“The truth is, I got ‘em off a dead man. Fella was shot by a Wichita posse. Found his hat and jacket in a rubbish bin. I can live with the holes. He couldn’t.”
Jonah whispers into Cousin’s ear: “Hey, Cousin. Come on outside a minute.”
“Can’t you see I’m eatin’.”
“This is awful damned important. I promise.” They step outside. The rain has slacked to a drizzle. “Cousin, I seen a poke in that man’s satchel fulla pure yellow gold.”
“I guess it ain’t no secret no more, god-dangit. Don’t you go an’ start thinkin’ you got some claim on it, ‘cause you don’t. I seen it first.”
“Well I seen it second.”
Cousin urinates off the side of the porch. “Seein’ ain’t the same as ownin’, Jonah.”
“It sure ain’t.”
“We got the got-danged cart before the horse. Somethin’s gotta be done about that.” He draws his six-shooter. “When we get back in there, you git his big rifle so he don’t.”
Inside, the massage has resumed and Dewey’s eyes are closed again. Jonah tiptoes to the Sharps and takes possession of it. Cousin approaches Dewey with the gun thrust forward. In the excitement of the moment, his voice is like a young girl’s. “Don’t move, Mr. Dewey, or twitch, or nothin’. Jonah, relieve him of that precious satchel. Katie, you and yer mother better git behind them quilts.”
They do as instructed, but leave a tiny crack for peeping. Jonah lifts the satchel and places it on the table. Mr. Binder continues with his knife-throwing, seemingly oblivious to all goings on. Cousin says to Mr. Dewey, “You got enough gold in that satchel to sink a schooner. But look at them hands o’ yourn. Pretty damned nice if you ask me. You ain’t no prospector. ‘Spect you come by this some other way.”
“Maybe I did,” Dewey says. “So naturally I’m willin’ to share.”
“Are you, now. Well, that’s mighty damned generous. Jonah, open up that pouch and see if there’s enough to share.”
Jonah opens the bag, withdraws the pouch, pours some of the nuggets out on the table. “Holy Moses. I never seen so much gold in my whole sorry life.”
Dewey’s hand creeps toward his boot, which hides the prospector’s Derringer. Cousin looks at Jonah, Jonah looks at Cousin. Mr. Binder throws his knife into the wall. Katie and Mrs. Binder peek from the quilt-crack.
Cousin barks, “Aunt! Katie! I told y’all to git on in there. I don’t think no tender eyes oughta be lookin’ at what I’m about to do here.”
Dewey says: “Let’s be sensible, boys. Go on and take a few nuggets for your trouble.”
Jonah thinks that’s a decent offer. “Heck, that sounds generous, Cousin. How much you think we oughta take?”
“Jonah, you ain’t never been nothing but a mule-brain.” Now he addresses Dewey: “You gotta understand that what I’m fixin’ to do in a minute ain’t nothin’ personal. I’ll make it quick and merciful. Don’t fret any.”
“You gonna shoot me over a bag of gold? Take it all. Let me walk out of here. I’ll be gone for good.”
As Cousin gives this some thought, Dewey’s hand slides into his boot and withdraws the Derringer.
Jonah says, “You ain’t gonna shoot him in here, are you, Cousin?”
Mrs. Binder sticks her head out from the quilts. “Please. Do it in zee orchard. Vee don’t vant zat in here.”
Cousin is agreeable to that. “All right, Aunt. Let’s go, Mr. Dewey. We’re gonna go for a walk in the orchard.”
Dewey stands, the Derringer now concealed in the palm of his hand.
Jonah offers to get a pick and shovel out of the barn. “Let’s make him dig his own hole. I’m tired.”
Cousin is agreeable to that, too. “That’s good thinkin’, Jonah. Go on and fetch a shovel and pick from the barn.”
Jonah exits.
