Summer 1903 – The Last Unmarked Grave


The rain was warm but it still brought a coolness that the previous day had lacked. Eight Finger Joe had kept the fire burning throughout the night and, sometime before dawn, had made a pot of his strong, bitter coffee. I nursed a cup while I fried up a skillet of bacon and beans. 

Bill Yancy asked the same question he had asked every morning for the last five days. “Will we find him today?” 

I gave him roughly the same answer I had supplied each morning, “We are closer than we were yesterday. The signs say that we are gaining on him. But he’s still ahead of us.”