The Veteran (45 page)

At the far edge of the graveyard a big man stood under a yew and watched but did not approach. He wore a sheepskin coat against the cold, the insignia of his office pinned to the front. It had been a strange winter, mused the man under the tree. The widowed Mrs. Braddock, appearing more relieved than bereaved, had emerged from her isolation and taken over the chairmanship of Braddock Beef Inc. She had a hair and facial makeover, wore smart clothes and went to parties.

She had visited the girl in hospital, liked her and offered her a cottage, rent-free, on the ranch and a job as private secretary. Both had been accepted. By deed of gift she had returned to Mr. Pickett the controlling stock of his bank.

“Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” intoned the priest.

Two snowflakes, drifting on the breeze, settled on the black mane of hair like the blossoms of the wild dog rose. The sextons took the cords, kicked out the crossbars and lowered the coffin into the grave. Then they stood back and waited again, eyeing their shovels jammed into the pile of fresh earth.

In Bozeman the forensic pathologists had taken their time and done what they could. They established the bones must have been those of a man just under six feet tall, almost certainly of great physical strength.

There were no breaks in the bones, nor any signs of wounds that might have caused death, which was presumed to have been from exposure. The dentists had been intrigued by the teeth: straight, white and even, not one cavity. They put the young man in his mid-to-late twenties. The scientists had taken over the non-human fragments. Carbon-14 tests had revealed the organic matter, buckskin, leather, fur, to have dated from a period put firmly in the mid-1870s.

The abiding enigma was the quiver, arrows, bow and axe. The same tests proved these were quite recent. The accepted solution was that a party of Native Americans had visited the cave just recently and left their trophies for the man who had died there long ago. The bowie knife was buffed and restored, dated by its bone handle and donated to Professor Ingles, who had hung it in his office. The sheriff had claimed the old rifle. It too had been professionally restored and hung on the wall behind his desk. He would take it into retirement with him.

“In the certain knowledge of the Resurrection and the Life Hereafter. Amen.”

Relieved of their waiting, the sextons restored their circulation by shovelling the earth into the grave. The priest had a few words with the sole mourner, patted her on the arm and hurried away to find warmth in his presbytery. She did not move.

After a single and singularly unrevealing statement from the girl in hospital, the manhunt had petered out. The press had speculated that the man must have ridden off the mountain in the night and vanished into the wilds of Wyoming, leaving her to die in the cave.

The sextons filled the grave, quickly made a border of mountain rocks round the earth and filled the space with four sacks of tan gravel. Then they tipped their fur hats to the girl, took their shovels and left. The big man moved quietly forward until he stood just behind and to one side of her. She made no move. She knew he was there and who he was. He took off his hat and held it by his side.

“We never did find your friend. Miss. Pickett,” he said.

“No.”

She held a flower in front of her, a single long-stemmed red rose.

“I guess we never will now.”

“No.”

He took the rose from her fingers, stepped forward, stooped and placed it on the gravel. At the head of the plot was a timber cross, donated by the good people of Red Lodge. A local craftsman had branded some words into the timber with a hot iron before varnishing. They read:

HERE LIES A FRONTIERSMAN
DIED IN THE MOUNTAINS CIRCA 1877
KNOWN ONLY UNTO GOD
R. I.P.

The man straightened up.

“Is there anything I can do? You need a ride home?”

“No. Thank you. I have my car.”

He replaced his hat, tipped the brim to her.

“Good luck to you. Miss. Pickett.”

He walked away. His car, bearing the livery of the County Sheriff’s Office, was parked outside the cemetery. He raised his eyes. To the south-west the peaks of the Beartooth Range glittered in the sun.

The girl stayed a while longer. Then she turned and walked towards the gate.

A slight breeze from the peaks caught her, blowing open the long quilted coat and revealing the four-month bulge of her belly.