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Next door, in Albany County, these vouchers brought their face value of five dollars to the holder; but on Drybone's neutral soil the saloons would always pay four for them, and it was rare that any jury-man could withstand the temptation of four immediate dollars.
Balaam knew this, and he knew that the pony was only a four-year-old. "Well," he said, "Drybone's had no circus this season. Maybe they'd buy tickets to see Pedro. He's good for that, anyway." Shorty became gloomy. The Virginian was grimly smoking. Here was something else going on not to his taste, but none of his business. "Try a circus," persisted Balaam.
"I'm going to Separ." "Separ!" exclaimed Slaghammer, rousing slightly. "Oh, stay with us, stay with us." He closed his eyes again, but sustained his smile of office. "You know how well I wish you," said Barker to Lin. "I'll just see you start." Forthwith the friends left the coroner quiet beside his glass, and walked toward the horses through Drybone's gaping quadrangle.
Upstream they could make out the light of the Drybone bridge, but not the bridge itself; and two lights on the farther bank showed where stood the hog-ranch opposite Drybone. They went on over the table-land and reached the next herald of the town, Drybone's chief historian, the graveyard. Beneath its slanting headboards and wind-shifted sand lay many more people than lived in Drybone.
That was really wicked, and brought you instantly to the notice of Drybone's one official the coroner! For they did keep a coroner Judge Slaghammer. He was perfectly illegal, and lived next door in Albany County. But that county paid fees and mileage to keep tally of Drybone's casualties. His wife owned the dance-hall, and between their industries they made out a living.
The pale weather-washed head-boards told all about it: "Sacred to the memory of Private So-and-So, killed on the Dry Cheyenne, May 6, 1875." Or it would be, "Mrs. So-and-So, found scalped on Sage Creek." But even the financiers at Washington could not wholly preserve the Indian in Drybone's neighborhood.
Barker had passed through Separ. Though an older acquaintance than Billy, he had asked Jessamine fewer and different questions. But he knew what he knew. "Well, Drybone's the same old Drybone," said he. "Sweet-scented hole of iniquity! Let's see how you walk nowadays." Lin took a few steps. "Pooh! I said you'd never get over it." And his Excellency beamed with professional pride.
Shorty remarked, stooping to investigate the bucking-strap on his saddle a superfluous performance, for Pedro never bucked. "You won't have to walk," said Balaam. "Stay all night, and I'll send you over comfortably in the morning, when the wagon goes for the mail." "Walk?" Shorty retorted. "Drybone's twenty-five miles. Pedro'll put me there in three hours and not know he done it."
In Drybone's deserted quadrangle the sun shone down upon Lusk still sleeping, and the wind shook the aces and kings in the grass. Over at Separ, Jessamine Buckner had no more stockings of Billy's to mend, and much time for thinking and a change of mind.
So there on the hill lay the graveyard, steadily writing Drybone's history, and making that history lay the town at the bottom one thin line of houses framing three sides of the old parade ground. In these slowly rotting shells people rioted, believing the golden age was here, the age when everybody should have money and nobody should be arrested.
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