Henri made it to down the rocky ravine and onto solid ground.
The men were at the top of a slight hill, not 30 yards in length which ended in rock and the shallow cave. Henri kneeled and, from behind the cover of a large rock, she brought the rifle back to her eye. Some of the men were gone, retreating up the rocks, over the cliffs, and into the horizon-
There was a sound to her left, in a more open area.
Only a half-second late did Henri Ville realize that someone had the jump on her, that a man had come around, his gun cocked and ready to fire. She dropped the rifle and reached for her handguns, swinging around-but the man was already falling to the ground. Her gun was drawn but hadn't fired-a crack in the distance made her duck her head, even though it was just the echo of the shot already taken-and Henri turned her eyes the way from which she had come, the direction of the echo.
Someone was up there?
Someone was helping her.
With both revolvers now drawn, Henri turned back toward the remaining men and rounded her cover, the guns extended out from her eye-line, the weight heavy to her arms. Ignoring everything - the weight of the guns, the glare of the sun, the over whelming sulfur scent of burnt gunpowder - everything dimmed aside from the sight and the sound. Her eyes were almost perked, every nerve-ending focused and brain synapse firing, determining, searching, firing, firing from her right. One man was caught in the back and he dropped. Another was winged. More men left cover, and Henri fired once, twice from her left, and once more from her right, before realizing the men were running away. There was one man left, the one that had been speaking to the group. He had crawled back into the cave. (Her original shots - the first two she fired from the hilltop - had been meant for him, though luck directed the bullets into others, not skill.
Henri was not known to be a marksman.
Once the men were far enough from sight, Henri entered the cave.
III
Jasper's gun was on the ground, several feet from his foot.
He was curled behind a large, smooth rock near the back of the cave, crying silently, his face covered in snot and tears. When he had seen Henri enter the cave, her face covered in the monstrous grimace of a bone-and-tooth smile, he instantly relieved himself. But Henri, she spoke nary a word upon entering the cave. Her eyes turned a shade of sadness they hadn't in some time as she stared down at Sharpe's motionless body, his eyes closed. There was an unfamiliar sting, the onset of salty tears to long-dry eyes.
"Were you the one that shot him?" Henri asked the cowering Jasper Dupart. Her voice was deeper, angrier, her eyes thin slates of judgment and anger. Her fingers tensed over the triggers of both guns, though they were still pointed down.
"You?you the devil?you?"
Jasper was too far gone, too scared to speak coherently.
"No," answered Anson, on behalf of Jasper.
Henri turned back to Anson and her thundering eyes grew gentle once more.
With the barrel of her gun, she gained Jasper's attention, lifting his chin to look her in the face.
"Get out," she whispered, then added, "Leave the boots."
With her foot on his gun, Henri Ville moved aside so the blubbering mess that was Jasper Dupart could remove Curtis' boots and leave the cave. He ran full speed and kept running in the opposite direction from that of his men. His whining sob could be heard even after he was out of sight; then that, too, was gone.
For the moment, Henri Ville and Anson Sharpe were alone.
IV
"Did you like it?" Anson asked and coughed a shallow breath.
There was a blanket in the abandoned supplies. Henri laid it out on the floor of the cave.
"Yes, Anson."
Carefully, and to the sound of excruciated moaning, she removed Anson's shirt and laid him out on the blanket, keeping him on his side first. His wincing pain caused him to be breathless, as if having just finished a great run.
"I?I got them all?I got them?together. You got-you got a head start now, Saida. No one?at your back?except The Droit."
She searched his back with her fingers and exhaled a breath that choked in her throat.
"I know," he said, solemn.
There was no exit wound. The bullet was lodged in his abdomen somewhere. His bleeding wouldn't end; neither would the pain, not until it was over. Inside, he would bleed. Infection. There was no remedy, only time. Minutes. Henri Ville knew this. Only one thing she could think of, something soothing? She removed her shirt, and sat up against the wall, and she pulled Anson into her lap, hugging his skin against her skin, caressing his hair, kissing his neck and wiping away the tears from her eyes. They didn't speak much. She held him while his breath was shallow, and then more shallow, and shallower still.
