“You ready?”
The demon had stopped its sputtering and flopping. It regarded him in a cool, hard manner, its dark and bottomless eyes fixed upon his face. Hayes, who could feel his flesh crawl and threaten to run off, struck a match on the doorframe and tossed it inside. The match’s flame dimmed for a moment then bloomed in a fine way.
Soon enough, the shack was burning like it had been made for it. Hayes heard no screams, no curses uttered with a final vehemence. The train had pulled out of the station and was rolling east once more, picking up speed as it belched along. Hayes left the station to find the nearest stack of timber he could lay his hands on—one or two wagonloads would see this last bit through.
Epilogue
Elwood Hayes was scheduled to hang in mid-September. The time before the hanging passed both quick and slow, with summer taking its gradual leave of southern Wyoming as Elwood paced his narrow cell daily, wishing he was back in Colorado, or even on the old farmstead. He’d written to his parents about his brother’s death and his own impending but no reply had come, which did not surprise him much.
Then, on the morning of the big day, Elwood was visited by a ghost.
The ghost was let into the jailhouse by a Rawlins deputy. Dressed in a stiff brown suit of rough linen, the ghost wore his brown hair slicked back, like a lawyer or politician. He came up to Elwood’s cell and gripped a bar with each hand.
“Hey there, El.”
Elwood stoop up from his cot, his astonishment genuine.
“Johnny? Johnny Miller?”
The ghost smiled and Elwood stepped closer, getting a proper look.
“Christ, son. I thought you were dead.”
“No, sir,” Miller replied, shaking his head. “The sheriff let me loose and sent me packing. I figure he already had enough on his hands, what with the Indians about to attack and all.”
Elwood rubbed his eyes with his palms.
“There weren’t no goddamn Indians, Johnny. That’s a lie the papers made up, like how they call it the ‘Bone House Massacre’ to sell more papers.”
“There weren’t no Indians? What hit town, then?”
Elwood leaned toward the bars and lowered his voice. “It was the goddamn miners. They blasted too deep and woke a demon.”
Miller smoothed his hair, which was already lying flat. Elwood watched him absorb what he’d said like he’d been told how to sight a rifle, or saddle a horse. Miller had never been the swiftest thinker, but he did give things his full consideration.
“That man I shot here in Rawlins? That was him, Johnny. No matter what they say, that was the demon as sure as I’m standing here. I was lucky and got the drop on him.”
“Lucky? They’re going to hang you for it, El. I saw them setting up the gallows in front of the courthouse.”
Elwood shrugged. “Could have been worse—he could’ve torn through this whole damn town if he’d had a mind to. Besides, they’re really hanging me for that payroll in my bags. Mr. Dennison’s making sure I get strung before the whole world to set a proper example.”
Miller scratched his cheek, still digesting the idea. He looked strange with his face clean shaven.
“That demon killed Roach and Clem, then?”
“Yes. My brother also. And he gave me this pretty scar on my cheek and threw me through the goddamn saloon wall.”
Miller whistled softly.
“Well, I guess I owe you thanks for handing me over. You hadn’t done that I’d be a goner myself.”
Elwood snorted and paced around his cell, of which he knew every quarter inch by heart. Miller cleared his throat.
“I came to apologize, El. I shouldn’t have killed that National man like I did. You took me in and showed me how things were done and I went off and did something small like that. I deserved to get knocked down and handed over. I deserved a hanging.”
Somebody shouted outside Elwood’s cell window. People liked to shout into the jailhouse, knowing Elwood was there to be shouted at. They came and hollered at all hours, night or day, sober or drunk.
“From here on out, I plan to live a clean life and not let my temper best me,” Miller said, pushing his face between the cell bars. “I’m going to get a job with the railroad and thieve no more.”
Elwood stopped his pacing and looked the young man in the eye.
“That’s good, son. You stay clear of trouble.”
Miller grinned in earnest, showing the boy he’d once been, but his grin faded as the jailhouse door creaked open behind him.
“I’m sorry they’re going to hang you, Elwood. You’re a good man. I’ll be there to see you off and pray for your soul.”
“Thank you, Johnny.”
They shook hands through the bars of the cell and Miller, satisfied, showed himself out. Two hours later Elwood Hayes was standing on the trapdoor of a temporary gallows, listening to the same blowhard preacher that buried Milo Atkins hollering about mortal sin and the Lord’s justice and the eternal flames of Hell. They’d been right to choose a Saturday for the hanging—a full crowd was in attendance, filling the square and spilling into the streets beyond, men and women and children who all looked, from up here, like people Elwood had seen somewhere before. He let his thoughts drift to Ingrid Blomvik as the preacher thundered on, recalling the warmth of her body against his, her soft blond hair and sad blue eyes. He wondered if he could have settled down and loved a woman like that for fifty years, if they could have grown old and happy together in some calm place, perhaps a house tucked near the ocean.
When the preacher asked him if he had any last words, interrupting his pleasant reverie, Elwood Hayes said no, he did not. He figured some things you just didn’t come back from.
Acknowledgments
The author would like to thank Mark Rapacz, Jason Stuart, Karen L. Williamson, and the entire Burnt Bridge crew for bringing this strange beast of a novel to the world so beautifully. He would also like to thank his agent Jonathan Lyons of Curtis Brown, LTD. for all his tremendous insight, effort, and often baffling doggedness. Finally, as always, the author would like to thank his friends and family for their love and unflagging support. You are the light out of the dark.
About the Author
David Oppegaard is the author of the Bram Stoker-nominated The Suicide Collectors (St. Martin’s Press), Wormwood, Nevada (St. Martin’s Press) and The Ragged Mountains (eBook). David’s work is a blend of science fiction, literary fiction, horror, and dark fantasy. He holds an M.F.A. in Writing from Hamline University and a B.A. in English from St. Olaf College. He teaches at Hamline University and the Loft Literary Center and works at the University of Minnesota. He lives in St. Paul, MN.
You can visit his website at davidoppegaard.com.
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