Dust Devils, Part 4 of 4
by P. B. Hampton

For the first time in his life, that he is able to remember, Amos Slade has the exact same dream. Even as the dreamer, sitting in his chair on the porch with a faceless woman by his side, he wonders about it. The same giant sunflower glows in the yard, the same youngsters prance around it. His dreaming self imagines he must be awake and just thinking real hard is all. Once again, just like the last time, his faceless wife – he has trouble getting past that part, having a wife – reaches for his hand as they watch the children play and says happily: "They're comin, Amos! Amos, wake up!"

He opens his eyes to full daylight, to a high sky, immediately wondering why he has slept so late. His mouth is dry, feeling like it is stuck shut when he tries to speak.

"Here, the wife made us some coffee."

"My wife? Did I sure enough get married yesterday?"

"Come on, Amos, have a taste, you gotta get woke up!"

He sips at black coffee from a glass cup, idly wondering in his dream-soaked mind where his new bride could have gotten such fine cups in this rat-hole of a town.

"Amos, open yore eyes!"

Amos thinks he is awake. "Morning, Jacob. Um, does Ruthie's sister have a face?"

"What? Set up, come on, get yore mind to stirrin! I climbed what was left of that old water tower down the way and I spotted me a gang of 'em headed this way!"

And that finally wakes him up. "How many are riding?"

"Ten or so, I'd guess. McCarson is leadin 'em."

"Damn, Jacob, you got eagle eyes?"

"No, but it's hard to miss that white Arabian he fancies."

Slade smiles as he stands up. "Yes, it is." He gulps down the remainder of his warm coffee. "McCarson paid a damned fortune for that horse."

"Yeah, and he can't pay his own men for bustin their backs!"

Slade reaches for his gun-belt. "They won't come in like a gang, Jacob; I left them a little warning just outside of town. McCarson will bring the gunmen with him and send the others to our flanks." He is strapping on his Colt as he speaks. "The ones who will be watching from either side of the street will be regular cowhands." Slade flips out his pistol and checks his load, snapping the loading gate shut once he is satisfied. "They won't be at all anxious to kill anybody, Jacob, especially not as back-shooters, so I really don't think we have to worry about them unless we show ourselves as a couple of murdering thieves." He turns his full attention to his new friend. "Now, Jacob, this is important, so think real hard on it. Do you know the name of the man who was taking McCarson for a ride that night at the Diamond Creek Saloon?"

"I do." Jacob rejoins at once. "After that feller drug in one great big pot McCarson up and said: It's a funny thang to me, Wilburn, that you seem to know for an absolute fact when you got me beat."

Slade smiles again. "Dave Wilburn, slickest card-shark I've ever set eyes on. He can deal from the bottom of the deck quicker than your eyes can see and he is a damned expert at marking a new deck when it's his turn to deal. Hell, the lowdown cheat keeps one fingernail filed to a point so he can notch the aces or whatever." Slade's grin widens, as if he has heard some mighty good news. "Dave Wilburn."

"Is that fact gonna help us?"

"It could, yeah, if we can plant any doubt at all about McCarson in his men's minds, yeah it could help a lot."

Jacob's face is pale as he casts Slade a shameful glance. "I don't mind tellin you, Amos, that you was right about how I'd feel last night. When I looked at my sleepin wife and them innocent babies . . . ."

Slade raises a hand to halt Jacob's confession. "You don't need to say another word. Just start right this minute getting that out of your mind and I swear, day by day, it will go a little easier on you."

Jacob nods. "That is if I'm allowed to live another day past this 'un. I'm sceered, Amos, and don't mind sayin it out loud."

"You're going to be fine, just take care of the one I call out if any shooting starts up." Slade cuts quick eyes to Jacob, noticing unsteady hands gripping the Winchester. "Better yet, let's do it this way: When they come let's be smack in the middle of the street. Hell, we ain't got nothing to hide, am I right? Now, I know McCarson and he'll want to blow a minute for the benefit of his crew, I'm pretty sure we can count on that. So, Jacob, when I call out your target, hell, just lay a bead on him right then and don't waver, just like you did when I came into Ruthie's hotel by mistake."