"There's?directions?in my back pocket?"
It was a struggle for him to speak, as if words weighed tons.
Henri lowly shushed him, tenderly tightening her hug.
It was difficult for her to speak, as well.
"Sing?" was the last word he spoke, and she did:
Well, maybe I'm a crook for stealing your heart away
And maybe I'm a crook for not caring for it
Yeah, maybe I'm a bad, bad, bad... bad person
Well, baby I know.
And these fingertips
Will never run through your skin
Those bright blue eyes
Can only meet mine across the room
Filled with people that are less important than you
Cause you love, love, love
When you know I can't love
You love, love, love
When you know I can't love
You love, love, love
When you know I can't love you
It was a bright noon. A den of bobcats was in shade, one sneaking toward a Jack Rabbit hidden in the brush. A Gila Monster skittered from sand to the cracks in a mountain of rock. Prairie Dogs watched as a handful of men slowed, their breaths lost from sprinting. One collapsed to his hands and knees. Another huddled over. And even at such a distance from the cave, the former members of the Anglin Gang could hear Henrietta's ungodly wail echo through the rocky bluffs of the land, as Anson Sharpe's breathing ceased.
V
Cant and Drewbell approached the cave with extreme caution.
They reached the rock pile where Henri Ville once took cover - the cover that was overcome by another, which forced Cant to go from an observer of Miss Ville to an accomplice. He made sure Drewbell knew to stay back, stay put, remain in cover. The men could come back firing, and there was no telling what Henri Ville would do when she saw them. It was the mournful wail that brought them so close. Cant was prepared to watch from the sight of his rifle's scope; however, he knew Anson Sharpe to be in the cave. And a large part of Cant wanted to meet Henri, to ask her questions about her life, to find out anything, really. Another part of him, a smaller, graver part - one from within his chest - wanted to pay final respects to Mr. Sharpe, whom he now suspected lay dead inside the dark curves of the cave.
After another thorough search of the distance ahead, Cant left Drewbell in the rocky cover and headed closer to the cave. He could see a figure moving inside. His steps were soft, the rifle held loose and cradled in one arm. The shadow was moving against the ground in an unnatural coiling. In a move both bold and stupid, he laid his rifle on the ground before approaching further. The figure moved, lifted, and turned.
Henri Ville remained against the edge of the cave's shadow, careful not to step out into sunlight. Her face was uncovered, the bandanna off.
"Why did you help me?" she scolded, as if "help" were a dirty word.
"I?I didn't. I was trying to help Anson."
"Don't be an idiot - pick up your rifle. And tell your girlfriend I won't shoot her, she can come up here."
Cant gave a peculiar whistle and Drewbell poked her head from behind a mound. Henri returned to the cave. Drewbell reached Cant and they stared in as Henri Ville sat on the ground and aga
in became one with the unmoving silhouettes, like a mural etched in charcoal. They walked into the darkness, let their eyes adjust, and found Henri sitting beside the body of Anson Sharpe, whom she had wrapped into a blanket.
"I want you to dig a grave," she spoke, distraught and muffled. Her back was against the wall, her forehead resting on her bent knees.
Cant nodded and returned to the daylight, searching the abandoned supplies. He found a pickax for prospecting and, beside it, a small shovel; then walked to the bottom of the hill facing the cave, past the mound of cover and down to a bed of dry earth. The bluffs from which Henri had jumped were to the right, a narrow path leading further down between the rocky ledges. The area was large enough for a grave, and it had a somber atmosphere: the blanketing light brown of the sun-scorched land and the quiet abandon of rock and sand and arid wind, with its lifeless charm and wavering fidelity to life. The placidity of the world had tucked itself safe in this here nook, and it was a fine place to bury a man. Cant would have been proud to have someone dig a grave for him here, though he knew in order to have an appropriate funeral for Anson Sharpe, there would need to be booze.
