Burning Bright - By Ron Rash Page 0,19

can’t even begin to figure what to do. I’m about to tell the old man to level that shotgun on me and pull the trigger for my brain’s not bringing up a better solution.

“I don’t reckon he’ll be strutting around and playing Johnny Reb with his sword and belt buckle,” the old man says. He looks at me and it’s easy enough for him to guess what I’m feeling. “You shouldn’t get the fantods over this,” he says. “His dying on you could be all for the better.”

“How do you reckon that?” I ask, because I sure can’t figure it that way.

“What if he was speaking the truth when he said we’re the only three that knows about this?” the old man says.

“I never said a word.”

“I got no doubting about that,” the old man says. “Far as I can tell you don’t say nothing unless it’s yanked out of you like a tooth.”

“I don’t think he’d have spoke about this,” I say. “There’s not many that would think good of him if he did, and some might even tell the law. I don’t figure him to risk that.”

“Then I’d say he’s helped dig his own grave,” the old man says. “Stout as he is, I don’t notion you could get him out of there alone and I’m way too old to help you.”

“We might could use a rope,” I say. “Pull him out that way.”

“And what if you did,” the old man says. “You think you can drag that hunk of lard behind you like a little red wagon. Even if you can, where you headed with him?”

That’s a pretty good question, because here to the truck is a good half mile. I’d have a better chance of toting a tombstone that far.

“It doesn’t seem the right sort of thing to do,” I say. “I mean for his kin and such not to never know where he’s buried.”

“Those that wears the badges ain’t always the brightest bulbs,” the old man says, “but they won’t need the brains of a stump to figure what he and you was up to if they find him here.” The old man pauses. “Is that truck his or yours?”

“His.”

“You leave that truck by the river and the worst gossip on your buddy there is he was fool enough to get drunk and fall in. You bring the law here they’ll know him for a grave robber. Which way you notion his kin would rather recollect him?”

The old man’s whittling it down to but one path to follow. I try to find a good argument against him, but I’m too wore down to come up with anything. The old man takes out his watch.

“It’s nigh on four o’clock. You get to filling in and you could get that grave leveled by the shank of morning.”

“It’s two graves to fill,” I say. “We dug another one up the hill a ways.”

“Well, get as much dirt in them as you can. Even full up they’ll be queer looking with all that fresh dirt on them. I’ll have to figure some kind of tall tale for folks that might take notice, but I been listening to your buddy all night so I’ve picked up some good pointers on how to lie.”

I look at the sword and think how the blade maybe killed somebody during the Civil War and in its way killed another tonight, at least the wanting of it did.

“He was lying about this stuff not being worth much,” I say. “I need the money so I’m going to sell it, but I’ll go halves with you.”

“You keep it,” the old man says. “But I’ll take what’s in your partner’s wallet. He’ll need it no more than the lieutenant there needs that sword.”

I pull the wallet from Wesley’s back pocket, give it to the old man. He pulls out a ten and two twenties.

“I knew that son of a bitch was lying about having no more money,” he says, then throws the wallet back in the hole.

I reach the sword and scabbard up to the old man and then the buckle and buttons. I think how easy it would be for him to rooster that trigger and shotgun me. He leans closer to the hole and I see he’s still got that shotgun in his hand and I wonder if he’s figuring the same thing, because it’d be easy as shooting a rat in a washtub. He gets down on his creaky old knees, and I guess