Epilogue
Two weeks later, Prophet held his hat down against his belly as he watched Louisa set a spray of wildflowers over the freshly mounded dirt and rocks that was Jonas Ford’s grave.
The heat had broken finally, portending the cool breezes of autumn. Blackbirds cawed in the cottonwoods and mesquites that lined the cemetery that lay across the side of a low hill southwest of Carson’s Wash. Mean and Ugly and Louisa’s nameless pinto were tied to the shabby picket fence that surrounded the boneyard.
Louisa remained on one knee for a time, staring down at Jonas’s grave. Prophet wondered if she was praying. The girl she’d once been would have said a prayer. The woman she’d become, however, likely wouldn’t. The woman she’d become would have vowed revenge if Ford’s killer hadn’t already gotten his due.
Someone else would pay, though. Some other deserving killer would get the bullet she herself had wanted to punch through Charlie Butters’s brisket.
Louisa straightened with a wince against the pain in her left thigh.
She should still be in bed or at least be on crutches, as the sawbones had advised. Neither was Louisa’s way. She sure as hell shouldn’t be riding yet, but that’s what she intended to do though she’d promised Prophet she’d stop often and early and change the bandages frequently.
Prophet doubted she’d do either one.
Just wasn’t the Vengeance Queen’s way. There were men out there . . . and some women . . . who needed to die for their sins. That was more important than Louisa’s health. At least, in her eyes.
She turned to Lou. The cool, fresh breeze buffeted the blond hair tumbling to her shoulders.
“He was a good man,” she said.
“He was a good man,” Prophet said. “I’m sorry, Louisa.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.” She’d turned her head to pensively study the grave once more. “Just wasn’t meant to be.”
“You’ll find another man. You’ll get another chance at a normal life.”
“The question is,” Louisa said, “is that what I want?” She looked at Prophet. “A normal life?”
“Yeah,” Prophet said with a sigh, setting his funnel-brimmed hat on his head.
He turned and started walking slowly toward the horses. “Well, I’ll be seeing you down along the trail somewheres, Vengeance Queen. You keep your hooves clean and your tail free of cockleburs, you hear? And avoid them sidewinders. They make for venomous sleepin’ companions.”
Prophet chuckled to himself as he strode between the graves.
“Where you headed?” Louisa called after him.
Prophet stopped, half turned, narrowed one eye in question.
Louisa hiked a shoulder, crooked a half smile. “You want company? Down in Mexico?”
Prophet pointed an admonishing finger at her. “You’re too bossy for Mexico. And you’ll scare off the señoritas.”
Louisa pursed her lips, nodded. “Right.”
“We might make it halfway, though. Before one of us piss-burns the other an’ we fork trails again.” Prophet spread his arms, smiling. “You never know what we’ll do.”
“No, you don’t.” Louisa walked toward him. She allowed herself to limp only a little. She flicked his hat brim back off his forehead, rose onto her toes, and pecked his lips. “That’s the thing about us—isn’t it, Lou?”
“That’s the thing about us.” He continued walking toward the horses. “Come on—I’ll buy you a beer and a shot for the trail.”
“Make mine a sarsaparilla,” Louisa said.