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wheel rims, bleeding rust into the yellow sand around the switchgrass and bluestem, and the cream separator that never worked right over the graves to keep them still. Now they’d have to find more trash to hold down the coffin. In a day or two, Vera would plant wild roses, see if they’d take with the water Higgs would carry there. They might do better to copy the people on Rosebud and leave a body out for the elements, he thought. With land like this, it was a lot of work to be so damn civilized.
    â€œWe done here?” Hayward asked. He clapped his hat on his head and drew the string under his chin to keep the wind from pulling it off. The cuffs of his jacket were so short they stopped halfway downhis forearm, Higgs noticed with a jolt. The kid was shooting up. He’d top out at his father’s height, six two or three. Old enough and big enough to get into some real trouble.
    â€œWhere you off to?” Higgs asked.
    The boy glared at him, spun, and started toward the barn, picking up speed until he was running. By the time he made the corral, put a rope on one of the horses, fashioned an Indian war bridle, and sprang on its back, Higgs wasn’t halfway there. At least the boy didn’t turn all the horses loose when he leaned down, opened the corral gate, and went through. He swung it shut again and waited for the latch to fall.
    As the men watched the boy leave the barnyard and lope down the road, Vera tucked her arm through Higgs’s.
    â€œLittle bastard rides like his da,” Irish Jim said.
    â€œLet’s get something to drink,” a voice behind them said.
    Back in J.B.’s office, Higgs picked up the fresh brandy bottle, gave it a shake, heard the liquid slosh, and set it down, carefully positioning it next to the short glass. He sighed, picked up the small beaded turtle J.B. had bought at the trading post for Hayward. Below it were newspapers from Omaha, Denver, and Rapid City. Old stories about Wounded Knee. Higgs seemed to remember J.B. going up there for the ghost dancing before the massacre, or maybe it was afterward. He and Vera had taken the train to Denver that December so he wasn’t around during that whole uproar. J.B. didn’t talk about it much, but what he saw must have troubled him plenty. Higgs ran a light finger over the tiny beads crusted with dirt. A person could always give it back, Higgs had suggested when J.B. told him what the turtle held, but J.B. shook his head and frowned. He was ever a man to ponder a situation. That was for damn sure. Higgs pushed back from the desk and reached for his hat. On second thought he pulled a pistol from the holster J.B. kept hanging off the desk chair, tucked it in the back of his pants, and covered it with the black suit coat he’d worn for the funeral.
    He glanced back at the bottle, wiped his mouth and chin withhis hand, and pulled open the door. He’d spent a good part of his life doing what J.B. wanted; now he’d have to spend the rest doing what he thought J.B. would want. It just never got easier, did it.
    J.B.’s wife should’ve taken the second boy with her when she moved to town. He was a devil on animals and men alike these days. Running like hell’s half acre was on fire. J.B. couldn’t do much with him, and since he was the only son J.B. had after Cullen was taken by Drum, he didn’t want to do much with him anyway. J.B. was raised hard, and he was caught between wanting to be kind to the boy and also thinking he needed the lessons that stuck with a person. It ended up being the worst possible way to raise a son. None of them Bennetts know how to raise a child, Vera swore at Higgs nightly. They ruin every one they get their hands on.
    Now he had to deal with this Graver. A part of Higgs hoped he’d done the killing so they could hang him and clean up the mess before dark. It was never that easy, though, he told himself as he left the house, pulling down his hat so the