Hunter and the old man drifted off into small talk. They debated the virtues of one kind of pistol for a fast draw versus a second kind of pistol for better accuracy. They covered subjects from wild horses to homesteaders. And the time just rolled along.
After a while they got to talking about some of the people in the town. Hunter was going to mention Walter Kestler’s desire that his son, Nick, leave town because of Farrel’s coming, a curious thing for a man who was publicly saying that he didn’t believe Farrel was going to come at all. But Hunter, at the last second, decided not to tell Hank about it.
His words with Nick were private, and Hunter supposed that that was the way Nick had intended it to stay. If he were to tell Hank about their talk in the saloon, it would likely open up a pretty messy can of worms. Why was he talking to Nick in the first place? Where had he met him? Why would Nick tell him such personal information? The questions Hank would ask would be endless, and Hunter was loathe to lie to the old man. It was better to just leave the whole subject alone. Besides, if Walter Kestler was a hypocrite, that was his business. So Hunter said nothing, and instead, made a remark complimentary to Morna’s cooking.
The old sheriff’s eyes twinkled mischievously and he said, “She sure is a wonder in the kitchen, that girl is. She bakes some really tasty breads and makes a fine potato pudding. And she’s right pretty too. No denying that. For the right man, she’d be quite a catch.”
Hunter walked right into that and he knew it. He smiled at the old sheriff and said, “You wouldn’t be trying to talk a feller into anything, would you?”
“Me? Try to talk you into anything? Hell no!” They both laughed.
“But speaking of food,” said Hank, “you’d best get back to the house. Morna said that I don’t eat until the two of you have your dinner. And I’m getting mighty hungry.”
Hunter got up to leave and then saw the whiskey bottle on the floor where he’d left it.
“What should we do about this?” he said, after he picked up the bottle.
“Anything left in it?”
“Just about half a swallow.”
“Good,” stated the sheriff. “Put it back behind the eye chart. I wouldn’t want to leave the doc completely high and dry. He might get mad and cut open all my stitches.”
As Hunter walked toward the house he was thinking that Hank looked a lot better after a few drinks and some good talk. Sometimes, after all the doctoring’s been done, that’s what it takes to get a man on the mend. He hoped the old man would be still stronger tomorrow so they could safely move him home as they planned. A man will always heal faster in his own bed. That would be the best thing for him.
With those thoughts in mind, he absently opened the door of the sheriff’s small house and walked in. He looked down the short hallway in front of him, into the room that he had given Morna after the fire, and saw the oilskin wrapper lying open on top of the dresser and Morna standing there lost in the reading of one of his letters.
In that instant he felt as if Morna Mason were stealing a look deep down into his soul. She had no right to see the things that he kept closest to his heart, no right at all. A cold fury filled him. He rushed toward her to separate her hands from his letters. He was willing to break his own code of conduct, and strike her, if need be, to keep her from reading any more.
At the first sounds of his sudden move in her direction, Morna became aware of Hunter’s presence. Embarrassed at being caught going through his personal belongings, she turned to try and explain how it was that she had come to be reading one of his letters. But when she saw the rage in his eyes and saw how he was coming at her, she instinctively screamed, dropped the yellowing paper from her hands, and backed away as fast as she could.
As soon as she dropped the letter, Hunter recovered his sanity. When he reached the doorway, he stopped, knelt, picked the piece of paper off the ground, folded it, stood up again, and placed it back into the envelope from which it had come. Not once during this procedure did he look at Morna. Only when he closed the oilskin wrapper, tied it up, and put it inside his shirt did he look at her and speak.
“How many of these did you read?” he asked hoarsely, betraying his emotion despite the even tone of his voice.
“A few,” she said timidly. “I’m sorry. I was wrong. I was cleaning out the drawer and I lifted the oilskin packet to put it on the dresser top, but I dropped it and it opened. I was curious and opened one of the envelopes to see what was inside. And once I started reading them I couldn’t stop. They’re beautiful letters. She must have loved you very much.”
“This is none of your business!” Hunter lashed out harshly.
“I know. I’m really sorry,” she whispered. “I wish there was something I could say.”
What good was it doing, yelling at the girl? The damage was already done. No one had ever read those letters except him, but now they seemed somehow soiled, his memories sullied. “Never mind,” he muttered angrily. He turned to leave and one last time repeated, “Never mind.”
He had his dinner at Sonya’s Cantina. And with the enchiladas he ate, he downed shot after shot of tequila. Hunter only drank like this when he was consumed by his memories, and tonight his remembrances seemed to fill him to overflowing. He was thinking of Andy Mason, and Hank, and his own life; but mostly he was thinking of Alison. And soon it was Alison, and Alison alone, that filled his mind. He remembered her in every detail: the green eyes, the long, straight, brown hair, her smile and laughter.
He filled his tumbler with another shot of tequila and downed it. He reached inside his shirt, pulled out the oilskin wrapper, and placed it on the table in front of him. But he didn’t open it. One by one, in his mind, he recited the contents of each of the six letters lying sealed in the oilskin. His eyes were closed and his lips moved slightly, and he was in another world, a world of soft skin, a tender caress, and a loving embrace. Yes, Morna was right. Alison had loved him very much. Almost as much as he had loved her.
Hunter kept drinking to test himself. If he could remember every word in every letter even while drunk, then he knew he’d never forget them. And if he’d never forget them, then the letters themselves could be burned. That way no one else could ever read Alison’s words again but him.