"I had me a banister for support." Jacob's voice is a touch shaky.

"I know, Jacob, but I also know how big the bore of your rifle looks when it's staring you right in the eye, so I don't reckon a little jitterbugging is going to ease that feeling very much." Slade pulls out his tobacco so he can roll the last of it into thin cigarettes. "The thing is, Jacob, you can't count on every man having good sense. If the ball opens, then you've got to knock him out of his saddle."

"Awright, Amos, I won't crawfish on you; I'll drop the hammer if any shit starts."

"Fair enough, Jacob." Slade hands Jacob a cigarette which has been made by steady hands. "Enjoy this while we wait."

"'Preciate it." Jacob's hands seem palsied in comparison to Slade's.

Ruth Mueller suddenly appears above them, wrapped in an old blanket. "Mr. Slade, have you an extra gun?"

"Ruthie . . . !"

"No, ma'am, I most surely do not."

"I saw a rifle among your belongings, sir." She holds her head high. "Am I to be widowed this morning? And if so, am I to sit idly by while it happens?"

Jacob moves to the base of the stairs. "You won't be just settin by, darlin. Them young'uns we got count on you for their very lives."

"Yes, just as I count on you regarding my own life. Can we not hide? Must one walk willingly to his death in order to be considered a man?"

"There ain't no guarantees, Ruthie, one way or the other. We can't hide, they'd just sniff us out, and we can't run, not with them babies bein so tender and all. I ain't done nothin to die for, darlin Ruthie, not by a stretch I ain't! Thereby, I don't reckon the Lord has it in for me just yet . . . but if it is His will, then I reckon today would be as good a day as any."

Jacob's wife is trying to show valor, trying with all her might to keep her head up. "Mr. Slade, are you prepared to die as well?"

"Yes, Mrs. Mueller, if it is my turn."

She scowls, so frustrated by her helplessness that tears finally pool in her eyes. "How good are you, Mr. Slade, when it comes to this sordid business? How many of those who are approaching are more adept at it than are you, sir?"

Slade looks up at a face which hungers for reassurance. "None of them," he states matter-of-factly, "I'll be the best gun on that street."

"Very well," Ruth Mueller responds, "I'll wait for you in our room, Jacob."

"Awright, honey, I'll be along d'rectly."

And with a nod, the stout woman turns and disappears into the room in which she has given birth to twins just the evening before.

McCarson rides tall, well in front of the five horsemen trailing him. Slade and Jacob stand in the middle of a street which is drying very fast beneath a late-morning sun. The cattleman lets his beautiful white stallion prance right up to them before reining him in. The others slow to a trot, finally walking their mounts to bunch up behind McCarson.

"Goddamn, Mueller, is your face made of brass?" McCarson asks loudly.

"It's made of flesh and bone, McCarson!" Jacob replies hotly. "Your face is the one what's shinin!"

"Bullshit." McCarson answers. "What're you doing taking his side, Slade? You don't like money no more?"

"I care me a good deal for a poke, everybody knows that." Slade's voice is firm, raised for all to hear. "The thing is, McCarson, I don't reckon Dave Wilburn is offering a reward for Jacob Mueller." He wants to remind them their quarry is a man and not a mark.

McCarson's face flushes bright, doubling the shade of crimson four days on the trail has put up there. "What has Wilburn got to do with this business here?"

"Because," Slade lifts his voice another octave, "he has got these men's payroll."

McCarson is taken aback for a beat, his powerful horse so full of rich blood that it can't stand still as it dances sideways. The others sit like clods atop mounts which are apparently not up to dancing right now. "Tom Brazell!"

"Yeah, boss?" Brazell is McCarson's longtime ramrod.

"Was or was not my cash box busted open?"

"It was." Brazell confirms.

