O MARY DON’T YOU MOURN,
by Mike ChinnThe night fell fast. One moment Mattan could see every grave marker lining the gravel path, each fresh mound of dirt, the gnarled trees; the next the whole boneyard was in almost total darkness. The only light came from a feeble half-Moon riding the cloud-scudded sky. The crickets seemed to grow louder.
He took his ball and cap Colt revolver out of its shoulder holster, placing in on the half-dead grass beside him. Anybody showed their face, he’d as like take a couple of shots before asking why they were there. Nobody would have a decent reason to be walking this place at night. And that included Mattan.
At least it wasn’t cold. He guessed it never really got cold in New Orleans. Like California. One of his rare good memories of San Mateo was the wea
