Moon Over Tombstone

Chester hated rattlesnakes. Gave him the shivers whenever he ran ’cross one. No sir, rattlesnakes and Chester ain’t never did get along. One time up in Virginia, the old man woke up to one of them things about ten foot long slitherin' across his chest, least that’s how big he said it was. Each time he spun the yarn it got bigger and bigger till it was a hundred feet with two sets of fangs longer than a cavalryman’s sword. Well, by God, if he didn’t get up faster than a greased egg leaping off a frying pan and emptied his barrel till there was nothing but a splatter of snake guts all over the floorboards. Nothing crossed Chester and lived to tell the tale. 

But the bright moon in the sky, now that was a different story. Made his knees knock together something awful, like his wooden teeth during dead of winter. Couldn’t shoot at the moon. Well, you could, but it wouldn’t go anywhere. He grimaced at that luminous threatening disk, then looked away, tensing every muscle in his weary frame. 

Chester was always a might peculiar. Bill knew. Even back in their prime riding with tough gangs, Chester stood out as odd. Always kept to himself, never was one for much talk. But he was the best damn gunslinger in the west, so damn good that Wyatt Earp once said, “I’d sell my soul to Satan himself if I could have an aim like Chester Russel.” 

Yes sir. He’d killed more men than he could remember and outran every sheriff and marshal that ever got hot on his trail. Matter of fact he even outran his old gang and made off with the booty in the middle of a drunken shootout with their rivals, the Barnaby Boys. Good thing, too. The Boys didn’t know a band of Comanches was riding for the raiding and the killing that night, and raid and kill they did. The Barnaby Boys was no more after that and Chester's old gang barely crawled away alive.

Bill ran with the Darger Gang at the time which was holding up a train miles away. When he first heard of Chester’s stunt he howled like a hyena and downed a jar of whiskey to celebrate on account of his long-time pal. 

Then ten years passed. 

Bill found himself in jail more times than the fingers on both hands but always escaped. Even had the noose ’round his neck this one time, inches from death, seconds to swinging in the wind before his fellow outlaws shot up the whole committee and gave Bill his horse. So he rode off with them into the sunset, cheating justice, cheating death. 

Then another ten years passed. 

Then ten more. 

In all this time, Bill never saw hide nor hair of Chester. Truth be told, he thought the man died long ago. While runnin’ from folks to whom he owed massive debts, Bill caught up with Chester somewhere in the Arizona desert, eight miles outside of Tombstone. He found ol’ Chester sittin’ on a sickly horse and being followed by a grey coyote. Strangest sight Bill ever did see. 

Now the two of them ran together, old and weary, grasping for the day they’d be on top once more. 

“You always get the shakes at night?” Bill asked, sipping his soup on this cold desert night.

“Ain’t never got the shakes from nothing.”

“But you is pale as a sheet, Chester. That’s the look of God-fear in your eyes. I’d know that look in any man ’bout to die.”

“Ain’t nothing, I tell you. Quit pestering me or I’ll blow your head off.”

Bill had pity on the man. Chester’s hand lay limp as a hoot owl’s carcass. He could barely move without his bonescreaking and cracking. Bill let the matter pass and turned his attention towards the sleeping coyote that lay beside Chester. 

“Why do you keep ol’ Jeremiah with you? Strange thing for a man to be riding ’round with a coyote tethered to his side.”

Jeremiah slumbered away while Chester mumbled, “He’s been my friend all these years. When the marshals was ’bout to nab me Jeremiah appeared right out of thin air and whispered, ‘If you want to live, follow me.’ So I followed him across the plains, and followed him up the river, and followed him beyond the mountains and down into the valleys, and followed him into the desert until there weren’t no more posses behind me.”

“You really aim to tell me that coyote come out of the air and talked to you?”

“If I told you once I told you a hundred times, he talked to me. Even told me his name, an’ that’s what I call him by.”

“I ain’t never heard him talk, ain’t never heard one little word come out of his mouth in all this time I been with you.”

“You callin’ me a liar, Bill? Is that what you’re doing? I told you he can talk and by God he can.”

“All right. What’s he say?”