Slade is not exactly focused on McCarson, allowing his glance to slide about. He notes a speck of surreptitious movement in the bunch behind McCarson. "Lane Johnson!"

Johnson stops his sneaking hand. "Are you calling me out, Slade?"

Jacob, much to Slade's delight, draws a bead on Johnson and locks back the hammer of his Winchester.

"That's precisely what I have done, Johnson. Now, you make one wrong move and Jacob here will take you right out of your saddle."

Johnson, who is one of the top guns around Wichita, sneers. "That how you took out them Kimbrough's that you left decked out for us to see back yonder?"

Jacob speaks up before Slade gets a chance: "That's e'zactly right, mister. I ain't stole nothin! I only took my pay before McCarson lost his whole damned ranch to that card-shark! By the way, McCarson," Jacob's eyes never blink away from Johnson, "you owe me six dollars."

McCarson snorts amazed laughter, seeming quite at home on the strutting horse. "You boys believe the balls on this lying polecat?"

"Jonesey! Rodney Jones!" Slade suddenly yells.

From behind them comes a distant response: "Yeah, Amos, I'm here."

"You take that Scofield .44 and that gold money off George Kimbrough like I told you to do in the note I stuck to his dead eyes?"

"I did and I appreciate the gesture, even though it was a mite spooky."

"How did George Kimbrough come to owe you a hundred dollars?"

"Dave Wilburn took everything George had and he borrowed from me to get it back."

"Who's back there with you, Jonesey?"

"Sam Black."

"Well," Slade says, "there's two we don't have to worry about on our backsides, Jacob."

"Damn you to hell, Slade, what sort of game are you playing?" McCarson is getting anxious. The others know all too well how he loves to gamble. His horse, which is in bad need of a bath, shakes its white mane as it bites at the bit.

"I don't play games, McCarson. It's like this: you tell your hands who really took their pay or I'm going to pull my piece and kill your horse."

McCarson's eyes fly wide, his mouth grimacing with open surprise. "What? Why, goddamn, there ain't a man made who is low enough to do such a thing!"

"You're looking at one." Slade shrugs. "I don't expect I'll walk away from here but Johnson will be shot dead, your leg will probably be busted beneath your dead horse and I'm pretty positive I can knock that piece of shit Jack Starling back there off his mount before I meet my maker."

The one he mentions, a reckless drunk who carries the hint of a reputation as a bad man to throw down with, smiles crookedly. Slade notices a tic jerking at Starling's right eye. "Hell, Slade, you don't need to worry about me." His words are still in the air when he makes his move. Slade is not the least bit surprised for he is getting just what he expected. Starling is actually pretty quick, and his gun clears leather in a flash, but he gasps loudly before the barrel turns up as a heavy slug from Slade's Colt splits his sternum. His mouth drops open as he stares straight ahead, probably getting directions from the devil, before he slumps and slides from the saddle to the damp earth. His left foot remains hooked in a stirrup while his old horse seems to yawn.

"Why, you murdering son-of-a-bitch!" McCarson is shaking visibly.

"That leaves you one gun-hand unattended, McCarson . . . yeah, I see you back yonder, Newell." Slade twirls his piece and pops it back in its holster. "Here, I'll give you a head-start." He raises his right hand well above his shoulder, careless, thoughtless, feeling murderous. "Now," he says, "when this hand comes back down, and it'll be coming fast, that beautiful horse you ride is going to get drilled right between the eyes."

"Goddamn it," McCarson screams, "somebody kill him!"

"What's wrong with you doing it, McCarson? You're heeled and I'd take you over your horse any day of the week."

Right then a lull falls, a thing for which Slade has prayed, before any more gunfire shatters the still morning air. "Jacob Mueller, did you break into John McCarson's cash box?"

"Yes, I did." Jacob answers loudly as he holds Johnson in his sights.

"How much money was in that box?"

"There was sixty-four goddamned dollars in it!"

