Rudolph Wurlitzer - The Drop Edge of Yonder

avs later, or maybe it was that afternoon, Zebulon stood in front of the photographer and his camera, wearing a clean shirt and pair of pants and a leather vest, all of which had been donated by a special fund of well-wishers.

"I guess you're aware of your reputation," the photographer said. "Everyone's talking about you. They might even appoint you mayor.

The camera's flash left Zebulon momentarily blind.

Working quickly, the photographer handed Zebulon a tomahawk. "Raise it like you're about to scalp someone."

When the camera's flash went off, Zebulon threw the tomahawk into the wall, missing the photographer's head by a few inches.

The photographer handed him a Mandan war club.

"Think about how many men you've killed, and how many want you dead."

Zebulon slammed the war club at a pillow, sending feathers flying around the room.

For his last shot, the photographer handed Elijah's rifle to Zebulon.

"Aim at the camera the way your Pa did when he came through the saloon door."

Another flash.

Zebulon lay back on the bed, closing his eyes, imagining that he was soaring over the town.

"Beautiful. Don't move." The photographer set up another shot of Zebulon sleeping. "Remain as still as a mountain. We're not only gonna make history, we'll make more money than you can imagine. More than any gold strike! I'll sell these pictures to newspapers, picture books, magazines. Seventy for me. Thirty for you."

Zebulon shook his head. "I want nothin' to do with that. All I want is to ride off and be forgot."

"Too late," the photographer said. "Your horse is out of the barn. There's a price on your head and they're singing songs about you from here to New York City If it was me, I'd make a dash for the cash."

"Fifty-fifty."

"Sixty-forty"

"All right," Zebulon agreed.

The photographer shook his hand, closing the deal, and went out the door.

ebulon sat in front of the window with his eyes closed, imagining a wooden bench stretching across an empty desert. Lost and bewildered men sat on either side of him, not knowing who or what they were waiting for, or running away from.

He didn't look up when the Sheriff opened the door.

"Tell me what to do with you?" the Sheriff asked. "People say you ain't worth the trouble, and that I should hand you over. Others say I should keep you around. You ask me, it would be easier to shoot vou."

"Your choice," Zebulon said.

"Not hardly," the Sheriff said. "They'd tar and feather me if I plugged you. And they'd be right. You saved the town and put us on the map. Last week Greasy Springs meant nothin' but cheap whiskey and worse grub. Now people come all the way from Hangtown and Mariposa to see that painting over the bar. Now we got entertainment — fiddlers, mouth organs, and accordion players. Shanty queens and floozies. Yesterday a woman came all the way from New Orleans. She sings like she's plugged into God's choir. We're big time, Mister Shook."

The Sheriff lit up a cigar, blowing a fat smoke ring towards the ceiling. "The other day another pilgrim come in, wantin' to buy the painting. Said he wants to haul it to San Francisco, the bar and everything on it, ship it to London and hang it in the biggest dance hall in the Western world. Of course, I didn't go for it."

He unrolled a newspaper. "Here's what they're saying about you in the state capital":

"Two weeks ago, rage, violence, and fear swept through the state capital when a band of desperate prisoners escaped from a prison ship anchored on the Sacramento River. The breakout was initiated by Zebulon Shook, the outlaw whose exploits have become so well known throughout the Far West. Shook was serving a twenty-year sentence for manslaughter. At the time of his escape, several other charges of bank robbery, horse theft, and murder were pending against him in Texas and Colorado.

"According to eyewitnesses, the breakout was the result of a simmering resentment that Shook harbored towards the prison's Warden, Major Ashton Bigelow A revered public figure who had just announced his intentions of running for governor, Warden Bigelow served in the army under Colonel John Prescott in the recent war with Mexico. A native of Boston, Warden Bigelow is a graduate of Harvard Divinity School.

"In the middle of the prison's evening roll call, Shook produced a revolver and stormed the officer's deck, seeking to kill Warden Bigelow. Unable to overpower Bigelow, who had barricaded himself inside his cabin, Shook jumped into the river and swam to shore, where several accomplices were waiting for him. In the chaos that followed, several other inmates overpowered the remaining guards, killing three and wounding four. Other prisoners managed to commandeer the ship's lifeboats and were last seen rowing down the river. Eight other prisoners, half of whom were females, made their way to the shore only to be captured the next day by troops sent out from the army garrison in Sacramento.

"Zebulon Shook, aided by his small band of desperadoes, looted and burned the Bigelow's house, killing the Warden's wife and son before riding off.

"Now that this dangerous outlaw is once more on the loose, citizens have one more reason to lock their doors at night. Local militia groups have joined the Warden in a concentrated effort to track down Zebulon Shook and bring him to justice."

The Sheriff folded up the newspaper. "I been tellin' folks that you've gone to Colorady or Texas, but one of these days some likkered-up fool will spill the beans. Then the law will ride in and string you up. You ask me, you're better off on the run."

The Sheriff paused at the door. "I never knowed a man as famous as you, and I hope I never will again."

hat night, Zebulon heard a song drift up from the saloon:

I he next morning he woke to find Delilah beside him, rubbing rose petals over his wounded heart.

Her fingers trailed across his stomach. Then lower.

"Where's Hatchet?" he asked.

"Waiting for us."

"Forget about Hatchet. We'll head to Mexico. Or north. It don't matter where."

She eased herself on top of him, straddling his waist and biting her lower lip as she felt him rise inside her. He closed his eyes. "You never sang about grace, and I didn't see you inside that hacienda, and you didn't head off the Warden so that I could ride free, and I never saw you before."

"That's true." She leaned down and kissed his throat, and ears, and eyes. "It was all a dream."

She arched her neck and maneuvered her hips over his, then leaned over and pressed her hands on both sides of his heart. Not moving, she joined her breathing to his until he calmed down, enough to let her guide him gently to another edge of himself, and then slowly reel him back again, a sensation that he had never experienced before. In the past he had always been the guide, the one who marked the trail, the one that was always in control, who came and went as he chose.