunday did not reply. “Don’t even
need to be in the same building, much less the same
room to talk to a fellow.”
But William Sunday was not a man to look beyond
the next few months knowing as he did that he’d never
use a telephone or know a world where such inven-
tions would come into existence, and so he did not care
to think about such things, nor comment on them.
With the sun near set by the time they arrived in
Bismarck, the sky to the west was a haze of purple
and William Sunday did not fail to take notice of it,
for each sunset was precious to him now, each
minute, hour, day. Every tree and flower and bird, it
seemed, had a certain importance now.
“Pull up to that drugstore,” he said.
Glass waited while his employer went inside and
came back out again.
“Find us a hotel, Mr. Glass.”
They registered at the Bison Inn, two rooms ad-
joining and a bath down the hall. It seemed like lux-
ury and it was.
“Early start as usual tomorrow?” Glass asked.
William Sunday leaned heavily against the door to
his room as he inserted the key.
“Maybe not so early, Mr. Glass,” and opened his
door and went in.
He barely made it to take his clothes off, his back
ached so bad he could not bend, and the fire in his
groin caused him to bite the inside of his cheek. He’d
run out of laudanum two days before and they hadn’t
come across a settlement or a village large enough to
have a pharmacy until now. He uncapped the bottle
and took two large swallows and waited.
He could hear Glass moving around in his room.
He closed his eyes and silently counted backward.
The drug usually began taking effect around the
count of fifty. This time he counted all the way down
to a hundred and started again before its soothing
warmth coursed his veins and eased his pain.
Goddamn, goddamn, what a way to go out—slow
like this.
He tried to sleep but kept waking up. Every time
he shifted in the bed it was a knife going through him.
He reached for the bottle and nursed it until the pain
and the night went away and did not awake again un-
til he heard knocking at his door. He pulled out his
pocket watch and checked the time. Both hands were
resting on twelve.
“Mr. Sunday!”
“Yes,” he muttered.
“You okay in there?”
He cleared his throat, said, “I’m just getting
around, be ready to leave in half an hour.”
“Yes sir.”
Then he heard Glass’s footsteps going down the
hall. His body felt heavy as a sandbag. He moved
slowly, dressed, then rested after he had. It was
while struggling to get into his coat that the thought
occurred to him again. The weight of the pistols
resting inside their custom-sewn pockets caused him
to consider a thing he never thought he would until
that day in the doctor’s office.
He took one out. A seven-shot Smith & Wesson
with yellowed ivory grips and a three-inch barrel. He
favored it for close work. Well, what could be closer
than putting it to his own head and pulling the trig-
ger? He’d done it to other men. It had never been a
problem. It would sure enough end his misery. He
wouldn’t have to end up like some old wounded buf-
falo the wolves tracked. Man always had a choice
about how he lived and how he died, whereas lesser
animals did not.
He thumbed back the hammer cocking the trigger.
It would just take an instant. Sweat beaded his fore-
head and a drop of it fell onto the pistol’s barrel. The
sweat drop turned into a daughter’s tear. But would
she really cry for him once she heard of his demise, or
would she think good riddance? It was something he
needed to find out. A last act, so to speak. The pistol
would always be available to him.
Ride it out, he told himself ten times over until he
lowered the hammer and slipped the pistol back into
his pocket.
Glass was waiting for him out front. Sunlight daz-
zled in wet puddles in the street. It had rained the
night before; he hadn’t remembered hearing it.
“You look ailing, Mr. Sunday.”
He climbed aboard the carriage with difficulty and
eased himself down to a position he thought he could
tolerate, patted his jacket pocket for reassurance of
the bottle of laudanum that had become more impor-
