Chapter 36

Al spent the remainder of the afternoon at home in shifting moods, from the high elation of the proposed return to the past to the foreboding mood that had permeated his lunch conversation. Having decided his course of action Al still could not free himself physically from his current life. His mind was set but the flesh was unwilling. Some time during the first newscast Al firmed to his task. “I will do it or be damned. No more sitting on this fence. I can't stand that any longer.” He got up from the couch where he had been laying and headed into the kitchen.

When Mary, backed by the now cold air of November, opened the front door she was met by the beckoning aroma of Italian food. The warm flood of heated, perfumed air from the kitchen flooded around her, swallowing her whole. She saw the dining room table was set formally and that two tall tapers, topped with bright yellow flame, supplied the scene with light. An unopened bottle of wine graced the table.

“Al,” she called tossing her heavy coat down on the couch, “What are you up to?”

“Cooking,” he called from the kitchen.

“I know that,” Mary replied as she headed back to him. “What are you fixing?” She was near the dining room table when Al popped out of the kitchen.

“Guess?” he laughingly told her as he stood in the kitchen doorway, protecting it from prying eyes.

Mary rested her right hand on a chair back and looked Al over from head to toe, slowly. She saw it then, a small series of red spots, most no larger than a pinhead, and said, “Spaghetti! You're fixing spaghetti!”

Sheepishly Al nodded yes. There was a rosy tint in his cheeks, either from the heat of the steaming vermicelli or from a blush at his wife's happiness.

“What's gotten into you?” Mary asked before realizing what she was saying.

Al did not seem to notice the phrasing as he answered, “I thought you might like to eat at home for a change, just the two of us,” he said shyly. Mary still had the ability to make him nervous. “Spaghetti is about the only thing I trust myself not to ruin,” he concluded.

Mary had been lovingly watching him as he spoke, now she simply said, “Oh Al... I love you,” and she quickly crossed the space between them and hugged him dearly.

Freeing himself from her arms Al gave Mary a short kiss and said, “I've got to check the sauce.” He went to the stove, leaving her at the doorway to watch, and peeked under the lid of a deep pot. Steaming aromatic vapors flowed out around the raised lid intensifying the fragrance of the air. Al dipped a large wooden spoon into the bubbling redness and slowly stirred it. On the front right burner the noodles tumbled over and over in their boiling water.

Al spooned out a little of the sauce and tasted it. He smiled over the top of the now cleaned spoon and said to Mary, “You had better hurry and wash up. This stuff is ready to eat.”

“I'll be back in a second,” Mary said turning towards the bedroom. “I don't have to be told twice, not for the famous Martin spaghetti.” When Mary returned, Al sat at the table. The wine was poured and the plates ready. She sat down and they both began to eat. Neither spoke much and then it was of no import. Mary wanted to ask why Al was being so nice, but she was afraid to say anything and chance spoiling it all. She wanted to enjoy the evening. It had been so long since they had been able to do that.

They finished eating. Al cleared the table. The two candles were now short and squat, cooled wax lay pooled below them. The bottle of wine was still near half full, their glasses almost looked untouched.

Al looked at his wife and said to her, “Mary, I can't stay here.”

Coolly, the words ringing in her ears, Mary asked, “Where are you going?”

“I've got to go back to Galveston.”

- Galveston! Good Lord, is that it? - “Al. Oh Al,” Mary said reaching a hand out to him. He took it in both of his.

“Don't talk like that Al.” She was so relieved. This was just about those silly blackouts. She had thought it was going to be about Robin.

“I'm serious Mary,” Al said. “You think this is some unreality in my head, but you are wrong. It's real, and it's me.”

Mary looked closely at Al. She was frightened by what she saw. He looked, was, so determined. In equal seriousness she asked, “How can you go back there Al?”

“I don't know,” he said squeezing her hand painfully in his excitement over her serious, believing question. “But I will do it.”