“Why! he says lots of things. He talks about the snow in winter up in Colorado, the fleas on a hot sunny day, the stars at night, the good clean rivers running from the hills. He talks about what you need to know, when you need to know it.”

“All the same, he ain’t said a damn word to me or you since we been riding together.”

“Maybe you ain’t worth talking to, but he talks to me when you ain’t around.” 

“Forget it. There ain’t no sense in the world can get through to you. If you want to go ahead believing that critter can say a few words, well you go right on ahead believing.”

Bill sipped from his tin cup while Chester stayed transfixed on the fire. A sea of clouds drowned the glowing moon till you couldn’t see it no more. Chester breathed a sigh of relief as he wiped the sweat from his face. His shakes stopped too. 

 “How much do you suppose we’ll get from that wagon tomorrow?” Bill said.

Chester shook his head, “Reckon ten thousand.” 

“I get tired of all the killing and stealing and running, Chester. I know you is too. This needs to be my last one.”

Chester gave a half-hearted nod, “What’ll you do? All you ever done is kill and steal and run, ever since you was a boy. You going to open up a clothing shop now? Sell women’s underthings? Maybe sell pretty smellin’ perfumes, make ‘em smell all nice and dandy.”

“Maybe,” Bill said, “Maybe I will. Or I’ll get me a nice fine post office and send off folks’ mail. Yes sir. There’s no tellin’ what I might do if I put my mind to it.”

Chester again shook his head and a somber look overcame him.

“You’re old, Bill. We’s both old men priced high for our heads. Ain't no way no we can start fresh. Any dreams we used to have is long gone, carried far, far away in the wind. We ain’t got nothing but our guns and our saddles and our horses. That’s all we’ll ever have. We were meant for it.”

“Maybe you was meant for it. Maybe I was too. That don’t mean I got to accept it no more, ’cause I ain’t accepting it. I aim to leave these days behind. You don’t want to end up like them outlaws in Tombstone, do you? We keep treadin’ the path we’s on we’ll soon sleep alongside them in Boot Hill and you know it.”

“What of it? Sleepin’ in the dirt don’t seem so bad. Not when you spend every waking moment on the run.”

The men sat silent by the fire, sullen and still, lives as empty as a dust ball.

Bill remembered his Gertrude, whom he had not seen in long cold years. 

“Sure do miss her,” he muttered, “Ain’t never should’ve let her go.”

“You goin’ on ‘bout that young filly of yours? She don’t remember you, Bill, she ain’t never given you one little thought in all the years you been gone.”

“But I been remembering her and giving her lots of thought. Wouldn’t have nothing to do with all my sinnin’, she said. Wouldn’t have none of that, she said.”

“Wouldn’t take you back ’less you changed your ways.”

“My ways ain’t never changed. You know that. Always stayed crooked, one step away from the smoke o’ hellfire.”

Poor Bill. Never could fix himself right. Always had his hands dipped in blood and gold, the blood never washing away and the gold never sticking around. And neither did Gertrude. She left before the sun rose, and that was the end of that. Well, no sense in mullin' it all over again, Bill thought. It was too much. He got up and started singing a little tune from his younger days to ease his mind. Chester got out his harmonica and played along. The tune took them both back decades. Bill jumped up and swung his hat, danced a little diddy while belting out the verses.

We formed our band and we’re all well manned

To journey afar to the promised land

Where the golden ore is rich in store

On the banks of the Sacramento shore

Then ho! Boys ho! To California go!

There’s plenty of gold in the world I’m told

On the banks of the Sacramento

Then we’ll explore the distant shore

We’ll fill our pockets with the shining ore

And how ‘twill sound as the wind goes ’round

Of our picking up gold by the dozen pound

Then ho! Boys ho! To California go!

There’s plenty of gold in the world I’m told

On the banks of the Sacramento

    Weren’t that great? Yes sir, them was damn good times when gold was to be found ’neath every rock in California. Chester remembered. So did Bill.

    “Hell,” Chester said in between bursts of hardy laughter, “what I wouldn’t give to live it all over again. Oh, I gotta take it slow. This ol’ heart of mine can’t take much excitement.”

    Bill let out a howl, “An’ you’re gonna rob a bandwagon. Why, you ol’ badger, your heart’ll give out faster than a hot knife through butter. You might wanna lie down, let a younger man take care of that wagon.”

