“Loco, all right,” Jackson said with a nod as he sat back. “What’s going to happen to the bodies?”
“Cecil Greenwood’s embalmed them. He’s going to take the coffins over to San Angelo and put them on the train so they can be shipped back East. Tillman and the gal will be buried in Philadelphia.”
“He never should have come out here,” Jackson said, “and Miss Tillman never should have come to visit.”
“Folks do things all the time they never should have,” Brennan said. “Problem is, they don’t know it until after it’s too late.”
That pretty much summed it up, Jackson thought.
The sheriff looked over at Everett. “I reckon you wrote up this whole thing for your paper back in New York?”
“That’s right,” Everett said with a nod, “including the part Mr. Jackson played in it. I spent most of the night writing, in fact, and I sent the dispatch off in this morning’s mail. In a week or two, the readers in New York will learn all about the Hand of God and his reign of terror.”
Brennan grunted. “Reign of terror,” he repeated. “Yeah, folks were pretty spooked, all right.”
“They can go back to their usual sinning now and not have to worry about the Hand of God,” Jackson said. “All they’ll have to worry about is the real Señor Dios.”
As they left the sheriff’s office, Everett said, “You know, word will get around town quickly about what happened to you. You’ll be famous as the only man to encounter the Hand of God and survive.”
Jackson frowned. “I never set out to be famous for that or anything else.”
“Well, I’m afraid you’re not going to have much choice in the matter.” Everett nodded down the street. “Here comes Malcolm Graham.”
“And I’m still too stiff and sore to run and hide,” Jackson said dryly.
The local newspaperman bustled up to them on the boardwalk and said, “Mr. Jackson! I was afraid you’d left town without sitting down for that interview you promised me for the Journal.”
“No, I’ll be around here for a while yet,” Jackson said.
“Excellent! I have a lot of questions to ask you, and if it’s all right with you, I’d like to take some photographs of you. I can’t print them in the paper, of course, but if I had a portrait of the famous Hell Jackson, I’m sure I could sell copies of it. You might even want one for yourself.”
“I know what I look like,” Jackson said. “You take pictures, do you?”
“Yes, I do. Have you ever had a photographic portrait made?”
Jackson nodded. “Once, over in Fort Worth. I didn’t expect to find a picture-taker all the way out here, in a little town like Death Head Crossing.”
“Oh, photography is the coming thing. Soon everyone will have portraits made.”
Jackson nodded. “That sounds fine. It’ll have to wait for a few days, though, and so will that interview. I’ve been laid up, and I need to get more of my strength back.”
“You’ve been injured?” Graham was surprised. “How?”
Jackson pointed a thumb at Everett. “Ask this young fella. He can tell you all about it.”
“Are you sure?” Everett asked.
“It doesn’t matter now,” Jackson said. “It’s all over, remember?”
Chapter 30
A lot of the townspeople turned out later that day to watch as Cecil Greenwood and one of his boys drove the hearse out of town. Inside were the coffins containing the bodies of Benjamin Tillman and his cousin Deborah, and everybody knew it. The trip to San Angelo and back would take several days, so folks hoped that nobody would need burying before Cecil got back.
Jackson, Everett, and Philomena were among those who turned out to watch the solemn leave-taking. “There he goes,” Everett said as they stood in front of the boardinghouse. “A man who caused a great deal of fear and misery, all because of his own twisted desires.”
“Everybody’s desires are twisted to somebody,” Jackson said. “I need a drink.”
As Everett had predicted, Jackson’s already formidable reputation had grown even more because of his encounter with the Hand of God. He couldn’t go into the Big Bend or any of the other saloons in town without people flocking around him and wanting to hear all about it. Jackson was a reticent man by nature, and all the attention bothered him. He just wanted to be left alone.
Jackson stopped going to the saloons and spent the next several days staying close to his room in the boardinghouse. Philomena had gone back to work there. She was upset that Jackson was no longer staying with her, but since there wasn’t any reason for him to lie low, he didn’t want to compromise her reputation any more than it already was.