Mary saw happiness in that decision. She tried to dismiss it from her mind so she and Al could just be together, unencumbered. If she showed any trace of her concern over his sanity, Al never noticed it. It was a lovely night for him and almost that for Mary.

Wednesday at a quarter till eleven Al lay on the couch. The television set was turned off, the house was silent. Al was unconscious.

Chapter 37

Nearing the city, the sun brightening in the east, it was readily apparent that Galveston had been devastated by the storm. The small dunes he now crossed were littered with debris.

From the top of a dune Al looked down into the shallow depression beyond. “Good Lord!” he exclaimed. His hands rose to cover his mouth as he gagged back the contents of his stomach. Staggering backward Al stumbled and fell to the sand. When his head hit the dry, white sand he rolled over and began vomiting and continued to vomit as he attempted to get back to his feet. The muscle wrenching contractions allowed Al to only gain his all fours. The spasms stopped. Al shook his head slowly to clear it, as he gasped for air. Then he stood up. Wiping his right sleeve across his mouth Al returned to the top of the dune. This time when he viewed the contents of the depression he was under better control.

Underneath a swarm of sea gulls, lay the tattered body of a teenage boy. The dead boy was partially clothed in a pair of brown pants. The pants and the body had both been brutalized by the storm. The white-feathered birds, their beaks flecked with red, hopped around the boy. Many sat on the body. From his feet to his face, where the black hair was still wet and plastered back on his head, the birds were making a feast of him.

They pecked at any exposed flesh they found, tearing at it with their sharp, hooked beaks. The eyes were gone, the nose missing. The birds worked those openings. The head would toss from side to side as if it were trying to dislodge the fowl. The birds on the sand on either side tugged at the flesh on his cheeks, his ears, and head, forcing the dead object to loll back and forth. Others pecked at his hands and arms giving them a dreadful, pained movement. There were holes in his abdomen that attracted many birds.

“Get out of here you sons-of-bitches!” Al roared running down the dune, waving his arms about, hating the creatures. He screamed and roared inarticulate, animalistic sounds at the birds frightening them back into the air. They circled and soared at a low level watching Al, waiting for him to leave.

Al looked around for something, anything, to throw at the creatures. There were no stones, only sand. A small broken plank lay under the boy's right foot. Al lifted the foot, his stomach settled by his anger, and pulled the plank out. It was a little over two feet long. Grasping it in his right hand he waited, them swung at the first bird that came a little too near.

The solid plank made contact with a loud “thump“. The bird was no match for the force of the swing and it was driven to the ground dead, without a squawk. The other birds all rose higher in the air. Al continued to roar about the body whipping the plank through the air.

It was several minutes before Al realized this would continue until he exhausted all of his energies. The gulls were in no hurry.

Crying, tears streaming down his face, Al fell to his knees beside the body. Slowly, using the short plank as a shovel, Al began to cover the dead boy with the bright, white sand. When the job was done and Al was walking away he watched and saw the gulls circling over the small, new dune. They could find no opening to attack.

As Al walked on toward the city the ground began to be covered by an excretory-like slime left by the ocean. He found and buried three more bodies before he reached Galveston.

Galveston was covered with over an inch of ooze from the sea's floor. It lay everywhere. The city was nearly leveled, only a few structures stood unharmed. Everywhere he looked Al saw death and destruction. Many of those houses that had withstood the storm were destroyed by the receding floodwaters. The force of the waters returning to the sea had sucked their contents, material and human, out smashing them into the departing storm.

Rubble lay everywhere. Al climbed over and through labyrinth-like mountains of timbers, bricks, trees, tossed together by the storm as he worked his way further into Galveston. From the top of one heap Al looked into the side of a four-story house. The south walls had been ripped out by the storm, furniture hung out window openings. Eye level with Al, on the third floor of the building, was a man sitting on one end of a battered, water logged, camel back couch. The other end of the couch leaned precipitously out the side of the room. The man sat, head in hands, unaware of his dangerous situation.

