“Thrown by a horse,” he said. Yes, there were balances to be kept, and markers owed. He’d come here to see to them, but the world, this wonderful, terrible world, had beaten him to it.
He remembered the location of his mother’s stone, so it was easy enough to find his father’s. They were together at the base of a hill, overgrown and untended, but there was one feature that made his father’s stand out: someone had drawn a pentagram over it with charcoal.
Arlen knelt in front of it and took off his jacket and used the sleeve to wipe clean every trace of the charcoal. When it was clear again, he sat back on his heels, laid his palm flat on the stone, and said, “I think I can hear you now. If you care to be heard.”
Nothing answered but the wind.
“I heard you already,” Arlen said. “Down south, when Tolliver drew me in and nearly had me, I heard you. And I thank you.”
He sat there for a while and looked at the stone. No words of sorrow or love marked Isaac’s stay in this place. Just those dates, and too short a time between them.
That was all right, though. It wouldn’t have troubled Isaac, Arlen knew that. This life was nothing but a sojourn anyhow. A temporary stay, that of a stranger in a strange land.
“Love lingers,” Arlen said, and then he straightened, put his jacket back on so that it covered his pistol, and left the graveyard.
There was another northbound train today. If he hurried, he could catch it.