But Not Forgotten

by Calico West

"Get out of Laramie, Harper." That was the message, all right. But dadgum, who's the sender?

6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

I didn't, though.

I wasn't gonna let Slim wear a killer's brand across his forehead for the rest of his life. Breaking the connection of blue with the simple blink of my eyes, I turned and walked out the door. Since no bullets chased me out, I didn't hurry into the saddle but stopped just ahead of my mount and looked back at the shack. Was that gonna be my last view of Slim?

I wander a lot and without any kinda plan for my future, I know there's always the possibility of running into him again. It's happened before. I probably can't count the times my paths have crossed with friends and foes alike from my youth on up and me having a poor education ain't got anything to do with how high I can add up numbers. Simply put, meeting up with my past happens a lot. So yeah, this might not be the end with Slim. But it sure felt like it.

Dadgum. You'd think I'd never said goodbye before. I don't usually, but the word's got enough meaning inside to cut pretty deep even if all I can mumble is, "so long."

Giving my hat a tip toward the door, I took up the reins and settled my backside in leather. Since there wasn't any home to point him toward, I let Traveler make the decision on which way to turn. When his steps started following our original path to the cabin, I kept him going and soon the trees were behind us and the road was before us.

Remembering that we'd taken this direction before, I nodded. "It's town, huh? I get it. You wanna stall to rest in. That's fine, but if I make my rest on the saloon's floor, sink your teeth into the seat of my pants and drag me outta there, will you?"

I didn't know if the snort outta Traveler's nose was him laughing at me or offering me a downright promise to rescue me from the clutches of amber evil if I was stupid enough to put a full bottle up to my lips again. Well, either way, we were headed to town.

When I rode in looking for a doctor the other day, I was the only one in town making a ruckus. Today everybody musta been out on the street giving a holler. I could hear the goings-on far before I reached the outlier buildings. My first guess being a wedding party, I thought about bypassing it altogether, for suits and ties and fancy dresses weren't nearly a match to my mood.

My hands ready to tug on the reins to turn around, I realized Traveler's hooves were starting to prance. Apparently he was excited for whatever was ahead of us and despite the newest hoot echoing in the air, I found myself nudging him forward. Well, I did promise him a stall. Kinda.

Grateful that the livery was on the edge of town, I pulled up at the open door and set my boots in the dust. Getting a wave from the owner from the far side of the property, I nodded my return and waited for him to finish with whatever was important on the sheets of paper in his hand. Dadgum, he musta been putting a hundred checkmarks down. Why'd everyone have to be so blamed busy anyway? At least I'd been wrong about a wedding going on. There wasn't a skirt in sight.

The town's center was where most of the attention sat, and while some might say all the noise was entertaining, I found the bursts of hurrahs irritating. Maybe it was because I couldn't figure out what was so doggoned interesting in the first place. My shoulders performing a shrug, I turned my head away from the action to where there was less movement. There were still a lotta bodies meeting my gaze, though, but horseflesh was definitely a different kinda breed than whatever I'd call that other group.

Feeding time in the corral, the horses were all in a straight line, munching at the hay that had been forked over by either the main man or one of his hired hands. Seeing a mouth reaching for a clump of hay that'd been pushed underneath the bottom rung, I walked over to make the bite an easier reach.

"There you go," I said and the moment I straightened, I was looking in a pair of soulful eyes. I froze.

The horse that'd just taken the extra taste was a horse that was as familiar as if it were my own. It wasn't, but that blaze, that strong build, that brand, I knew it by heart. It was Alamo.

Anger burst outta my nose, but steam musta been covering all of me, for my steps were taken in a hard, swift line to the man that was still checking off his list. "Where'd you get that horse?"

Whipping around, the man followed my point. "Oh, him. He was picked up by Fern Hill. He's gonna be sold this afternoon."

The location unfamiliar, I shook my head. "I don't know about that, but I do know that ain't your horse to sell, Mister."

"Is he yours?"

"Well, no, but…"

"He had a saddle and gear but no bill of sale when he was brought in. No one's claimed him, so he's mine to sell. See, I have him listed right here."

