The rest of the Story Ch. 3

As we sat there looking at the pile of rocks, the warm evening breeze seemed to stop for a moment of weird calmness. I looked up at the side of the hill and towards the rocks where the old man had said he hid. He couldn't have been more than a hundred feet away when he witnessed the shooting. I also couldn't help but wonder if there was an old skeleton under the rocks. I asked the old man if he thought anyone had ever dug up the body. The old man slowly raised his head from gazing down at the rocks and looked into my eyes and said: "Yes, I did about a week later." I looked at the old man with a little wonder and he continued on. "When I got home the day of the killing, I was so shaken, I couldn't talk to no one. I went out behind the house and hid in the cottonwood trees behind the creek. I was sick. Visions of that guy getting shot ran through my head over and over. I sat there behind the tree just pukin' every time I saw that guy shaking and moaning. I can still remember every second of that day perfectly. In between pukin' and crying I sat leaning against a tree wondering if I should tell my mother, or the sheriff, or anyone. I weighed out the situation, and it made sense in my mind not to tell no one. So there I sat, alone with my secret. A secret that would haunt me for the rest of my life. I felt horrible, I was tired and sick to my stomach. My jeans had dried but the insides of my legs had been rubbed raw from running with em wet. I ran the scene over in my mind again. I could see the killer's face perfectly. The look in his eyes, his mustache, his brown hair, and the gun. That damn gun."
I asked the old man about the gun, and the old man broke off into another story. "When I watched that guy being buried, the other guy threw the pistol that he killed him with on top of him. I watched him do that, and hell, I was still a boy, it was the 1930's and we didn't have no money, and it was a gun. I had kind of an internal battle over that gun. On one hand I was afraid to go back there because of what happened. I didn't know if I would come across the killer or a ghost or what. On the other hand there was a perfectly good pistol sitting under about a foot of dirt. I battled over a number of things. So, after battling things out for a week I figured I might dig it up and keep it for myself. I knew the gun was down by the guys feet and I could dig that thing up and not have to see his face or the blood and I'd have a pistol. Being a dumb kid, and after it worked on me for a week, I decided to sneak back for the gun. I didn't realise at the time that sneaking back for the gun would be the biggest mistake of my life."
The old man just sat there staring blankly, and as he finished his last sentence I almost thought he was going to cry. I didn't say anything because I wanted the old man to take a breath. I've never been good with dealing with emotion in other men so I thought I would let him catch his composure. After about a minute of silence the old man looked up at me. He kind of had a look in his eyes, that made me feel like he was struggling with what to do next.
"Follow me", he said hesitantly, and I did. The old man began walking around the side of the hill. I walked close behind him to catch him if he fell. He walked slow, and by his breathing I could tell that it was taking all that he had to walk. As we walked around a juniper tree, his coat caught onto a branch. He struggled with it a little, said a swear word under his breath and kept walking. The pace was slow and I wondered how far he wanted to go. After about 220 yards the old man stopped and scanned the area directly in front of him and locked on to another small pile of rocks. He didn't say anything, he just walked straight towards the pile.
As we stood looking over the pile of rocks, the old man broke into another story. "I went back for that gun on a Sunday morning. My Dad and Mom and Sisters all went into town to church. I pretended to be sick. I didn't feel like I was lying because I was sick but just mind sick. A part of me wanted to get that gun and another part of me wanted to really see if that grave was there and if all of that was real and not a dream. As soon as my family pulled out of the house I threw some clothes on and started for the hills. I ran fast. As I approached the hills, I took the route that I normally took. It not only allowed me to sneak up there without being noticed but it gave me a pretty good view of anything around me. When I arrived to the grave site, I was taken back a bit. Everything came back to me and I got scared again. I wanted to turn around and go back to my house. I wanted to tell my mom what had happened. I wanted to have her hug me and tell me that it was all going to be ok. She would understand. My fantasy came crashing down as I realised that my Dad wouldn't understand. We were on the outs and I was already feeling that my Dad didn't want me around because of something else. I brushed it all away and went for what I had come for. I went to where I figured his legs were and grabbed a flat rock that was sitting there and started digging. After a few seconds I looked at the rock and saw a small dark stain on it where my hands were and realised that I was digging with the same rock that the killer dug the hole with. I dropped the rock and wiped my hands in the rocky sand hoping it would free me from any contamination. The sick feeling came back. I kicked the bloody rock about 20 feet from the site and grabbed another, and continued. After about 2 minutes of digging I hit something. It was rubbery and made a dull thud as I hit it. As I exposed more with the rock I realised it was the leather of the dead mans boot, and inside that boot was a foot. The foot of the guy that I watched get shot. I was sick inside, and it really scared me. It scared me almost enought to leave, but I decided to go for it. After locating the boot it only took me a couple of minutes to uncover the end of the gun. I pulled the gun free from the dirt, stood up and quickly kicked dirt back over the body. I stacked the rocks back on top of the body and ran around the side of the hill. I couldn't bear to be around the grave any longer. After I felt like I was safe, I hid in a little bunch of trees, sat down on a rock and looked at my treasure. It was a .32 caliber revolver and except for some sand in the cylinder, was in pretty good condition. I opened the action and there were four un-fired bullets and two fired. I knew where the two had went. The scene flashed in my mind once again for the 107th time that day. I pulled the cartridges out and began to shake and wipe clean the pistol. I buried the two empty cartriges. I blew air into the barrel to blow any sand out. After I was satisfied that the gun was clean enough to shoot, I placed the four live rounds back into the cylinder and closed it. I turned the cylinder and was a little surprised at how smooth it turned. The new gun almost made me forget for a second the horrible things that had happened.
I decided that I had better get home before my parents did. So I stood up and began walking. I decided to take a different route back home so I wouldn't have to walk past the grave. About 100 yards into my treck home, I heard a stick break to my right. I turned my head slowly to inspect the noise, only to find myself staring about 15 feet into the dark evil eyes of the man who had been haunting my thoughts and dreams for the past week.