Spring 2007 (8 page)

The manacled man gave out with a snort, and grinned.

“Preacher,” said the younger man, “my name is Jim
Taylor. I’m a deputy for Sheriff Spradley, out of Nacogdoches. I’m taking this
man there for a trial, and most likely a hanging. He killed a fella for a rifle
and a horse. I see you tote guns, old style guns, but good ones. Way you tote
them, I’m suspecting you know how to use them.”

“I’ve been known to hit what I aim at,” Jebidiah said,
and sat in a rickety chair at an equally rickety table. Old Timer put some tin
plates on the table, scratched his ass with a long wooden spoon, then grabbed a
rag and used it as a pot holder, lifted the hot bean pot to the table. He
popped the lid of the pot, used the ass-scratching spoon to scoop a heap of
beans onto plates. He brought over some wooden cups and poured them full from a
pitcher of water.

“Thing is,” the deputy said, “I could use some help. I
don’t know I can get back safe with this fella, havin’ not slept good in a day
or two. Was wondering, you and Old Timer here could watch my back till morning?
Wouldn’t even mind if you rode along with me tomorrow, as sort of a backup. I
could use a gun hand. Sheriff might even give you a dollar for it.”

Old Timer, as if this conversation had not been going
on, brought over a bowl with some moldy biscuits in it, placed them on the
table. “Made them a week ago. They’ve gotten a bit ripe, but you can scratch
around the mold. I’ll warn you though, they’re tough enough you could toss one
hard and kill a chicken on the run. So mind your teeth.”

“That how you lost yours, Old Timer?” the manacled man
said.

“Probably part of them,” Old Timer said.

“What you say, preacher?” the deputy said. “You let me
get some sleep?”

“My problem lies in the fact that I need sleep,”
Jebidiah said. “I’ve been busy, and I’m what could be referred to as tuckered.”

“Guess I’m the only one that feels spry,” said the
manacled man.

“No,” said, Old Timer. “I feel right fresh myself.”

“Then it’s you and me, Old Timer,” the manacled man
said, and grinned, as if this meant something.

“You give me cause, fella, I’ll blow a hole in you and
tell God you got in a nest of termites.”

The manacled man gave his snort of a laugh again. He
seemed to be having a good old time.

“Me and Old Timer can work shifts,” Jebidiah said. “That
okay with you, Old Timer?”

“Peachy,” Old Timer said, and took another plate from
the table and filled it with beans. He gave this one to the manacled man, who
said, lifting his bound hands to take it, “What do I eat it with?”

“Your mouth. Ain’t got no extra spoons. And I ain’t
giving you a knife.”

The manacled man thought on this for a moment, grinned,
lifted the plate and put his face close to the edge of it, sort of poured the
beans toward his mouth. He lowered the plate and chewed. “Reckon they taste
scorched with or without a spoon.”

Jebidiah reached inside his coat, took out and opened up
a pocket knife, used it to spear one of the biscuits, and to scrape the beans
toward him.

“You come to the table, young fella,” Old Timer said to
the deputy. “I’ll get my shotgun, he makes a move that ain’t eatin’, I’ll blast
him and the beans inside him into that fireplace there.”

***

Old Timer sat with a double barrel shotgun resting on
his leg, pointed in the general direction of the manacled man. The deputy told
all that his prisoner had done while he ate. Murdered women and children, shot
a dog and a horse, and just for the hell of it, shot a cat off a fence, and set
fire to an outhouse with a woman in it. He had also raped women, stuck a stick
up a sheriff’s ass, and killed him, and most likely shot other animals that
might have been some good to somebody. Overall, he was tough on human beings,
and equally as tough on livestock.

“I never did like animals,” the manacled man said.
“Carry fleas. And that woman in the outhouse stunk to high heaven. She ought to
eat better. She needed burning.”

“Shut up,” the deputy said. “This fella,” and he nodded
toward the prisoner, “his name is Bill Barrett, and he’s the worst of the
worst. Thing is, well, I’m not just tired, I’m a little wounded. He and I had a
tussle. I hadn’t surprised him, wouldn’t be here today. I got a bullet graze in
my hip. We had quite a dust up. I finally got him down by putting a gun barrel
to his noggin’ half a dozen times or so. I’m not hurt so bad, but I lost blood
for a couple days. Weakened me. You’d ride along with me Reverend, I’d
appreciate it.”