“Hey!” Al called over the twenty feet that separated them. “Hey, you!” There was no sign of recognition from the man. “Wake up! Hey!” Al jumped up and down waving at the man. On his second jump there was a shift of the rubble below Al's feet. There was a moment when Al thought the heap was going to collapse. Quietly, standing motionless, Al looked at the man on the couch who still sat oblivious to the return of the world. There was no bringing him back to reality. Al carefully began to make his way down from the height. He worked across the outside of the rubble where ever possible but sometimes, due to the steepness of the mound, he had to climb into its interior and grapple through its inner workings. Inside the footing was firm, the area cramped, and it would grow darker as he moved further from the surface. Al did not know where he was headed or why, just that he must keep moving.

Al left the mountain of rubble behind as he worked further into the city. Everywhere he saw people dazed, their bodies cut and bruised, many of them stripped of their clothes by the storm, wandering about looking, looking for their families.

Chapter 38

By mid-morning Al had found his way to the downtown area of Galveston. A large group of men milled around. There was much animated discussion about the effects of the storm and almost no talk of its tragedies.

From a small group of men off to his right he overheard:

“That's nothing! Did you hear what happened to the Taunton?

Everyone spoke at once. “No what happened? What's a Taunton? What are you talking about? What'd he say?”

“Well the Taunton's a British steamship. She was anchored out there by the wharves when the blow hit. She rocked and pitched for the longest time. Then her anchor chain snapped free! The captain didn't have steam up in her boilers, not that there was any way he was going to be able to make headway against that storm, so then she had to fend for herself. You know where that damn ship wound up, safe and in one piece?

“No, where?” the voices clamored.

“Cedar Point!

“That can't be! Cedar Point's over twenty miles from here!

“Twenty-two miles! That's where she ran aground. That damn ship ran into a thirty-foot embankment out there. If it hadn't been for that, no telling where she might have fetched up.”

“That's bull!

“No it's not! I swear it!”

Another group talked:

“The whole family was up on top of their house. I guess that's four... no five kids, him and his wife. They were all hanging onto the roof tiles when his wife was blown off. At almost the same time the roof popped over, throwing the lot of them into the water. Well, they all made it back into the over-turned roof except the wife. Couldn't ever find her. And when the water went down and the roof came to rest they all climbed down to the ground and there, pinned under the roof was the wife! Dead as could be of course. She must have gotten caught on the tiles when the roof flipped and drowned there right below them. She stayed there for over six hours as they drifted around. And not a one of the others even got a scratch the whole night. It was like she was under there protecting them.”

Al moved nearer three men, and listened to a fourth.

“Me and my brother stood there on the beach hollerin' at the fellow. He watn't too old a man, 'bout forty. Dressed good. He was just wadin' out into the Gulf. We hollered, like I said, and this man just keeps on goin'. In just a little bit the waves broke over his head and he was gone. We figured he must have lost everything, family, everything.”

From others:

“I just came through the wharves. You seen the warehouses? They're all split open and the goods are everywhere. Vegetables all over the place.

“St. Mary's Orphanage is only a pile of bricks now. They found one of the nuns drowned down by the shore. She had nine kids still hanging to her, all of 'em dead.”

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A loud commanding voice shouted, “You men all listen up. We've got to send someone out to Houston with a message. Any volunteers?”

There was a surge by all the men in the area toward the speaker. Al was spun about and knocked down. Managing to get his feet back under him before he was trampled he stood far back from the center of the group where the discussions were taking place.

“What's going on?” he asked tugging at the coattail of the man in front of him.

The man turned quickly about and under his breath answered, “I don't know what they're doing. I'm trying to find out too.” He turned back around and passed on the question. After a few patient minutes the man told Al, “They chose J.J. Delaney, E.L. Porch, Richard Spillane, Tom Smith, and some man named Cox to head to Houston and tell 'em to send help.” The man added, “They were told not to exaggerate the damage. Exaggerating would be hard to do.”