"How did you expect to pay your crew with sixty-four dollars, McCarson?"

"I didn't, hell, I couldn't . . . I mean, damn you, that box was full!"

Slade feels it – a slight shifting of beliefs is occurring as McCarson's men turn very grim, revisiting the days of hard riding they have just undergone.

"Boss," Tom Brazell's voice is calm and matter-of-fact but it rings like a chorus of angels inside Slade's head. "You was playing cards with Wilburn until the wee hours the other night."

"So? Do you think I would risk your pay, Tom, or the pay of any of these hard-working men?"

Then, and it makes Slade definitely believe there has to be a God up there, Ruth Mueller's voice pipes up from the porch of the hotel. "My husband is not a thief!"

"Jacob," Slade says very quickly, "don't let Johnson go!"

Ruthie has the twins bundled under her left arm. In her right, she strains to hoist Slade's single-shot Remington long-rifle. This he sees from the corner of his eye because he is not about not give Josh Newell any kind of an advantage.

"Them's my twin babies, born just yesterday evenin." Jacob informs the group of tired riders. "They're the reason I cou'unt keep runnin, even though I stole not a thang, and they're the reason I laid Jim Kimbrough low and will do the same to the gunman I got my Winchester on right now! I was owed seventy dollars, just like the rest of you 'sides Brazell, who I reckon gits more for ramroddin. There was sixty-four dollars in that cash box and I took it because I seen how McCarson was gettin took for a ride over at the Diamond Creek Saloon. That gambler man has got yore payroll, boys, so why don't y'all go ask him about it and you'll see whose tongue is the one what's forked!"

"A guilty man will say anything!" McCarson shouts. "Hell, he even brings his babies out so he can hide behind 'em!"

"He don't appear to be hidin." A cowhand Slade does not know speaks up. "I ain't havin no more truck with this bullshit, McCarson! Hell, lookit them young'uns; their eyes is barely open. No, I'm gonna go have me a talk with Dave Wilburn."

The sound of horses clopping from behind him gets Slade's ear but he doesn't turn his head away from Newell.

"Me and Sam are out of this shit, McCarson. We know how big you play at the tables, by God, and we decided we believe Mueller here. We punched with him for two months, McCarson, and we ain't stupid men; we know a decent sort when we meet one."

"I 'preciate that, Mr. Jones." Jacob nods.

"Don't go appreciating me, Mueller. I don't hold with you taking every dollar that was left in that box. Hell, we coulda got a few bucks apiece until we could sort it out. No, them twins get you off the hook in my eyes 'cause I'd a done the same for my family."

"You ride out of here and you won't work again in the state of Kansas!"

"That right? Is Kansas the only place with cows? Me and Sam will be by your place, McCarson, and we'll have seventy dollars or a pony apiece before we set out for Texas."

"Mueller has got your money!" McCarson laments.

"No," Jonesey says simply, "he don't. Come on, Sam." They ride without looking back and the cowhand Slade doesn't know falls in behind them.

"Your herd is thinning, McCarson –" Slade is interrupted as Starling's mount suddenly bucks and takes out after the three horses which are moving away. Starling's lifeless body, its foot twisting in a stirrup, goes bouncing and bumping along as well.

"Son-of-a-bitch!" Brazell slaps the horn of his saddle. "Goddamn it, boss, this has gone far enough! I don't mind telling you that I've had my suspicions about that money from the get-go but I'm your right hand man and have always been treated real fair for being it. But this mess here, one man drug off dead, one or two more fixing to die if you don't speak up, it just ain't right! Do you imagine we don't know you're just a man? You don't think we'd give you the chance to rake up our pay? The fact that you'd put on such a big act, just to cover a normal man's weakness, don't make you normal in my eyes."

"No, Tom, not you of all people . . . ."

"What? Knows you're just a man? I know you paid Starling –was going to pay Starling – a lot more than your own punchers are owed, just like you're going to owe Johnson and Newell if they make it out of here. How are you going to pay them? Wouldn't it have been easier to 'fess up and sell a string of ponies to pay your crew instead of making such a big show out of this damned mess?"

