Skull Moon

Ryan ignored her, staring at the body. "That Mayhew?" It was hard to tell. Ryan had known Dewey Mayhew for years, but this…this was only vaguely human. It was a bloated, discolored, stitched-up grotesquerie out of a sideshow.

"Yes," Wynona said, covering the body quickly with a sheet.

"My God, he looks worse than they said."

Wynona looked hurt. "There's only so much that could be done."

Mike Ryan was a big man with bushy eyebrows, a hard face, and an intense glare that looked right through a man. He was a local rancher and a very rich man. He dressed in fine vested suits from St. Louis, owned hotels in both Virginia and Nevada Cities, and controlled stock in several copper and silver mining companies. He was a man to be reckoned with. If he liked you, you were set; if he didn't, he could destroy you, being that he owned just about everything and everyone in and around Wolf Creek. He was a good friend of Sheriff Lauters and had been the primary mover in getting Lauters his current post. He was also the mayor and the city council all rolled into one.

Wynona washed her hands in a basin and dried them, powdered them. "What can I do for you this fine day, Mr. Ryan?"

"Fine day?" Ryan said angrily. "What's fine about it, Wynona? Men are being killed out there!"

"A figure of speech."

He looked at her with complete loathing. He didn't care for undertakers in general and a woman undertaker…well, it was just plain unnatural. "Yes…well, I didn't come here to chat with the likes of you." He pulled out a gold pocket watch. "I need a headstone."

"Oh, I see," Wynona said, putting on her best synthetic demeanor. "Has there been a death in the family?" She controlled her voice carefully; didn't want to sound excited.

"No, no death," Ryan said slowly. "Not yet. It's for me. I want a headstone and a coffin. The best you can get. When people see my stone, I want them to stop and think, 'Here lies a man of worth.' Got it? The very best."

"I know of a fine sculptor and mason in Virginia City, Mr. Ryan, he can create something befitting a man of your station."

"Marble. The finest marble money can buy. Get the very best. Imported. Can you do that? I have imported Italian marble in my bathhouse. I fancy it."

"Oh, you can be assured-"

"Don't assure me, dammit, just do it!"

"Yes, sir. It will be done."

"Fine," Ryan said. "Get on it, woman. I'll be back day after tomorrow to discuss the particulars."

Ryan stormed out, leaving Wynona with a widening grin on her pale face. Whistling a happy tune, she went about pressing Mayhew into his cheap pine casket.

Life was rich.

And so was death.

28

Dr. Perry, his back a catalog of discomfort with the sudden change in the weather, made his way to see Claussen. He moved up the rutted road, cursing as he slipped and slid on the melting pockets of snow.

"If I fall," he said under his breath, "God knows I'll never get up again."

Wagons rolled past him and riders and people out going about their business. Everyone waved at him. More than a few wanted to chat. But Perry wasn't in the mood for any of that. He'd been trying to keep his injections of morphine to a bare minimum and such was the way of the drug that, what was enough to blot out the pain a week ago, was only enough to tease him now.

But he had to be careful.

Narcotics were nothing to fool with.

Dependency came easily and he was already beginning to exhibit the signs of it: loss of appetite, euphoria after injecting, a building need that demanded more and more.

Damn, Perry thought, but I'm a fool.

He knew better than to be fooling around with the stuff, had seen countless men turned into addicts during the War Between the States, and yet he'd willingly started a progression of dependency that could only end in disaster. But his lower back troubles-which had started after he was thrown from a horse five years before and slammed against a rock outcropping-had gotten progressively worse. It had reached the point in the past few months where he could barely function. Getting out of bed was a task, examining a patient with all the bending and turning required, was agony.

If it hadn't been for the drug, he would've had to give up his practice some time ago. That and live the doubtful existence of an invalid, confined to bed for the remainder of his years.

Perry couldn't let that happen.

People depended on him and the lifestyle of the aged and infirm would've killed him faster than any drug could hope to.

He came to the church and forced himself up its steps. Inside, it was dark and quiet. He called out for Claussen a few times, but there was no answer. He made his way to the rectory and looked around. Claussen didn't seem to be there. Perry thought once of looking upstairs, but he had no intention of invading the man's privacy. That and the fact that it would be hell on his back.