He dismounts some way off and takes a moment to settle himself. It is late, the evening well advanced now, and he is certain no one has seen him trot up to the entrance to the town cemetery. Readjusting his g*n belt – although he has no plans to use the Colt holstered at his hip – he ties up the horse at the gate and moves along the narrow path that winds its way to the top. The neat rows of simple crosses with their simple inscriptions reflect the starlit night from their white surfaces and the glare sends a curious shiver through his body. He has never liked cemeteries, and as he walks, he remembers how he stood next to his father’s grave, tears rolling down his cheeks as he watched them lower the rough-hewn coffin into that terrible, black hole. He could have sworn he heard the old man
