Josiah had gotten used to the crows. He never thought he'd make friends with one. But it came again that morning, as he sat on the church steps nursing a lukewarm cup of coffee and enjoying the fine fall weather. Nights were cool now, but the day would turn hot soon enough. The double doors behind Josiah stood open, allowing a breeze to flow through the building.

Behind the church, there was a single tree, and each night at dusk, dozens of crows gathered with much squawking and cawing to roost. They would stay there through the night; crows cannot see in the dark. By day, the birds went about their business, foraging for food and getting up to whatever types of mischief crows were prone to. Josiah tried not to pay them much mind.

But this particular crow had been coming to visit him for a week now. It was a striking bird - large, beautiful, glossy black with a blue sheen that gleamed almost metallic in the sunlight. Each morning when Josiah sat outside, it landed at his feet and cocked its shining head, apparently interested in the handful of crackers he typically enjoyed with his coffee. "What do you have for me?" it seemed to say. By the fourth day, Josiah was tossing out little bits for the bird.

Today, the crow pecked the step where a crumb had fallen. Josiah broke off another corner of cracker to toss on the ground, and popped the rest into his own mouth. The crow accepted the treat, then looked up expectantly for more, the question there in its intelligent eyes. "What do you have for me?"

Laughing, Josiah dusted his hands together and held them up in an "all gone" gesture. The crow pecked impatiently at the ground, spread its wings, and rose in flight. It circled once in the air, banked sharply, and flew right through the open door of the church. Josiah turned quickly, surprised, to watch. Three times the crow circled the sanctuary, then flew back out over the sometime preacher, grazing his head, and as it soared away, Josiah stared after it. Well. It hadn't done that before.

"I see you feedin' that crow the last few days." It was Nathan, making his way across the street from the livery. "You makin' a pet of him?"

"All misgivings aside, they are a fascinating species," Josiah answered. "Highly intelligent. You can see it in their eyes."

"Thought you always looked on crows as a bad omen."

Josiah swirled his cup and tossed the remains of the now cold coffee onto the ground. "Nothing for you to worry about, Nathan. I know you don't believe in omens. And this crow seems to like me."

-o-

Josiah had an inquiring mind, so the next day when his pet appeared, he sat empty handed on the steps, just to see what it would do. The bird hopped about on the barren ground, eyed the sandy soil, and managed to convey disapproval in its expression when it turned a critical eye on Josiah, who just laughed. And waited. He had left the doors open, and was not surprised, merely curious, when the crow again invited itself into the church and swooped through the room. This time it didn't come out.

Josiah hauled himself to his feet. Inside, he found that the crow had planted itself on the pulpit and was casting disdainful looks about the room. "What do you want?" he asked the bird. He followed its apparent gaze to a few pennies that had been left on a table holding candles. With barely a ruffle of feathers, the bird glided from the pulpit, perched itself on the table and pecked with little interest at the coins, then flew back outside.

That night, Josiah spent hours with his friends in the saloon, staggering home long after midnight under the influence of cheap alcohol. Inebriated, he flopped fully dressed into bed and fell into a sound sleep.

It was late morning when he was awakened by a loud and persistent noise. Thud.

Thud. Thud.

What the hell? Someone was banging on the walls of the church. Josiah rushed to throw the door open. There may be an unfortunate soul there in need of help. But no – no one was on the stoop. Holding his pounding head, Josiah stepped out to search the street, looking for who might have tried to rouse him. He saw only a few men, talking with Yosemite, the livery owner.

"Hey!" he hailed, bounding down the steps. The men looked his way as he jogged nearer. "You see anyone trying to get in the church?"

The men all shrugged and shook their heads. Josiah stopped short where he was and turned back. At a visible flash of black, he picked up the pace, ran to the church, and charged into the nave.

The crow, perched on the back of a pew, stared at him with cold eyes and did not move, other than to cock its head in the now familiar way.

Josiah shook his head. "At least Poe's raven merely tapped on the window for entry," he said. He was hungover, not in a good mood. "I'm beginning to not like you." Grabbing the broom from a nearby corner, Josiah waved it at the bird. "Shoo. Get out now." The bird obeyed, and Josiah slammed the door.

-o-

Glancing up, Ezra immediately dismissed the old fellow who had entered the saloon as an unlikely, even unsavory, candidate for a game. Dirty didn't always mean poor, but this man was not just dirty, he was decidedly unhealthy looking, with rheumy eyes and sallow skin stretched thinly over sunken cheeks. What hair he had was disheveled, straggly and thin.

Alone at his table this quiet afternoon, Ezra hadn't played a hand in over an hour, but he cast his eyes downward, unwilling to give the man the slightest notion about coming his way. Slumped in his chair, he pretended to concentrate on the cards he maneuvered through his fingers, a trick he could have performed in a coma. It didn't work.

"You the local card sharp?" The voice was husky, phlegmy. The man coughed.

Grimacing, Ezra flipped a linen handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his nose. The man was not only filthy and and sickly, he smelled to high heaven. Ezra offered a forced smile. "My good man, I doubt you could afford the stakes."