    “Quit it, Bill. You ain’t only but a few months younger n’ me.”  

At first they didn’t quite notice Jeremiah spring up with a crazed look in his eye, looking towards the cold darkness beyond the fire’s reach. Chester saw the old coyote creep towards the outer bounds. He dropped the harmonica and reached for his rifle, aiming to blow apart whatever was out there. 

Bill lunged for his own rifle as Jeremiah stopped short of the fire’s glow.

“What is it, boy?” Chester whispered, then hollered, “Who’s there? Show yourself.”

Silence. 

Bill screamed, “Show yourself you yellow-bellied coward!”

Again only haunting silence echoed from the shadows. 

Finally a throaty voice said, “You wouldn’t like to see.”

“Let us decide that,” Bill said. “Git yourself into the light.”

The voice gave a raspy laugh. 

“Ain’t that something comin’ from outlaws hidin’ in the night. No siree. I’ll stand here a spell. I like the advantage it gives me.”

“Listen, mister,” Chester said through clenched teeth, cocking his rifle, “I ain’t telling you again. Git your hide where we can see, or we’ll blow you apart.”

“He knows we’s wanted men, Chester,” Bill said, “Let’s blast him anyway, whether he comes this way or not.”

“My, ain’t that a funny change,” the voice said. “You is so tired of killin’ and stealin’ and runnin’ you’d kill me so you wouldn’t have to pay fer it all. Heh. Your mind must jump back and forth every second, Billy Wayne.”

“He’s been listening in on us, Chester. He’s been spying on us.”

“So you know who we is,” Chester said, then let out a number of blasts from his rifle. “That’ll learn you to spy on us.”

Instead of groaning, fits of cackling filled the night. 

“Yer aim ain’t as good as it used to be, Chester Russell. No siree. Why, you couldn’t hit the hide of a fat dead buffalo. Ha! Ha! Ha! An’ you used to be the most feared gun o’ the west! Oh, mercy!”

“I’ll get him, Chester!” Bill said, blasting away. “I’ll get the son of a bitch!”

The voice laughed all the more. 

“Save your shots, boys. I don’t aim to turn you in and I ain’t afraid of dying. You want to see me? You want that I should tread into the light? Hee, hee, hee. Well, I suppose I could oblige. Ready or not, here I come.”

An approaching figure came forward from the darkness. And Bill and Chester recoiled at the sight. He stood wrapped in grey tatters stained with dried blood and the oozings of open sores. A cloth, white and dust-worn, covered the whole of his face. Didn’t even have slits for eyes. He walked hunched over as though carrying an unseen burden, like the old farmers who walk all bent and crooked from years of labor. 

“What’s wrong, boys?” the figure said, “Ain’t you never seen a leper before?”

Jeremiah moved towards the man in tatters, licked his hand, then casually lay himself down to sleep. 

“Why’s Jeremiah taking a liking to you?” Chester said, keeping his rifle on the man. “Ol’ Jeremiah never takes a liking to no one ‘cept me.”

“Well, I suppose this here coyote of yours is breaking his own rule. He thinks I’m just jimdandy. Now lookee here, fellers, I don’t aim to trouble you much. Just a bit of food an’ some hot coffee before I go on my way. I don’t rightly mind y’er outlaws. Food is food an’ coffee’s coffee and a fire’s a fire no matter who you share ‘em with.”

“I’ve had enough out of you,” Bill said, spit flying from his mouth, “What in tarnation are you, anyway?”

“Hold it, Bill,” Chester said. “Let him sit a spell with us.”

“You lost your mind?”

“Jeremiah is laying beside him. That old coyote don’t do that for nobody ‘cept me. If he trusts him, then so do I. Least, for now, that is.”

“You gonna listen to that flea-bitten critter over your good common sense? I ain’t lettin’ that mummified devil sit with us. Look at him!”

“Now, now, Billy Wayne,” the figure said, “You don’t have to fret none. Just leprosy is all. You’ve heard o’ leprosy, ain’t ye? T’ain’t catchy. You and Chester is as safe with me as a baby in a bassinet.”

Bill cursed and would’ve shot him dead had Chester not intervened.

