`
Deadman's Road The evening
sun had rolled down and blown out in a bloody wad, and the white, full moon had
rolled up like an enormous ball of tightly wrapped twine. As he rode, the
Reverend Jebidiah Rains watched it glow above the tall pines. All about it
stars were sprinkled white-hot in the dead-black heavens. The trail he rode on was a thin one, and the trees on
either side of it crept toward the path as if they might block the way, and
close up behind him. The weary horse on which he was riding moved forward with
its head down, and Jebidiah, too weak to fight it, let his mount droop and take
its lead. Jebidiah was too tired to know much at that moment, but he knew one
thing: he was a man of the Lord and he hated God, hated the sonofabitch with
all his heart. And he knew God knew and didn't care, because He knew
Jebidiah was His messenger. Not one of the New Testament, but one of the Old
Testament, harsh and mean and certain, vengeful and without compromise; a man
who would have shot a leg out from under Moses and spat in the face of the Holy
Ghost and scalped him, tossing his celestial hair to the wild four winds. It was not a legacy Jebidiah would have preferred, being
the bad-man messenger of God, but it was his, and he had earned it through sin,
and no matter how hard he tried to lay it down and leave it be, he could not.
He knew that to give in and abandon his God-given curse was to burn in hell
forever, and to continue was to do as the Lord prescribed, no matter what his
feelings toward his mean master might be. His Lord was not a forgiving Lord,
nor was he one who cared for your love. All he cared for was obedience,
servitude and humiliation. It was why God had invented the human race.
Amusement. As he thought on these matters, the trail turned and
widened, and off to one side, amongst tree stumps, was a fairly large clearing,
and in its center was a small log house, and out to the side a somewhat larger
log barn. In the curtained window of the cabin was a light that burned orange
behind the flour-sack curtains. Jebidiah, feeling tired and hungry and thirsty
and weary of soul, made for it. Stopping a short distance from the cabin, Jebidiah leaned
forward on his horse and called out, "Hello, the cabin." He waited for a time, called again, and was halfway
through calling when the door opened, and a man about five-foot-two with a
large droopy hat, holding a rifle, stuck himself part of the way out of the
cabin, said, "Who is it calling? You got a voice like a bullfrog." "Reverend Jebidiah Rains." "You ain't come to preach none, have you?" "No, sir. I find it does no good. I'm here to beg
for a place in your barn, a night under its roof. Something for my horse,
something for myself if it's available. Most anything, as long as water is
involved." "Well," said the man, "this seems to be
the gathering place tonight. Done got two others, and we just sat asses down to
eat. I got enough you want it, some hot beans and some old bread." "I would be most obliged, sir," Jebidiah said. "Oblige all you want. In the meantime, climb down
from that nag, put it in the barn, and come in and chow. They call me Old
Timer, but I ain't that old. It's cause most of my teeth are gone and I'm
crippled in a foot a horse stepped on. There's a lantern just inside the barn
door. Light that up, and put it out when you finish, come on back to the
house." –•– When Jebidiah finished grooming and feeding his horse
with grain in the barn, watering him, he came into the cabin, made a show of
pushing his long black coat back so that it revealed his ivory-handled .44
cartridge-converted revolvers. They were set so that they leaned forward in
their holsters, strapped close to the hips, not draped low like punks wore
them. Jebidiah liked to wear them close to the natural swing of his hands. When
he pulled them it was a movement quick as the flick of a hummingbird's wings,
the hammers clicking from the cock of his thumb, the guns barking, spewing lead
with amazing accuracy. He had practiced enough to drive a cork into a bottle at
about a hundred paces, and he could do it in bad light. He chose to reveal his
guns that way to show he was ready for any attempted ambush. He reached up and
pushed his wide-brimmed black hat back on his head, showing black hair gone
gray-tipped. He thought having his hat tipped made him look casual. It did not.