When the five men set off for Houston, the others were asked to help search for bodies. Al volunteered his help.

Al worked with six others. They began at a smashed house, which once had been a tall brick building. It was now no more than a brick pile. They began tossing the bricks aside.

“You men there!” a man on horseback called out to them. “Don't pitch that rubble into the street. We'll need it clear.” He rode on up the street shouting out orders here and there to the crews of men attacking the destruction.

“Who's that bastard think he is?” the man beside Al asked under his breath, looking askant at the rider. “Thinks he some kind of almighty ass-hole 'cause he's sitting up there on that horse. Bastard should try some of this,” he said tossing aside brick after brick as the group worked on the pile; none of the bricks fell anywhere near the street now.

Al made no comment to the man. He did not even look in that direction, the smell was enough. The disgruntled man smelled worse than the death Al had encountered. Thirty feet of floodwater had not been enough to wash the man clean. Al stayed busy moving rubble.

The bricks were red, with a coarse grainy exterior that chaffed Al's hands brutally. His fingers were cut and bleeding after only five minutes of work. A stiffness in the lower back was already beginning to slow his work when he moved a brick and exposed a toe. It was the big toe of a right foot. Only the smallest portion of the fat round end was presented. Al took a forced, deep breath at the shock, then he called out to the others, “Hey! I found someone! Come help! Hurry!” Al began to throw the bricks aside frantically. The others joined him.

Slowly, brick by brick, the body was uncovered. The foot, the knee, then the left foot was found, and the figure was presented. It had been a young mother. She wore a gold band on her left hand. In that hand she held the small hand of her daughter. They had apparently been in one of the upper rooms when the building collapsed on them. Their bodies were terribly battered.

The men were standing ringed about the two bodies, wondering what to do next, when the horseman came back. He pulled his horse to a stop near them.

“Bring those bodies down here to the street. There'll be a dray along soon to pick them up. We've started a morgue over on the docks to handle the dead.” He started off, then stopped and added, “Be sure to look for identification,” and he was gone.

Al stooped down to lift the little girl. Her hand was locked fast in that of her mother's. Al took the pair of cold hands in his to separate them. The mother's fingers were long and elegantly shaped. They totally engulfed the small hand of the daughter. One by one Al pried at the fingers, which had already become very stiff. There was a sharp snap as he pulled at the clasping ring finger. “Good god, I've broken it,” Al said softly.

“Can't take it bubba?” the smelly one sneered. “Let me in there,” and he pushed Al aside and went to work on the hands.

There were two more loud pops before Al could shout, “Stop that! You son-of-a-bitch!” Then he cuffed the man in the side of the head viciously, bowling him over sideways onto the bricks. Al bent back down to the hands.

“No one does that to me!” the man roared as he picked himself up from the rubble. Al did not even look up as the man started toward him.

“Jimmy Stubber stop right there!” one of the group called out as he stepped between the two. “This here man's right! You got no call to be treating the dead that way.”

“He hit me by God!” Stubber screamed pointing at Al, still kneeled at the bodies.

“I'll do it again,” Al spoke, rising to his feet, “and worse, if anything like that happens again.” Al bent down and lifted the stiff form of the little girl and began to carry her down to the street. Except for Stubber, the others went to the task of moving the mother. Stubber stood, seething in anger, on the pile of rubble and watched them work.

By early afternoon the entire building had been shifted through brick by brick. Five bodies had been found during the search. They lay side by side at the edge of the street.

Al and his crew, for they now followed his lead, were leaving the site to begin on another when Stubber called out, “Hey, here comes one of them wagons now.”

Up the street several blocks a mule drawn dray was picking its way through the street. They followed its progress until it stopped at their feet.