“I’m telling you he’s all right! Least for now he is till Jeremiah says so. Now go on sit down. Keep your gun on him if you want. But he’s sitting a spell with us. Mister, you can have a cup of coffee and some soup. Then you’ll be on your way. Or if Jeremiah says so, you’ll be dead.”

“Thank you, kindly. Your generosity is mighty appreciated. Yes siree. Mighty appreciated indeed.”

The stranger took his seat beside Chester. Bill sat across from him, rifle aimed, finger on the trigger. Chester carefully handed the man a hot tin of soup, “How do you know who we is?”

“I know lots of names belonging to lots of people,” the stranger said. “I’m as old as the hills and I’ve got the brain that remembers everything. I’ve traveled across this land before any living soul stepped foot here. I’ve walked every hill and valley and drank from every stream and brook. Seen plenty of births in the mountains and in the valleys. I saw when your ma gave birth to you. I saw when they named you Chester after your ma’s pa. I seen your first kill and your first bag of gold. I saw Billy Wayne come into the world by the river, where his ma lied down to give him life. Yes siree. I’ve seen the births of all your kin and the gangs you rode with, and I’ve seen all their deaths. You two vermin is the only ones left.”

“You’re crazy if you think we’re gonna buy that hogwash,” Bill said, “Quit yer lyin’ and tell us the truth. You’re a spy. One of them marshals.”

“Ain’t no spy at all, Billy Wayne. An’ I ain’t no marshal. No siree."

“How’d you see all them things?” Bill said.

The stranger set down his soup and unwrapped the white cloth from around his head. His nose was gone and his lips, decayed. The leprosy had gnawed half his face away. Bill and Chester grew paler than an Irish ghost that ain’t seen the daylight in a hundred years, not because of the stranger's disease, but because of the freakish third eye that sat openly gazing from the his brow. 

“I’ve got the eyes of a hawk, three of ’em! One to see by day, one to see by night, and one to see all right.”

“God Almighty,” Bill cried out, “Now I know you ain’t no man.”

“Hee, hee, hee. Peculiar, ain’t it? But I am a true flesh and blood man, Billy Wayne.”

Chester looked to Jeremiah, who slept without a care.

The stranger continued, “I was born just like you and Chester, thousands and thousands of years before the oldest sequoia done sprung from the earth. I was raised by the trees and the mountains and the wolves and the bears. A kind old woman without eyes, older than Methuselah, who remembered when the mountains were flat, who saw the first stars spread their wings out of the waters, who sang to the trees when they was sprouts, whose breath is the very air we breathe, she took me and loved me and taught me the mysteries of the earth, the air, the fire, and the water. No eyes, but she saw what others can’t see. The things between the shadows, the secret lights, the other side of the night skies. She showed me the secret of the heavenly host, the mystery that gives a man all the answers he’d ever want. Why, she showed me how to live long as I must without no fear o’ dyin’. And when she went away to see the people who walk with the clouds, to her kith and kin, I wept more n’ a babe yearnin' for its mother's milk. 

“‘Don’t you cry for me,’ she said from the clouds, ‘I aim to live and to love more’n this earth could ever give. An’ when you’re ready, you come up here with me, an’ you’ll see more n’ I could ever tell.’ 

“So I been walking this earth ever since. Heh, I remember clear as day when the Mayflower landed, and the hymn all them folk sang up to heaven. Old Hundredth. Yes siree, a mighty fine tune. Ain’t ye heard it?”

Then he took a deep breath and boomed out the song from memory.

Shout to Jehovah all the earth

Serve ye Jehovah with gladness

Before him come with singing mirth

Know that Jehovah he God is

It’s he that made us and not we

His folk and sheep of his feeding

            O with confession enter ye

His gates, his courtyards with praising

Confess to him, bless ye his name

Because Jehovah he good is

His mercy ever is the same

His love, his faith unto all ages

To Father, Son and Holy Ghost

The God whom earth and heav’n adore

From men and from the angel host

Be praise and glory forevermore

“Hee, hee, hee, that Old Hundredth. Mighty fine, yes siree, mighty fine indeed. For folks that sing a pretty tune they sure didn’t have pretty souls. Why, ol’ Jay-hovah himself didn’t much have a kind care for me, no siree. Didn’t give me the time of day, an’ his people said I was born of devils. Ol’ Jay-hovah must’ve agreed with them. The ol’ preacher said they should string me up and leave me in the woods to die, but they couldn’t catch me. No siree! I left ’em to their singin’ and their holy ways, ’cause I know they’d never join in my song.”