"By God, I won't be stole from!" McCarson howls.

"A man can't steal what he is owed, especially a man who seems to have a powerful good reason to collect his pay."

Slade is delighted by the well-respected Tom Brazell's words. He knows he could have recited several chapters from the Bible and his words wouldn't have carried nearly as much weight as had Brazell's little speech. Still, despite the obvious change of attitudes that fill the air, Slade is unsatisfied. He wants more, he wants blood, and he wants to see McCarson grovel. The devil has taken a firm grip on Amos Slade's heart and is squeezing down pretty hard. "Well, me, I've heard enough talk. I'm going to wait three beats, hell, I'll even count 'em down for you, McCarson, then I'm going to shoot that Arabian out from under your ass!"

"Now Slade," Brazell soothes, "you win – we believe Mueller just took the sixty-four dollars that was owed to him."

"One . . . "

"There's a difference between justice and pure damned meanness, Slade!"

"Two . . . "

"Goddamn it, Slade, let it go!"

"Amos?" Jacob's voice is rife with wonderment about what his new friend is up to but he doesn't turn his head or drop his rifle off Johnson.

Slade smiles a wide, evil grin as he prepares to finish the count.

"Wait!" McCarson shouts, throwing up both hands. "All right, all right, I lost the payroll to Dave Wilburn! I mean, come on, fellas, everybody knows how that bastard can goad a man into stupid plays and cause him to bet his whole wad." He looks into Slade's eyes, obviously not liking what he sees there. "What, you want an apology? All right then, I'm sorry, Mueller –"

"Mr. Mueller." Slade corrects.

McCarson grits his teeth. "I'm sorry, Mister Mueller, that I tried to pass it off on you, I truly am. Hell, I knew I would have to sell a string of ponies to make back what I lost but when me and Tom saw that cash box busted open like it was, well, I just couldn't help taking advantage of that. Damn it all, I didn't think we'd ever see you again!"

"I cou'unt keep runnin," Jacob nods toward Ruthie and the twins who are in the shade on the hotel's porch, "as you can see."

"I do see," McCarson vows, "and I feel like a skunk about this whole mess. I'm going into my pocket Slade, so just take it easy . . . ." The rancher digs out a gold eagle and flips it toward Jacob. Slade reaches with his left hand to snatch it from the air, not wishing for Jacob to drop his guard over a piece of gold. "There, that's more than I owe you Mr. Mueller, and it's the best way, Slade, that I can show I'm owning up to this."

The sound of horses turns McCarson's head to the east where his Ute tracker and another cowhand are riding away. His face drops as he realizes he has lost all of his credibility along with the payroll. "What now, Slade, do I have to kiss his ass to protect my horse which has done not a thing wrong?"

"You're a two-faced liar, McCarson, and now everybody knows it. Do you even imagine I would do harm to an animal because its owner is a glorified piece of shit?"

"Well, you sure laid Jack Starling down low, by God, and without a qualm!"

"For the simple fact he would have put a slug in me first if I hadn't done for him, and that back-shooter was less deserving of drawing a breath than that white Arabian."

"You get your friend there to take his cannon off my face and I'll have a go with you, Slade." Lane Johnson says. "I believe you to be a cowardly son-of-a-bitch!"

"Aw, now Johnson, you've done gone and hurt my feelings. Didn't your momma teach you any manners?" Slade beams.

"Yeah," Johnson sneers, "right before I shot her eyes out."

"Step on down then." Slade invites affably. "But you know what? It wouldn't be fair just you against me so Newell you come on too, you be Johnson's escort to this ball."

"Amos, what in God's name are you up to?" Jacob keeps a bead on Johnson as the thin man, wearing a pearl-handled Colt strapped down to his right thigh, swings off his horse. Behind him, in no apparent hurry at all, Josh Newell eases off his mount. What Jacob doesn't know, what his innocent mind can't imagine, is Newell backtracking if he leaves here alive and having himself a fun time with Jacob and his little family. "I can't cover 'em both!" Jacob cries.