The driver, an old, bent man with a great brimmed, slouching hat, spoke to them, “You fellows mind giving them a hand up?” He pointed down at the five bodies with his right hand, which held the reins loosely.

The flat-bedded wagon carried a load of bodies already three high. It would take a concerted effort by the whole crew to get the bodies decently loaded on the wagon.

Gamely Stubber spoke-up, “Be happy to help.” Grinning, he hurried over to the child that they had first found. He hoisted her up effortlessly tossed her up to the top of the heap. Next he took the mother, grasping her left arm in one hand, her left ankle in the other, and began to spin, dragging the body about in the dirt of the street as he tried to pick up speed so that he could fling her up onto the wagon.

Al leaped in as Stubber spun and he landed a heavy blow with his fist to the side of Stubber's head. Stunned, Stubber let go of the body, sending it tumbling end over end for a distance of ten feet.

Stubber, his eyes filled with hate, turned to face Al.

“That's twice you done that. Not no more,” and he began to move in toward Al.

Al stood straight, casually awaiting Stubber. In a crouch Stubber rushed at Al. Al waited. Just before he was in Stubber's reach Al lifted his right hand and showing the brick it held. He brought the brick down on Stubber's head with almost his full strength. There was a loud grunt from Stubber as the blow impacted, then he collapsed like an empty sack.

Al did not bother to check the heaped man; he stepped around him and said to the others, “Let's see if we can get them onto the wagon respectfully.” They all eagerly lent a hand.

Chapter 39

Al followed the dray as it headed toward the docks in a funeral-like procession. If anything fell off the wagon Al was there to place it back on. As they neared the sea more and more drays loaded with bodies were to be seen. Off to Al's right a group of men stood near a pile of bodies watching the spectacle of a live, nude woman. She stood beside a pile of rubble, tears streaming down her face. In her hands she clutched the severed right arm of a young child. She fell to her knees before the rubble, digging at its base. One of the men, seeing Al's wonderment, spoke up.

“She lost her baby in there. She won't stop looking for him, won't come away. That's all that we were able to find of him.” The man looked away.

“Ma'am?” Al soothingly ventured. “Ma'am, are you alright?”

The woman was back on her feet before Al, pleading with him, “You got to help me, mister. Those others already gave up. See, I know he's in there,” she held up the limb as confirmation of her quest.

“Ma'am,” Al said, “If your baby's in there he's dead.”

“No! No! No! He's not dead, he's not! See!” Again she held out the flesh as testimony.

Al moved toward her saying, “Why don't you come with me Ma'am...”

“You want to take me away from my baby!” she shouted, then she began to move away from Al.

“You can't stay here like this. Please come with me.” Al took another step toward her.

“Nooooo!” she shrieked and fled to the far side of the rubble heap from where she said, “Go away! Go away! You're like the others. I'll find my baby by myself.”

“Come on,” the old driver said to Al. “Only the Lord can help her now.” Al nodded agreement and began to load the waiting bodies.

The heat wave that preceded the storm had continued in its wake, by early afternoon the temperature was in the mid-eighties. The nearer to the docks Al came the more he was buffeted by a great stench. The heavily laden dray pulled onto the wharves. The air was overpowering, its cause self-evident.

Those beautiful, exciting wharves Al had earlier seen were now non-existent. The seaside of the multitude of warehouses was bashed in by the storm. Up and down the length of the docks as far as he could see, Al saw only destruction. Ocean going tugs, all sizes of sailing vessels, and ships had been driven into the warehouses by the force of the storm. The storm and the receding waters had acted together to pull out the contents of the great warehouses in an eruption of produce, dry goods, grains, and cotton. The vegetables and sodden grains had quickly begun to decompose under the hot sun. Their thick odors hung chokingly in the air, but there was a sweeter, lighter, more deeply sickening air about the docks. The dray stopped at one of the makeshift morgues.