Bill and Chester exchanged glances. The old man’s nuts, nuts, they thought. ’Course, that’s assuming he is a man, Bill said to himself. He was damn sure this was no man, no sir, not a chance. He’d heard the Navajo talk of evil witches that take on strange forms and walk among regular folk to possess them. God Almighty, could that be what he is? A real live devil witch.

Chester didn’t know what to make of it. He’d probably have thought the same as Bill, had it not been for ol’ Jeremiah. That grey coyote would’ve up and ripped out the stranger’s throat if he sensed a hint of danger. What the hell is he?  

 “I been sittin’ with the tribes and their chiefs,” the stranger continued, “with the settlers and their parsons, to sing with whoever will sing with me. But I do a lot of crying for them because they don’t sing together. 'Course, it don't help none that they's all killing each other like they got nothing else better to do. Well, I s'ppose it shouldn't be surprising, none. Round up a bunch of folks and tell 'em God above has sent them on a divine mission to conquest a land like unto Joshua of old, and you got yourself into a fine pickle. Ain't it something? They run from a place that done them harm, and go to a place to do harm unto others. Reminds me of something the old woman taught me: Though the invader come on ships of oak, flying sails white as stone, and though he reap what he did not sew, his schemes and devices will not prevail. And the occupier, when he beholds the invader come, though his hand be strong and his eye sharp, he will not stand against the tide. Their hearts is sick. It’s a mighty terrible thing when folks don’t get along. Mighty awful things have happened and are gonna happen until they all learn their ways is useless. Ah, but the children, near and far and beyond the sea, they’ll make things right, because they will see the sunrise and find it's much better to sing in peace than shout the shout of war. Yes siree. One day, all that’s bad will be right.”

They sat quiet for about a minute or two till Bill said, “Them’s mighty fancy words, stranger. Not that I believe a goddamn word of it. If you is so gifted n’ such then why don’t you fix yourself up from your leprosy?”

“Hee hee hee. Why, t’ain’t that easy, Billy Wayne,” the stranger said. “This good earth has seen plenty of disease and sufferin’. I aim to do my part an’ carry as much of the pain and the sickness inside my skin so as to give other folks a chance at gettin’ better, gettin’ happier, findin’ a purpose to keep on livin’ and findin’ commonality with their fellow man. What good is being so powerful if you can’t help out a neighbor?”

Bill spat. “All right. I’ve had it. Why don’t you go on get the hell away from here?”

“Billy Wayne, when you was a boy you saw your pa shoot down poor Miss Penny, the little lady you had a heart-warming for. An’ you been tormented ever since.”

The stranger looked him square in the eye, didn’t flinch an eyelash. Bill got up, his face contorted with confusion and disbelief.

“Who told you ’bout Penny? Ain’t no one ever heard of Penny ’cept me. I ain’t even never told Chester ’bout her.”

“Billy Wayne, I was there. I saw your mean ol’ pa gun her down because he hated her pa for winnin’ that round o’ black jack. Lost his life’s savings to him. Sit down, Bill. Sit down. Don’t be scared. I told you I’ve seen everything.”

Bill slowly sat back down, the blood drained from his face. 

“She was a little bit of heaven to me,” he said quietly, staring at the earth. “Penny. Penny Stone. I ain’t said her name in years. Ain’t thought of her since I was a young man, no older than fourteen. I been with many women. Hell, I would’ve married Gertrude. But no one was like Penny. God Almighty. Why’d you bring her up, old man? Why’d you bring her back to me?”

He keeled over in bitter sobs, as if he had just been told his mother died. Chester never done seen Bill shed a tear. He’d been stung by a scorpion years ago, and whereas other men would’ve lost their will to live, ol’ tough Bill didn’t so much as let out a whimper. For Penny, he wept.

