The Six-Gun Tarot (51 page)

A few more tears arrived from the dregs of his soul. He lowered his head, shook.

“Mr. Mayor, sir?”

Harry looked up; he wiped his wet eyes and sniffed. It was Jim Negrey.

“Yes, Jim, what can I do for you?”

Jim’s hands were stuffed deep in his pockets, his head down.

“Sir, the last time I saw my pa alive, he was drunk and angry and in pain. I wished that wasn’t the last living memory of him I had, but it is. The last time I saw my ma and sister, they were scared and hurt and it was all on account of me.”

He looked up at Harry.

“Regrets will eat a man up. My pa told me that. Said you should always try to make your peace when you can, ’cause no man knows what the Lord has in store for us tomorrow.”

“I’m burying her tomorrow,” Harry said. His voice was small.

“Yessir,” Jim said. “That’s why I’m here.” He pulled a rawhide cord with a small leather bag from around his neck. He placed it in Harry’s hand. “I’d give anything to hug my pa again,” he said. “To kiss my ma and tell her how sorry I was, to see my little sister smile and know she’s all right.”

Jim walked out the huge, open barn doors.

“Good night, sir,” he said.

Harry opened the bag; the jade eye dropped into his palm. He lifted it to his own eyes to examine it and the brilliant moonlight fell upon the orb. Glittering motes of emerald drifted in slow orbits around the eye. The barn began to fill with cool green light.

“Hello, Harry,” the woman’s voice said from the shadows on the other side of the body. She stepped forward and Harry’s eyes widened. He began to smile and to cry.

“Hello, Holly.”

The sun was huge and red, crawling down behind the jagged peaks that were the sentinels of the desert, casting long twisted shadows on the floor of the wasteland.

Jim sat in the saddle. Promise waited calmly, nibbling on a patch of grass. Golgotha was behind him. There was a thud of hooves and Mutt, astride Muha, pulled up next to him.

“Thought I might find you out here,” Mutt said. “You figuring on leaving?”

“Well, things have kind of quieted down, now, and…” Jim let the words die. He didn’t know what else to say. “Yeah, I reckon.”

“Virginia City or back to … where the hell was it?”

“Kansas,” Jim said, smiling.

“Right, Kansas,” Mutt said. “Here.” He tossed him the leather necklace and pouch. “Mayor said, ‘Thank you.’”

“Mayor,” Jim said. “You called him Mayor, not Harry, not Pratt, or sumbitch. Mayor.”

“Yeah, well, don’t mean nothing,” Mutt said. “He’s still a Fancy Dan.”

They sat quietly and let the time pass. A covered wagon ambled over the dunes and climbed onto the road toward Golgotha. Dark bird silhouettes sailed into the ruby eye of the sun.

“It’s pretty here,” Jim said. “It’ll kill you, if you’re not careful, but it’s the prettiest place I ever did see.”

“I talked to Jon,” Mutt said. “Says you can keep that star you’re wearing, if you want—you earned it. He wants you to stay on, be a deputy.”

“Mutt, that’s gonna get complicated. I’ve got a price on my head. I done wrong, back home.”

“Well, you did right here, and that counts more in my book, Jon’s too. We’ll stand by you, come what may.”

“Where is the sheriff?”

“Old cemetery, said he had some business to attend to before sundown—make sure all the commotion didn’t stir anything up. Old, bad business.”

Jim shook his head. “It’s a miracle anyone stays around here.”

“Maybe,” Mutt said. “But more folks came back after this mess than kept going. It’s a good town, with good people. Worth protecting. Good place for a man to pay off a debt, if’n he had one.”

Jim smiled. “Really?”

“Yup,” Mutt said. “Credit would pile up quick, I’d reckon.”

“I already gave my notice at Mrs. Proctor’s,” Jim said.

“Yeah, I told her to never mind that.”

They both laughed. “Pretty sure of yourself,” Jim said.

“I know a sure thing when I see one,” Mutt said.

Jim stuck out his hand. Mutt shook it.

“Let’s git home,” Jim said.

“Nice to have one,” Mutt said, “ain’t it?”

They turned the horses and began to gallop back to the road and into town. The sinking sun was at their backs, painting the sky, smearing it, in oranges, reds and purples. Behind it was the cool, whispering promise of night, of stars and moon, silver and shadow.

“Be dark soon,” Mutt said. “Time to earn our pay.”

Golgotha, mother to the lost, destination of all the hardest roads, opened her arms to them, and to the coming night.

Acknowledgments

Thank you to my mother, Mabel T. Belcher, for a lifetime of encouragement, guidance, friendship and love. You always believed in me, supported me and taught me to never give up. I love you, Mom.

To my wonderful children: Jonathan, Emily and Stephanie. You are the light of my existence and each of you has made me so happy and so much more than I would have ever been without you. Thank you for the love you show me every day. I love you all to the moon and back.

To Leslie Barger: my editor, my fan, my muse. Your love is my cool water in the desert. You are my moon and stars. Thank you for your dedication to my writing and for your belief in my ability, even when I had none. I love you.

To Phil Rowe: Smartest man I know, full of wisdom, kindness, patience and affection. Thank for all your help in editing and sage counsel. Thank you for Robert Parker and John D. McDonald and William Goldman and a million, million other treasures. Most of all, thank you for your friendship and brotherhood—the greatest treasures of all.

Thank you Pam and Allen Trigger for your gracious generosity; you have truly been my patrons and truest friends in dark days. I hope this thank-you in some small way shows you how much I truly appreciate all you have done for me and my family.

Thank you to Vicki and Tony Ayers and David and Susan Lystlund for love and support over all the years. Thank you for being my family; my brothers and sisters.

Thank you to Bob Flack: brother and wisest man I know. Your friendship has kept me sane and alive. Thank you.

Thank you to Meg Hibbert and Dan Smith for having faith in me as a writer and for giving me my shot. I owe you both so much.

Thank you to my uncle, John Weddle, for being a father to me every time I needed one.

Thank you to Stacy Hague-Hill and Greg Cox of Tor Books for taking a chance on me, and my writing, and for patience, unwavering support and guidance.