Cecily Snow stepped out of the tent then, wearing a long white gown. She noticed her comb, picked it up, and fixed it in her tumbled tresses. Then she smiled at Isinglass. Though her scheme had failed—if it was her scheme—she showed no trace of disappointment.

“Well, Willie, you took your good time coming,” she said. “I suppose it’s no longer of much moment to you what sort of brute kidnaps me.”

Then Cecily walked over and knelt by Billy. The harmonica she had given him was still in his shirt pocket; she lifted it out. Then she raised Katie’s hat briefly, and placed it back over his eyes.

“Why, my little beast is dead,” Cecily remarked, looking at me. “Things do catch up with one, don’t they, Ben?”

I didn’t answer—I was too shocked by the realization that the enmity she had always claimed she felt for Will Isinglass was clearly very much less than absolute.

Cecily raised the harmonica and began to play “Barbara Allen”—the air she had tried to teach Billy. Then a low voice began to sing to the tune—it was La Tulipe, standing by her donkey. Somewhere the old yellow woman had learned the English air. I broke down completely, as I had the first time Cecily played the song. It was such a sad thing to hear, on the cusp of the great American plain, with Billy Bone dead in the dust.

Katie Garza jerked away from her father, flinging Cecily a look of disgust. I expected Katie to shoot her, but instead she caught her tired mare and led her down to the Rio Pecos to water. Bloody Feathers wiped off his knife and followed her to the river.

10.

Isinglass whistled up some cowboys, who soon dismantled Lord Snow’s tent and packed it back on the mule. Then he and Cecily rode away, with no more said.

Bloody Feathers comforted Katie as best he could, while Tully Roebuck and I dug Billy’s grave on the plain behind the China Pond. Since the earth that covered Des Montaignes was still loose, we decided to economize, which meant uncovering him briefly so we could tuck the small body of Long Dog Hawkins in with him.

Billy, though, had his own private grave.

“Ever notice how all these famous gunmen are no bigger than a pint?” Tully remarked as we worked. “Hill Coe was small, too.”

“I suppose presenting a small target helps one last, in that profession,” I said.

Katie cried and cried over Billy before she would let us throw the dirt in.

“I didn’t want nobody who didn’t love him to kill him,” she said. “That’s why I hurried. Billy was like me—he never had no place.”

I thought, even allowing for her grief, that the remark was rather off. “Katie, this whole land is your place,” I said.