in the depot just after dark on the fifteenth when McCorkle’s runner, Deputy Rudy Johnstone, brought news that their posse had killed the Kid. It was the biggest event in Comanche County history, even bigger than when that son of a bitch John Wesley Hardin murdered Charles Webb back in ’74. Sheriff McCorkle and his riders trapped the Kid and his old Comanche companero in an empty cabin beside Broken Bow Creek late that afternoon. The outlaws and the posse shot at each other for fifteen minutes or so, until McCorkle got sick of waiting and set fire to the place. The Kid and the Indian escaped out the back, making it a hundred yards up the creek before McCorkle’s men rode them down. According to Johnstone, the outlaw’s torso looked like an old woman’s pincushion, and the Indian’s face had been shot clean away.
They could have let the Kid rot where he fell. They could have planted him by the creek. But no.
Sheriff wants to haul the carcass through town, Johnstone said. Maybe that way folks will finally stop talkin about how the Kid shot off his nose.
Of course. Revenge for the carnage and misery the Kid had wrought. Besides, the undertaker was out of town, so what was the hurry?
No one spoke of the Comanche’s corpse. Likely the white men had left it to the elements and scavengers, one more slaughtered and nameless dark skin among the thousands blanketing the land, some buried and some abandoned, their final resting places unmarked as if they were ants or scorpions crushed under pedestrian feet.
After Johnstone delivered his news, P.D. sat on the bench outside the depot and waited for the posse.
The insects thrummed around him like locomotive engines until, from town proper, came whoops and cheers and gunfire and, soon enough, the muted clop of hooves on dirt. P.D. looked at the moon—likely close to 10 p.m. McCorkle must have stopped at every shack and tent so folks could sing hosannas. Torches glowing in the distance grew closer. Individual men and horses coalesced from the shadows, McCorkle riding his gray at their head. A dozen mounted men followed, most hidden in the gloom, but there came Charlie Garner’s spotted roan, the one that looked like it was caught in its own snowstorm, and Shoehorn Wayne’s black mare. Roy Harveston’s chocolate gelding with the white star on its forehead. The half-wild pure-white horse Beeve Roark called Ghost. Rudy Johnstone walked in leading a mule on which a figure lay crossways, tied like a roll of carpet. Someone had thrown a saddle blanket over the body, but dusty, cracked, bloodstained boots hung uncovered off one side, pallid hands off the other. Without thinking, P.D. took off his hat. Beeve Roark glared at him and spat a thick stream of tobacco juice near his feet as the procession headed for the dead house.
Each of these men had stuffed a hatchet into his belt, except for Johnstone, who carried a hacksaw.
P.D. shivered. He dashed inside and grabbed his keys and a lantern. As he trotted back out, the keys jingled like a tambourine. The lantern cast pendulous, cavorting shadows across the grounds and the tracks. The posse had dismounted by the time he reached them. Most fell back into the shadows, faceless and ephemeral. McCorkle, Roark, Garner, Wayne, and Harveston flanked the door as some of the others untied the body. P.D. hung his lantern on a hook and unlocked the door. When they hauled the Kid into the dead house, P.D. caught a glimpse of the outlaw’s pallid face splashed with blood, eyes wide open and glazed.
Once the men and the corpse disappeared into the dead house’s dark maw, Garner and Harveston and Wayne and Johnstone followed. McCorkle nodded at Roark, took P.D.’s lantern off the hook, and walked inside. P.D. started to follow, but Roark pushed him back.
Well, P.D. croaked, I reckon you boys don’t need none of my help.
Roark spat in the dust and wiped his mouth on his shirtsleeve. I reckon not.
The faceless riders exited the building, saddled up, and rode away, murmuring among themselves. Then Roark stepped inside and closed the door.
P.D. lingered a moment, unsure of what to do or say. Reckon I better get back to my post. He walked away but managed only a few steps before a steady thuk thuk thuk emanated from the dead house. Such an everyday sound, like someone chopping wood two houses over, might have been comforting during the day, but there, then, it sounded awful, the sound of an emaciated, hollow-eyed man with corkscrew hair standing over a coffin in an open grave, hacking up a body and tossing chunks into a bag.
Goddam magazines, with their stories about grave robbers and folks gettin buried alive and such—enough to drive a grown man crazy.
Back inside the depot, under the lanterns’ warm glow, P.D. dropped the keys into their drawer. He went to the doorway and leaned against the jamb, watching the dead house. The lantern light flickered inside, shadows gamboling against the curtained windows. Soon P.D. returned to his desk and did not look outside again.
They wanted to prepare the corpse their own damn selves, so let em.
McCorkle and the rest left just before dawn. P.D. stood on the platform and watched them ride away. No one acknowledged him. They carried old flour sacks tied at the necks. P.D. believed he knew what those sacks held.
Two days later, P.D. passed the undertaker on the street and asked about the Kid’s funeral arrangements.
The old man looked puzzled. Funeral? he said, scratching his cheek with dirty fingernails. Hell, I ain’t even seen the body. Rudy Johnstone’s been braggin they butchered the Kid and throwed the pieces in three or four different cricks. But hell, you know how Johnstone likes to hear himself talk. It’s probably bullshit.
Now, at 2 a.m. on the twenty-third, most everyone in Comanche could be found in one of two places: home in bed or at the Half Dollar, listening to Johnstone tell about the Kid’s last stand, as he would likely keep doing as long as some sodbuster or cowpoke fresh off the trail offered to buy the drinks. Even free whiskey had not prompted Johnstone to reveal what the posse had done with the Kid’s body, though. Given what P.D. had seen a week ago, the undertaker’s story seemed credible. In any case, those fellas had taken the corpse off P.D. Thornapple’s hands, which suited him just fine. He lay on his cot behind the main office, pulling on a bottle of tequila and singing to himself, planning to do little else for the rest of his shift.
Then he sat up. A while back, Mr. Sutcliffe from the rail company telegraphed about an upcoming inspection of the personnel and facilities.
Hellfire. When did that old coot say he was comin?
P.D. went to the front desk and dug through the top drawer, where they kept all the important correspondence. He found Sutcliffe’s telegram three sheets from the top and scanned it.
In part, it read, WILL ARRIVE ON 23RD STOP.
Shit, P.D. said.
As the night man, it was his job to air out the dead house when fewer people wandered by to smell it, and he had not done it since that cursed night. The goddam place probably stunk to high heaven. If Mr. Sutcliffe smelled anything like Shot-to-Hell Outlaw or saw any stray drops of dried blood on the floor, that would be the last the depot would see of P.D. Thornapple, who would have to move back to the family ranch with his hulking, sharp-tongued brother and the asshole’s shrew wife and five runny-nosed brats. And, echoing the plight of mistreated younger brothers all the way back to Abel, P.D. would have to sleep in the barn because they were already stacking kids in the main house like cordwood. He took two long swigs of tequila—probably the last of the night, though he took the bottle, just in case—and grabbed his keys, grumbling.
P.D.
