Gunslinger

IX

In the morning she cooked him grits which he ate without comment. He shoveled them into his mouth without thinking about her, hardly seeing her. He knew he should go. Every minute he sat here the man in black was further away – probably into the desert by now. His path had been undeviatingly south.

“Do you have a map?” he asked suddenly, looking up.

“Of the town?” she laughed. “There isn’t enough of it to need a map.”

“No. Of what’s south of here.”

Her smile faded. “The desert. Just the desert. I thought you’d stay for a little.”

“What’s south of the desert?”

“How would T know? Nobody crosses it. Nobody’s tried since I was here.” She wiped her hands on her apron, got potholders, and dumped the tub of water she had been heating into the sink, where it splashed and steamed.

He got up.

“Where are you going?” She heard the shrill fear in her voice and hated it.

“To the stable. If anyone knows, the hostler will.” He

put his hands on her shoulders. The hands were warm. “And to arrange for my mule. If I’m going to be here, he should be taken care of. For when I leave.”

But not yet. She looked up at him. “But you watch that Kennerly. If he doesn’t know a thing, he’ll make it up.”

When he left she turned to the sink, feeling the hot, warm drift of her grateful tears.