Chapter Three The Northern Waste

Jack picked up the water bag and smelled it. No drug. He drank once and gave the rest to Old Bill. The gray-coated man knelt on the ground, clutching his throat, tears and snot running together. Jack looked at him. "How many have you robbed?" The man could not answer. Jack pointed the pistol toward the wagon. "What's inside?" The short man rasped, "Goods." Jack walked over and pulled back the canvas. They were not goods. There were bags, women's shoes, children's clothes, more than a dozen different purses, and three bodies under burlap. The boots had been stripped from the dead. Jack's face darkened. He was not a saint. He would not weep for every person who died in the West.