“I know a better place,” Jake said, thinking Doc
Willis wouldn’t mind a guest now that he’d passed on
to the great beyond and that big house was just sitting
empty, complete with a cabinet full of medicines, a
big bed, and all the conveniences.
“I’m willing to pay my way, whatever it takes,”
William Sunday said.
“Can you stand?”
“With some help, I reckon so.”
Jake watched as Sunday threw back the blanket,
and saw he’d been correct: there was a pistol clutched
in one of his hands, a small silver pistol with pearl
grips, deadly as a viper.
Once settled inside Doc Willis’ house, Jake said to
William Sunday, “It is probably best that as few peo-
ple as possible knows who you are, but surely there
will be those who will ask and wonder why you’re be-
ing put up here at Doc’s.”
“It doesn’t matter to me if folks know who I am,”
Sunday said. “Not at this stage of the game. Anybody
who has it in them to take me on will do so, and those
who don’t won’t come bothering me.”
His eyes were sleepy from the laudanum Jake had
administered, his voice thick and slurred.
“I thought you might prefer a private death.”
Sunday looked at his benefactor.
“You have a relationship with my daughter?”
“No. Just a man trying to do her a favor.”
“This your place?”
“Used to belong to the town physician; he passed
away not long ago. It’s for sale, but so far nobody has
come up with the money to buy it. I used to help Doc
out, and until the new physician shows up, I’ve been
granted use of the place.”
Sunday looked around.
“Nice house,” he said, noting the flocked wallpa-
per, the fireplaces, the Belgium carpets, the stain large
as a dinner plate that looked like old blood there near
the edge of one of those nice Belgium carpets.
Jake showed him where the bedroom was, said,
“There’s a honey pot under the bed, might save you a
trip to the privy out back if you’re not up to it.”
“Christ,” Sunday said disgustedly. “Look what
I’ve become.”
“We all get there sooner or later.”
“I’m not yet forty-five.”
“You need anything else before I go?”
“Clara’s a good woman. She just married the
wrong man.”
Jake wondered what the point of Sunday telling
him this was.
“I’ll bring you in an armload of wood for the fire-
place before I go. I can also check around town and
see if I can find someone to nurse you if you like.”
“No nurse, not yet.” Sunday slumped on the bed.
Jake went out back and got the wood and brought it
in and got a fire started.
“Clara said she’d be around soon as school was
over,” he said to the gunfighter. Sunday waved a
hand, then closed his eyes.
Jake closed the door behind him, then went to the
Fat Duck Cafe for his dinner knowing he had yet an-
other hour or so before Clara let school out. He
thought maybe he should check further on William
Sunday, see who if anyone might come looking for
him. It didn’t fail to register that William Sunday
wasn’t the only man in town others might come look-
ing for.
Crossing the street, he saw a stranger riding a roan
horse just as he reached the cafe. He paused long
enough to observe the rider: long cinnamon hair
spilling out from under a pinched sugarloaf hat,
dressed in a nice wool suit. A man who looked like
the sun wouldn’t set without his approving it. A man
he figured it was best to keep an eye on.
Hell, it would be just his luck the town would start
filling up with strangers.
Toussaint sensed rather than knew by evidence that
something was wrong at Karen’s. Generally she knew
well ahead of someone’s arrival they were coming and
would be there at the door. He halted the mule a
dozen yards from the house. Something cold went
through his limbs. His first instinct was to call to her,
to hello the house.
The sun had dipped to the horizon, seemed to
teeter there, a reddish yellow ball quivering, with
banks of smoke gray clouds gathering. The shadow of
the house stretched out darkly across the grasslands.
He noticed then the busted window. He backed the
mule up, walked it in a wide circle around the house.
Nothing else looked amiss except Karen’s little bay
and Dex’s gelding weren’t in the corral. Could mean
she was gone, maybe left like she said she was going
to the last time he talked to her. But why the god-
damn window busted?
Toussaint unhooked the shotgun hanging from the
saddle horn by a leather chord. He broke it open to
check the loads—the brass bottoms of a pair of dou-
ble ought buck looked like old money. It was enough
