CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

His father was dead.

It didn’t feel real. It couldn’t be real.

But his mother’s tears, those were real. The pity in the sheriff’s face. The feeling Jasper couldn’t shake no matter what he tried.

No, it was real. He just didn’t want it to be.

The worst part wasn’t how it felt when he thought about it. That was bad enough. He’d think about the blood trailing through the dirt; he’d think about the jangle of metal that must have been the keys that let Alec Casey out of his cell. Most of all he’d think of his father when he saw him in the street and how whatever spirit that had made him Ben Duncan was gone.

But the worst parts were the moments when Jasper would almost forget. The first thing in the morning, opening his eyes and thinking for a bare moment that he had to help his father in the barn. Pulling three bowls from the shelf when his mother asked him to dish out their stew, then remembering there were only two to serve.

He couldn’t stand it, and there was no way to stop it.

He deserved it, of course. It had all been his fault, hadn’t it? If he’d drawn his revolver earlier, he could have taken a shot. If he’d been a little more vigilant while watching Casey, that last member of the gang wouldn’t have been able to get the drop on him. He’d thought of so many things he could have done better to fix what had happened, and if he’d died as a result, well, the world would have been better with his father in it than his weakling of a son.

Jasper started hanging around the sheriff, waiting for news on Alec Casey. He kept hoping someone would catch him, hang him, shoot him dead in the street. He deserved to be shot dead in the street. But no one had. And then the news came that he’d hit a train west of Nebraska Territory. That he’d left.

And that, Jasper couldn’t stand.

He wrote a letter explaining to his mother. He placed it on the table when he knew she wouldn’t be in for hours. Too much of a coward to face her properly. His last stop before he left his home was the sheriff’s station. If anyone had an idea of just where Alec Casey was going, it was like as not to be him.

There were wanted handbills tacked up on the walls at the sheriff’s. Outlaws Jasper didn’t recognize, names he’d never remember, and of course, Alec Casey, whom he wouldn’t ever forget. “Murder of a lawman” had been added to the most recent of the bills. Jasper supposed “murder of a father” wouldn’t have been something they’d think to add. How many of the other men the Casey Gang had killed had been fathers?

“You here for a reason, Jasper?” the sheriff asked. His voice was always easy with Jasper these days. Easy and even, and Jasper thought it would have been better if he’d railed at him.

Jasper asked his questions. Where was Casey last seen? Which direction was he headed? Had he gone west before only to come back?

When he finished, the sheriff was quiet for a long moment. “Son,” he finally said, “if you go looking for revenge, you’ll find yourself back in front of Alec Casey’s gun, and this time no one will stop him from firing.”

“Not if I fire first,” Jasper replied.

“It’s not gonna help.” The sheriff’s eyes were kind. “You could kill Alec Casey a hundred times and it won’t help you feel better about losing your pa.”

The sheriff might have had kind eyes and an even voice, but he had to be wrong. Because if killing Alec Casey didn’t make this feeling go away, then nothing would.

Jasper set his hat back on his head and spoke the last words he said before leaving home. “I don’t need to kill him a hundred times. I only need to kill him once.”