“Randall…”

  Randall’s eyes fluttered open. He wasn’t sure when he had fallen asleep, but it was dark and the air was damp with dew. He sat up in the grass, the empty bottle rolling off his chest as he rose and he immediately lost his footing and nearly stumbled into the last pitiful glowing embers of his campfire. The world was still spinning.

  “Randall…” came the voice again. Billy’s voice. Randall shook his head and tried to clear out some of the drunken thoughts that sloshed around in his brain.

  “I’m coming, Billy.”

  He dragged himself to his feet and reeled but managed to keep his footing. He made his way over to the shack and collapsed beside the door and pressed his ear against it.

  “Billy?”

  Randall knocked on the door frantically.

  “Billy, you alright?”

  “I wrote a letter…” said Billy, “For my sister… Ethel.”

  “That’s good, Billy, that’s real good.”

  “See she… gets it… would you?”

  “‘Course I will.”

  “Ethel never did approve… me going… cowpunchin,” said Billy, his voice turning wistful and nostalgic, “You gotta sister, Randall?”

  “Used to.”

  “They’re better than us. Women folk.”

  “Sure, Billy.”

  “Ethel… was always on me… to do more Bible readin. She sets a mighty store by the Lord. Wish I could see her again… Tell her it took the pox… but I finally done me some Bible readin.”

  “She’ll be glad to hear that,” said Randall, feeling stupid for talking but not knowing what else to to. In an awkward silence, Randall heard the rustle of blankets in the shack and a snort that could have been a stifled sob.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “I don’t wanna die, Randall.”

  The sobs came freely then. The facade crumbled. Randall had no idea what to say. He didn’t want Billy to die either but he felt he could only maintain the possibility of his recovery so far before it turned sour, even irreverent, and that time had long since passed. Billy was grave-bound on a fast horse and there was no use in denying it.

  “I know,” said Randall weakly. Luckily, Billy barely seemed to hear him.

  “That Bible has a lot to say about what happens when you die,” said Billy, “Ain’t all good. There’s a lotta… lake of fire type talk.”

  “God wouldn’t send a decent fella like you into no lake of fire.”

  “I ain’t no decent fella,” said Billy, weeping freely, “I done a lot of bad.”

  “You ain’t old enough to have done too much bad.”

  “I went with a whore once… in Fort Drudge.”

  “Shoot, Billy,” said Randall, “If God kicked every fella who’d gone with a whore or two outta heaven it would end up a right lonely place. Hell, even Boss Larson’s had a whore once or twice, they say, and you know the Boss is gettin into heaven or he’ll be given the Good Lord an earful at them pearly gates.”

  “I been a drinker… and a gambler… and I gone with whores…,” continued Billy, rambling, “I’m headed for the lake of fire, for sure.”

  “Ah, Billy…”

  Randall fumbled for something to say. Wish that damn reverend were here, he thought.

  “Listen, Billy, you’re sorry for them things you did, right?”

  “Yeah…”

  “Really sorry? You’d done different if you coulda?”

  “Yeah…”

  “Well then you’re alright. God don’t punish folk that are sorry for the bad they done. That lake of fire is for folks that know they done bad and ain’t sorry. Like the devil and such like that.”

  “You think so?”

  “‘Course, I do,” said Randall, “Hell, I was talking to a Reverend just this morning and he said he was making all his prayers up for you today. You think God is going to give you the boot with that Preacher pulling for you?”

  “No.”

  “Course not.”

  Randall didn’t know if what he said was any good, or particularly theologically sound, but he heard Billy’s weeping ease off and grow fainter.

  “Randall…”

  “I’m here, Billy.”

  “Promise me something?”

  “‘Course.”

  “Don’t bury me out on the prairie… where the coyotes can dig up my bones…”

  “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “I wanna be buried proper. I ain’t always done what I shoulda, but I wanna be buried like a Christian ought, somewhere where Ethel can visit me… and leave me flowers… I don’t want her to think of me… lost somewhere… out on the high plains...”

  “‘Course, Billy,” said Randall, his own eyes growing heavy with tears, “I’ll see you buried proper.”

  “You promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “On the Bible?”

  “On the Bible.”

  Billy let go a long, rasping sigh from his weary lungs. Effort aside, Randall thought it was about as content a sound as he’d heard from Billy in several long days.

  “I’m tired,” he said at last and his voice was so weak Randall had to strain to catch the words.

  “You get some rest,” he said, “Goodnight, Billy.”

  “Goodbye, Randall.”

  Randall waited until he heard Billy’s breathing turn heavy and regular then he, too, returned to his campsite to get some sleep.

  Sometime in the night, poor Billy Peterson gave up the ghost.