Hearing it, reading it, it didn't matter, the truth was difficult to take and my hand whapped against my thigh so hard it burned. "All right. How much?"

Looking over the paper in his hand, the man shrugged. "Dunno."

"Whaddya mean you dunno? You just said he's for sale."

"It's an auction, Mister. Whoever bids the highest gets to take him home. In case you don't have a lot lining your pockets, you should know that some of the outlier ranchers are here. They don't care how high they spend if it's a good horse. And that one there's one of the best."

Dadgum. I don't got anything lining my pockets.

A sudden cheer going off nearly simultaneous with what sounded like a cymbal crash took my irritation outta control. "What is all that noise anyway?"

"I thought everybody knew. It's Demon Day!"

"What?"

"Demon Day!" As he answered, he musta saw my blank, or maybe it was a dark expression, and he finally understood. "You're obviously not from around these parts."

"No."

"Come over here a second. If we stand right by the water trough, we should be able to see through the crowd. Yeah, there he is. Do you see that big, black horse over there with the white socks?"

"Yeah. Nice looking animal."

"That's Demon. And you're right that he's a fine looker, but it ain't his pretty face that's making everyone act like it's the Fourth of July and Christmas all at once."

"What then?"

"I reckon I'll have to explain it in whole for you to understand. Old Man Danforth owns Demon, that ornery cuss!"

"Danforth or Demon?"

"Both!" He laughed, but seeing my mouth unable to perform the smallest flicker of a smile, the man sobered. "Charles Danforth's the biggest rancher in these parts and even he admits he's got a sizable head to match! You're kinda stiff, ain'tcha?"

"Just standing here waiting for you to get around to tell me what all the fuss is about."

"Sure, sure! I'll tell it. You see, Danforth brings Demon into town every year on this very date. He's been doing it, oh, must be about three years in a row now and folks just naturally started calling it Demon Day. It's been such a success that the entire town makes a big event of it too. Parade, music, more food than anyone can eat, and then come five-o'clock there's the big show. Just got underway a few minutes ago."

"What kinda show is that?"

"Why, the riders, of course! They come from miles on out to get fitted inside Demon's saddle. I figured that's why you rode in when you did."

"No. Ain't you gonna finish the story?"

"I'm getting to it and since I'm at the best part, listen up so you don't miss a word. Old Man Danforth bets that nobody can ride Demon for ten seconds straight."

"What happens if they do?"

"He'll give the winner five hundred dollars."

The sum sounding ten times that much in a poor man's ears, I whistled. "That's a lotta cash. What do the losers get?"

"Nothing but broken bones, bruises and the like. Oh, there's something else. Danforth'll pay for a spot in the graveyard if Demon ends up killing someone."

My brows hiked a mile upward. "Has it ever happened?"

"What, Demon killing anyone?"

"No. Has there ever been a winner?"

"Nope."

My eyes wandering through the crowd, the blue landed on a fancy suit with a puffed up chest, smack-dab in the middle. "Does he really have the five hundred on him?"

"He waves it around from time to time."

As if he knew it was being talked about, Danforth's hand dipped inside his pinstripe vest and pulled out the fold of bills. His thumb flipping the bend open, the splay went wide. Even from the distance I could count all five. My stomach took on such a craving it was as if I were watching the biggest steak in all of creation get set on my dinner plate with a larger piece of apple pie sitting beside. I even stuck my tongue at the corner of my mouth lest I was gonna make a pig of myself and drool for what ain't mine.

Dadgum. I've only got around five cents. Not too far away was five hundred dollars.

Without looking, I knew who was giving my shoulder a nudge. With looking, I felt a hitch inside my chest and my fingers started rubbing up and down Alamo's blaze.

What with how long they feel, there are times when a clock must be able to add more hours onto a day. It already felt like more'n one sunrise and sunset had passed since I gave up on the outlaw trail when it was really only this morning on up to the noon hour that I'd come to such a level of frustration, I coulda gotten drunk on my tears if they'd been made outta whiskey. And no, the reminder wasn't gonna make me test Traveler's loyalty and head straight to the saloon. The real reminder was that I'd been forced to ride away from the last act of friendship I'd wanted to give Slim.

