The Witch of Hebron (39 page)
“The boss thinks this might be a good home for her,” Elam said. “He says you’ll be able to feed her and care for her.”
Jasper looked to his father.
“Yes, we will,” the doctor said.
Elam took the twelve-pound puppy out of his coat and handed him to Jasper, who backed into the seat of a wing chair, holding her in his arms.
“What’s her name?” Jasper asked.
“She don’t have one,” Elam said. “We got three more where she come from and we didn’t want the little ones getting too attached. You call her whatever you like.”
“I’m going to call her Robin,” Jasper said. “Tell Brother Jobe.”
“I’ll let him know,” Elam said.
As the population had declined in this corner of the place still thought of as the United States, the coyotes had interbred with the eastern timber wolves migrating down from Canada until a very robust breed of carnivores ran the hills of Washington County in regular circulating packs, electrifying those who heard their keening cries in the cold, lengthening nights. One of those nights between Thanksgiving and Christmas of the year that concerns us, a pack ventured onto the property of Barbara Maglie in the rural township of Hebron. She was inside, warmly entertaining a visiting planter from Sunderland, Vermont, with scallops of pork—which he had brought with him—sautéed with sage and plenty of butter. She was unaware of the wolves digging into the shallow grave of Billy Bones two hundred yards away. His body was very much intact due to the generally cold weather that followed his interment, but it had ripened nicely. The wolves removed him from his place of retirement and scattered his remains where no one would ever find them.
In the months and years to come, the story of the outlaw Billy Bones entered into local legend. His image was as colorful as his true persona had been in the world but tilted somewhat to a more benign, friendly view, as is often the case in the folkloric afterlife of psychopathic killers, who are remembered more fondly than they deserve to be. One of his surviving victims had even recorded a few stanzas of the bandit’s infamous ballad, to which many more would be added by others over the years to come. His ghost was said to haunt the roads and byways of the county, particularly the highlands between Hebron and the old city of Glens Falls and especially around Halloween, the time of year when he was reputedly slain by a rival who was jealous for the affections of a woman, a silver-haired beauty who was either a prostitute or a witch, depending on the version of the tale.
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EPILOGUE
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