"You'd be wrong." The man pulled a chair out and sat without invitation. Up close, he looked even worse. His grimy and tattered coat barely hid the degree of emaciation beneath it. "Name's Vernon Beal." He reached into a pocket of the coat.

Ezra seldom cared if he knew the names of men he played poker with. He said nothing, only watched as Beal drew out an object that he let dangle from dirt encrusted fingers. Ezra sat up straighter and appraised it from across the table. He was loathe to touch the thing; it was as dirty as its bearer. "Silver," he said.

"Yup." The man allowed the chain with its oval pendant to sway a little.

"It's filthy," Ezra pronounced.

Irately, Beal tossed the necklace onto the table where it slithered to the center and stopped. "Just needs a little cleanin' up."

Ezra settled back in his chair. "Not interested." A slight shiver ran through him. He felt not only revulsion for Beal, but for the tarnished jewelry itself. He didn't want to be anywhere near the man, sit at the same table, touch anything he handled. Even if they were to somehow engage in a game, he would burn the cards afterward.

"That's valuable," Beal insisted.

Now that the necklace lay on the table, Ezra could see that the pendant may be a fine piece, though the chain that should have snaked gracefully over the table was stiff and clumped. Possibly there was some value, but the man, Beal, was so obviously down on his luck, Ezra couldn't believe he carried this thing in his possession, hadn't sold it long ago. It was most likely recently stolen. "Where did you come by it?" he asked mildly.

A strange look passed over Beal's face. "I –". He broke off suddenly, stuffing a handkerchief to his mouth as he was seized by a fit of coughing that lasted nearly a minute. When at last it passed, the old man's face was even more pale than before. "Damn this thing," he mumbled, looking down as he stuffed the crumpled handkerchief away in his coat.

Disgusted as Ezra was, he wasn't completely without compassion. He could see blood on Beal's lips. "Sir, you are ill," he said. "There's a healer in town I can take you to. He may have a remedy –"

"There is no remedy!" Beal leapt with sudden animation from the chair. Wildly, he pointed at the table. "Take it! I want it gone! That thing is cursed, and I've been damned with it!" He suddenly stiffened and crashed to the floor, thrashing with a seizure.

"Good Lord!" Ezra exclaimed. Rising, he called out. "Someone get Mr. Jackson!" He fell to his knees beside Beal, pressing his hands against the man's shoulders to hold him down, but unsure what other comfort to give. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw activity near the door and heard shouting in the street: "Jackson! Get Jackson!"

-o-

"I can't help him." Nathan had left Beal alone in the clinic, to come out and speak with Ezra.

Though he'd had the good grace to wait outside for word of the man's condition, Ezra really wanted nothing more to do with the situation. He tipped his head and rubbed at his temple. "I was – simply a bystander."

Nathan placed a hand on Ezra's shoulder. "I understand. Just thought you'd like to know he can't get better. It's some kind of wasting disease."

Ezra was a little shaky, surprised at himself for how unnerved he'd been by the encounter. "There's something odd about him," he told Nathan. "He was – ranting. About a curse. Before he fell."

"I know." Nathan nodded. "Still is. Mumbling, anyway. Don't worry, it's only a delusion." Nathan let a steady dark-eyed gaze settle on Ezra's face, then gave his friend's shoulder a pat before turning back toward the door. "Curses ain't real, Ezra."

Ezra sighed. How did Nathan know? How had he guessed that, smart as he was, as able to fool other people and make them believe whatever he wanted them to, Ezra couldn't shake a deep down almost-belief in curses? He'd spent too much time in New Orleans, seen and heard of too many unexplainable things. "Of course they're not," he said.

-o-

"Get rid of it." Inez flipped a hand toward Ezra's usual table. A table no one had occupied in over 24 hours. The necklace still lay in the center, and Ezra eyed it morosely. One would think, in a town supposedly infested with criminal behavior, that someone would have stolen it by now.

Unconsciously, he rubbed his hands together, as if washing them. "Can't you just put it away somewhere? Mr. Beal still lives, and when he recovers he'll surely come to retrieve it."

"I heard him tell you to take it."

Smiling, Ezra placed a hand on Inez's elbow in an attempt to guide her from view of the table. "Inez," he purred. "I did not win that necklace. Regardless of what you heard, it's not mine to remove from the premises."

The saloon manageress pulled her arm free, and her eyes flashed like steel. "What I heard," she whispered fiercely, "is that it's cursed. And I do not want it here. Get rid of it. Now. Before this place burns down."

Ezra gave a weak laugh. "Come now, Inez. Surely you don't believe –"

"What you yourself believe?" she accused. "You won't even touch it. If you did not believe it's cursed, then it would not still be here." Inez turned her back on Ezra, sashayed to the bar, and began wiping it vigorously with a cloth. When she spoke, her tone left no room for discussion. "There will be no gaming table available to you here until that – thing – is gone."

-o-

"He wants to make a confession before he dies."