“I would’ve made her my wife,” Bill said, crying into his hands, “I would’ve built her a home on the prairies. I would’ve given her the mountains, the clouds and the stars, the rivers and all the light beams from the sun. I would’ve, I would’ve loved her. Oh, Penny. We sat in the willow outside her house, during the spring evening, and when we shared our first kiss, I felt the love of God all around us. She taught me love, an’ everything that’s good and wholesome and beautiful in this wretched world. 

“An’ he killed her. My old man, that son of a bitch, that filthy son of a bitch shot her dead. Took away the only good thing left in this miserable life of mine. Left me only with her blood and corpse. He made me put her in the ground in the field at midday, just as if we was digging rocks before the plowing. He was too drunk to know what he’d done, but sober enough to hide her. Didn’t even say a goddamn prayer. The son of a bitch. I hope he’s burning in the deepest canyons of hell. Penny. He killed her. My God. He killed her.” 

“So you killed him,” the stranger said. “You hated your old man with the same hatred fire has for water. Something died in you, Bill.”

Bill continued sobbing, remembering.

“So you set your mind to do what you did,” the stranger said. “That same night, while he slept the drink and the guilt away, you crept near, dragging your axe behind you, and you chopped his face till his skull split in two, till his brains spilled at your feet, till there was nothing left of him to be chopped. Then you ran. And you stole. And you killed. Them’s the only things you know how to do. An’ you kept on killing so much your hand’s become rotted with death. You’re an angry man, Billy Wayne. In all the world a man ain’t never been as hounded and gnawed at by hatred as much as you.”

“Sweet Jesus,” Bill said, shaking as the water fell from his eyes, “I thought I could forget. Thought I’d put it behind me. Oh God. What’ve you done, old man?”

“You’re a man on the run from himself, Bill,” the stranger said, “You’re near the edge of the mountain ready to jump.”

“I killed so much,” Bill said, looking to the stranger, “I killed and killed. I don’t deserve to live.”

“No you don’t.” 

 “What’d you come here for? Why’d you show up now?”

“Have to.”

“Have to?”

“Just like the wind don’t know why it blows, where it blows, or when it blows, it just does what it’s meant to do, so I gotta do what I gotta do when I gotta do it. An’ I got words for you, Billy Wayne.”

“What words you got for me, old man?” 

“There is a place filled with the dead who died at your hand,” the stranger said. “They’re screaming for your soul. Stop runnin’ and accept the noose meant for your neck if you would find peace. If you would see Penny again, go to the noose.”

Then Bill lowered his head. 

“That’s all it ever was,” he said, “Dreams. I had so many dreams. I lost it all. Lost Penny.”

 “Pay your debts, Bill,” the stranger said, “And in the next life you’ll get another shot at making those dreams truer than the earth.”

No one said a word. They stared at the fire as it danced in the night. The stranger reached into a hidden pocket in his tatters and pulled out some wrinkled bandages that hadn’t been used in a while. He whistled something the outlaws didn’t recognize while wrapping afresh his left hand. Bill and Chester hadn’t noticed his new wounds leaking through the tatters.   

“What about me, old man?” Chester asked. “What words you got for me?”

The stranger looked at Chester but then turned away. He took a drink of coffee, now cold, and saw the moon finally peering out from the black clouds. 

“Ain’t that a lovely sight?” he said, smiling.

Chester started sweating something awful and his skin turned stone white. He jumped up and paced back and forth, clenching his hands together while the stranger sipped his coffee. 

“What’s got into you?” Bill said.

“Don’t talk to me,” Chester snapped, then to the stranger. “You got words for me, old man? You got any words that can make my shakes go away?”

“Don’t got any words for that, Chester,” he said, “Maybe you ought to see a doctor.”

“Ain’t no doctor around that can fix this. Ain’t no medicine on this good earth that can put me at ease. That damn moon’s too hot. Just too damn hot. And bright. A man can go blind with a moon like that in the sky.”

“Ain’t nothing wrong with the moon, Chester. That’s a mighty fine moon. Prettiest I ever did see.”

“You shut up. Just shut your goddamned mouth, old man. You know that moon’s a menace to me. You know why I hate it.”

“I know why,” the stranger said, “Yes siree. I know why.”

“Then tell me how to be rid of it. Make it quit haunting me.”

