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J.B. never had . . . until the day Cullen was taken.
    Higgs grimaced and worked his way up the shoulders to the neck.
    â€œLift his head,” Vera interrupted. She draped the suit over the back of a kitchen chair and held a comb and brush for his hair.
    â€œI wouldn’t—”
    She elbowed him aside and lifted the back of the head with one hand, comb poised in the other. The flopping skull stretched the skin and groaned—Vera lurched backward. The head landed on the kitchen table with a resounding thump that sounded too much like a pumpkin being squashed. Higgs stood frozen, watched as a fly foundthe blackened flesh of the wound and tentatively probed the ragged hole with its front legs. Vera stared at the hole for a moment, and then backed farther away, shoveling the air with her empty hand.
    â€œTurn your head,” Frank ordered.
    He quickly tied the flour sack he’d used to dry the body around the wound as if Bennett were readying himself for a duster. Higgs stepped back and surveyed his work. Most of the blood and dirt were gone. He took the comb and brush from his wife, wet the hair with the pink water, parted it down the middle, and flattened it as he’d seen his friend do for as long as they’d known each other. It felt more intimate than bathing him had—the last thing a man could manage to do for himself if he were still breathing and had at least one working arm.
    With Vera’s help, he dressed Bennett in the one suit he owned, the one he wore to meet bankers and to get married all those years ago. The black wool sleeves were moth eaten, the lapels faded, the collar dark with grease and dirt. Vera adjusted the high standing collar so it sat straight.
    â€œA Bible, Frank? Where’s his—”
    There was a knock at the back door, followed by a muffled voice saying the wagon and men were ready. Hayward pounded down the stairs and strode into the kitchen as the men hauled in the hastily constructed coffin from the back porch. Irish Jim let his side slip and tilt, banging Willie’s fingers against the doorframe as they struggled to keep it upright. Willie swallowed his curses and cast the other man a baleful expression.
    They’d made the coffin with planks from the new barn door, and only guessed at the length. When J.B. didn’t quite fit, they removed his tall black boots and bent his knees to one side so he lay twisted at the waist.
    Hayward edged between them to stand beside the coffin, and that seemed right. It wasn’t until he raised his hand that Frank saw the eagle wing, worm-eaten and brittle, so dusty it smeared the black wool coat when the boy placed it on his father’s chest.
    Vera let out a sobbing breath. Otherwise the room was silent, acknowledging what was imagined as the boy’s benediction.
    â€œGet his hat.” Higgs crossed J.B.’s hands on the wing and placed the black cowboy hat on top.
    â€œThe lid will crush it,” Vera said and lifted it out again. “Brand-new hat.”
    Higgs nodded to the other men to help him with the lid. He didn’t need to say any more good-byes. The sooner this was over, the better it would be for Hayward.
    They fought the windblown sand to keep the hole deep and long. When they grew exhausted, they dropped the shovels and lifted the coffin over the hole. As they lowered it, the bulky box tilted and slipped, and then dropped so hard the planks split apart. They could see the black suit through the gaps. Higgs picked up the nearest shovel and heaved sand and dirt for all he was worth. They’d say a few words afterward. J.B. wasn’t in a position to argue.
    The graveyard, which until now held only a favored dog, Vera’s cat, and the boy’s first horse, stood to the left of the barn and corrals, far enough from the houses that a person could almost forget what was there. They’d strung barbed wire to keep the cattle out, and placed a couple of worn-out wagon