"I wanna help," offered Drewbell, clambering down the slight hill.
Before leaving the cave, Drewbell had stood an extra moment, watching Henri. Neither spoke, nor did they need to. Ville was mourning and, oddly enough, in the presence of death and morning was a place Drewbell felt most comfortable. There was no awkward silence, only necessary silence, a phantom moment. Her eyes had fallen to Anson, and they studied his inert face; then she turned, and she left Henri Ville to mourn alone.
"You want to help?" asked Cant, making sure Drewbell heard him.
"Yeah."
"Good. Then go back to The Catlight Infinite and get booze. Nary a minute went by I didn't see this man sluggin' from a bottle of whiskey. And I'm sure one'a them girls might like to say a few words."
"I?was gonna make you some shade. But?"
Cant stared at her and there were no final words. Dealing with the living was harder for Drewbell, and there was an awkward silence before she left for the 2 mile trek back to The Catlight Infinite.
VI
Henri Ville never moved from the cave until the end of the ceremony, which was held just after nightfall. The gathering was larger than Anson himself might have expected, with all the girls from The Catlight Infinite gathered to the side of the grave, as well as H.S. and the stable boys, Drewbell, and Cant.
Two of the women spoke:
"Anson Sharpe seemed like a good fellow. He was kind and generous. I didn't know the man well, and he blew up my barn." Marielle cleared her throat, and then lifted her glass, "To Anson Sharpe, wherever he ends up - May his glass be ever full. May his guiding be always strong. And may he be in Heaven half an hour before the Devil knows he's dead."
Everyone had a flute of Pellsley Grant's whiskey, including the stable boys. The clear glass and brown liquor shimmered in the air like amber, reflected in the torchlight that surrounded the funeral. Everyone sipped-immediately, the children gagged, surprised at the sting of liquor, all of them except Cant.
"Anson had a big penis," spoke the second girl - Rebecca with the red hair, Marielle's daughter. She had spent the most time with Anson while at The Catlight Infinite, initially quiet but had taken a shine, enjoyed her time with him. "I knew him?pretty well. Um, well enough. And I know that he wanted someone to say that at his funeral. He?" shyness retook a woman whose eyes were mourning, whose smile had faded, though her beauty remained; and she blushed, fidgeting her feet in the dirt, "?he said he would die soon. He told me that one night, not-not long ago. We were?in bed?and he told me he was going to die soon. Not just soon but within a few days. I thought he was drunk or?I don't know. I just listened?" and tears mingled with the words she spoke, though it didn't stifle her speech, "?and he said he was proud of his life. He had-well, he mentioned something, something he called The Sandtrap. And other things I didn't understand. But he said he wouldn't live long and that he could rest happy. He had taken care of the things he needed, tended to the things needed tending. And he said he was right with it. He knew this was peace just as surely as he knew he'd?" and then her tears stormed, and it was hard for her to speak the final word, "?die."
H.S. had walked amongst the crowd and refilled the empty glasses with more whiskey. Upon finishing her final word, she lifted her glass. And everyone followed suit.
"To Anson Sharpe. He had a big penis."
Of the males, only Cant spoke:
"Anson talked to me once about marriage. He said he had been married once, a long time ago. To a woman named Ginger. He said that marriage, the idea of marriage, it was wrong. It had always been wrong and it would only get more wrong. Someone that gets married, they're locked into the person they are. You meet a woman and you and the woman marry and life goes on, locked in that moment when you got married. The reason it's so wrong - to him, at least - is because people change. People can change in a couple years, or a couple of tough months, or even one night. People change. And if someone knows you the way you are here, now, well how are they going to feel when you change? And he was very specific about the idea of change. He said that change wasn't just natural but it should be the purpose. You can change and become worse, sure; that wasn't the point. It was that a person should strive to change for the better. You start here, as you are, but time moves on and you learn and you understand and you become capable of more. That's something he said that stuck with me. 'You become capable of more.' To deny that, to fervently prevent the progress despite the way the world turns, that was his issue. He told it to me in the parameters of marriage but I feel he was speaking of people, as they are. We are who we are, right now. The purpose tomorrow is to be better than we were yesterday, and today is the day we learn how, and why."
