Of Grave Concern Part 18

"Ain't n.o.body ever hanged for killing a wh.o.r.e," he said, his voice as cold as ice on a winter pond. "And that's all you are-a bit higher priced than the ones in the cribs along South Front, but a wh.o.r.e just the same."

"What about you, the other one?" I asked. "Please, you can't let them do this. I'm not a wh.o.r.e! I'm a woman, just like your mother, or your sister, or your wife."

"You is not like them at all," the other man said drunkenly. "You maybe isn't a wh.o.r.e, but you is for d.a.m.n sure a witch. I seen you at the opera house once and twice and knows you is a witch, and the Book says not to suffer a witch to live."

"But it also says a lot of other stuff," I pleaded. "Jesus said to turn the other cheek, to go and sin no more, to love thy neighbor as thyself. Don't just take the part that justifies murdering somebody."

"Daddy readed me the Book. But him died afore we got past Numbers."

We stopped walking.

"Here we are," Diamond Jim said.

"Please, Jim. No."

"I've heard about all from you I ever want to," Jim said.

"Don't bury me alive."

"Shut your mouth, witch."

"Shoot me," I pleaded. "Please shoot me. Then you can toss me in. Just make sure I'm dead first. A bullet in the head. I won't struggle or say another word, I promise. And I'll die quiet."

The man carrying me s.h.i.+fted my weight from his shoulder to his arms, hugging me to his chest like he would a child.

"See, I'm being good. Shoot me now. Do it quick."

The man took a step forward.

"You don't understand."

I could feel his arms tense, ready for the throw.

"I'm afraid of the dark."

24.

It seemed like it took a long time for me to hit the bottom of the grave, as if I were falling from a mountaintop. I know it was just a trick of the mind, like when you drop a plate and you watch it falling slowly. You can't react quickly enough to catch it and keep it from shattering.

And I shattered when I hit bottom.

A thousand things shot through my mind at once: Was the rattlesnake I saw earlier down in the grave with me? Was any part of the exhumed gambler from Ellsworth left behind? Would I die of suffocation first or of fright? Would I, too, become a ghost that walked the streets of Dodge City? Were there any bugs or scorpions in the dirt that was raining down in clods? How long would it take for my flesh to fall from my bones? Would I stink much, and for how long? Would I get a hand-lettered wooden marker like the rest? What would the Dodge City Times write about me? Was there anybody left in Memphis or in New Orleans who would even know who I was? Did Tante Marie still live? Would Paschal's widow ever forgive him or me? Would Potter Palmer be saddened by the news of my death, or would he rejoice? Would the bacon baron in Louisville give Diamond Jim the thousand dollars for killing me? Would Michael Sutton claim that Kate Bender had finally been dealt justice?

And, at the same instant as the rest of it, came the most troubling thought of all: What would become of Eddie?

Knowing you're about to die isn't like what you read about in novels, or at least it wasn't for me. I had no urge to confess my sins or appeal to G.o.d or any other foolish thing. What I wanted most was for it to be over. I hated the darkness and the rasp of burlap and the growing weight of dirt above me. Things became very close there in the sack. I was turned over on my left side, with my knees up and my hands near my face. I covered my mouth and nose so that I wouldn't be eating any dirt or burlap when the end came. It was cold there at the bottom of the grave, so cold that I began to s.h.i.+ver uncontrollably.

I thought about the warm night sky, arching above me. Just knowing it was up above made me even more miserable. If only I could have one lungful of that night air, I would have been eternally grateful. Then came a keen desire to turn over, to lie on my right side. But of course, there was too much dirt pressing down on me to allow me to move even an inch.

There were so many things I had taken for granted, and now they all had been taken away by a drunken kid, who had buried me alive. That thought made me furious, and the anger was something hard and bright. I fought with elbows and knees against the inevitable. I felt like a child whose arms and legs were being held by her mother to stop a tantrum, but the smothering grave won. After a few minutes, I was exhausted and realized I was using up any air I had left.

My face was dewy with sweat, but I was colder than ever.

By and by, my teeth stopped chattering. It wasn't that I felt warm, exactly, but that I was ceasing to feel anything.

My mind began to drift. I forgot that I was furious. . . .

In my mind, it was no longer spring above me, but deep winter. I saw snow covering Boot Hill and Dodge City below it, and the sky was the color of the lead type used at the Times. All the doors and windows of the saloons and hotels and brothels were shut tight. Not a soul moved on either Front Street, and the sun dipped low in the sky. Eventually a single wolf loped into town. His hard eyes shone and his bright tongue dangled over a row of ivory teeth. His head was low to the ground and swung slyly from side to side. Behind, his tracks st.i.tched the snow from the railroad and across the bridge and wound far below the Arkansas.

