Read Online A Congregation of Jackals by S. Craig Zahler - Free Book Online

okay?”
    “Get back inside and throw the bolt.”
    Beatrice looked down; the light of the lantern in her right hand had illuminated the tableau. At Jim’s knees, before the sniffing snouts of Joseph and Jesus, lay Mary. The prostrated coydog’s hind legs and front right leg were gone. Its lone remaining limb—its front left leg—pawed spastically in the grass, digging trenches while its three stumps waggled uselessly in their sockets. Beatrice thought of a partially-eaten roasted hen and was nauseated.
    Jim wiped his eyes on his shirtsleeve; Mary’s lone paw rent the grass and soil. The dog whimpered.
    “Get inside,” the titan said to Beatrice. “Now.”
    Beatrice turned away, her hands shaking; beads of sweat chilled her forehead and upper lip. She walked toward the house.
    “Run off, you two—scat,” he said to Joseph and Jesus; they barked and then ran past Beatrice toward the eastern wolds.
    When her left foot hit the second step, she heard Jim say, “Good-bye girl.” The moment Beatrice put her hand on the doorknob, a gunshot cracked across the night. Mary was silent.
    Jim escorted Beatrice home to her father’s house, the repeating rifle clutched in the hand with which he usually held her. He neither spoke nor wanted to be spoken to, but there were too many questions in Beatrice’s mind for her to remain silent for the duration of the entire twenty-minute walk.
    Once they were upon the central avenue of Trailspur and the sounds of civilization were audible, she asked, “What happened to her? How did she get like that?”
    “I don’t know,” he said.
    “If a bear or some other animal did that to her, she would have bled to death.”
    Jim did not respond.
    “A person must have done that to her. It looked as if her legs had been amputated, like the way a doctor removes gangrenous limbs.”
    Very quietly he said, “I saw.”
    “Do you believe that it might have been Indians?”
    “I don’t want to talk about it right now.”
    Beatrice, though nervous and agitated, realized the insensitivity of her inquiries and closed her mouth; she hooked her arm through his and walked the rest of the way in silence, allowing him to grieve.
    He deposited her on the front step of her father’s house; despite her ascension, he still towered over her.
    “Get in and bolt it,” he said. “And lock the windows. And open the door to your pa’s room so he can hear if something happens.”
    “What are you going to do?”
    “Have a look round.”

Chapter Nine
No Time for Eggs
    Theodore William Jeffries would certainly miss the breakfasts his daughter fixed for him, but as a widower of twenty-nine years, he knew how to scramble an egg and blacken some toast and fry up some sausages. Moreover, it was long past time for that bookish woman to devote herself to something other than reading, writing and the old man who had raised her up.
    He walked out of his bedroom rubbing his bad hip, briefly wondering why his door was ajar. He slid his feet into his leather slippers and proceeded down the hall, scratching his side through his blue pajamas.
    T.W. inhaled the odiferous emanations that wafted up from the kitchen and was instantly famished. Leaning on the banister far more than he had a decade ago, he descended the stairs. His slippers scuffed across the worn wood of the bottom landing, and hearing his approach, Beatrice turned to him. Her curly blonde hair, blue eyes, chin dimple and shape were so very much like her mother’s, he thought. What a tragedy the two of them never knew each other, except in that horrible moment of her birth.
    He castigated himself for his morbid ruminations and said, “Good morning.”
    “Good morning,” she replied.
    “Smells tasty.”
    “I shall have it ready in a moment.”
    “Thank you. Was there any particular reason that you opened my door last night?”
    A loud knock precluded her reply.
    T.W. recognized the familiar tattoo, turned from the face that might have been a window