Cecil went back to the cafe, had himself a drink of cooking sherry, then went out front to tell the sheriff (who was having lunch with Caleb) about poor old Nate.

VII

The dog stayed in the box, but they took Nate over to the undertakers and sent for Doc.

When Doc got there, Nate didn't look any better. The sheriff, the undertaker Steve Mertz, and Caleb stood looking down at the corpse.

"Think he's dead, Doc?" Mertz said with his usual mirth.

"I reckon he's just holding his breath," Caleb said. "But that trick with his tongue out like that will throw you."

"Oh for Christsakes," Matt said, and walked out of the room.

"I tell you," Caleb said, "that boy is getting squeamish."

Doc paid no attention. He bent to look at Nate's face. An ant crawled across Nate's left eye. Doc brushed it away. He gripped the man's head and turned it.

"Neck's broken, ain't it?" Caleb said.

"Yep," Doc said. He looked at the bruise on Nate's neck and a deep, jagged wound just under it.

"Guess the dog did that," Mertz said.

"Right" Caleb said. "Then old Foster smashed the dog's muzzle halfway through his skull, wadded him up, tossed him in the trash, jumped in after him, landed on his head, and broke his neck,"

"Well," Mertz said. "The dog could have bitten him."

"Shut up, both of you, will you?" Doc said. "I can't hear myself think. Maybe the dog bit him after he was dead."

"How'd he get his neck broke," Mertz said.

"It could have been a big man done it," Doc said. "Only he'd have to have been a really big man, and the strongest man I've ever seen to do what he did to that dog's body.

Anyone that knew how could have broken Foster's neck."

"I seen a big nigger who fought bare-knuckle once, and he could have done that" Caleb said. "No trouble."

"Don't suppose he lives around here?" Doc said.

Caleb smiled. "Kansas City."

"And I thought we were going to save Matt a lot of work. Do me a favor, Caleb, take a walk. You're stinking the whole place up."

Caleb grinned again and lifted his hat in mock salute. "Glad to oblige, Doc, and I'll remember you."

"In your prayers, I hope," Doc said.

When Caleb was gone, Mertz said, "It don't do to piss Caleb off. He's onery and he don't forget."

"To hell with Caleb."

Doc looked the neck over some more. "What gets me is the rip," he said. "I suppose a crazy man might have done that."

"A man?"

"Ever seen a man with rabies, Mertz?"

No.

"Ugly stuff. Gets to his brain. Gets so he can't stand light and is thirsty all the time. Gets to where he'll bite like a dog. Has crazy strength—like ten men."

"You mean Nate was bitten by a man with rabies?"

"I didn't say that.... But it doesn't look like a dog bite. Though, to tell the truth, it doesn't look all that much like a man's bite either. I'm just thinking out loud is all."

"If it ain't animal and it ain't human, what's that leave?"

Doc grinned. "Plants with teeth."

"Well, I think the dog did it" Mertz said.

"And as Caleb said—who mashed the dog and tossed it in the trash after Nate was dead?

A man that knows what he's doing, or one that's mad strong, could have killed Nate after he killed the dog. He could have grabbed Nate's head just right, twisted it, and bit him.

Especially if he was mad with rabies."

"That's what you think?"

"Just thinking out loud. I'll make out the death certificate. Call it broken neck, loss of blood. Means of death unknown."

Doc put on his hat and went out.

VIII

David did as the Reverend told him. He took some short sticks and placed them across the stage trail and back near the woods. He stuck them into the dirt about two inches and let three inches of stick show above ground.

From where the Reverend stood, across the trail with his back to the trees on that side, it was a fair distance for a pistol—especially shooting at such small and shady targets.

David finished with his task, went over to join the Reverend who held the revolver at his side. He stood by the Reverend and looked across the way. It took him a moment to locate the sticks.

"Can you even see them?" David said.

"I'm not that old yet, son."

"You got enough bullets?"

The Reverend looked at David. "More than we'll need." He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out two small boxes of ammunition. "Enough for a small-size army— but we won't shoot that much."

"Are you men going to shoot or talk those sticks to death?" It was Abby. She had folded up the picnic remains and put them in the wagon.

"Good point," the Reverend said, and smiled at her. My heavens, he thought, I have not been this happy in years.

The Reverend pulled his eyes away from Abby with difficulty. She looked wonderful standing there watching, her hands behind her back, her eyes bright.

"Okay, son ," the Reverend said. "This is a .36 Navy revolver. 1861 model. It has been converted from cap and ball to modern ammunition."

"Why not just buy yourself another one? Pa says a .45 is the thing to have."

"This one has done well by me. I like the feel of it. A gun is more than its caliber. In fact, a gun is the man who holds it."

The Reverend cocked the revolver slowly, lifted it, and fired.

One of the sticks went away.

He did this five more times and five sticks went away.

"Good shooting," David said, "but it's pretty slow."

"I'm teaching you to shoot, not fast draw."

"But I want to learn that too."

"Go and put up some more sticks."

David did as he was told. While he worked, Abby and the Reverend looked at one another but said nothing. It was getting so nothing needed to be said, and even the silence was comfortable.

David came back and stood by the Reverend. "My turn?"

"Almost." The Reverend loaded the revolver and put it in the sash at his waist.

And then he drew. David almost saw it. There was a blur of the Reverend's hand, then the gun was gripped, pointing, being cocked, and the first round barked, and the first stick went away, and the gun was cocked again, and fired and again and again until the air was full of acrid smoke. All the sticks were shot off at ground level.

"God almighty!" David said.

"Watch your language, son. The Lord is not nearly so enthused over good shooting as we are."

"Goddamn, you must be as good as Wild Bill Hickok."

"Most likely better" the Reverend said seriously.

"Can I shoot now? I want to try."

"No fast draw yet, just shooting."

David nodded as the Reverend reloaded. "Why no holster? I'd think you'd need one for a fast draw," David asked.

"Too many dime novels, son. Hickok for instance wore a sash. With the sight filed off"

the Reverend held up the revolver to show that it had been filed off smoothly, "you don't have to worry about snags. And holsters have a tendency to grab a revolver. A sash or even your belt is preferable—go put up some sticks."

David raced across the way to put up new targets. This time he took a big handful of sticks and placed them in a row. He counted them. Eleven.

He rushed back to the Reverend's side.