“Sure you will,” Jackson told him. “Just give it time.”
They were riding side by side down the street where Philomena’s hut was located. Their saddlebags were full. Jackson planned to head for El Paso, so he had stocked up with provisions. Since Everett was going along, he had followed the gunslinger’s example.
“One thing still bothers me,” Everett said as he adjusted his derby so that it shaded his eyes a little better. “I know it’s unlikely the gunmen who were working for Graham will ever be found and arrested, and I suppose I can accept that, but those men back in Philadelphia, Tillman’s relatives, are going to get away with it. They were really as much responsible for what happened as Graham and Rosalie were.”
Jackson nodded in agreement. “Yeah, that’s true. That’s why I plan on sending some more telegrams when we get to El Paso. Reckon those fellas are liable to find some deputy U.S. marshals on their doorsteps one morning, especially when Rosalie gets through testifying. I don’t expect a judge would sentence her to hang anyway . . . but she’ll get out of prison a lot sooner if she cooperates.”
“I suppose so. I’d hate to see them escape the consequences of what they did.”
Jackson glanced over at him. “You can always write about it. Make a good story for that paper of yours.”
They brought their mounts to a stop in front of Philomena’s hut. She must have been waiting for them, because she stepped outside with a solemn look on her face. “I knew this day would come,” she said.
“It always does,” Jackson told her as he swung down from the saddle. Everett looked the other way as Jackson went to Philomena. Even a reporter could be discreet every now and then.
When Jackson let go of her, she reached into the pocket of her skirt and brought out something small that she pressed into Jackson’s hand. “Take it with you,” she said, “so that El Señor Dios will smile upon you.”
He opened his hand and looked at the crudely shaped Madonna and Child she had given him. “Part of your grandfather’s treasure,” he said.
“He would want you to have it.”
“Even with this, I’m not sure El Señor Dios will ever smile on me. My name is Hell, you know.”
“We cannot help our names,” Philomena said, “only what we are.”
Smiling, Jackson bent his head to hers again.
A few minutes later, the two men headed west, leaving Death Head Crossing behind them. Everett squirmed in the saddle, trying to find some way to ease his muscles, but Jackson rode easily, from time to time lifting a hand to touch the pocket where he carried a bit of treasure with him.
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Death Head Crossing Page 22