“I’ll consider it,” Jebidiah said. “But I’m about my
business.”

“Who you gonna preach to along here, ‘sides us?” the
deputy said.

“Don’t even think about it,” Old Timer said. “Just
thinking about that Jesus foolishness makes my ass tired. Preaching makes me
want to kill the preacher and cut my own throat. Being at a preachin’ is like
being tied down in a nest red bitin’ ants.”

“At this point in my life,” Jebidiah said. “I agree.”

There was a moment of silence in response to Jebidiah,
then the deputy turned his attention to Old Timer. “What’s the fastest route to
Nacogdoches?”

“Well now,” Old Timer said, “you can keep going like you
been going, following the road out front. And in time you’ll run into a road,
say thirty miles from here, and it goes left. That should take you right near
Nacogdoches, which is another ten miles, though you’ll have to make a turn
somewhere up in there near the end of the trip. Ain’t exactly sure where unless
I’m looking at it. Whole trip, traveling at an even pace ought to take you two
day.”

“You could go with us,” the deputy said. “Make sure I
find that road.”

“Could,” said Old Timer, “but I won’t. I don’t ride so
good anymore. My balls ache I ride a horse for too long. Last time I rode a
pretty good piece, I had to squat over a pan of warm water and salt, soak my
taters for an hour or so just so they’d fit back in my pants. “

“My balls ache just listening to you,” the prisoner
said. “Thing is, though, them swollen up like that, was probably the first time
in your life you had man-sized balls, you old fart. You should have left them
swollen.”

Old Timer cocked back the hammers on the double barrel.
“This here could go off.”

Bill just grinned, leaned his back against the
fire-place, then jumped forward. For a moment, it looked as if Old Timer might
cut him in half, but he realized what had happened.

“Oh yeah,” Old Timer said. “That there’s hot, stupid.
Why they call it a fire place.”

Bill readjusted himself, so that his back wasn’t against
the stones. He said, “I ‘m gonna cut this deputy’s pecker off, come back here,
make you fry it up and eat it.”

“You’re gonna shit and fall back in it,” Old Timer said.
“That’s all you’re gonna do.”

When things had calmed down again, the deputy said to
Old Timer, “There’s no faster route?”

Old timer thought for a moment. “None you’d want to
take.”

“What’s that mean?” the deputy said.

Old Timer slowly lowered the hammers on the shotgun,
smiling at Bill all the while. When he had them lowered, he turned his head,
looked at the deputy. “Well, there’s Deadman’s Road.”

“What’s wrong with that?” the deputy asked.

“All manner of things. Used to be called Cemetery Road.
Couple years back that changed.”

Jebidiah’s interest was aroused. “Tell us about it, Old
Timer.”

“Now I ain’t one to believe in hogwash, but there’s a
story about the road, and I got it from someone you might say was the horse’s
mouth.”

“A ghost story, that’s choice,” said Bill.

“How much time would the road cut off going to
Nacogdoches?” the deputy asked.

“Near a day,” Old Timer said.

“Damn. Then that’s the way I got to go,” the deputy
said.

“Turn off for it ain’t far from here, but I wouldn’t
recommend it,” Old Timer said. “I ain’t much for Jesus, but I believe in
haints, things like that. Living out here in this thicket, you see some strange
things. There’s gods ain’t got nothing to do with Jesus or Moses, or any of
that bunch. There’s older gods than that. Indians talk about them.”

“I’m not afraid of any Indian gods,” the deputy said.

“Maybe not,” Old Timer said, “but these gods, even the
Indians ain’t fond of them. They ain’t their gods. These gods are older than
the Indian folk their ownselfs. Indians try not to stir them up. They worship
their own.”

“And why would this road be different than any other?”
Jebidiah asked. “What does it have to do with ancient gods?”

Old Timer grinned. “You’re just wanting to challenge it,
ain’t you, Reverend? Prove how strong your god is. You weren’t no preacher,
you’d be a gunfighter, I reckon. Or, maybe you are just that. A gunfighter
preacher.”

“I’m not that fond of my god,” Jebidiah said, “but I
have been given a duty. Drive out evil. Evil as my god sees it. If these gods
are evil, and they’re in my path, then I have to confront them.”