"I can." Slade states calmly. "Tom Brazell, is your word any good?"

"As good as I can make it be." the honest man replies.

"Then I'll hear you say that Jacob here is free to go into the hotel with his wife and young'uns and they will be left alone until they are fit to make their way back home to Pennsylvania and they get every dime off everybody who won't need it no more."

Brazell looks around to see that only he and McCarson remain in the saddle. He pulls his piece, a rare Smith & Wesson the cavalrymen out west call the American .44, and lays it across his lap. Slade has never heard Brazell mention being an Indian fighter but the revolver he shows was only issued to a select number of troopers. "I ain't no gunfighter but I can shoot when the need arises. You got my word Slade. Mueller and his little family will be left alone as long as I'm able to see to that."

"Amos, I ain't goin, I done told you I ain't runnin!"

"You don't have to run, Jacob, you just saunter on over there and get with your family. Tom Brazell's word is good."

"But," the barrel of Jacob's Wichester finally wavers, "there's two of 'em!"

Slade is not distracted by Jacob's pleas – he watches very closely the hands of those he has called out. A wonderful sort of peace sweeps through his bones, a strange giddiness, for he realizes he can't get both without taking at least one hit. He begins to back up, eyes locked on his would-be killers, while McCarson and Brazell move aside. "Sonofabitch!" McCarson hisses excitedly. His beautiful white horse prances in the corner of Slade's sight.

"Go on, Jacob, you got a family to raise and don't need to be out here."

"Jacob, darling, please come to us! We need you!" Ruthie cried.

Jacob appears to be horribly torn, gripping down hard on the wood of his rifle. "Nossir! I will not! The first one of you sumbitches who pulls will taste some heavy lead from this here rifle! Its owner might be twitchin a bit but its bullets don't know that!"

"Goddamn," Johnson whines, "what kinda showdown is this? You drop the business end of that piece, farmer, just about waist high, and let's see who can get who first. What's the matter, you ain't got the sand to play?"

"Don't let him rile you, Jacob, it's what he wants." Slade watches Newell as he separates himself from the scope of Jacob's aim. Slade knows Newell operates better from behind or in the dark, like the Kimbrough's, but is a damned accurate shot when he gets his piece working. Johnson, on the other hand, wants to be seen in the spotlight of sunshine, yearns for this showdown to be talked about so his reputation will grow. Then, coming over Slade suddenly, dropping like a veil over his face, is a vision that is rife with certainty – Jacob will not kill a man with his wife, his babies, and his God watching in broad daylight. "It's all right, Jacob. You remember that, okay, it is all right."

Jacob seems to know what he means. "Damn my eyes . . . !"

Johnson seems now to get it as well. He inches to his left, opening the rift between himself and Newell.

Slade smiles, a real thing that just pops to his face as he considers the play. Johnson will be squirrelly, what with the threat of Jacob's rifle, even though he is pretty sure that Jacob won't be able to drop the hammer. Newell, whose grit runs a little deeper than the peacock ways of Lane Johnson, is the more dangerous right now. Slade knows he can get him but that split second he is going to give Johnson might very well cost him his life. When he realizes this fact, his smile gets even wider. "You know, I do hate me a couple of pansies who are more worried about shitting their bloomers than they are about getting a job done."

The slight works on Newell, who jerks for the stubby .45 that says a lot about its user – that Newell is accustomed to working close in because his piece is inaccurate beyond a few paces. Slade goes for his Colt, knowing for a fact he has got Newell, but his calm warrior's mind is aware of Johnson making his snatch right then, too. He finds a little prayer hunkering in the back of his thoughts and uses it for Jacob. Please don't let him kill another man in front of his wife and children!