Jackson and Everett visited Sheriff Brennan’s office again to find out if he had discovered anything about the men who had helped the Hand of God in his crimes. “Nearly a dozen of the Winged T hands have disappeared,” Brennan told them. “I reckon they were the ones Tillman paid to give him a hand with his dirty work. They might still be lurkin’ around here somewhere, but chances are they all split up and headed for parts unknown. I don’t have the time or the manpower to hunt ’em down, so I reckon we’ll have to settle for the mastermind behind the whole thing bein’ dead.”
One day, when Jackson was strong enough to ride again, he was gone all day and Everett had no idea where he had gotten off to. The possibility that Jackson might have run out on him, despite Jackson’s earlier statement that Everett could continue to travel with him, worried the young reporter.
But late that afternoon, the gunslinger rode in from wherever he had gone and was at the boardinghouse for supper as usual. He dodged Everett’s questions about where he had been during the day. Everett was frustrated, but he knew that trying to get Jackson to talk when he didn’t want to was a waste of time.
The next day, Jackson and Everett finally walked over to the office of the Weekly Journal. “Come in, come in,” Malcolm Graham greeted them effusively. “Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Jackson. I can’t tell you how much I’ve been looking forward to conducting this interview.”
“I’m not saying I’ll answer every question you’ve got,” Jackson warned as he sat down and put his hat on the desk beside him. “But you ask ’em and we’ll see what happens.”
“That’s fine. Rosalie, fetch Mr. Jackson a cup of coffee. Everett, how about you?”
Everett nodded. “Coffee would be fine, thank you.” He watched Rosalie with appreciation as she went to the stove in the corner, filled cups from the battered old pot, and brought them over.
Graham sat down on the other side of the desk and pulled out a pad of paper and a pencil. “First of all, Mr. Jackson, tell me where you were born.”
“In Missouri, where the Ozarks run across the southern part of the state,” Jackson replied. “Some would call me a hillbilly, I reckon, but I left there at a fairly young age, right after the war, and haven’t been back since.”
Graham glanced up at him. “Is it all right if I ask which side you fought for? I know that’s a sore subject with some people.”
“I fought for the Confederacy, but I wasn’t in the army. I was a guerrilla, until it got to be too much for me to stomach. As long as we were making war on Yankee soldiers, it was fine, but it got to where the folks who lived around there were as scared of us as they were of the Yankees. I figured that wasn’t right, so I left to head west.” Jackson shrugged. “Turned out it didn’t matter much. Lee surrendered at Appomattox less than a week later.”
Graham wrote quickly on his pad, the pencil moving with a swift dexterity. “What did you do after that?”
Everett made some notes of his own to add to future stories for the Universe as Jackson continued to talk, spinning yarns of two decades spent as a scout, lawman, bounty hunter, and hired gun. It seemed almost impossible that one man could have done so many different things, but Everett was coming to understand that some Westerners were a different breed of men, with a huge capacity for action, adventure, and danger. Hell J
ackson belonged to that breed.
“This is wonderful,” Graham said as he continued to scribble notes. “It’ll make a fine story, Mr. Jackson. I can’t thank you enough for consenting to the interview.”
“Well, I reckon it wasn’t as bad as I thought it might be,” Jackson said with a shrug. “Anything else you want?”
“That photographic portrait, if you don’t mind.”
Jackson looked down at his clothes, which were typical range garb. He had bought a new hat to replace the one lost when he was lassoed and pulled out of the saddle by the hardcases working for the Hand of God.
“I don’t have anything fancy to wear,” he said.
“I don’t want you dressed up,” Graham said. “I want you to look just like you normally do. In fact, do you have a rifle?”
“A Winchester.”
“If you could get it and hold it while you’re posing . . .”
“I’ll fetch it from your room,” Everett volunteered.
“That’s a good idea,” Graham said. “I’ll get started setting everything up.”