“Now, Chester, you know what you did was a mighty terrible thing.”

“What’s he talking about, Chester?” Bill said. 

“You’d’ve done the same,” Chester said, pacing and fidgeting. “If you saw what we saw you’d’ve done what we did.” 

Bill heard the sound of a rattlesnake close by, rattling away like they do when danger’s near. 

“Don’t reckon I would, Chester Russel. No siree. I seen the thing you’re talking ‘bout an’ as God lives above, I would never have done the thing you did.”

“We was young men. Saw too many of them Comanche savages raidin’ our towns, stealin’ our women. Ain’t but a bunch of rats and maggots that need stomping out.”

“You sure fester a heap ton of hate in your chest for folks that ain’t no more wicked than you. Sure was mighty awful what they done. Yes siree. Mighty awful.”

The snake continued its pestering rattle, though both Chester and the stranger didn’t seem to notice. Bill saw what got the snake in a fit: a hawk, gliding with ease above the camp like it didn’t have a care in the world.

“They got no right,” Chester growled, “No right to breathe the same air as us.”

“Ain’t you done what you seen them do? Ain’t you done enough raidin’ and stealin’ of your own?”

“Don’t you compare me to them, old man. They’s not like you and me.”

“You an’ me ain’t alike, Chester.”

“But we is alike. You’re good blood. Get me? You is a natural born human being.”

“Natural born, Chester? You aim to tell me, with my three eyes an’ all my peculiarities that I’m more human than a natural born Comanche?”

“Shut up, old man,” Chester said, pointing his rifle towards the stranger.

Bill jumped up, “Easy, Chester. You don’t want to kill him.”

“S’all right, Billy Wayne,” the stranger said, rising slowly, no longer hunched over.

“Just make the moon go away,” Chester cried, “Make it stop.”

The stranger said nothing.

“Do something, damn you!”

Again the stranger was silent.

“By God I’ll kill you where you stand.”

“By God, Chester Russel, answer me. Why do you hate that moon?”

“You know why.”

“Why do you hate that moon in the sky, Chester?”

“I’ll shoot. I’ll kill you right here.”

“Chester Russel, why do you hate that moon in the sky?”

Chester’s hands shook with a vicious tremor. He dropped the rifle and covered his face with the checkered bandana around his neck. He gave his answer in heavy sobs. Bill strained to make out what he was saying. 

The snake’s rattle grew louder. 

“We was angry men, young and boiling mad,” Chester cried, “We heard there was a Comanche camp west of Oak Valley, a small camp that ain’t never seen a white man in all their days. We rode in at night, ten of us, all stormin’ with rifles and Bowie knives. We drunk our fill of whiskey till fire came out of our nostrils and made bets on seein’ who could kill the most braves. Couldn’t even recall our own names, we was so drunk. We went stormin’ into their camp hoopin’ and hollerin’ and cursin’ and shoutin’. Their warriors came at us with tomahawks and bows and arrows and we shot every single one of ’em dead. They didn’t have no guns, just tomahawks and arrows. Them braves, they didn’t stand a chance. We took their tomahawks from their dead hands and swung ’em around, laughing and drinking and goading each other to keep killing. 

“When we killed all the men there was nothing left to kill ’cept the women and the children. And there was this young Comanche mother in a tent, cradlin’ her newborn while it cried. I didn’t mean to do it. She held her little baby close to her bosom, screaming, their blood all over me and she reached her hand to the moon for help and she cried to the moon to save her baby and I cut them to pieces. 

“I was scared. I got sober right quick when I’d seen what I done. I ain’t never killed women and children. Ain’t never. I grabbed my horse and sped away, far away. The moon saw what I’d done and it always followed me, always saw my every miserable step, an’ it’s been hunting me ever since that night and I know as sure as the sun will rise in the morning that it’s come to kill me.”

As Chester said this, Bill thought the moon looked bigger than before, like it had filled the sky and now pressed down against Chester like an anvil strapped to his back. Chester’s eyes bulged as if invisible hands was squeezing the life out of his throat. 

“You killed ‘em, Chester,” the stranger said, his voice louder than thunder. “A mother and child. Ain’t they just rats and maggots, Chester? They don’t deserve to breathe the same air as you, do they, Chester? Better kill ’em all, Chester. Kill every last one of ’em filthy savages, Chester. Go on, Chester! Kill them.”

