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

illustrator,” T.W. said. He circumnavigated the maltreated and malefic mare, ascended the five steps that led to the swinging doors of Judge Higgins’s Mighty Fine Saloon, or simply—The Gavel, and was joined there by his deputy.
    T.W. said quietly, “From the looks of that animal, we’re dealing with a mean one.” The blank face opposite him nodded.
    The deputy put his right palm to his revolver and pulled down the brim of his blue hat with his left, an affectation T.W. did not begrudge the young man. The sheriff threw the doors wide and entered; the doors swung outward and when they returned the deputy came with them.
    T.W. looked past the mahogany bar James Lingham had built (behind which Rita stood), past the bagatelle tables that entitled the establishment to the adjective “fine” on the sign outside, past the spittoons (which seemed less fine) at which Jeremiah, Frederick and Isaac sat gestating expectorations and to the general seating area in the back that could support ninety customers, but now held only one small man in a burgundy suit and matching bowler hat. The fellow was hunched forward, drawing on a wide piece vellum with a fountain pen.
    “He’s little,” Goodstead said.
    “Men aren’t happy about being small. That horse can tell you.”
    The lawmen strode past the oldsters (each of whom spit a salutation and nodded politely) and entered the general seating area. The little illustrator in burgundy rolled up the sheet of vellum. T.W. sniffed the air and smelled flowers and wine.
    “He’s wearing perfume,” Goodstead said as they closed the remaining yards.
    “Good afternoon,” T.W. opened.
    The diminutive man looked up from under the rim of his burgundy bowler hat. His eyes were small pebbles; his mouth was a tiny slit beneath the big nose that dominated his face. T.W. was not sure if it was a line of ink or a mustache that paralleled the mouth slit. The sheriff guessed that the man was thirty, but could have been off by a decade either way.
    “You have question,” the man asked with a thickly accented voice; the inflection made it seem more like a statement than an inquiry.
    “Are you a Frenchman?” the sheriff asked.
    “Oui.”
    “Is that your horse outside?”
    “She is mine.”
    “That mare needs a bath and some food.”
    “Thank you for advice.” The little Frenchman stared at T.W., scrutinizing his face. He said nothing more; he just sat there looking up, blinking far less regularly than the lawman did.
    “Go take care of that now,” T.W. said. “Your mare almost bit the deputy and is mighty unpleasant to look upon. She needs some oats and a bath. And perhaps a new owner.”
    “And maybe a rifle,” Goodstead added.
    “Go tend to her,” the sheriff ordered.
    “She was bad. I teach her lesson.”
    “How long have you been teaching it to her?”
    “Three years.”
    T.W. wanted to slap the man, but perhaps in his culture there was no consideration for the feelings of animals.
    “Go take care of that horse. Now.”
    “I am busy,” the fragrant Frenchman said.
    “You don’t look busy.”
    “You have interrupted me.”
    Goodstead looked at T.W. and said, “Is he telling us to scat?”
    “Show us that drawing you rolled up when you saw us coming. I’d like to see what requires your precious time.”
    “You will not appreciate.”
    “We don’t appreciate your perfume, but we’re smelling it just the same.”
    “Eau de Cologne.”
    “Was that a threat? Did you just threaten me?” To Goodstead he said, “You heard him threaten me.”
    “That is untrue,” the little man said, coolly.
    “Are you saying that I’m not fluent in French?”
    “I did not threaten.”
    “Show us the drawing,” T.W. said, putting the palms of his hands upon the table; Goodstead set his left boot upon the chair next to the diminutive Frenchman and leaned forward like a bird of prey.
    “You will not appreciate.” The little man was not at all rattled by the experience. He