“Why don’t I walk over to the boardinghouse and back with you?” Rosalie suggested to Everett.
The young man’s heart leaped, but he tried to sound nonchalant as he said, “That would be fine.”
As they left the newspaper office, Graham was telling Jackson to stand in front of a blank wall. “I don’t have any photographic backdrops yet, but I hope to someday,” he explained.
As Everett and Rosalie walked along the street toward the boardinghouse, she said, “Mr. Jackson has certainly lived an exciting life, hasn’t he?”
“He has indeed. If I continue to write about him, he may wind up as well known as Wild Bill Hickok and all the other famous gunmen.”
“I’m not sure he’d want that,” Rosalie pointed out.
“Sometimes people don’t have a choice. Fame is thrust upon them.”
“Or infamy . . . like Benjamin Tillman.”
“Yes, it’s a shame that had to turn out like it did. Six people died for no good reason.”
Rosalie linked her arm with Everett’s. “I suppose Mr. Tillman thought he had a good reason for everything he did.”
“I suppose.”
“Well, let’s not talk about that now,” Rosalie went on, her voice growing brighter. “It’s over, and we should look to the future. To that end . . . why don’t you have dinner with us again tonight?”
Everett smiled over at her. “I’d like that very much.”
When they reached the boardinghouse, he went upstairs and got Jackson’s rifle. The Winchester was heavy in his hands as he brought it back down. Philomena was walking through the house with a load of clean sheets in her arms as Everett reached the bottom of the stairs, and she stopped to look at him with a puzzled frown.
“You are going hunting, Señor Everett?” she asked.
“No, no, this is Jackson’s rifle. He’s posing for a photographic portrait by Mr. Graham, and Malcolm wanted him to be holding the Winchester.”
Philomena nodded in understanding. “Be careful. Guns are dangerous.”
“Oh, I think I know that.” But Everett took care to keep his finger away from the trigger anyway.
When he and Rosalie got back to the newspaper office, Graham had his camera set up. It was a large, bulky apparatus on a tripod, with a black cloth attached to it that the photographer would drape over himself as he bent to look through the lens. The cloth would keep any stray beams of light from striking the photographic plate and damaging the portrait.
“Give the rifle to Mr. Jackson, please,” Graham said distractedly to Everett as he poured powder from a can into a tray attached to a long handle. Everett handed the Winchester to Jackson, who was starting to look a little impatient and uncomfortable.
“This is taking a while,” Jackson commented.
“Anything worthwhile does,” Graham said. “I think you’ll be very pleased with how this turns out, Mr. Jackson. At least I hope so.”
Finally, Graham had everything ready. Jackson stood against the wall, the Winchester in his left hand held down at his side, slanting across in front of his thighs, his right thumb hooked in his gun belt so that his hand was close to the butt of his Colt. His left leg was slightly in front of the right. He looked casual but still alert. His Stetson was thumbed back slightly so that the hard planes and angles of his face were clearly visible. He wore a stern expression.
“That’s perfect,” Graham said. He had draped the black cloth over his head and shoulders as he leaned forward to study Jackson’s pose through the camera’s lens. As he raised the tray of flash powder, he added, “Now stay very still. . . .”
A few more seconds ticked by slowly while Graham made sure everything was ready. Jackson stood absolutely still, and Everett wondered if that was starting to be painful for him. The gunslinger’s back still wasn’t completely healed.
When the flash powder went off with a whoosh! it took Everett by surprise, both the sound and the brightness of it. He jumped a little. Jackson squinted his eyes, but that was his only reaction. Otherwise, he remained as stone-faced as he was most of the time.
“I think I got it,” Graham said as he emerged from under the black drape. “But would you mind if I exposed another plate, Mr. Jackson, just in case?”
“All right,” Jackson said. “Don’t take too long about it, though.”
“Thank you. We’ll get this done as quickly as possible. Rosalie, would you prepare another tray of flash powder while I load another plate into the camera?”
