It was sparsely attended. The people who knew Henry Cantwell had fallen away, leaving reporters and Clayton and scattered others, blinking from the afternoon sun as they entered to sit by themselves. I chose the front row. The funeral party gathered at the back of the church. Behind Henry’s casket his sister and Roland Cade followed four pallbearers who seemed to lean outward in silent dissociation. In the far corner stood a short, balding man I didn’t know; a relative, I supposed. But when they began rolling the casket toward the altar, he hung back watching it, and I forgot him.

They came slowly down until they were next to my pew and for a moment frozen in time Cade’s stare riveted me across the rolling casket. And then it was past and Cade and the rest were sitting, and the funeral began.

The clergyman mumbled the prayers in haste. An air of sad embarrassment settled on the mourners and when the service was over and the casket gone, they left quickly. I stayed, not following to the grave. The church emptied and it was silent, and I lost track of time.

The quiet turned oppressive. I stood finally and began walking up the aisle.

The balding man remained at the rear of the church. I passed him without speaking and went outside.

Jason Cantwell waited on the steps in front of me. “I’ve come for you,” he said.

The reporters were gone and there was no one else near. Jason’s face was sullen and defiant. “It’s not time,” I answered. “They’re burying him now.”

He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. He was never my father.”

“He was never anyone’s father, and Kris Ann was never yours to have. It’s past and all in your mind. Let us be.”

He shook his head. “It isn’t settled.”

He was moving closer. “Don’t do this,” I said quietly. “You’ve no gun now.”

He flushed. “I don’t need one.”

“Then I’m telling you, Jason—once. This is nothing you want to happen.”

He stopped, searching my face, and then took one slower step forward. I waited.

There were footsteps behind us. We turned. The bald man stood framed in the door of the church, as if to call us back.

Jason stared at him, and then, slowly, his face became irresolute. I moved to pass him on the steps, stopping so that our shoulders brushed and our faces were inches apart. “It’s over,” I said softly. “Touch Kris Ann and I’ll kill you, sure.”

His face went rigid. I waited, letting the moment pass between us. Then I went down the steps without looking back.