The man wordlessly helps him move the stone from the wagon into the truck bed. It is not heavy as much as awkward in its size to maneuver; they slide it off the wagon bed, then each holds an end as they carry it to the truck. The woman shadows them with the pick and shovel, which she slides onto the truck bed beside the stone, and also a rifle. Frank’s eyes linger on the rifle, then he shifts his gaze to the man. “That loaded?” he asks.
The man looks at Frank, and then over at the mule. Bess stands with her head low. Her eyes look glazed, and she is foaming at the mouth. She’s hardly more than a coated skeleton. The man blinks, then reaches for the rifle and hands it to Frank.
Frank nods his thanks, brings the rifle over to the wagon, and props it on its butt against the wagon wheel. He goes around the front to Bess, cups her soft ears with his hands. She hardly seems to notice he is there; Frank breathes deeply at this final confirmation. It is time. He unhooks her from the harness and bridle, takes the bit from between her lips, and with the rifle in one hand he gently guides her a few weary steps into the field. She stands there blinking. Frank places his hand against the white star on her forehead, slowly draws his hand down her nose. Then he steps back, lifts the rifle, and shoots the mule between her eyes.
She falls immediately. For a moment, Frank watches the blood seep from her wound. Then he crouches down beside her and lays a hand on her side; she is gone.