“Of course,” she said as she picked up the can of powder Graham had been using earlier.
The procedure went a little faster this time, and it took only a few more minutes to make the second portrait of Jackson. As Graham removed that plate from the camera, he said, “I can’t thank you enough for your cooperation. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to have one of the portraits when I get them ready?”
“I would,” Everett spoke up.
“Of course,” Graham said with a smile. “You’ve been a great help too, Everett.”
Jackson said, “I reckon I’ll take one, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“No trouble at all,” Graham assured him. He put out his hand and said again, “Thank you.”
Jackson shook with him, then left the office. Everett followed, and as he went out the door, Rosalie called after him, “Don’t forget about tonight.”
“Oh, I won’t,” he answered with a smile.
“What happens tonight?” Jackson asked as he and Everett walked toward the boardinghouse.
“I’m having dinner again with Rosalie and her brother.”
“She’s a mighty pretty lady,” Jackson drawled. “A mite taken with her, are you, Everett?”
Everett felt his face growing warm. “We’re just friends. Anyway, she’s older than me.”
“Just by a few years,” Jackson said. “You might want to be careful, though. Remember, we’ll be leaving Death Head Crossing before too much longer. Wouldn’t want to break any hearts when you go.”
“I know.” Everett was glad that Jackson was still going to let him come along.
But when he thought about riding away and never seeing Rosalie Graham again, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of regret.
Chapter 31
Since it was possible that tonight would be the last time he would see Rosalie Graham, Everett had a bouquet of flowers in his hand that evening when he arrived at the Graham house. They were colorful wildflowers. Philomena had showed him where to find them, but he’d done all the gathering and arranging of the bouquet. He’d even gone to the general store and purchased a yellow ribbon that he tied around the bouquet.
Malcolm Graham opened the door in response to Everett’s knock. His eyebrows went up and a smile appeared on his face when he saw the flowers Everett clutched in a sweating hand. “Oh, ho,” he said. “Young Lochinvar come to call, eh?”
Everett had been hoping that Ros
alie would answer the door. He suppressed his disappointment and thrust out the hand with the flowers in it. “Here,” he said. “These are for your sister.”
“Well, don’t give ’em to me,” Graham said with a chuckle. “You can give them to Rosalie yourself. I’ll tell her that you’re here.”
He stepped back to let Everett into the house. As Everett entered, Graham turned and called, “Mr. Howard is here, Rosalie. And he has something for you.”
With soft footsteps, she came into the room and paused just inside the doorway. Everett thought she was beautiful in a dark green gown that left her shoulders mostly bare. She became even more lovely when a smile lit up her face at the sight of the flowers.
“For me? Oh, Everett, they’re beautiful.” She came forward to take them from him and leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek. It was just a peck, but it made his face flame. “I’ll put them in a vase.”
While Rosalie went to do that, Graham clapped a hand on Everett’s back and said, “Well, come in, come in. Care for a drink? I still have some of that brandy.”
“That would be fine,” Everett managed to say, hoping that he didn’t sound too tongue-tied with embarrassment. He wasn’t sure why Rosalie should affect him that way. He had known beautiful women back in New York, he told himself. At least, he had been acquainted with beautiful women, he amended. He hadn’t actually known them. But he had passed many of them on the street.
Graham poured the drinks and brought Everett’s glass of brandy over to him. Rosalie came back into the room carrying a pottery vase that looked like it had been made by Indians. The flowers were even prettier in it. She put the vase on the table and said, “Supper is almost ready,” then disappeared back into the kitchen.
“What are your plans now?” Graham asked as he and Everett sipped the brandy. “Will you and Mr. Jackson be moving on?”
“I haven’t really discussed it with him,” Everett said, “but I assume we will be. A man like him never stays in one place for very long.”
“He’s already been here in Death Head Crossing for quite a while, hasn’t he? I mean, compared to how long he usually stays.”
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