Well, right here was another.

I reckon this was the reason why I'd been stopped along the river and unable to take another forward step inside a gunman's trail. I had to be right here, right now, for Alamo. No, I had to be right here, right now, for Slim. I don't care what Slim thinks of me, Alamo just couldn't be bought by a nobody. He hadta go home, his home, with Slim. That means I gotta get that money.

The livery man's voice took on an eager pitch. "You gonna go over there, Mister?"

"Maybe." Although that wasn't the right answer. My feet were already started in that direction, but then I skidded to a stop as if something heavy'd hit me. Something like the size of a tombstone. "Wait. Has Demon ever killed anyone?"

"Sent Lucky Larue into his coffin a year ago. Five seconds in and the buck off was so high, Lucky sailed straight into the stars before landing on his head."

"That the same Lucky Larue that used to ride around in them exhibitions that all the easterners pay a good chunk of money to gawk over?"

"The very one."

"Dadgum." Taking a deep breath, I looked back to where Alamo stood. "When's the auction start?"

"No point getting her going until the last rider gets bucked off of Demon."

"Thanks."

Walking toward the show, I heard Demon's wild scream before I saw his head rear high. The man on his back flew even higher. The landing thud was so disgusting, even my hard features turned into a wince. I only knew by the laughter around me that the man hadn't been killed. When I did lay eyes on the fella scrambling away from a shot of real steam, I wondered if he'd rather be sitting under his grave marker. His entire front was a bloodied mess.

Finding an open position along the party's perimeter, I put one foot up on the bottom fence rail to watch the next man take his turn. I didn't count it out, but that musta been a two second ride. At least he fared better than the man before him, for he landed on his backside instead of his face.

"Next up, Dwight Woodall!"

As the crowd roared, my jaw grew kinda tight. I know I tame broncs for part of my wages—well, I did anyway—but this ain't the same. This horse was being used for sport, for men that liked to show off. Sure, not many men wanted to be killed, but there were plenty that wanted his five seconds or less in the sun. Dwight Woodall was having his moment right now. With his spurs stuck into both sides, Demon leapt in fury. I almost thought he was gonna make it, but then at seven ticks in, Demon spun so rapidly the spurs could no longer hang on. Neither could the man and Woodall was flung all the way over the fence. Well, almost all the way. One of his spurs got caught up on a post, but in his haste to get away from a raging beast, Woodall pulled his foot right out of his boot and started running.

The laughter and shouts went wilder than ever.

These fools. Don't they know there's reason why Demon bucks everybody off? He ain't properly cared for. I doubt he was even halfway loved. I could even venture to guess that Danforth and whoever worked for him just might make Demon's attitude more ornery by smacking him around, just so men like Woodall could say he once had the right kinda wings to fly.

"Clayton Bishop, you're up!"

Up? Dadgum, Bishop was down so fast I don't think the man with the watch even had the chance to count a second off. I'll say it again. Fools. Every single one of them.

The longer I watched every man go up and then drop, my temper switched directions. No longer was I watching the men sail through the air with a bitter taste in both cheeks, I was watching the horse. Breathing fire with every snort, stomping at all the bodies that he tossed and charging at the crowd that hollered all kinds of foul language at him, I felt rather sorry for the animal. What with all that against him, I didn't blame him for how he acted. It was just Demon's way of fighting back and I reckon in a way, all of those men that'd been punished by the horse rightly deserved it. I mighta just punched some of them in the mouth myself if I had the chance.

But here's where things really got interesting. Instead of walking off in a huff like I shoulda, I walked closer to the man holding the golden watch. "Ten seconds, huh?"

"That's the bet."

"How many more men are left to go through?"

"Two. But I doubt they'll make it. The first one's too old, the second's too scrawny."

"How many men've tried it so far?"

Gasping as the older man got sprung loose from Demon's back the first moment his backside was lowered, the man to my right ran his finger down a rather lengthy list. "Forty-three counting Nickerson that just took his dive. Forty-four if Little Lando can even get his foot in the stirrup."

He did, but if he made it a second before going airborne, I woulda been surprised. Dadgum, the real surprise was how the poor kid was able to scramble to his feet and run outta there before the horse took his hooves to the skinny back.