Everything becomes so slow, so sickeningly familiar to Slade, as his Colt is erupting in his right hand even while his mind is praying and sending the message to his feet to get on their balls and pivot. He feels . . . something . . . something new to him . . . as he instinctively tosses two shots at Johnson. A pair of tiny voices sound inside his head and they are singing "Hallelujah, hoopity-hoot, Jacob Mueller could not shoot! Now we don't have to hold our snoot 'cause Jacob Mueller did not poot!" Then, following that silliness, he hears a real chorus of grown-up voices combining to sing "Ahhhmen."

Amos looks around, at least he thinks he is looking around, and all he can see is a field of azure blue. A dark speck, joined by another, begins to move in circles in his blue world. He feels no pain but his body feels like it is made of lead and he can even taste the metal on his tongue.

A silhouette, a head framed by the golden aura of a halo, leans into his eyes. Well I'll be damned, Slade thinks, I never thought I'd be seeing angels.

"Amos," The angel is yelling, like it don't want him to go to sleep . . . but he is so sleepy . . . "I cou'unt do it, may God forgive me, I just cou'unt!"

Slade is suddenly aware of his body again, feeling the weight of life, drawing a breath which bubbles in his throat. "Jacob? Watch your back! Johnson . . . he is . . . ."

"Dead, Amos, you got him right in the throat! I cou'unt drop the hammer, Amos, not with my family watchin I cou'unt! God forgive me!"

"He does, Jacob, He forgives us all." Slade wheezes and is aware of his terrible wound although he still feels no pain. "Ain't that just something, Jacob? He forgives us all." Slade imagines he is smiling but is dimly aware it might appear as a grimace.

"Yeah, it is for a fact. You just lay still now, Amos, Brazell is lookin you over."

Slade gropes with his right hand, grasping the collar of Jacob's old shirt. "Jacob, does McCarson see? Does he see all the suffering his foolish pride has cost?"

"He sees, Amos. I reckon he sees real good settin on his high horse."

"Mmmm! Damn, Jacob, I believe I've had better days than this one here."

"You got a right to feel that way, Amos. Damn my cowardly eyes, I didn't have the backbone!"

Slade tries to smile, feeling as if his throat is closing. "No, Jacob, you did show some backbone! You put Ruthie and those babies before your own manly pride and it takes a real man do such as that."

"But," Jacob is crying, voice straining with emotion, "I got you kilt!"

"No," Slade shakes the collar he is squeezing, "I've been dead since September 1862 when I killed a baby-faced Irish kid who was trying to run from my gun. He had gotten off the boat in New York City just two weeks before! I had to look in his dying face and hear his last words for his mother. I died that day, right along with him, and I've just been a walking corpse ever since. Is Ruthie nearby, with those little dust devils?"

"We're here, Mr. Slade. If you indeed died that day, as you say you did, then you came to us as an angel."

"That table . . . that Table of Honor . . . mmmmm!"

"Of course," Ruth Mueller answers immediately, "may I have your hat, sir?"

"Yeah, I'd be appreciating that . . . and Pete, Jacob . . . Old Pete . . . ."

"He will be treated like a king. Amos, I cou'unt pull the trigger, I cou'unt!"

"Thank God for that, Jacob, thank God. I'm just going to close my eyes for a minute, okay? That sun is awfully bright."

"Amos . . . ."

Jacob says something more but Slade doesn't hear. He is falling away, as if into a deep abyss, and his soul reckons it is going down there . . . which is just the way it should be sent . . . .

But then, like a sure-enough, light-as-a-feather angel, he begins to rise. He sees a very strange thing as he ascends – he sees the stalk of a giant sunflower. He is allowed to float over and touch it. There, beneath his hands, is the sum of all things that are good and beautiful and it is growing! He feels it growing around the tips of his fingers!

He cranes his neck, searching high above for the spread of the golden bloom as he soars like an eagle into the clouds.

He laughs, and hears a chorus of laughter in return.

Amos Slade is coming home and he knows his wife will have her face on when he gets there.