"Should I dress for the part? Or is he just trying to get something off his chest?"

"That," said Nathan. "Says he never held with religion or believed in strange happenings till recent. And he's not dyin' – yet, but he asked to see a priest."

Josiah nodded reluctantly. There was no real priest in Four Corners, but he had taken over the church, so he accepted this as his duty. "I'll be over directly then. Just need to wash up." A few minutes later, he clomped down the steps of the church to head for the clinic. At a cawing sound from the roof of the church, Josiah lifted his head and caught sight of his pet. "Is this why you're here?" he said. "To herald a death?"

The bird, of course, did not respond, but Josiah felt its eyes on him all the way, until he had climbed the stairs where Nathan met him at the open door. Josiah peered past him into the room, where a man sat in the rocking chair, a blanket tucked around him. The man's face was pale and sweaty, his eyes glassy with a far-off look.

Josiah approached him. "Mr. Beal, is it?" he said.

Beal nodded. He looked Josiah over, taking in the plain workman's clothing. "You the priest?"

"Close as you'll get in this town." Josiah pulled up the clinic's other chair, to sit at eye level with Beal. "What can I do for you?"

"I need to make amends. Clear my conscience." Beal's voice was soft and raspy, but clear enough to understand. "None of that religious stuff, though. I'm just thinkin' a priest must be an honest man. I got a story to tell, then I need help to put things right."

Nathan left the room, the door clicking shut behind him, and Josiah nodded solemnly. "I'm listening."

For a few moments, Beal stared out the nearby window. Then, as he turned back toward Josiah, a look of profound grief crossed his features. "I'm 43 years old," he said, "and I look 80."

Hiding his surprise, Josiah spoke with compassion. "I understand you're seriously ill. That can –"

Beal stopped him with a quick shake of his head. "I been cursed, preacher. Healthy as a horse, till I found that necklace." He picked up a glass of water Nathan had left for him, took some sips, then set the glass down. "Told you I got a story. Now listen."

For the next many minutes, Vernon Beal spoke, staring out the window as he told the story, pausing frequently to clear his throat, catch his breath, or drink water, and glancing only occasionally at Josiah.

"I was a drifter," he began. "Been all over. Never had much, but I got along all right, and I was always honest. Then, one night, I come across an old homestead. Nothin' much left but a windmill and fireplace and chimney. I built a fire there to boil my coffee, and in a little bit, I seen a kinda gleam down in the cracks of the hearth. Took my knife and dug around, pulled out a necklace. It was a mess, all mud caked, but I thought it might be worth somethin'. Never paid no mind that anybody would be lookin' for it. Far as I knew, it was just a lost thing, so I took it."

"And you feel guilt for that." Josiah was already forming kind words in his mind, to ease this poor man's conscience. The thing was lost, possibly even forgotten, with little chance of finding the owner.

Beal pressed his lips together, nodding with regret. "Worst thing I ever did, though at first I thought it was luck. I cleaned the piece up some, never could get it lookin' perfect, but I laid that thing on the card table everywhere, and let me tell you, I couldn't lose. Except, I became sick, and, recollecting, it seemed like I'd felt sick since the night I found it."

Josiah's brow creased with interest as Beal went on.

"After a time, I realized that nobody I played with wanted to win that necklace. Some would barely touch it, said it gave 'em the willies." He huffed out a breath, shaking his head with disbelief. "It wasn't that I couldn't lose. It was that I couldn't lose it, and the longer I had the thing, the sicker I got. Tried to sell it, and nobody would take it. Finally took it to an old woman who said it was flat-out cursed. She told me somebody was lookin' for it, and I had to take it back where I found it." Beal laughed weakly. "Trouble is, I don't know just where that place is."

He sat forward suddenly, the blanket falling away. Roughly, he grabbed Josiah's shirtfront, and his voice took on a force and desperation he'd seemed too weak to muster. "Do you know a place like that, preacher? A burned out house with a windmill standin'? I know it was around these parts, maybe farther east, but I can't find it."

Shocked at the words, Josiah's eyes had gone wide, but Beal didn't notice and continued to rant. "The old woman said – I gotta take it back. Someone's lookin' for it. It's the only way –"

Beal lost strength and fell back. Josiah caught the man's hand as it dropped, trying to impart comfort, even as his mind reeled, rejecting what it was telling him. He managed to say, "Mr. Beal, there are many failed homesteads in the area."

Beal jerked his hand back and his voice rose again as he cried out. "But this one – burned! Like I said!"

Josiah closed his eyes, his chin dropping toward his chest. Fire. Why was it so often an accessory to wickedness? Just two weeks ago, he'd laid eyes for the first time on Chris's old homestead near Eagle Bend – east of here. A homestead purposely set on fire, for reasons no one had discovered. And when finally the man who admitted to the murder of Chris's family was found, he himself walked into a fire, immolating himself, rather than face justice. Josiah sighed. "Where is this necklace now?"

"Right here, Mr. Sanchez." Pale faced at what he'd heard, Ezra stood in the doorway, a silver chain dangling from his fist.