"Anymore takers or is the show over?"

"Looks like Lando was the last signed up and Danforth gets to keep his five hundred for another year. Well, he might let a little of it loose. I saw him eyeing the lone horse up for auction that was picked up by Fern Hill."

Alamo.

I tried to swallow but it wouldn't go down. Surprisingly my voice still worked. "I'll take the chance."

"You on the list?" He asked, flipping his papers over as if he was looking for a name he'd earlier missed.

"No, but if someone'll gimme a pencil, I'll jot it down."

"That'll be Mr. Danforth's say. Mr. Danforth!" The shout made the head of all this mess turn toward me. "Gotta new feller wanting to play. He ain't signed up, though."

The suit standing up, he gave me a long scrutiny. And dadgum, he smiled. "You look like the proper type."

My mouth took on a similar curl as I faced him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just an observation, Son. Since you're not on the list, what's your name so I can get it chiseled on your tombstone?"

I know my cheeks blanched some, but I reckon I could build the fire back up right quick. "Jess Harper."

"Birth date?"

"Don't bother."

"Sorry, Harper, it's the rules. If I'm going to pay for your tombstone then I need your…"

"And I said don't bother." The flames were back, inside and outta me. Good. That's exactly what I need right now. "If I die you pay for nothing. Just dig a hole where I land and roll me in it. But if I last those ten seconds and still die, I wanna make sure I get what's coming to me."

Looking at my outstretched hand, held firm and ready to shake, Danforth slowly nodded. "I'm listening."

"If I can make it the entire stretch and then get bucked into my grave, you take that five hundred dollar prize and buy that horse you were looking at over at the livery. The one from Fern Hill. But you ain't gonna keep him. That S-R on his hip means he's from the Sherman ranch. Make sure Slim Sherman gets him back. He's recovering from a coupla gunshot wounds in a ramshackle shack about an hour's ride west of here. And since the horse should cost less than the whole wad, make sure Sherman gets what's remaining." Fifteen seconds later and still without a response, I gave my head a tilt. "Well?"

"You've got a deal, Harper," said Danforth, taking my hand in his.

"Thanks."

"You really think you can take on Demon?"

"Why not? You're the one that said I looked like a proper fit."

"Yeah, but it's what Demon thinks that really matters."

True.

The horse pawing the ground in the corner, I walked to the gate and stepped in. We were still thirty feet apart, but the moment the gate squeaked shut, he lunged, daring me to come closer. As the sweat started pouring down, I took a backward step. That'd have to be my only hesitation, though. I was gonna have to take the dare, because I hadta come closer if I was gonna ride him.

My steps slow, I eased my right hand away from my side and let him sniff my fingers. It was a good thing the tips weren't in his reach. The snap of his teeth woulda bit them all off.

Within range of touching the saddle, I took a deep breath. "Demon. There ain't no point being cordial. I know you'd rather kill me in the first three seconds. That's fine. I reckon I've done enough living to call it good enough. Just let me have those ten seconds, all right? I ain't like the other fellas. I ain't gonna spur you, spit in your eye, anything."

The snort blew my hat off my head. He didn't believe me.

Bending down, I scooped up my hat and gave it a hard tap to hopefully secure it to my skull. "I'm sure all you need is to be worked with proper and you'd make a fine animal."

Another snort was followed by the hard stamp of a shoe against the dirt.

Hand in a tight grip of the horn, my foot hit the stirrup. "Me, you mean? Sure, I'd buy you if I could. I'd gentle you if you'd let me. I reckon all you really want is to be shown a soft hand instead of a rough one."

Front hooves off the ground, my boot was already stolen outta the stirrup.

"I know you don't believe me, but I…"

"Come on, Harper!" Someone shouted by the gate. "You've gotta get on him first!"

"I will," I hollered back. "Jumping straight into the saddle ain't what's gonna get me those ten seconds."

"We'll be here all night waiting for number one if you don't get going."

Dadgum. The last thing I needed was to be pushed into the saddle, but here was the entire group, kicking my rear into motion with their chorus of laughter. My right hand back in place, I felt the edge of the stirrup with my boot's tip and then with my left hand, I took up the reins. Now if I could just swing up in one hop, I'd be settled in place.

