Spring 2007

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here sure
ain’t God’s country.”
    “Worse thing is,” said Jebidiah, “it’s exactly God’s
country.”
    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

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