death, yet a kind of oblique responsibility had been thrust upon him.
Damn, Fargo swore as he found himself thinking about coming events that cast their shadows before them. If he had not stayed the glorious week with Abbey, he would have been long gone from this north Montana country. If he hadn’t told Ed Stanford he was going to visit Abbey, the man wouldn’t have been able to tell the youth. There’d have been no one to trail him, to pursue him with still undelivered messages. Coming events did cast their shadows, but you could only understand them after they’d been cast.
What shadows was he riding into now, Fargo wondered as he moved past a lake half filled with logs, a big splash dam holding back hundreds of other logs. Perhaps he’d be wise to let the brown gelding behind him find its own way, he pondered. But he wouldn‘t, he knew. The young man wrapped in the blanket behind him deserved to have his message delivered. Everybody deserved some kind of obituary.