My breath deep, I lowered my lashes and jumped.

Demon was bucking before my backside went down. At the smack, I knew I had my first second. It was too bad I couldn't stay connected, though. I was bounced right back into the air, but I reckon since I didn't let go of the reins, I had the second tick. The next crash of my hip pockets against leather stuck, except that was when Demon reared almost straight up and I feared I was gonna be chucked underneath. As my arm flew high to save my balance, I'd just received number three. That's when the spinning started. The blur a dizzying speed, I thought my head was gonna explode. Since it didn't, I could count off number four.

How could Demon rotate and jump at the same time, at the same speed? Dunno, but it was happening and with all fours off the ground, he was definitely upping his ante. But at Demon's bet that I couldn't last one more second, number five went by. The whirl and kick getting stronger with each heated breath, I was sure I was a goner, for Demon's next leap whipped my neck back so hard I heard a pop. No, it wasn't broken, but I saw black for a second. I reckon that second was the sixth.

Angry spittle blowing toward my face, I felt my shoulder starting to rise to brush it off. I couldn't let it, though. I couldn't change any part of my position or I'd become another loser. As my determination kicked in, seven was ticked off. I could feel it then. Sure, there was undeniable pain throttling my entire body, but that ain't what I felt rising outta my stomach and on into my chest. It was the sense of fear turning over to pride. I could do this. Dadgum, I was gonna do this and that feeling was allowed to go up a notch, for there went number eight. The next burst of Demon's wrath threatened to kill that sensation, for he gave me such a thrashing that I knew I was starting to let go. It was only because I saw my fingers opening to let the reins loosen that I was able to regain control. The clamp of my knuckles kept me on board. It was also second number nine.

One to go. Somehow it was the longest one of all. The jump, the spin, the explosion out of Demon's nose all happened at once, but I didn't have to fear what was gonna happen next, for I'd reached the impossible number.

"Ten!"

Hearing the winner's cry was my undoing. My eyes turning toward Danforth and the money I was about to be given, I lost sight of Demon's head. At that moment, he was throwing it up at me. His nose clipping my leg, my boot came outta the stirrup and the rest of my balance was gone. I thought about jumping, but it was too late. I was a part of the sky, so high that I could see the stars glistening beside me. No, that couldn't be right. The sun was still casting shadows, but since the light was getting dimmer, I reckon I was about to drop in the darkest one. My belly slamming against the wood rungs that made up the fence, I heard repeated cracking, of wood, of bones, of both, dunno, but I musta gone straight through, for I landed on the dirt.

Here came the shadow again. They say it's the place of death, but even if they're right, I couldn't run from it, I couldn't even hide, because this shadow was in the form of Demon. And he was barreling right at me. The wild springing of his body untamed even after I dropped, his head rammed into my backside and I flipped completely over. I reckon this way I could face him, although with my arm starting to rise in defense, I couldn't really see what was coming for me. I knew, anyway. I knew exactly what was gonna hit me, I just didn't know where.

The set of hooves into my ribs, this time there was no mistaking in what was getting crunched and my body coiled up in pain. I felt another hit, but things were getting hazy enough that I couldn't say where. The next stomp Demon wanted me to know for sure where he'd land. The thump against my skull set me rigid, the clip against my mouth stole my scream and as Demon's heat puffed through my hair, it seemed the horse was telling me that he'd won after all. He'd got the last laugh in all of this. I mighta had the tenth to call my own, but he was awarded the eleventh, twelfth, thirteenth, fourteenth and fifteenth second.

Dadgum, why did everything have to be counted in seconds anyway?

There would be no answer, though, for something was happening to my mind. It was emptying out. Maybe it was because my blood was running dry. Dunno. I certainly felt a puddle forming underneath me. But then I couldn't feel anything anymore. No pain. Nothing. Dadgum. I reckon there would be a final second in all of this. The one where everything turned to darkness.

.:.

"He's dead."

"You sure, Bert?"

