Cadman rushed off the porch without answering, towards the livery. Alexander was at his heels, though. “What?” he asked again.

Cadman turned. “A finger,” he said with difficulty. “A god-damn bloody finger with the nail broken back. Like it’d been clinging to the wood.”

Alexander looked past him into the night, a look of illness on his aged face. “Every grave up there looked that way” he said, “like Paul Goodman’s. There could be hundreds out there like him.”

Cadman searched for words but couldn’t find them. The same thought had been going through his mind. Joseph, he guessed, must’ve made it inside the saloon -- probably the last to go. Trinity Hill was a battleground, he thought to himself. The saloon a mausoleum. And Alexander and I listened to a massacre. “The first,” his stomach wrenched, “of many.”

Alexander looked at him like he understood the quiet words, like they had come from his own mind. “There’ll be more like this,” he said to himself. To Cadman: “When we sunk that well, seven of the men died in an accident. They were blown to pieces,” he paused. “That’s what we thought anyhow.”

Cadman nodded, rain dripping from his hat. All we can do is run, he thought.

About me

This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)