“Fuck this,” Chuck said, panting and blinking sweat from his eyes. “Wait here.” He climbed back up the tree and a minute later, a rope came tumbling over the edge of the cliff. Chuck’s wide face appeared at the top. “Tie that around his ankles or something. Something that won’t come off. Not that I give a fuck, but I suppose it would be better if we didn’t have to drag him up twice.”

Frank knotted the rope around Bronson’s expensive boots, then climbed back up to Chuck. The other end of the rope had been tied the other end to the trailer hitch. They opened a fresh beer, and Chuck simply put the truck in first gear and drove slowly straight out into the field. Frank kept an eye on the side mirror, and when he saw Bronson’s flopping, rolling body, Chuck circled back around.

* * * * *

When they got back to the ranch, Sturm had just finished wrapping the dead Lab in a white sheet. Theo, Jack, and Pine stood back at a respectful distance, heads down, giving the man some time to say goodbye to his dog. Fairfax was on his knees, streaks of dried tears slashing through the dirt on his cheeks. Every once in a while, his back would hitch and shudder, but he’d force the sob back down. The man was probably counting the seconds until he could get the hell back to Sacramento.

But when Chuck dropped the tailgate and Fairfax got a look at Bronson’s body, Fairfax’s face looked like he’d just jumped in a tub of ice water. He popped up, jowls quivering, eyes blinking furiously.

Sturm stood as well, wiping his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

“Oh my god. What happened to him?” Fairfax pointed at Bronson, in case anyone was confused. “Do you stupid fucking hicks have any idea who this man is?”

“Watch your mouth,” Sturm warned in a low voice. “That man was a friend of mine, that’s who he is. Me and Bob been drinking and shooting since before you sucked on your mommy’s teat.”

But Fairfax wasn’t listening. “You ignorant goddamn hillbillies. I cannot believe you let this happen.”

“His own goddamn fault,” Jack pointed out. “Should’ve paid more attention. He had a rifle. Wasn’t like he was hunting ducks or something.” Pine and Chuck nodded.

Fairfax blinked even harder, as if Jack had just unzipped his jeans and pissed all over Bronson’s corpse. “You…You have no idea how much trouble you are in. All of you.”

And then, faster than Fairfax could blink, Sturm snatched the shovel off the ground and in one savage jab, thrust its blade into Fairfax’s throat. Everyone flinched. The pitted blade sliced cleanly through Fairfax’s heavy jowls and scraped along his jawbone with a sound like a claw hammer striking ice. Sturm didn’t stop until the shovel hit the artery; bright, thick blood squirted out, coating the blade, the handle, and the lawn. Fairfax’s knees wobbled and he waved his arms around like a toddler learning to walk. Sturm guided Fairfax sideways about five feet, until Fairfax fell into the dog’s grave. The blade came free with a wet, squelching sound and Fairfax hit the dirt at the bottom with a solid thud. He feebly waved his hands around like a potato bug on its back for a few more seconds, but the movement gradually subsided as more blood soaked into the black dirt under his head.

The men gathered around the grave and watched his final movements. Sturm stabbed the shovel into the pile of dirt and flung the soft dirt onto Fairfax’s face. Dirt filled the gaping wound, wide open mouth, and unblinking eyes. When the body was covered, they carefully lowered the dog’s body into the grave, then each took a shovelful and gently sifted dirt onto the white sheet.

They finished filling the grave as the sun slid past the mountains to the west. Sturm left the shovel standing upright in the freshly turned dirt. “We’ll make a cross later. For the dog,” he explained, and looked to the darkening sky.

“Lord,” he began. The others lowered their heads. “Please watch over this animal. She was a damn fine dog. Best hunting companion a man could ask for. All I ask is that you let her play in your fields, chasing rabbits and sniffing for pheasant. Try not to mind if she takes a dump near the back steps of your palace, as she was known to do from time to time. All in all, she was a good girl.” Sturm swallowed, wiped at his eyes again. “She didn’t deserve to go this soon. So please take care of her until I get there. I promise I’ll look after her then.” Sturm turned his head and spit. “And if it’s not too much to ask, drop kick the sonofabitch who sent her to you all the way down to hell. I’m not trying to be sacrilegious here or anything, but I want to hear him screaming when I meet you. Amen.”

Everyone else chimed in with an “Amen.”

Sturm met their eyes. “Gentlemen, I’m afraid this ain’t the only one we have to bury this evening.” He nodded at Bronson’s broken body. “Dumb as he was, Fairfax was right about one thing. We can’t exactly take him back to Sacramento like this. He was a good friend, and we’re gonna send him off into the beyond proper.”

* * * * *

A few hours later, they were ready. Jack had filled the back seat of the Hummer with ammunition and black powder. They propped Bronson up in the passenger seat, with a hat over his face in case anyone on the road got curious. Jack drove the Hummer, following Sturm and Theo in the Jeep. Chuck, Frank, and Pine came up the rear in Chuck’s truck. They headed south, winding their way up into the steep Sierra Nevada mountains. A hundred miles south of Whitewood, Sturm turned off the main highway onto a crumbling logging trail that zig-zagged up a ridge. By now, it was nearing ten or eleven o’clock, so Frank couldn’t see anything. He had to keep swallowing to equalize the pressure in his ears, and realized the altitude must be very high.

Eventually, Sturm angled the Jeep at a right angle to the logging road, headlights fading away into nothingness. They joined Sturm at the edge of the cliff. Jack and Chuck dragged Bronson into the driver’s seat of his Hummer and seatbelted him into place. Pine poured black powder over the shattered corpse, and left two full gas cans in the passenger seat for good measure. They duct-taped a fresh, unlit cigar in Bronson’s mouth and propped his rifle at his side. Pine pulled a bottle of whiskey out of Chuck’s pickup and they all gathered in a tight semi-circle and passed the bottle around for a while.

Chuck shoved a cassette tape into the player in his truck and a second later, the first strains of Kansas’ “Dust in the Wind” drifted out of the open doors.

Sturm opened a tattered, leatherbound Bible and, using the glow from the headlights, and read aloud, throwing his words off the mountain and into the darkness. “And I saw, and look, behold a pale horse; and the one seated upon it was Death. And Hell followed close behind him. And authority was given them over the fourth part of the Earth, to kill with a long sword and with food shortage and with deadly plague and by the wild beasts of the earth. Amen.” Sturm snapped the book shut. “Goodbye, my friend. I’ll be seeing you soon enough. Save a drink for me.” He poured a bit of whiskey over Bronson’s ruined face, screwed the cap on tight, and put it between Bronson’s legs.

Sturm stepped back so Jack could start the Hummer. He left it in park, but jammed the rifle butt against the gas pedal, wedging the muzzle against the dead man’s stomach. The engine rose into a whining snarl, anxious and upset at being held in check. Then, mindful of the flakes of black powder scattered across Bronson like ash, he lit the cigar. Without air being pulled through the cigar, it took a while, but the leaves finally caught. With a nod from Sturm, Jack jerked the stick into ‘Drive.’ The Hummer shot forward into the night. The headlights tilted down, bounced, disappeared, and as they came back up, from underneath and behind this time, shining back up at the men gathered at the road, the Hummer’s interior exploded. Blue flames curled out of the shattered windows and a second later, the gas cans went. The Hummer kept rolling end over end, a snowball of fire, now hundreds of feet down the rock-covered mountain. The temperature inside finally got hot enough to spark off the ammunition. Gunfire crackled into the night, temporarily overshadowing the music.