The ear coming away from Harper's chest, Bert flipped the lid of his watch open. "He's dead, all right, Mr. Danforth. At exactly six-fifteen."

"Step back, Bert. I wanna get a picture."

Bert's eyelids stretched to their widest at the newspaper man dragging his photographer's entire getup to the edge of the unmoving boots. "But he's dead!"

"I know. I still wanna get a picture of the winner for the front page of the newspaper tomorrow. Dead or alive he's the only one to ever stay on Demon for ten seconds. More than likely the bigger newspapers across the territory will wanna run the story too, which means money and recognition for me. So step back, will ya?"

"Sure, Sam," Bert said, his steps backing up as far as where the suit stood. "What're we gonna do with him, Mr. Danforth?"

"Well, he said he didn't want a graveyard tribute. We just have to dig a hole and roll him in. Someone get a shovel so the deed can get done like he wanted."

"Not until I get the right picture!"

Charles Danforth shook his head. "Hurry it up, then. His cheeks are only going to get paler by the minute."

"Why do you think I'm standing like this? The shadow of my equipment laying over him will take away the deathly pallor. All right, I'm gonna take the snap. Wait. Anybody gotta rose I could lay over his chest? Folks really go for sentimentality."

A cackle sprung up out of the middle of the crowd. "A rose, in this town?"

"You're right, no rose. Hey! Get his hat, Bert. That can be laid over his chest."

"Here it is, Sam. I even dusted it off."

"Thanks," he said, placing the black rim across Harper's chest and then as a final touch, picked up the limp hand and laid it on his belly. "Now that is the perfect picture. All right, nobody move until I get it. There!"

"You finished, Sam?"

"Only if you don't wanna shot with him, Mr. Danforth."

"I don't."

"All right, then. I'll get this developed and start on that newspaper article. You'll be in town awhile, Mr. Danforth, in case I wanna interview you?"

"I'll stay through the end of the auction," he answered, his toe in a repeated tap against the ground. "Where's that shovel?"

"Here it is, Mr. Danforth," said an earlier victim of one of Demon's buck-offs. "Whooey. I'm sure glad it ain't me that's needing the hole dug. Just looking at him lying there gives me the willies so bad I just might faint!"

"Don't faint, just dig."

"Me? I've got a bad leg. You do it."

The handle thrust his way, Charles pushed it right back. "Not me."

"But you asked for a shovel. I ran all the way to the livery and back. And that ain't no easy feat! My knee feels like it's gonna be bent forever because of how far Demon tossed me."

"I don't care. I can't bury a man in this suit. Somebody else will have to do it. And you're holding the shovel."

"I'll take care of it," Bert said and then began rolling each sleeve to his elbows. "After all, I kinda feel responsible."

"Why? Harper made the choice to get on Demon."

"I know. But if I'd said the show was over instead, Harper'd still be alive so let me have the shovel."

Charles shrugged. "No use feeling guilty, Bert."

"I guess I'll leave the guilt in the grave when the dirt's tamped down tight. Right now, I owe Harper every shovelful. Get outta the way, Bo. You're standing on Harper's ground."

"Sorry," said the town's barfly, so regularly sopped up that flies flitted near his breath every time he walked away from the bar. "I don't get to see a hero every day and I wanted to see him up close before he gets planted. Kinda nice looking, ain't he?"

"For a dead man with his skull bashed in, you mean?"

The hiccup popped rather loudly. "He's still better looking than what I see in the mirror every morning."

"You've got a point, Bo," Bert said and then with both hands on the arms of the tattered jacket, moved Bo toward the broken fence rails. "Why don't you hold this post up awhile?"

"Sure thing, Bert."

Hands clapping together, Bert finally took the shovel in hand. "Does anybody know how deep it needs to be?"

The closest man to Bert's left spread his arms wide. "They say six feet."

"I never knew if that was six feet wide or six feet deep."

The same man looked at the body in the dirt. "He sure ain't six feet wide."

"Right. Six feet deep."

Foot against the shovel's lip, he tossed the first serving of dirt behind him. It didn't take long for Bert to start to grumble against his labor. Yes, he had wholeheartedly volunteered himself out of guilt, so it wasn't like he was angry that he had made this decision. It was that with him being a simple bank teller, he didn't perform outdoor work. And his muscles were bemoaning this fact. Everything was bemoaning this fact and Bert's movements became slower by the minute.

