The Sheriff and the doc came out of the saloon, along with the photographer and a few whores and drunks who weren't ready to give up celebrating the birth of Shookville, as the town had been renamed.
"We know that Zebulon Shook was wounded when he took off from Sutter's Fort," they heard the Warden say. "And we know that he rode up here and raised all kinds of hell."
More people came out of the saloon to listen.
"Shook was here all right," the Sheriff said. "He came here to deal with his Pa after he killed three men and shot up the saloon."
The bartender spoke up. "If he hadn't done what he did, a lot of us would be dead and the saloon burned to the ground."
Incredulous, the Warden shook his head. "Are you saying that Zebulon Shook killed his own father? I find that hard to believe."
"If he hadn't killed him, I wouldn't be standing here talking to you," the doc said. "And I'm not the only one."
"That's right," said a voice from the crowd. "He saved our bacon."
"The man is a saint," said one of the whores.
"Where is he now?" Stebbins asked.
"Dead, most likely," the Sheriff said, "or if he ain't, he's in Colorado or Mexico."
"He shot a man called Plug," the doc said to the Warden. "I think he was one of your prisoners."
"I took a photograph of Zebulon Shook holding his dying father in his arms," the photographer added. "If you like, I'll show it to you."
The Warden dismounted and walked up to the steps of the saloon, then turned to address the crowd. "Let me make this very clear to you people. Zebulon Shook is an outlaw He has caused damage and suffering across the entire state. Because of him, innocent people have died, including my own wife and son. This man lives with the devil on his shoulder. Anyone found harboring him or withholding information about his whereabouts will be arrested."
When no one spoke up, the Warden pushed his way into the saloon.
On the street, Stebbins pulled the photographer aside. "My newspaper will pay a good price for your photographs. I've been filing reports on Zebulon Shook since the start of his outlaw career. I came out to California with him and wrote my first dispatch about him for The Nenz' York Herald and two Philadelphia papers. I know more about Zebulon Shook than any man alive."
The photographer was interested. "I'll take your portrait where the shoot-out happened. You can stand in front of the bullet holes and the busted tables, none of which have been removed. You pay me if you send a picture to your paper."
"Of course," Stebbins said as they walked into the saloon. "I wouldn't have it any other way."
he Sheriff and the Warden will make a deal." Zebulon said as they struggled into their clothes. "Then they'll bust down the door and shoot us."
As if to verify what he said, there was a shot from the saloon, then another, followed by a scream.
Halfway down the hall, he hesitated.
"North," Delilah said, as they hurried down the stairs two at a time.
Then they ran for a stand of trees, where Delilah had horses waiting for them.
'HEY RODE BENEATH A COLD SHIVER OF METALLIC STARS, their horses' hooves thudding over the black earth. Before dawn they reached a lean-to, a strip of canvas nailed between two oak trees. In front of the lean-to, three saddled horses were hitched to a log near the remains of a small fire.
Hatchet Jack stumbled towards them, pulling on his pants and reaching for a gun-belt hanging from a branch.
He looked at Delilah. "I figured you and him for old Mex."
"He wanted to. I didn't," she said.
Hatchet Jack pointed to Elijah's otter cap pulled over Zebulon's forehead. "I know that bonnet."
"Pa's dead," Zebulon said. "He got himself shot."
Hatchet Jack turned away, kicking dirt on the fire. "It was gold that done it, that and leavin' the mountains."
Hatchet Jack disappeared into the lean-to. He came out carrying his rifle and two saddle bags that he cinched over a horse.
"I should have left you in that ditch," he said. "It would have saved me and everyone else a lot of trouble."
"Who's leavin' who in what town?" Large Marge said, swaying out of the lean-to.
She slowly hoisted herself onto a horse. "I guess you know they're comin'. But I ain't stayin' to find out."
She galloped off, followed by Hatchet Jack.
Delilah walked over to her horse, then stopped, looking back at Zebulon.
"Go with them, if that's what you want," he said.
"I was thinking we should head for Mexico," she suggested.
"I'm finished with all of that," he said. "And maybe with you, too."
"If only that was true," she said, mounting her horse and riding after the others.
He sat down against the trunk of an oak tree waiting for her to return.
,Quien es? he asked himself.
The answer was a confusion of voices that sounded like marbles poured over a dishpan.
He waited through the morning for the voices to stop. When they became louder and even more confused, he rolled on the ground, pounding his fists on the earth.
Quien es? he asked again.
Finally he got up and rode after Hatchet Jack and Delilah. After a few miles, he became worried about falling asleep in the saddle. The last thing he needed was to wake up inside a dream that wasn't his.
Dreaming was easy, he thought. Being dreamed was the problem.
E FOUND THEIR CAMPFIRE AT THE FAR END OF A NARROW ravine. It was dark. The air was cool from a recent rain and the wet earth smelled of pine cones. Halfway into the ravine, he dismounted and hitched his horse to a stunted pine tree rooted in a boulder.
An owl hooted and he answered with a long mournful twonote. When a sharp pain exploded through his chest, he dug his fingers into the earth and bit his lip until he tasted blood. Again, the owl hooted, this time from a lower branch. "Shook!" the owl screeched: "Shooook… Shooook… Shooook!"
When he stumbled into the camp, everyone was asleep.
He lay down next to Delilah, who was sleeping on the other side of the fire next to Hatchet Jack, her head on his chest, one arm around his shoulder.
He hesitated, looking from Hatchet Jack to Delilah, then placed a hand on the small of her back, inhaling the scent of her musty mud-caked hair.
"I knew you'd come," she said, not opening her eyes.
He hesitated, looking over at Hatchet Jack. "Maybe it's too late."
"Maybe you should find out," she replied.
She didn't resist when he slipped off her pants.
As he entered her, she pulled her arm away from Hatchet Jack, whose mouth was stretched open as if in rigor mortis.
"Don't move," she instructed as she let him settle into her, breathing with him until he felt a pressure rush up his spine, followed by waves of pulsating heat.
The sensation over, he felt suddenly abandoned, as if he was falling towards the waves of a dark turbulent sea. Come closer, the towering waves howled, closer to — There was no way of knowing what waited for him. When he opened his mouth, he was no longer breathing. He imagined his lungs full of water, and the more he struggled to breathe, the more he felt fear overwhelm him.
He prayed to Wakan Tanka and to all the spirits who live and dance where the sun goes down, who take care of all the in-between creatures trapped in all the waters of the world. The old people were talking to him. His Ma and Pa were calling out to him and to the two-headed eagle who lives where the giant supports the world on his shoulders; they were all calling for him.
"Hee-ay-hay-ee," he called, the cry loud enough to wake the others. "Hee-ay-hay-ee-ee!"
When he opened his eyes, Hatchet Jack was leaning on an elbow looking down at them, his Colt.44 pointed at Zebulon's forehead.