Cousin pokes the barrel of his gun into Dewey’s back. “Mr. Dewey. This here’s your last march. So let’s git it over with quick.” For a moment Cousin relaxes his vigilance to scoop up the gold nuggets from the table, allowing Dewey to raise the Derringer and fire two bullets into Cousin’s heart, killing him.
Mr. Binder throws a knife at Dewey, but it misses and sticks in the wall.
Dewey shoots at Mr. Binder but misses. On the second shot, Mr. Binder falls with a head wound, but isn’t dead. He moans and thrashes. Mrs. Binder kneels beside him, tries to hold him still. “Oh, mein Gott. Help me!”
Katie rushes to her. “Papa!”
Jonah enters as Dewey fires a coup de grace into Mr. Binder’s head, stilling him. “What in creation?”
Dewey points the gun at him. “You wanna go on livin’?”
Jonah looks at his father, who lets out a death rattle. “I s’pose I do.”
“Can you drive that wagon out there?”
“I s’pose I could. I rode with Cousin a few times.”
“I’d do it myself, ‘cept fer this got-damn foot o’ mine.”
Mr. Binder expires in Mrs. Binder’s arms. Katie weeps.
In the orchard, a hard rain falls. Mrs. Binder and Katie cry on one another’s shoulders under an umbrella as Jonah and Dewey finish digging two graves under a dead apple tree. They pick up Cousin’s body and heave it into one hole, then lower Papa into his grave with a bit more care and solemnity.
Jonah’s hand is on his heart. “Goodbye, Papa. It’s fer the best, I think. I hope the Lord’ll take care o’ you ‘cause we’re for sure plumb tired o’ doin’ it.”
Dewey offers an “Amen,” then shovels dirt into the holes. Jonah joins him in the task.
Mrs. Binder and Katie sob deeply with every shovelful.
At dawn, Jonah checks over the wagon and harness, preparing to leave. Dewey sits in the passenger seat with his gun and satchel. Mrs. Binder and Katie look out from the doorway. Jonah climbs onto the wagon and whips the mules. As the wagon rolls forward, several headstones fall out of the bed and stick upright in the mud.
Hays City, Kansas, a day or two later. A wind is kicking up in the dusty streets. Jonah drives the weary team down 8th Street, turns onto Maple, passes a lumber company and a bank, then turns up an alley. A small crowd, including Sheriff Peppard and his diminutive deputy, Ratoncito, stand over three fly-covered dead men, all with multiple bullet wounds. In the background, watching the proceedings patiently and unobtrusively, is the town’s black-suited mortician, his silver tooth gleaming in the sun. An artist with a pad sketches the bodies. A newspaper reporter takes notes.
As the wagon passes by, Jonah tips his hat to the group. Dewey does not tip his hat, or even take his gaze off the street ahead. Peppard and Ratoncito eye the holes in Dewey’s coat. They immediately grow suspicious of him, as if picking up the scent of his criminality.
Moving on through town, Jonah reins in the mules at a livery stable, where a blacksmith busily works his bellows in the process of fabricating a wagon hub. The conical pile of coals glows brightly. Beyond the half-dozen stalls is a wagon twice the height of an average one, and fitted with sails. The blacksmith glares suspiciously at the two strangers.
Dewey gets down, dusts himself off, knocks away the ever-present grasshoppers. “Mornin’.” He isn’t looking at the smithy, but at the strange conveyance at the back of the stable. He points his rifle at the wagon. “What in the Lord’s name is that contraption?”
“That there’s a wind wagon, built with these here hands. Put a sail on her, she’ll move across flat land at a pretty good clip when there’s a good wind up.”
“Mighty fine lookin’ machine.”
“What kin I do fer you boys?”
Dewey leans on his Sharps like a cane. “Well now, the thing is, I gotta sell off this whole rig, cargo included. Got word yesterday a well-to-do uncle of mine done died over there in Dodge City and left me a pile o’ money. They say I gotta git there quick to claim it.”