When a small pile of dirt had grown behind him, he stepped back panting. "I know it's not six feet yet, but tell me it's deep enough."

A head leaned over the hole. "I reckon. No coyote's gonna come dig him up in the middle of town."

"Good. But is it wide enough?"

A different pair of hands measured from one side of the hole to the other. "Yeah. He ain't got any fat to hinder his drop."

"Then we'll call it his grave." Stepping back even further, Bert pulled the kerchief out of his hip pocket and ran both sides up and down his face to catch the sweat that had been coming down harder than rain. "Someone else toss him in though, I'm beat."

"All right," Charles answered, pointing at two and then a third man that were wearing sizable muscles on each arm. "Get Harper in his final resting place."

"Wait."

Bert blinked at the man that held both palms upward. "What for? You were the one that said his grave was a good enough size."

"That ain't it. Shouldn't someone say something? I mean, it's not a formal one, but it's still this feller's funeral."

Several heads turned to Danforth, but only one unnamed man's voice said what the entire group was thinking. "Your Demon's the one that downed him."

"Besides, you are the only man wearing a suit," added a second man, this coming with a rather sarcastic flair. But he did have reason to turn his voice just so, considering he had been told twenty minutes earlier that Charles Danforth couldn't dig the grave due to not wanting to muss up his fancy suit.

"All right," Charles said as he straightened his tie. "Everyone come close so I don't have to shout. That's it, now. Ahem. We gather together at this solemn time… Bo! Take off that hat. You too, Orton. This is a funeral service, not a picnic."

"Sorry," Bo said, his hat coming off with a slap against his chest. "Forgot my place for a moment. Carry on, Mr. Danforth."

"Right. Now where was I? Ah, yes. We gather together at this solemn time to remember Jess Harper, whose bravery surpassed many men before him. We may not really know him, we may never get the chance to know him, but he obviously had a quality about him that no one else could claim. The only man to truly ride Demon. Your death is not in vain, Son, but a tribute for us all to remember. Forever. I guess that's it. Bo, stop blubbering. For goodness sake! He was a total stranger!"

"Sorry," Bo said, his handkerchief coming up to dab at both eyes before landing against his nose for a loud snort. "You just made it sound so perty I couldn't help myself."

"Okay, okay. Now that the tears are dried and the speeches are through I guess that means the service is complete. You men roll him in."

Inching his way to the grave, Bo leaned over the edge. "But ain't that gonna be kinda a hard drop?"

"He's dead, Bo! He ain't gonna feel a thing."

"I reckon, Bert. He just looks so, so peaceful, like."

"I guess that means he went to the good place," Bert said and fifty men turned their eyes to the sky.

But there were three others that didn't look up at all, but down. One pair of hands on the stiff legs, another set touching the shoulder, the third man took up the hat. Since he wasn't heavy and they weren't weak themselves, the men didn't have to emit a single grunt as they flopped the body into the hole. The hat the last to go in, it drifted to its final rest near the place it always belonged, right over his head.

"All right, now the dirt."

Not wanting to shovel every speck of dirt over the body himself, Bert shook his head. "Ain't it proper to have everyone at a funeral service toss the dirt in?"

"That's just for close kin," answered Charles.

"But he ain't got any close kin. Just all of us."

The group of onlookers giving a collective shrug, several hands reached down and began scooping dirt into the hole. The more that kneeled alongside the grave to help, the more men wanted a part in the burial. At this rate, the grave would be completed in half the time it took to dig.

Smiling, Bert stepped away from the workers and once again found himself next to the suit. "This was sure something else, huh, Mr. Danforth?"

He nodded. "One thing's certain. No one's going to forget this day. Or the man."

"What was his name again?"

"Jess Harper."

"Never heard of him before today."

"No. I don't think any of us had. Whoever he really was is gone," Charles said, and remembering their agreement, he folded his hand over the prize money, the same hand that had taken hold of Harper's before he had grown his angel wings. "But not forgotten."