Unbury Carol(65)

“Is that what he said?”

“Is that what who said?”

“Mister Evers.” Farrah reddened. “Did he say he’d gotten his family to take care of her?”

“He did, indeed.”

Farrah shook her head no. A definitive no. She’d never met anybody else in her life in Manders’s line of work.

“Well, all right,” Opal said. He put his hat back upon his head and smiled in a fatherly way. “I thank you and I thank you again for taking the time with me. And if you remember anything else—”

“Of course.”

“But don’t sit around trying to remember things all day, neither. That’ll just rip you in half. You can trust me there.” He studied her sad face a moment longer and said, “If anything funny is going on, I’ll find out what it is. You can rest with that as a pillow.”





Jefferson had just finished writing when the knocking came. At first he thought it was his old friend again, come back for one more memory, but Jefferson was no fool to the ways of the chase. He peered out the window. Through the blanket he couldn’t tell if the hatless man was crippled or not. He was standing still, his hands in his pockets, looking down at the dirt, and there was no horse looped in the yard.

“I know you’re home,” the stranger called, and Jefferson could tell a bad man when he saw one.

Worse. This man, whoever he was, crippled or not, was crazy. You could see it clear as canvas in his eyes.

Jefferson watched for a long time before slinking back along the wall. Hunched, he hurried to where a shotgun hung by string above a bookshelf. He untied it and took it down.

“I can hear you in there.”

Jefferson gripped the barrel and hunched to the kitchen table. Above it was another shelf, stabilized by string, and on it were the shells. He set the gun on the table and grimaced as he tried, unable, to reach them.

“I’ve had a bit of an accident,” Smoke called. “My coach fell to bits from that hole out on the Trail. I could sure use some assistance.”

Jefferson pulled a chair over to the shelf. Taking hold of the chair-back, he lifted himself up.

“I won’t be long. You just let me know if you can help and where I can get help if you can’t.”

Up on the chair Jefferson took hold of the shells and had difficulty getting back down.

Smoke continued, “You don’t need to open the door. Just let me know where I can get some help…”

Jefferson opened the chamber and thumbed the shells inside.

“I know you’re in there. Don’t make it so I come in on my own.”

Jefferson braced himself with the nearest chair and hunched past the table. He limped across the room, lifted the gun, and shot a hole through the door. Wood splinters exploded.

“Ain’t coming in on your own now!” Jefferson yelled.

He hunched to the door and looked through the break. It was hard to see whether or not the man lay dead on his stoop. Jefferson, sweating, hunched to the window and pulled back the blankets and saw the man wasn’t there at all.

“Hell’s heaven…”

No body, no blood.

Jefferson limped to the other side of the old schoolhouse, kicking yellowed pages out of the way. He looked out the window.

The man was in the backyard. Making a pile of his things. Jefferson didn’t need the confirmation now, but he saw the man was crippled.

“Tell me what you gave him,” Smoke yelled, tossing another book on the pile.

Jefferson hunched back to the kitchen table and reloaded. Sweat dripped from his chin. It felt incredible, in its way…action. He held the gun tight, as if gripping his own entire history on the Trail. At the window again, he used the barrel to push aside the drapes and knocked on the glass with it. “You ’bout ready for hell’s heaven, kid?”

Smoke kept his eyes on the pile when he responded. “I know he didn’t stop by for supper.”

“Nobody stopped by at all, Cripple.”

“What’d he need, hermit. Just tell me what he took.”

Smoke took a birdhouse from a maple tree and tossed it onto the heap. The wood split when it landed. Cracked eggs half rolled forth.

Jefferson knocked on the window again. Smoke looked up. Jefferson fired through the glass.

When the smoke and glass cleared he saw the man had been hit. He’d shot him in the shin. “I’m aiming for your chest next, kid.”

Smoke looked down. Oil spilled fast. His pant leg and boot were black with it. He’d been hit high, just under the knee. The serrated tin already dug into his flesh.

“Come on out here and shoot a cripple to his face, hermit!”

Jefferson howled with delight. Moxie was right. It felt good.

He slunk back against the wall out of view and reloaded the gun. When he came back Smoke was adding to the pile.

“You’re a thirsty one, Cripple. Ready to drink your own blood, you are!”

He fired again. A tree to Smoke’s right cracked thunder.

Smoke pulled a small box from his pocket and removed a match. It came to life between his fingers, and he let it fall to the oil below.

Whump…

The pile took flight. Jefferson howled as he watched his things go aflame. He reloaded the gun quickly and limped to the door. He could hear his things burning, crackling, the horror of all hoarders. His shoulder against the front door, he staggered out of the schoolhouse.