Then the wolf lunged and his teeth snapped and he caught a crow in his mouth, ruby blood splattering and black feathers floating down to the snow. I gave out a cry and was surprised to find myself back in the grave.

I was back for only a moment, however, and the darkness came down around me like a curtain.

It was as if the darkness had separated my soul from my body, but my soul was reluctant to leave and lingered nearby.

"Who is there?" a girl's voice said in Russian.

Now, I don't speak Russian, but I could understand every word. The voice was fine and young, and filled with sadness. I asked who was calling out in the darkness.

"Is that you, Andrei? Oh, Andy, where have you gone?"

I'm not Andy.

"Andrei, I don't understand. I've been so alone. Are you coming back?"

Tell me your name.

"All I can remember is that night, that last night, that night. When you leaned down to kiss me and took out your knife. I remember that night. Why did you do that with your knife, Andrei?"

It was no use. She knew someone was close, but she couldn't hear me. Just like Hank could never hear me.

"It's cold." Another voice. A man. "It's so cold."

"I know it's cold, but we got to hold out. We can't be far outside town."

Another male voice, then another: "We need to get up and walk, or we'll freeze here. I seen it at Camp Douglas during the war. You freeze to death when you stop moving."

"Would you shut up about the war already?"

"We should have stayed with the herd. Why didn't we stay with the herd instead of trying to beat the storm back to town? We could have shot a cow and dragged the guts out and crawled inside. It would have been warm."

Five male voices now, some talking at once: "Too late now to talk about what we should have done."

"We have to get up and walk, or we'll die."

"How far back is the mare the wolves killed, you think? A half mile?"

"I can't tell which way is up or down in the blizzard, much less east or west."

"If we don't know which direction we're headed, we might be walking away from Dodge."

"The carca.s.s of that mare is frozen stiff by now."

"You think the other horses will come back around?"

"Not a chance with the wolves out there. I can't see them, but I can hear the hungry b.a.s.t.a.r.ds."

"Do you think the wolves will . . ."

"At Camp Douglas, one man froze to death standing still."

". . . wait until we're dead?"

"They didn't with the mare, did they?"

"I'd like to get just one clean shot at that biggest b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"Reckon we ought to draw lots."

"For what?"

"The man with the short straw kills the others, so we don't commit a mortal sin."

"Then what do you call murdering someone?"

"A mercy."

"What about the man that's left?"

"That's why we draw lots."

"Or maybe we just kill the man with the short straw."

A beat.

"Say what you mean."

"We kill the man what draws the short straw, and we hollow him out-"

"To h.e.l.l with that. I ain't wearing any of you like a robe."

"That's the stupidest idea you've had yet, Jimpson, and you have been full of stupid ideas from the start, you lumber-headed fool. We start skinning each other and the smell of blood will drive the wolves into a frenzy. We'll all die ugly and painful."

"I can't feel my toes."

"It was just a suggestion. It wasn't like I said we should start eating each other. At least not yet."

"I can't feel anything."

"They say it's peaceful, freezing to death. At least, that's what those said at Camp Douglas that nearly froze but were thawed out in time."

"Somebody will find us, right?"

"Sure, by the spring."

"Pretty soon we're not going to be able to . . ."

"Ha! Remember the time Mike McGlue nailed shut all the doors of the privies behind North Front? Now, that was a joke. I can't remember who McGlue was that night. Was it Hoodoo Brown?"

". . . we're not going to be able to . . ."

"No, that was young Tom at the jail."

"We saw some dancin' that night, I'll say."

". . . we won't be able to pull the trigger."

"The camp was on Lake Michigan, and I never felt anything as cold as the snow and ice as it came off that lake. Until now. The Yankees took our clothes away to keep us from escaping, and it weren't right. They starved us."

"When they find us, do you think they'll know who we are?"

"Not after the wolves finish."

"I'll miss old Mike McGlue."

"You know who I'll miss? Captain Drew."

"The wh.o.r.e?"

"The same. Jessie is a wicked girl. I'm sorry I'll never see her again."

"Can't stay awake."

"I'm sorry I called you lumber-headed, Jimpson."

"It don't . . . it don't matter now . . . anyway."

The male voices faded into a murmuring chorus.

A calm, middle-aged male voice called out pleasantly, "What's your game?"

Are you asking me?