right down to it, he had the nerve to broach the sub-
ject with her. He drank more of his Madeira.
John was still thinking on Fannie when he saw Jake
coming up the street, was surprised when the lawman
stepped up onto the sidewalk and stopped there by
his chair.
“Marshal.”
“John, I’ve got a situation I need you to handle.”
“Certainly.”
Jake told him about finding the Swedes.
“Lord, I thought we’d gotten past all the craziness.”
“Not quite.”
“How many did you say?”
“Five; wife, daughter, three boys.”
Tall John shook his head in sympathy.
“Terrible news, Marshal.”
“You’ll need someone to help you bury them, I
suspect.”
John wasn’t sure why exactly but the first person
he thought about was Will Bird. Far as he knew Will
wasn’t working and had the time on his hands if he
could get him to agree to do it. It might give him a
chance to pick Will’s brain about Fannie, see what he
could learn about her, her ways and such, what she
liked and what she didn’t. Give him a leg up when he
got around to presenting his case.
“I think I might know someone,” John said.
“The sooner the better,” Jake said.
“You don’t want ’em brought in then?”
“What would be the point?”
“I’ll get right on it.”
“One more thing.”
John looked earnest.
“The old man—the Swede. He’s still out there
somewhere, so you make sure you’re armed in case he
comes back round again.”
John had never known burying folks could be a
dangerous profession, but the sound of the marshal’s
voice in his warning made it seem possible.
“Yes sir, I will.”
Jake went over to Otis Dollar’s mercantile and found
Gus Boone behind the counter.
“Otis took the day off,” Gus volunteered without
being asked. “Him and Martha went on a picnic. A
picnic, can you imagine?”
“Pleasant enough day for it,” Jake said.
“Yeah, but . . .”
“I’ll have a few cans of beans, slab of bacon, cof -
fee, extra cartridges, a box of those shotgun shells,
and one rope.”
“Going on a trip?”
“Going after the Swede.”
“What’s he done?”
“He killed his family, Gus.”
He could see the effect such news had on Gus,
said, “If you could get those supplies together sooner
rather than later, I’d appreciate it.”
Toussaint was waiting for him when he came back
around. Jake tossed him the extra box of shotgun
shells. “Ten gauge, right?”
Toussaint opened the box and dumped the shells in
his pockets.
“Hell, I’m set, you?”
“What do you intend to do with me?” Martha said.
Otis moaned nearby on the blanket, his head stream-
ing red ribbons of blood. The Swede was skeleton
thin, his hair stuck out in whitish spikes from his
head. He had the eyes of a dangerous man, and he
had a pistol, too. She wondered if he was drunk or
simply had gone mad.
“You let me alone,” she demanded. “You let me
and my husband be.”
“We go on now, yah.” It was as though he hadn’t
heard a word she said.
“Go where, you damn fool!”
She couldn’t help but somehow blame Otis for
their predicament. If only he hadn’t suggested such a
foolish thing as a picnic. If only he had asked her to
go upstairs over the store to their bedroom, she would
have gone, perhaps begrudgingly so, but she would
have gone, and he wouldn’t be lying with a bleeding
head and she wouldn’t be in danger of being as-
saulted. She could think of nothing more terrible than
to have a madman assault her.
“We go that way,” the Swede said, pointing with
his pistol off toward the west. She hadn’t a clue as to
what lay in the direction he pointed.
“How far that way?” she said.
“Sweden, maybe.”
“Sweden?”
“Go to the fjords.”
“Fjords?”
“Yah, yah,” he said.
“No!” she said.
“You want I shoot you again, Inge?”
She had not a clue as to who Inge was. The man
was obviously deranged. She’d had an uncle once
who became deranged and she remembered what a
time her family had with the man, how he cackled
