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God for some time now," Brady replied.   "I reckon if Ma Kutter makes her way to the Pearly Gates, they're going to lock them and hide."
    The Deacon stood and waited in silence.
    Brady bit his lip, then nodded curtly.   "Fine.   If folks want to attend such a service, it's not my place to stand in their way.   I won't have it here in town, though.   The church is boarded up, and it's been that way for quite a spell.   I don't want it collapsing on anyone's head.   One death’s more than enough for a small town, wouldn’t you agree?"
    The Deacon nodded in return and touched the brim of his hat.
    "Our main tent is big enough for ourselves and as many of your townsfolk who care to join us.   Do I have your permission to spread the word?"
    "Spread it all you want on the way out of town," Brady replied coolly. "I'll let the undertaker know to bring the casket out this evening.   Word spreads fast in Rookwood – there won't be anyone who might want to attend who doesn't hear in time. I'll see to it myself."
    "Then I'll be heading back to camp," The Deacon replied, "and I'll consider us well met."
    Brady didn't nod this time.   He stood and gazed at the strangers a moment longer, then turned and pushed back through the swinging doors of the saloon without a word.
    Creed turned back to the bar and made a show of nursing his drink.   He had no intention of riding back out to The Deacon's camp.   He had other things on his mind, one of which was still the trapper’s camp he'd set out to find earlier.   With Brady distracted, and the rest of the town concentrating on The Deacon and this funeral, it might be a perfect chance to get out and actually take a look-see.   He heard the door swing open and shut as The Deacon and his men left the bar.

Chapter Seven
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    The wagon rolled slowly out from town, pulled by a pair of dusty gray mares.   John Bender, blacksmith, undertaker, and general handyman, held the reins loosely in his calloused hands.   Bender was tall and well-muscled with the wiry strength of the constant worker.   His forearms were like ham-hocks, powerful from years working the hammer and tongs of the forge.   He was a practical man; he built his coffins from the same wood with which he repaired doors and built tables.   He usually wore a pair of threadbare dungarees so dark they might have been died black, and a blue work shirt, but this night was special.
    John Bender had buried thirteen people since the last funeral was held in Rookwood – an unlucky number if ever there was one.   Those bodies had found their way into the soil with no more than a handful of mourners, and only John himself to say grace.   This funeral marked the first he’d attended in his Sunday best.   His suit was as dark as the night sky.   He wore a top hat that added to his already eerie height.   A purple ribbon was wrapped around the brim of the hat and trailed down over his broad shoulders.   He drove the cart slowly, not wanting to upset the coffin in the back, and because he didn't want to pull away from mourners walking alongside.
    Most of Rookwood had turned out for the event.   While it was sure to be a dreary affair filled with proclamations to a Lord they seldom paid more than quick lip service to, it was also the only thing to provoke even mild interest from the people of Rookwood in a month of Sundays.
    Colleen and Mae, dressed in uncharacteristically austere gowns, walked beside the horses.   The townsfolk fell in behind, shuffling along on the anvil of the sun.   Silas was there, and at the rear, riding slowly with his hat pulled low over his eyes, rode Sheriff Brady.   Provender Creed was nowhere to be seen, but that was hardly a surprise.   Creed was a lone wolf, happier out away from people, and hardly the most religious man in town.   Bender chuckled, rather inappropriately given the circumstances, but the notion