Read Online Dust of the Damned (9781101554005) by Peter Brandvold - Free Book Online
Authors: Peter Brandvold
Ads: Link
nose against the almost palpable stench, “is
haul
the shit
outside
and bury it
deep
.”
“Done thought of that,” said Murphy, shaking the ribbons over the backs of the mules and putting them up the ramp. He cackled and cut a cunning glance at Schwartz. “Why you think you boys are here?”
He cackled some more as the wagon lurched and thumped onto the drawbridge and headed on over the deep, black water of the moat from which sharpened silver blades protruded at irregular intervals. Schwartz said, “Charlie’ll probably feed on one of ya tonight, but that leaves two of you to haul his shit out of the place…at least until the next full moon! Charlie’s shit ain’t as bad as the swillers’ shit…less’n he’s been feedin’ on human flesh. Oh, gawd!”
Both men tipped their chins back and laughed as the wagon clattered between the castle’s four-foot-thick stone walls. Once inside a broad, open area littered with straw and horse shit, where several cook fires added the smells of roasted meat to the latrine and rancid sweat smell of the place, Murphy halted the wagon.
Soldiers clad in Army blues and fur coats—the sun had fallen behind the western ridges now, and the autumn chill was fast descending—sat around on benches with bored, lazy expressions. Some were playing poker while others whittled or cleaned rifles or, in one case, fed strips of jerky to a three-legged cur that rose on its one back leg, dancing in a circle and howling for dried bits of parched beef or venison.
There were women here, too—broad-bottomed wives or whores of the noncommissioned officers, likely—clad in shapeless skirts and jackets or animal skins, stirring clothes in black kettles suspended over dancing fires. From somewhere unseen came the clangs of a blacksmith’s hammer. From a long row of stables to the left of the wagon came the whinnies and brays ofhorses and mules while a limping soldier in a bobcat skin forked hay into a small corral abutting the stable, where an empty jail wagon sat, tongue drooping.
While the drawbridge began rising back toward the castle’s outer wall, Gatling guns atop the twin towers on either side of it were swung around, the soldiers behind them hunkered low and aiming, menacing looks in their eyes beneath their kepi brims. A man moved down the steps from the left tower—a portly, middle-aged man clad in a long bear coat and wearing a blue cavalry hat. The bear coat was open to reveal his blue wool cavalry trousers, a single yellow stripe running down the outside. He puffed a meerschaum pipe, and his tall, black boots flashed in the waning light, the heels clicking on the stone steps.
“Who do we have here?” he asked, removing the pipe from his thin lips and scowling at Murphy and Schwartz, who’d climbed down out of the wagon’s driver’s box to walk around to the cage’s rear door. Murphy pulled a key threaded on a rawhide thong out of his coat.
“Three prize turkeys, Major Mondrick. Sent out here from Arkansas by Judge Parker with President Sherman’s signed blessing.”
“Spooks?” asked Mondrick as he neared the bottom of the steps, scrutinizing the men through frosty blue eyes set deep in suety sockets. His nose was long and stitched with crinkled veins like knots of blue thread.
“Not these three. Killed a coupla U.S. marshals out Arkansas way. For non-spooks, they’re a savage bunch; I’ll give ’em that. They had the choice of being hanged last week in Fort Smith or getting hauled out here.” Murphy gave a cockeyed smile.
“Good, good,” said Major Mondrick, the warden of HellsgardePenitentiary. He slipped the stem of his pipe between his lips and puffed as he approached the jail wagon. “Maybe I shall pit them next Sunday against a couple of the feistier ghouls in our boxing league.”
“Maybe oughta feed one o’ ’em to the blood-swillers tonight. Or…” Murphy grinned at the warden. “Maybe you oughta throw him in ole Charlie Hondo’s
haul
the shit
outside
and bury it
deep
.”
“Done thought of that,” said Murphy, shaking the ribbons over the backs of the mules and putting them up the ramp. He cackled and cut a cunning glance at Schwartz. “Why you think you boys are here?”
He cackled some more as the wagon lurched and thumped onto the drawbridge and headed on over the deep, black water of the moat from which sharpened silver blades protruded at irregular intervals. Schwartz said, “Charlie’ll probably feed on one of ya tonight, but that leaves two of you to haul his shit out of the place…at least until the next full moon! Charlie’s shit ain’t as bad as the swillers’ shit…less’n he’s been feedin’ on human flesh. Oh, gawd!”
Both men tipped their chins back and laughed as the wagon clattered between the castle’s four-foot-thick stone walls. Once inside a broad, open area littered with straw and horse shit, where several cook fires added the smells of roasted meat to the latrine and rancid sweat smell of the place, Murphy halted the wagon.
Soldiers clad in Army blues and fur coats—the sun had fallen behind the western ridges now, and the autumn chill was fast descending—sat around on benches with bored, lazy expressions. Some were playing poker while others whittled or cleaned rifles or, in one case, fed strips of jerky to a three-legged cur that rose on its one back leg, dancing in a circle and howling for dried bits of parched beef or venison.
There were women here, too—broad-bottomed wives or whores of the noncommissioned officers, likely—clad in shapeless skirts and jackets or animal skins, stirring clothes in black kettles suspended over dancing fires. From somewhere unseen came the clangs of a blacksmith’s hammer. From a long row of stables to the left of the wagon came the whinnies and brays ofhorses and mules while a limping soldier in a bobcat skin forked hay into a small corral abutting the stable, where an empty jail wagon sat, tongue drooping.
While the drawbridge began rising back toward the castle’s outer wall, Gatling guns atop the twin towers on either side of it were swung around, the soldiers behind them hunkered low and aiming, menacing looks in their eyes beneath their kepi brims. A man moved down the steps from the left tower—a portly, middle-aged man clad in a long bear coat and wearing a blue cavalry hat. The bear coat was open to reveal his blue wool cavalry trousers, a single yellow stripe running down the outside. He puffed a meerschaum pipe, and his tall, black boots flashed in the waning light, the heels clicking on the stone steps.
“Who do we have here?” he asked, removing the pipe from his thin lips and scowling at Murphy and Schwartz, who’d climbed down out of the wagon’s driver’s box to walk around to the cage’s rear door. Murphy pulled a key threaded on a rawhide thong out of his coat.
“Three prize turkeys, Major Mondrick. Sent out here from Arkansas by Judge Parker with President Sherman’s signed blessing.”
“Spooks?” asked Mondrick as he neared the bottom of the steps, scrutinizing the men through frosty blue eyes set deep in suety sockets. His nose was long and stitched with crinkled veins like knots of blue thread.
“Not these three. Killed a coupla U.S. marshals out Arkansas way. For non-spooks, they’re a savage bunch; I’ll give ’em that. They had the choice of being hanged last week in Fort Smith or getting hauled out here.” Murphy gave a cockeyed smile.
“Good, good,” said Major Mondrick, the warden of HellsgardePenitentiary. He slipped the stem of his pipe between his lips and puffed as he approached the jail wagon. “Maybe I shall pit them next Sunday against a couple of the feistier ghouls in our boxing league.”
“Maybe oughta feed one o’ ’em to the blood-swillers tonight. Or…” Murphy grinned at the warden. “Maybe you oughta throw him in ole Charlie Hondo’s
Similar Books