The morgue was a slapped together, tin roofed affair, using salvaged lumber for supports. All four sides of the building were open and all around it were drays unloading their goods. Here the bodies were being handled reverently. Carefully they were lowered from the wagon, carried into the morgue and placed side by side. Workers at the morgue then searched the bodies for any identifying papers or marks.

The morgue was rapidly being filled. More and more loaded drays arrive. Bluebottle flies filled the air. Their droning wings were difficult to speak over. The morgue's tin roof baked the air about it. It was nearly impossible for Al to catch his breath.

A man dressed in a business suit, his coat set aside and his sleeves rolled up, caught sight of the newly arrived load and he called over to some men trying to identify the dead.

“You men there! Help unload that wagon and get those bodies under cover as quickly as you can. They don't look like they can take much more of this heat.” As he turned back to his work he said to himself, “None of them can take much more of this heat and soon we won't be able to either.”

With Al's help the dray was quickly emptied. The driver called over to Al, “Hop up here son; let's get a drink.”

Al climbed up beside the driver who turned the mules and wagon back toward the heart of the city. Both men were hot and exhausted. The night of the storm had been long for everyone, now the day was longer.

Leaving the dock area behind the air began to freshen. The muck that covered the city was drying and many of the dead were still to be uncovered, unlike the morgue where they were set out to air. Al breathed deeply.

The wagon pulled up before a saloon four blocks west of the docks. A civilian holding a rifle stood in the door. He said, “The saloon's been closed. All the saloons are closed.”

Leaning around Al the old man swore excitedly, “Jesus! What in the hell they closed for? A man needs a drink, times like these.”

“The town's been put under martial law and they don't want no drunks going crazy. Now get out of here!” the militiaman ordered.

“Who in the hell ordered this?” the old man swore angrily.

“It's orders of Major Fayling and he says to shoot if I have too.” With this the man raised his rifle and pointed it in the driver's general direction.

“A drink's not worth getting dead,” the driven said quietly to Al. He pulled angrily at the reins to the mules. As the wagon began to move away the sentry shouted after them, “Everyone is supposed to keep working!” and finally, “All the saloons are closed and guarded!”

“Keep working, ha!” the driver snorted. Al had kept silent and continued to do so for the rest of the day.

Chapter 40

Sunday night the city was exhausted. The dead were brought in faster than they could be buried. The wharves were covered with them. The number of homeless went uncounted. Those that had food prepared it and shared it with those that did not. The militia troops patrolled the city watching for looters. The sea breeze swept over Galveston with a fresh breath of air.

Al slept out under the stars. Crack! The report of a rifle jarred him awake. He lay in a shallow depression on the top of a high rubble pile, a little more than ten feet from the street. He had chosen the position because of its security. Crack! Crack, crack, more guns firing split the night's silence.

Al carefully rolled over onto his stomach and raised his head slightly to look over the edge of the depression and view the street.

The night was black. There were a few fires blazing near the docks, but out in the city there were only small glows where cooking fires earlier had been. In spite of the heat of the day the air was now heavy with moisture. Al peered in the direction the shots came from.

Presently he heard a great deal of shouting and the pounding of running feet. The sounds grew louder. A crowd of men headed toward him.

Two blocks up the street four men turned onto the street, running to save their lives, and raced in Al's direction. They were dressed darkly and Al had difficulty making them out against the night. The sounds of their pounding feet grew resoundingly.

The four had no more than turned toward Al when a great throng of men came into view in hot pursuit. They were nearly a score in number. The majority carried torches lifted high above their heads as they ran down the street. They carried weapons, pistols and rifles, in hand.

One of the pursuers, on the left of the pack, torch less, pulled aside from the group and stopped. He took a long, slow deliberate breath, then exhaled. Raising his rifle to his shoulder he took in another deep breath and held it, sighting down the barrel. The rifle slowly lowered, paused, then belched out a deafening roar. A scream filled the night. It ended abruptly; one of the fleeing men fell dead. The remaining three did not slow their pace.