The group was prepared for Cant to continue but he spoke no further, raising his glass instead. There was a silence longer than before as everyone held their glasses high in the flickering firelight.
And then they drank.
There was further silence as each person searched for the next speaker and found none. Crying was audible amongst a few of the girls, and the wind rustled through the curves of the stone. The dancing fire of each torch could be heard flicking into the gusts of dry wind. A noise of gathering, of gravel crunching in the darkness, and Henri Ville emerged not only from the cave but from the shadows entirely. Her face was half-covered by a rouge handkerchief, a staple of the infamous gunfighter - though this one had no scrawled design, just deep red roses embroidered on dark cloth. Her figure wasn't much taller than the whores from The Catlight Infinite but her presence had an electricity, brought something theirs didn't: fear. Cant watched her as one might a star of the moving pictures, someone that didn't exist in tangible reality. The women and stable boys also watched her in awe. Henri maneuvered through the people to a grave no deeper dug than four feet. With little effort, she hopped into the hole beside Anson's wrapped, lifeless body. Eyes watched as, in the shadows of the grave, Henri fished something from Anson and climbed out. When she stood once more, there were a few blood-soaked pages in her hand, which she tucked into her pocket. H.S. approached with a glass and the bottle but Henri took only the bottle and poured the rest on the corpse of Anson Sharpe, and then she returned to the cave.
VII
Henri Ville didn't emerge from the cave until the next day.
Cant was waiting for her.
"Miss Ville, may I-" he began tracking after her as she moved at a brisk pace down the hill. Her response interrupted Cant's polite introduction - BANG BANGBANG- she fired three shots into the ground at his feet. He hopped back, then back, then back, lifting his legs higher in the air with each jump; then, as Henri Ville - head down, hat drawn over her brow, face covered with that horrendous black and white, tooth-and-bone bandana once more, her body in a loose, cow-skin duster, her feet in new snake-skin boots - continued walking forward without so much as a sideways glance
at Cant.
Henri Ville stopped, blocked by the long two-barrels of a shotgun.
Drewbell had rounded the cover Henri herself had taken the day before, from behind a mound of rocks at the bottom of the hill not ten feet from the new grave of Anson Sharpe. (At the head of the grave was a foot tall pyramid of stones, a wood cross stuck in at the top marked by the lipstick kisses of a dozen women.) There was a look of fury in the young face of a teenage girl no older than 16, one that reminded Henri of herself. Drewbell didn't stop advancing even though Henri was armed, a six-gun still in her hand. The barrels remained pointed at Henri's face while she stalked forward, and the air was struck by the clacking of the hammer being pulled back.
"My daddy ain't do much but he taught me how to fire on an enemy now DROP YOUR GUN!" she demanded, loud as a wolf's howl.
Henri was so staggered by the situation she froze.
Drewbell stopped with the barrels just out of Henri's reach.
The six-gun hit the ground with a thud.
Cant circled behind Henri, watching her, keeping a distance. He came around to the other side of her, narrowly observing her features with the same scrutiny he once had with Marielle.
"That wasn't much polite, Miss Ville," he said, stopping next to Drewbell. Henri stared out from the narrow gap between her hat's brim and her bandana, studying one young face, then the other. Cant's hand lifted into the air, rested on the barrel, and lowered the aim of the shotgun. Drewbell's face was stuck in glaring anger.
Henri sucked at her teeth before speaking:
"What do you want?"
"I got questions," Cant answered.
A moment.
"Such as?" responded Henri.
"Ma'am, you. are. terrifying!" Drewbell cut in, grieved. She finally relaxed a bit more, then let Cant (whose hand never moved from the lowered barrel) take the shotgun from her grip. Henri's eyes crossed once more, briefly, over Drewbell's face before returning to Cant.
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