Free Of Grave Concern by Max McCoy Page A

names unknown, frozen dead after blizzard 1873 north of city.
    Barney Cullen, railroad employee, dead 1873 saloon shooting spree.
    Unknown boy found hanged west of town 1875.
    Texas Hill and Ed Williams shot dead for cause, Tom Sherman’s barroom 1873, Dodge City Vigilance Committee.
    And so forth.
    Death by natural causes seemed to be virtually unknown in Dodge City. It would be a healthy place to live if only you could duck the flying lead, avoid knives and ropes, and keep from freezing to death in winter.
    The epitaphs were colorful, but hardly useful.
    No family groups, no birth dates to determine ages, no relative sizes of monument to indicate status. It was all horribly and rustically democratic.
    Near the top of the hill was an open grave, having been prepared sometime in the last day or so, judging from the freshness of the sides of the earth, but it had not yet received an occupant. There was a shovel driven into the mound of earth beside the grave.
    Were the city fathers anticipating another wild weekend? Or was the Vigilance Committee just sending a warning?
    I sat down next to the open grave.
    The sun had nearly set and the sky had turned a deepening blue. The evening star blazed brightly in the west, and overhead a few faint stars were emerging.
    I leaned back on my elbows to look up at them.
    Then I stretched out full beside the open grave and put my hands beneath my head for a pillow.
    There was a gentle breeze from the southwest, chasing away the smell of cattle and replacing it with the scent of rain and grass. It was cool, but not cold. Soon I was asleep, or nearly so.
    Then I felt something slither near my elbow.
    I shot up like a skyrocket.
    A rattlesnake the length of my arm was undulating along next to the open grave, following its pink flicking tongue. A cold thrill passed from the center of my chest to the top of my head as I realized it could have bitten me at any time. I took a few steps back as I caught my breath.
    Perhaps the snake was merely seeking warmth.
    Then again . . .
    â€œPaschal!”

12
    It was silly of me to shout Paschal Randolph’s name at Boot Hill. I had hardly spoken his name (which rhymes with rascal) in the two years since he had been found dead in Ohio. The coroner ruled his death self-inflicted, because the gun that had delivered the fatal bullet was found beside him.
    He was forty-nine.
    I was in Chicago when I heard the news, and it sent me into a deep melancholy. For weeks I wore only black and frequented that city’s Graceland Cemetery, walking among the deathly mansions of the rich. I hadn’t seen Paschal in seven years. When we separated in 1868, in Jackson Square in New Orleans, during a thunderstorm, I felt there was a hole in my chest, where my heart had been. No, I wasn’t in love with Paschal, even though it would have been natural for others to assume so.
    When I walked away from Paschal, the rain plastering my hair to my face and smearing my dress against my thighs, I knew that any chance I ever had of contacting Jonathan was gone. If anybody could have helped me reach him, it was Paschal—magician, mesmerist, trance medium, medical doctor. He was of mixed blood, had been a fervent abolitionist, was a recanted Spiritualist, and remains the smartest person I’ve ever known. He was also twenty years my senior and married.
    After reading all of his books, especially Human Love and Dealing with the Dead, I became determined to seek Paschal out. I found him in New Orleans the summer after the war ended, teaching newly emancipated slaves how to read. He took me on as a pupil as well, and shared with me the secrets of his life’s misadventure.
    All human beings are spiritual beings, Paschal said. As children, having been recently born of spirit, we are in touch with the spirit world. Children are much better at seeing ghosts (and elves and fairies and all manner of otherworldly beings) than adults. But as we grow older, we give ourselves