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

through three decades and called out loudly, “Is that you, Deputy?”
    “It is.”
    “Do we have an issue?”
    “We do.”
    “Does it trump eggs?”
    “Likely.”
    “Come on in and eat something while I get dressed.” He looked at his daughter and said, “Don’t let him eat all of it.”
    “I shan’t.”
    Sheriff T. W. Jeffries, a hand pressed to his aching lefthip, hastened up the stairs toward his clothes, boots, badge and gun.
    Deputy Goodstead, a twenty-six-year-old Texan in blue with shiny boots and the blank face of a simpleton (though he was not one), chewed the crackling remainder of a piece of toast as he walked up the central avenue of Trailspur beside the sheriff.
    “What exactly has this fellow done?” T.W. asked as he slid the tongue of his belt through the brass buckle, wincing as the leather bit into his bad hip.
    “Unsettled some folks.”
    “How so? Has he said anything offensive? Threatened somebody?”
    “I don’t think so. He draws pictures.”
    T.W. pulled out his single-action six-shooter, swung the cylinder wide and saw that it was full. He closed it and slid the pistol back into the holster on his right hip.
    Straightening his hat, T.W. said, “He draws pictures?”
    “That’s what Rita said.”
    “Is this a prank?”
    “She wants us to talk to him. He makes her uneasy.”
    “An illustrator? This doesn’t trump eggs.”
    The two lawmen strode past Delicious Meats, Steinman’s Hats, Halcyon Hotel, Fine Tailoring for Ladies (and Men Too), the unnamed blacksmith alley run by a different fellow each month, Ed’s Barbershop, Big Abe’s Dancehall of Trailspur, Quality Chandler and the Trailspur Apothecary. They neared the raised wooden edifice that sat at the end of the avenue; beneath the overhang, depending from three ropes, was a sign engraved in elaborate script. It read,
    JUDGE HIGGINS ’ S MIGHTY FINE SALOON, OR SIMPLY
—
THE GAVEL
.
    The sheriff’s eyes narrowed as he gazed upon the beast tied up to the front banister; he glanced at Goodstead, whose blank face had become blanker, and then back toward the creature.
    “Deputy. What am I looking at?”
    “Could it be a horse?”
    “I’m not putting any money on that.”
    T.W. had seen dead horses in far, far better shape than this sorry steed; the smell of it—a pungent combination of mulch and feces—chased away his morning appetite. On his right, Goodstead closed his slack mouth, which was a rarity, and swallowed dryly.
    The lawmen strode up to the horse, cautiously and slowly. Every bone of the beast’s body showed through its dirty white coat, the color of which only completed the illusion that this was not a horse, but an erect, living horse skeleton. Flies inched over its ribs and vertebrae; the hairs of its tail and mane were clumped together; its sides were brown and black with scabs from the spurs that had been relentlessly applied; a yellow crust of dried tears ringed its cloudy eyes.
    T.W. and Goodstead appraised the awful creature, their left hands clamped over their mouths and noses. The deputy pressed his right palm to the beast’s flank.
    “Don’t,” the sheriff yelled.
    The beast whipped its head around; Goodstead jumped back; the reins tied to the banister twanged taut; the mare’s mouth snapped shut inches from the deputy’s nose. The horse pulled on its tether, its cracked brown teeth revealed.
    The Texan stepped back from the beast. The cloud of flies startled into flight by the activity settled back to continue their survey of the horse’s crenulated hide.
    T.W. looked at Goodstead’s blank visage and said,“Don’t touch a mistreated horse unless it’s got its ears down and comes to you willing.”
    “I’m a fool.”
    Goodstead’s lack of inflection always made such comments inscrutable, though T.W. would not have deputized the man if he thought he was at all a fool. The Texan was just ignorant of certain things because he was young.
    “Let’s introduce ourselves to this