them. "It's what he needs, for nature is the great healer. Generally all that we medicos can do is give a helping hand. There'll be no change for some time, so if you're riding, Orin, I'll go with you."
"I'm heading out past the Wagon Wheel," Locke conceded.
"That suits me fine." Not until they were in the saddle did Bannon speak again. It was well past midnight, and the stars shone high and remote. "What happened?"
Locke told him, and Bannon nodded sympathetically. "It has been quite a night, hasn't it? For you especially. And yet—none so bad, in some ways, I guess."
Locke considered that. "It might have been worse." he conceded.
"Much worse." Bannon nodded. "He had his wish, then was spared farther pain. He lived to tell you that you were forgiven, and to receive pardon in return. As for the rest of it, in India they make a funeral pyre so that the soul may soar more freely, no longer confined by the body. It is a local custom, but in it they have grasped a part of the truth."
He turned in the saddle, and his voice was rich and comforting.
"The point I'm trying to make, Orin, is that what happens to the body is of no great moment. As a man of medicine, I have seen what happens to the physical too often to doubt. There is a vital spark of life above and beyond, and once again your dad is free to ride a greater range across the far divide."
By now they were in sight of the smoking ruins where the buildings of Wagon Wheel had stood. The conflagration had spent itself in a funeral pyre fit for a king. The crew had returned, and were milling about uneasily.
Locke gave them an account of events, questioning them in turn. None knew anything which might be helpful. It was customary for them to take an evening off once month; the vigilance committee, and whoever had returned to set fire to the buildings, had probably known all about that in advance.
"Ray is badly hurt, so he won't be able to direct you for a while," Locke added. "It will be up to you to look after things until he can. Kempton, you take charge for the present. Clear away the ruins and get new lumber. Put up a bunk house first, then a new barn. Otherwise, run the ranch as usual."
He hesitated, then went on slowly:
"You can sift the ashes after they're cool. If you find anything, preserve it for the funeral later. You understand."
Kempton had been with the ranch almost as long as Locke could remember. He swallowed uneasily, blinking as though the glow of the embers hurt his eyes.
"Sure, Orin, sure," he agreed. "We'll do the best we can. But there's a roundup beginning day after tomorrow, starting at Pascoe's down on Red Creek. We were supposed to ride that way tomorrow. But now I don't know—"
"I didn't know about the roundup," Locke confessed. "But go ahead with it. Other things here will keep till you get back. We won't want to hold a funeral service until Ray is able to attend, anyway."
For his own part, Locke was going to be busy with other matters. He skirted the grounds, but it was too dark to see much. The killer who had lurked in the gloom, trying to drive him back into the burning house, was probably a long way off by now. But the shots, striking as they had, could have come from only one particular spot. Searching, first in a wide ring, then in a gradually narrowing one, Locke found a small object, such as might fall from a man's pocket.
He studied it thoughtfully, while the embers grayed and the light faded. It was an elk's tooth with a gold mounting, made to snap onto a watch chain. The catch had broken.
Locke slipped the tooth into his pocket and returned to where Bannon waited. He held it out. "Ever see this?" he asked.
Bannon studied it curiously but shook his head.
"Seems as though I may have," he conceded. "But I don't just remember when or where. Sometimes," he added apologetically, "my mind gets a little fuzzy."
They returned to town. It was late, so late that even the usual roisterers of a gold camp had given up and gone home.
"I'm heading out past the Wagon Wheel," Locke conceded.
"That suits me fine." Not until they were in the saddle did Bannon speak again. It was well past midnight, and the stars shone high and remote. "What happened?"
Locke told him, and Bannon nodded sympathetically. "It has been quite a night, hasn't it? For you especially. And yet—none so bad, in some ways, I guess."
Locke considered that. "It might have been worse." he conceded.
"Much worse." Bannon nodded. "He had his wish, then was spared farther pain. He lived to tell you that you were forgiven, and to receive pardon in return. As for the rest of it, in India they make a funeral pyre so that the soul may soar more freely, no longer confined by the body. It is a local custom, but in it they have grasped a part of the truth."
He turned in the saddle, and his voice was rich and comforting.
"The point I'm trying to make, Orin, is that what happens to the body is of no great moment. As a man of medicine, I have seen what happens to the physical too often to doubt. There is a vital spark of life above and beyond, and once again your dad is free to ride a greater range across the far divide."
By now they were in sight of the smoking ruins where the buildings of Wagon Wheel had stood. The conflagration had spent itself in a funeral pyre fit for a king. The crew had returned, and were milling about uneasily.
Locke gave them an account of events, questioning them in turn. None knew anything which might be helpful. It was customary for them to take an evening off once month; the vigilance committee, and whoever had returned to set fire to the buildings, had probably known all about that in advance.
"Ray is badly hurt, so he won't be able to direct you for a while," Locke added. "It will be up to you to look after things until he can. Kempton, you take charge for the present. Clear away the ruins and get new lumber. Put up a bunk house first, then a new barn. Otherwise, run the ranch as usual."
He hesitated, then went on slowly:
"You can sift the ashes after they're cool. If you find anything, preserve it for the funeral later. You understand."
Kempton had been with the ranch almost as long as Locke could remember. He swallowed uneasily, blinking as though the glow of the embers hurt his eyes.
"Sure, Orin, sure," he agreed. "We'll do the best we can. But there's a roundup beginning day after tomorrow, starting at Pascoe's down on Red Creek. We were supposed to ride that way tomorrow. But now I don't know—"
"I didn't know about the roundup," Locke confessed. "But go ahead with it. Other things here will keep till you get back. We won't want to hold a funeral service until Ray is able to attend, anyway."
For his own part, Locke was going to be busy with other matters. He skirted the grounds, but it was too dark to see much. The killer who had lurked in the gloom, trying to drive him back into the burning house, was probably a long way off by now. But the shots, striking as they had, could have come from only one particular spot. Searching, first in a wide ring, then in a gradually narrowing one, Locke found a small object, such as might fall from a man's pocket.
He studied it thoughtfully, while the embers grayed and the light faded. It was an elk's tooth with a gold mounting, made to snap onto a watch chain. The catch had broken.
Locke slipped the tooth into his pocket and returned to where Bannon waited. He held it out. "Ever see this?" he asked.
Bannon studied it curiously but shook his head.
"Seems as though I may have," he conceded. "But I don't just remember when or where. Sometimes," he added apologetically, "my mind gets a little fuzzy."
They returned to town. It was late, so late that even the usual roisterers of a gold camp had given up and gone home.
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