Unbury Carol(12)

“No, Robert.” Dwight could hear the nails of his plan being hammered into place. “Carol was, like most women, very protective of her image. I can’t believe she’d want the town to see her this way. It’s the same reason I’m asking for a quiet affair. Carol was…in her way…shy.”

Manders nodded, though he’d never thought of Carol Evers as shy.

As they exited the office, the pair discussed Dwight bringing Carol the morning of the funeral. Manders carried the lantern, and as the director held open the front door Dwight placed a hand on his shoulder then immediately wished he hadn’t.

It felt as though his insincerity might be transferred through touch.

“I appreciate you seeing me so late, Robert. And I apologize if things aren’t entirely going through your hands. You see, Carol was a very loyal person. One of the many reasons why I loved her. Asking my family to handle things would have meant a great deal to her. As you can see, I’m struggling mightily with the loss. I do appreciate you seeing me. I am somewhat ashamed to say that the sooner this happens, the better for my constitution.”

“Everything will be seen to,” Manders said. “All will be handled the right way.”

Dwight attempted a piteous smile. “Funny you using the word right like that, Robert. It all feels so completely wrong to me.”

Then Dwight stepped into the dark and became one with the sky, the midnight, the black coach with its gray horses, and the flickering shadows beyond the wooden arch signifying the entrance to the cemetery. As Dwight rode away, along the length of the graveyard, Manders could not distinguish between his shape and that of the markers, stone and wood, sticking up from the earth.

It was dark.

But for Dwight, a nagging flicker of distant flame came to life in his mind’s eye. It was birthed immediately following a thought he’d had: Nobody knows.

The light seemed to warn him, to tell him that John Bowie might be dead and Lafayette certainly in on the deal, but Dwight might want to use that light, that distant flame, to check and make sure that nobody else knew, indeed.





When the message from Harrows came in, Mister Cadge knew exactly which of his employees should bring it to its destination. But the kid was near falling asleep on the bench outside.

“Got one for ya,” Cadge said, lowering his head to block the sun with the brim of his visor. He tapped the kid on the shoulder.

The messenger looked up groggily, confused, before understanding what Mister Cadge meant.

Then he moved fast.

“Oh!” He grabbed his hat and leapt from the bench. “A delivery!”

“Best get on it,” the old man said, handing the kid the folded paper.

“Thank you!” The messenger put on his hat now. He started to move from the porch, then paused. “Mister Cadge?”

“What is it?”

“I’m…I’m nervous to meet him.”

Mister Cadge laughed the healthy drumroll of a sober man.

“I wouldn’t be calling it a meeting, son. You’re only a messenger after all.” Cadge winked and the kid still did not move. Then Cadge said, “It’s a fairly urgent telegram. Off with you now.”

The messenger put the folded paper into the pocket of his vest and thanked Mister Cadge again. The old man had come through.

I won’t tell you where the outlaw lives, boy, but I’ll gladly hand you an envelope with his address upon it if an’ when a message comes in.

The messenger leapt from the porch. He rushed across the small gravel lot to where an old brown mare stood hitched to a post. Mister Cadge looked out the window and saw that the kid was already on the horse, already heading north. It meant little to Cadge: James Moxie and outlawing and who was famous in Mackatoon and who had made a name for himself on the Trail. Whatever Moxie had done, he’d done it as a much younger man, and Cadge was just happy he didn’t have to fear any gun-toting lunatic or hero-ruffian sulking about his town. James Moxie had stopped by the office and introduced himself when he first moved to Mackatoon. He was just as polite and cordial as President Coopersmith appeared to be, and maybe Mister Cadge did care a bit after all about who was famous and who wasn’t because he did get something of a rise, a thrill, the moment the name James Moxie escaped the newcomer’s lips and traveled over the cracked desk in the office. Sure, all that outlawing was for kids, stories to swap, big scary yarns all rolled up on one another and easy enough to carry from one fire to the next, but they did have their merit. The Trail was trashed with tales of the underlaw, the overlaw, the beyondthelaw, and Cadge had heard as many as the next old man: the wretched Trail, bordered by black birch and impenetrable walls of half-dead hickory; half dead half the year with snow at the roots and bone-glove ice suffocating the branches. The tunnel of tales, the Trail, dark enough to keep families at home at night.

Mister Cadge smiled. It wasn’t easy being a pious man in these parts.

And hell’s heaven if James Moxie’s story didn’t stick out just the littlest bit. Say hey to the high-hog if Moxie’s feat in Abberstown wasn’t just the tiniest bit more special than most.

They called it the Trick and though Cadge didn’t know magic from music, it was one hell’s heaven of a story.

Cadge went to the window again and saw that the messenger was gone, well out of view, probably a third of the way to the onetime outlaw’s house by now. Again, he recalled the day Moxie came in, standing right here before his old cracked desk, his strong hand extended over the old wood, introducing himself like any man might, saying yes thank you in advance for any messages that may be sent my way and, look, here’s where I live, right here is where one of the greatest outlaws who ever rode the Trail lives, lives, because he did not die out there in the impenetrable black mass of shadows and madness.