"Yes," he said. "We thought that might be a nice idea."

"Sounds capital to me " Doc said.

"And maybe afterwards, the Reverend would like to drop by the house for a cup of coffee," Abby said. "Then you could tell us what you found in those books you're going to consult."

Doc looked at Abby and grinned. "I may not have anything to say then, but," he turned to the Reverend, "I'd enjoy having your company, Reverend. Why don't you come by. I'd have a chance to talk to someone besides the townsfolk. We're all talked out with each other. There isn't even a decent corn crop to discuss this time of year, nothing but the weather. And that can be done in a word—hot. Maybe you and I can find something new to talk about."

"Maybe," the Reverend said. "And I'll give your invitation some thought. I'm not exactly sure when we'll be back. This is sort of a work picnic for me—if that's all right with Abby."

"Fine," she said. "Long as I don't have to work."

"You don't," the Reverend said.

"That's good," she said, then winked at Doc. "My old man works me hard enough."

"I have a young man to meet," the Reverend said, and he told Doc about David and the tent poles.

"Never keep a young man waiting, I always say," said Abby. "I'll get the picnic things, but first, let me walk you outside.

IV

Abby walked the Reverend out to the street.

"I really do hope you'll come for coffee later," Abby said.

"After today you may have your fill of me," the Reverend said.

"I doubt it."

The Reverend was beginning to feel comfortable with Abby, as well as attracted to her.

He even found himself smiling a lot. It was something he had done so little of in the last few years, it made his face hurt.

They looked up. Across the street, in front of the hotel, a wagon was parked. David was sitting on the seat looking at them. The boy looked as if he had swallowed a bug.

"I'll get the picnic lunch," Abby said, and she touched the Reverend's arm before turning away and heading down the alley by the doctor's office.

The Reverend walked over to David and looked up at him on the seat.

"She's going, ain't she?" David said.

"If it's okay with you," the Reverend said.

"Even if it ain't okay, right?"

The Reverend considered a moment. "I thought, if she didn't work out, you and me could use her for target practice."

Though he tried not to, David smiled.

V

When Abby returned with the picnic basket and they loaded up, David relaxed. It was hard not to around Abby. She was comfortably disarming and in constant high spirits.

Something the Reverend and David were not. It did their pessimistic souls good to have her around. As the Reverend drove the wagon out of town, he could not help but feel slightly like a family man taking his wife and son on an outing. It was a nice and disturbing feeling all at once.

They took the stage trail and followed it out three or four miles and pulled over to the edge of the road. The Reverend examined the woods.

"Hope you brought a sharp axe?" the Reverend said.

David said, "I brought two of them. One for you. One for me."

"Good," the Reverend said. "I'll show you how it's done."

"That'll be the day," David said.

"Boys, boys," Abby said.

…

The Reverend and David chopped, skinned, and loaded trees until noon. Abby sat in the shade and read a dime novel that made her chuckle out loud from time to time.

For lunch—they spread a checked blanket on the ground, and Abby got out the picnic basket. They ate fried chicken, home cooked bread, and drank from a jug of tea in which most of the chipped ice had melted. It was all very good.

The Reverend was surprised that things went so well. He and Abby had much to talk about. Books for one. They had both read a lot, though she had a taste for dime novels which he did not care for. David also fit in, but not from the book angle. He had read little to nothing. But he had a ready wit and knew all the dirt on the townsfolk, and Abby encouraged as much of it out of him as she could.

The whole thing was pleasing, and the Reverend found that he was wishing he could make this trio permanent. But then he didn't wish too hard. Most things he wanted out of life turned to dust in his hands. He felt as if he were some sort of Jonah, and that everything and everyone he touched and cared for would be soured or destroyed. If he got his wish, it would merely be for as long as it took him to make it all go bad.

It was a hell of a curse for a man whose life was based on bringing happiness and salvation to others. He himself never got to taste of the well-water he poured. And if he stayed about too long after pouring, then he would somehow taint the well. Never failed.

"Now" David said, "how about that shooting lesson."

"What's the hurry?" the Reverend said.

"I'd just like to shoot that damn gun," David said.

"I guess that's reason enough," the Reverend said. "One more glass of tea and then we'll start."

"You told him that already," Abby said.

"So I did," the Reverend, said pouring a glass of tea, "but I have to do it this time. This is the last in the jug."

VI

While the Reverend, Abby, and David were so engaged, Cecil—one of the cooks for Molly McGuire's—went out back to toss the morning grease, and saw a pair of feet in shiny shoes sticking straight up out of the big, wooden trash box.

He put the grease on the ground and looked into the box. The trash that belonged there was all over the alley. There was just a man and a big yellow dog—the one that had been such a nuisance all year.

Cecil was two hundred pounds on a six-foot frame. He wrapped his bulging arms—both tattooed with anchors from his time in the navy—and pulled. The body wouldn't come free.

The blood in the box bottom had congealed and stuck to the top of the corpse's head. The body was also wedged in with the dog.

Cecil got a fresh grip, grunted, and pulled.

This time the body came free, leaving a mess of its scalp and hair in the bottom of the box.

Cecil tossed the body to the ground. Other than the neck which lolled loosely, the body was as stiff as a board. The tongue hung out of its mouth, and it seemed a foot long, and it was as dark as a razor strop.

"That's who I thought you was," Cecil said, looking at the corpse. "Morning Banker—you being dead ain't nothing personal."

This was a variation of what Nate had told Cecil when he foreclosed on his farm last year.

His words had been more like, "You being broke ain't nothing personal. Just doing what I have to do."

"You look good as I've seen you," Cecil said absently. "In fact, you look better than I've ever seen you, you old fart."

Cecil, sensitive as he was, scratched his balls and looked in the box again. He could see the dog more clearly. It looked as if it had been wadded up into a ball. Its muzzle was mashed like a squeeze box into its head, and both its eyes were sticking out on tendons like strange insects. The dog and Cecil stunk of shit.

Cecil got a cigar out of his white shirt pocket-occasionally the ash from his stogies revealed itself in the cafe's chili—and lit up. He usually waited for the evening to smoke the one cigar he bought a day, but hell, this was kind of a celebration. That damned mutt had turned over his last trash box, and good old Nate Foster—resident banker, drunk and full-time horse's ass—had foreclosed on his last farm.