“They’re evil, all right,” Old Timer said.

“Tell us about them,” Jebidiah said.

***

Part Two

“Gil Gimet was a bee keeper,” Old timer said. “He raised
honey, and lived off of Deadman’s Road. Known then as Cemetery Road. That’s
‘cause there was a graveyard down there. It had some old Spanish graves in it,
some said Conquistadores who tromped through here but didn’t tromp out. I know
there was some Indians buried there, early Christian Indians, I reckon.
Certainly there were stones and crosses up and Indian names on the crosses.
Maybe mixed breeds. Lots of intermarrying around here. Anyway, there were all
manner people buried up there. The dead ground don’t care what color you are
when you go in, cause in the end, we’re all gonna be the color of dirt.”

“Hell, “ Bill said. “You’re already the color of dirt.
And you smell like some pretty old dirt at that.”

“You gonna keep on, mister,” Old Timer said, “and you’re
gonna wind up having the undertaker wipe your ass.” Old Timer cocked back the
hammers on the shotgun again. “This here gun could go off accidently. Could
happen, and who here is gonna argue it didn’t?”

“Not me,” the deputy said. “It would be eaiser on me you
were dead, Bill.”

Bill looked at the Reverend. “Yeah, but that wouldn’t
set right with the Reverend, would it Reverend?”

“Actually, I wouldn’t care one way or another. I’m not a
man of peace, and I’m not a forgiver, even if what you did wasn’t done to me. I
think we’re all rich and deep in sin. Maybe none of us are worthy of
forgiveness.”

Bill sunk a little at his seat. No one was even remotely
on his side. Old Timer continued with his story.

“This here bee keeper, Gimet, he wasn’t known as much of
a man. Mean-hearted is how he was thunk of. I knowed him, and I didn’t like
him. I seen him snatch up a little dog once and cut the tail off of it with his
knife, just cause he thought it was funny. Boy who owned the dog tried to fight
back, and Gimet, he cut the boy on the arm. No one did nothin’ about it. Ain’t
no real law in these parts, you see, and wasn’t nobody brave enough to do
nothin’. Me included. And he did lots of other mean things, even killed a
couple of men, and claimed self-defense. Might have been, but Gimet was always
into something, and whatever he was into always turned out with someone dead,
or hurt, or humiliated.”

“Bill here sounds like he could be Gimet’s brother,” the
deputy said.

“Oh, no,” Old Timer said, shaking his head. “This here
scum-licker ain’t a bump on the mean old ass of Gimet. Gimet lived in a little
shack off Cemetery Road. He raised bees, and brought in honey to sell at the
community up the road. Guess you could even call it a town. Schow is the way
the place is known, on account of a fella used to live up there was named
Schow. He died and got ate up by pigs. Right there in his own pen, just keeled
over slopping the hogs, and then they slopped him, all over that place. A store
got built on top of where Schow got et up, and that’s how the place come by the
name. Gimet took his honey in there to the store and sold it, and even though
he was a turd, he had some of the best honey you ever smacked your mouth
around. Wish I had me some now. It was dark and rich, and sweeter than any
sugar. Think that’s one reason he got away with things. People don’t like
killing and such, but they damn sure like their honey.”

“This story got a point?” Bill said.

“You don’t like way I’m telling it,” Old Timer said,
“why don’t you think about how that rope’s gonna fit around your neck. That
ought to keep your thoughts occupied, right smart.”

Bill made a grunting noise, turned on his block of wood,
as if to show he wasn’t interested.

“Well, now, honey or not, sweet tooth, or not,
everything has an end to it. And thing was he took to a little gal, Mary Lynn
Twoshoe. She was a part Indian gal, a real looker, hair black as the bottom of
a well, eyes the same color, and she was just as fine in the features as them
pictures you see of them stage actresses. She wasn’t five feet tall, and that
hair of hers went all the way down her back. Her daddy was dead. The pox got
him. And her mama wasn’t too well off, being sickly, and all. She made brooms
out of straw and branches she trimmed down. Sold a few of them, raised a little
garden and a hog. When all this happened, Mary Lynn was probably thirteen,
maybe fourteen. Wasn’t no older than that.”