From the opposite end of the street a new sound was added, the pounding of hooves. The fleeing men stopped coldly as a group of mounted men swung into sight. They were trapped now with no outlet.

Right below Al's position the three stopped to view the onslaught from the forward and the rear. One of the men, much taller that the other two, pushed one of them toward the rubble pile indicating their route of escape. They all three started up the mound.

The horsemen arrived first. The horses capered out of control about the base of the rubble as the riders tried unsuccessfully to take aim with their carbines at the fleeing trio.

Al watched with fascination as the three struggled up the hill. The tall one was a huge black man who drove ahead of him the other two black men. They were climbing up the slope on their hands and knees. Handholds would give way on them, tumbling them back toward the base. Their eyes showed white to Al as they struggled upward. Their breath came in coarse, gasping hisses.

Below, the men on foot had joined the horsemen. The torches blazed above their heads illuminating the scene with a harsh, flickering light casting shadows the length of the street.

The riders had dismounted and held their prancing mounts in check. One spoke as leader for the group, “Stop there, or we will shoot!”

The trio continued upward, nearing Al's position. With the combined light of the torches from below Al saw the sweat as it rolled down the face of the lead man, tracking through the dirt there.

From below, “Aim for the big one! If he falls the others will give up!”

There was no time between the command and the carrying out of it. It sounded to Al like every gun in the world fired at once. Dirt all about the big man was kicked up into the night. The man took a step, stumbled, reached for a hand hold, found one and lost it, then he collapsed face down on the heap and began to slide downward. His body stopped short of the hooves of the commanding officer's mount.

When the other two saw their leader shot down they stopped their attempted escape and began to work their way, slipping and sliding, to the bottom where they were surrounded by the militiamen.

“Keep your guns on them,” the commanding one ordered. All the guns were already trained on the pair.

The lead horseman handed his reins to another and walked over to the dead man. With his boot he tried to turn the body over; it was too heavy. The man bent down and with a grunt rolled the heavy form over. He began to search the dead man's pockets.

“Holly Jesus!” His hand was in the inner coat pocket when he shouted. He leaped back from the body wiping his hands on his trousers. Everyone's attention was on him.

“Bring a torch over here,” he ordered.

A young lad, no more than fifteen years old, his rifle as tall as he, came forward with a blazing brand. He held it forward casting light on the ground near the body.

There was a twinkle of light on the ground and the leader called out, “Lord, look at that!”

On the ground two feet from the prone body lay an ashen colored, bloated ring finger. Surrounded by swollen flesh, almost to the point of invisibility, was a large diamond engagement ring. There was a gasp and a rapid front to rear murmur as the sight was viewed by the militia. The commander stormed over to the prisoners and drew his pistol.

“Where did you get that?” he demanded of one of the men.

“Don't know where he got it,” was the answer given.

“You're a god damned liar,” the horseman swore as he swung at the prisoner. The pistol in his hand crashed against the prisoner's head with a crunch and he dropped unconscious to the ground.

“Where did you get that,” he demanded of the second prisoner.

“He cut it off a dead woman,” the man blurted out. “We didn't do it, he done it,” pointing to the big dead man.

“Shoot the thieving bastards,” the commander ordered.

While the horseman stooped over the severed finger, wrapping it carefully in his handkerchief, the two prisoners were taken to a small standing section of a brick wall. There they were stood-up, backs to the wall, facing into the torchlight of the militia.

When he had the wrapped finger put away into his saddlebag the commander looked over at the two men and commanded, “Fire!”

Al's head was fully exposed above the rim of his bed as he watched the scene. The roar of guns again filled the air. He watched the two bodies pitch back into the wall, where, finding nowhere else to go, they began to slide slowly to the ground. The light from the torches was already disappearing up the street before the two bodies at last came to a rest on the ground.