Chester fell to the dust clutching his chest, gasps of air flying from his lungs. Every word the stranger said hit him in his body like cannon fire. One more word and he was sure he’d be dead. 

Bill watched the hawk swoop in and clasp the rattlesnake in its talons, tearing it apart with its beak. The rattling sound gave out slowly. Then it stopped. 

“That pretty moon up there’s got you now, Chester Russel,” the stranger said. “Y’can’t run no more.” 

“God!” Chester coughed, reaching his hand towards the stranger, “I don’t got the right to live.”

Then it seemed to Bill that the moon receded into the night and its brightness dulled. Chester collapsed to the earth, barely moving. The stranger bent down to hold the old bandit in his arms. Chester tilted his head upward, “Oh, the moon’s beautiful, so beautiful,” he whispered, “So calm and cool. My shakes is gone.”

“Rest now, Chester” the stranger said, gently. 

“I done so much that’s wicked,” Chester whispered, tears falling from his eyes, “Take my sins away, old man. I can’t die with all this blood on me.”

“It’s all done, Chester. There ain’t no stain on your soul, now.”

Chester didn’t notice it, but what little flesh was left on the stranger’s face fell to the ground. Blood leaked from the grey tatters, and the sores made new stains on his bandages. Then something peculiar happened that ain't never happened before or since. Flowers grew in his wounds. Roses and daisies and morning glories, and their scent filled the air. 

“Tell ‘em I’m sorry,” Chester said, grasping the stranger, “I can never undo what I done.”

“You can’t. But I promise, do y’hear me, Chester Russel? I promise it’ll be made all right. Everything will be all right.”

“You don’t have to lie to me, old man. I know the great Executioner in the sky won’t let me get away with this. There ain’t nothing but damnation for me. I’ve lived too long.”

“When you see that ol’ Executioner, you tell him we had this talk. He knows my name.”

“Well,” Chester said in between coughs, “now my Maker calls me. I hear him demanding an account, and I gotta give it. If only you was here sooner, old man, maybe I could’ve mended my ways before tonight.”  

“Now, now, Chester,” the stranger said, the faintest smile in his voice, “Didn’t I say everything will be made all right? Close your eyes. You’ll see it.”

Chester coughed again. “Sure is getting dark. So long, old man. I’m going to the white throne, where ain’t nobody finds mercy. So long, Bill.”

Bill couldn’t bring himself to say goodbye.

Then Chester breathed his last. He was wrong. He did not go to the throne of judgment. Instead, the clouds received him, and a young Comanche mother with her child, both clothed in silver and gold bright as the sun were waiting for him. Around them stood a crowd of those who died by his hand, and they waited with joy to greet him. And the mother ran to him. And she wiped away his tears, and she embraced him, and she led him through the gates to his rest. 

Bill took his hat off and whispered a prayer. Dawn was breaking. 

“My run’s finished,” the stranger said, getting up. He turned to sleeping Jeremiah and scratched behind the old coyote’s ears. “It won’t be long now, Billy Wayne. I’ll see you soon. There’s a familiar voice calling for me, and I will finally see her again.”

Bill kept silent, his hat over his chest, head bowed. 

The stranger smiled and walked towards the rising sun. And he sang a new song to the tune of Old Hundredth.

All peoples of the living Earth

Sing O sing with joy abroad

Enter in with endless mirth

Thy tongues, thy praises do employ

Earth and her children blessed be

Hopeless children of mankind

Broken, weary come all ye

In Love thy respite find

Kingdoms and tongues hear me

Behold thy healing rise

Thy wounds, thy chains break free

The Light turn thou thine weary eyes

Then the sky took him, and this good earth saw him no more.

Jeremiah got up from his slumber, looked towards the fiery horizon and said in a low voice, “Perhaps the house of Judah may return every man from his evil ways, that I may forgive their sins forever and wipe away every tear from their eyes. Behold, I make all things new, and the leaves of the tree are for the healing of all peoples. No longer will there be any curse. Now see, Billy Wayne, the sheriff and his posse riding forth with guns and ropes.”