I have strayed the western parts of the U.S., it must be the most beautiful country God ever made, and I wish I had paid more attention to it.
If wishes were horses, beggars would ride—but I have sold my horse.
I wish the last man I killed, in Tonopah, up in Nevada, had killed me.
I wish I had not been so good with guns so early.
I wish I had been born peaceable.
My strength is gone. That was one of the most shameful things I ever remember, being flat on my back with a stringbean kid laughing at me.
It won't be long now. A month? Three weeks? Two? Jesus.
I wish I had married Serepta, and settled down, and had a son to leave my guns to. I was forty then, and she was twenty-eight.
I wish I had been to San Francisco.
Hostetler said one morning I will wake up and know I can't get out of bed. I have to beat that morning by one. So it is a matter of timing, as it usually is. If I am going to make a move, I must do so before it is too late, even twenty-four hours too late. But first I have to decide the move.
I wish I had sailed on a ship just once, and seen the Sandwich Isles.
I wish I had not left home so young. I would like to know what became of my people.
Bond. A crackerjack name for a woman. She is sorry for me, but she wants me dead and I do not blame her. I was wrong about her. She has class. But she also has plenty of starch in her corset. She speaks up to me. She will scrub blood out of a carpet. She may be a lady on the outside, but inside she is full of the Old Harry, and I have not met many like that. I could love her. Given time, I could make her love me, but that would not be fair. Given time, I could straighten out that boy. Somebody had better do it soon, or he will go the way I did, or worse. Given time. I wish I knew why he hates me. Not three days ago he thought I was ace high. Given time.
I wish I had not been such a loner all my life.
I wish I had been more worthy of love, and given a damn sight more.
God I wish I had it to do all over again. I would do it better.
He left the window and tried the pot again, this time with a dribble of success, then got back into bed and touched each Remington to be certain it was where it should be.
He thought: Shoup and Norton were names I really did not know, but there are three I will remember: Jack Pulford; Serrano; Jay Cobb. They would sell their souls, Thibido said, to put my name on the wall.
So. I had no show to win before. Now I have. It is a game of draw poker now. I am the dealer now, not a God damned cancer. Not death. I can call the play. I can hold my pair, my guns, and draw three cards:
One. I can lie here and die slow.
Two. Or I can blow out my own brains. But I have too much sand for that. Besides, it has no style. There would be no honor in it. It is not the way that J. B. Books should go.
Three. The third card. Or I can pick my own executioner.
I wish I knew which one of them is the sure shot. I wish I knew which one deserves to kill me.
What was that line? Yes. "Weave a circle round him thrice…"
Pulford.
Serrano.
Cobb.
"There's a man to see you," she announced. "A Mr. Beckum."
Books was lathering his face. "See me about what?"
"I intended to tell you who he is. I'm well acquainted with your temper. I can still see that poor young reporter flying down the front steps."
"Well?"
"He's an undertaker."
Books put down his brush and mug to turn and look at her.
"We have three in town. He's the best known. I must say he's being a little forward. Of course, you don't have to see him."
He went back to his lather, scowling into the mirror. "It snowed last night," he said.
"Yes. It's melted this morning, though." She could almost hear him thinking.
"Thibido said he was putting a man outside the house at night. Did he?"
"Yes. He strolls up and down across Overland. Most of the time he leans against a tree. I'm not sure how effective it is."
"If it bothers you, I can tell Thibido to take him off."
"No. I don't mind."
He finished lathering. "All right. Send him in."
She hesitated.
"Don't worry, we'll get along. He's probably come by to thank me."
"Thank you?"
His smile was foamy and sardonic. "On behalf of his profession."
When his visitor entered, Books was stropping a razor suggestively on the palm of his hand. "Come in. Have a seat."
"Thank you." Uncertain of his reception, however, and immediately aware of the razor, Beckum remained standing. "I hope you don't mind my stopping by, Mr. Books. That is, I hope you don't think it untimely."
"Not at all. I like to see a businessman with get-up-and-go."
Despite the black he wore, Beckum was the picture of rotund, hog-jowled health. He was practiced in two attitudes: a heartiness which belied the imminence of death and a gravity which underlined the transcience of life. He alternated them like pairs of shoes, getting the most wear out of both.
"I admit to hearing certain—certain unfortunate things about your physical condition, Mr. Books," he said gravely. "I came by to express my heartfelt regret."
Books began to shave. "And?"
"And to discuss something with you. As you know, there are certain—certain arrangements which must be made, and practical folks often make them in advance. That is, we are mortal men, Mr. Books, all of us, and if we are prudent as well, we—"
"What's your proposition?"
"A simple business one, sir. You are a very respected and prominent individual," said the undertaker heartily. "Seeing to the final details for you would attest to the excellence of my mortuary service. To be truthful, the kind of advertising money can't buy. Therefore I am prepared to offer you embalming by the most scientific methods, a bronze coffin guaranteed good for a century regardless of climatic or geological conditions, my best hearse, the minister of your choice, the presence of at least two mourners, a headstone of the finest Carrara marble, a plot of a size and in a location befitting your status, and perpetual care of the grounds."
"For how much?"
"For nothing, sir. For the privilege."
"How much will you clear on the deal?"
"I beg your pardon. You must be joking. I'll be out a very large sum, I assure—"
"In a pig's ass you will."
"I misunderstand you, sir."
Razor arrested, Books paused to consider the reflection in the mirror of the undertaker behind him, who seemed in turn to be mesmerized by the reflection, half lather, half menace, of the gun man before him.
"Here's what you will do, Beckum. Just what they did to Hardin here, after he was gone. I read about it. You will lay me out and let the public in to have a look at fifty cents a head, children ten cents. Then when the curiosity peters out you will pick the gold out of my teeth and wrap me in a gunny sack and stick me in a hole somewhere and hustle your loot to the bank."
"Mr. Books, I assure you—"
"Assure me? What the hell good will your word be when my veins are full of your God damned juice? Who will keep you to it?"
The undertaker shuffled his feet, confused as to which pair of shoes he should be wearing.
Books raised his blade, resumed shaving. "No, here's what you will do, Beckum. I want your guarantee I will have a proper grave. Later. And I want a cut of the proceeds and a headstone. Now. Cash in hand and a stone to be delivered in two days or sooner. I want a small stone, good quality, with this on it—'John Bernard Books 1849-1901.' That's all. No angels or jabbery. Got that?"
"I find such an arrangement distasteful, sir. That is—"
"Or I will go to your competitors and deal with them."
"I see. You're a hard man, Mr. Books."