His eyes always seemed aflame in an angry face. Inside, the cabin was bright with kerosene lamplight, and
the kerosene smelled, and there were curls of black smoke twisting about,
mixing with gray smoke from the pipe of Old Timer, and the cigarette of a young
man with a badge pinned to his shirt. Beside him, sitting on a chopping log by
the fireplace—which was too hot for the time of year, but was being used to
heat up a pot of beans—was a middle-aged man with a slight paunch and a face
that looked like it attracted thrown objects. He had his hat pushed up a bit,
and a shock of wheat-colored, sweaty hair hung on his forehead. There was a
cigarette in is mouth, half of it ash. He twisted on the chopping log, and
Jebidiah saw that his hands were manacled together. "I heard you say you was a preacher," said the
manacled man, as he tossed the last of his smoke into the fireplace. "This
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 potholder, 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 pocketknife, 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 beings,
and equally as tough on livestock. "I never did like animals," the manacled man
said. "Carry fleas. And that woman in the outhouse stunk to high heaven.
She ought to eat better. She needed burning." "Shut up," the deputy said. "This
fella," and he nodded toward the prisoner, "his name is Bill Barrett,
and he's the worst of the worst. Thing is, well, I'm not just tired, I'm a
little wounded. He and I had a tussle. I hadn't surprised him, wouldn't be here
today. I got a bullet graze in my hip. We had quite a dust-up. I finally got
him down by putting a gun barrel to his noggin' half a dozen times or so. I'm
not hurt so bad, but I lost blood for a couple days. Weakened me. You'd ride
along with me, Reverend, I'd appreciate it." "I'll consider it," Jebidiah said. "But
I'm about my business." "Who you gonna preach to along here, 'sides
us?" the deputy said. "Don't even think about it," Old Timer said.
"Just thinking about that Jesus foolishness makes my ass tired. Preaching
makes me want to kill the preacher and cut my own throat. Being at a preachin'
is like being tied down in a nest red bitin' ants." "At this point in my life," Jebidiah said.
"I agree." There was a moment of silence in response to Jebidiah,
then the deputy turned his attention to Old Timer. "What's the fastest
route to Nacogdoches?" "Well now," Old Timer said, "you can keep
going like you been going, following the road out front. And in time you'll run
into a road, say thirty miles from here, and it goes left. That should take you
right near Nacogdoches, which is another ten miles, though you'll have to make
a turn somewhere up in there near the end of the trip. Ain't exactly sure where
unless I'm looking at it. Whole trip, traveling at an even pace, ought to take
you two day." "You could go with us," the deputy said.
"Make sure I find that road." "Could," said Old Timer, "but I won't. I
don't ride so good anymore. My balls ache I ride a horse for too long. Last
time I rode a pretty good piece, I had to squat over a pan of warm water and
salt, soak my taters for an hour or so just so they'd fit back in my pants.
" "My balls ache just listening to you," the
prisoner said. "Thing is, though, them swollen up like that, was probably
the first time in your life you had man-sized balls, you old fart. You should
have left them swollen." Old Timer cocked back the hammers on the double-barrel.
"This here could go off." Bill just grinned, leaned his back against the fireplace,
then jumped forward. For a moment, it looked as if Old Timer might cut him in
half, but he realized what had happened. "Oh yeah," Old Timer said. "That there's
hot, stupid. Why they call it a fireplace." Bill readjusted himself, so that his back wasn't against
the stones. He said, "I'm gonna cut this deputy's pecker off, come back
here, make you fry it up and eat it." "You're gonna shit and fall back in it," Old
Timer said. "That's all you're gonna do." When things had calmed down again, the deputy said to Old
Timer, "There's no faster route?" Old Timer thought for a moment. "None you'd want to
take." "What's that mean?" the deputy said. Old Timer slowly lowered the hammers on the shotgun,
smiling at Bill all the while. When he had them lowered, he turned his head,
looked at the deputy. "Well, there's Deadman's Road." "What's wrong with that?" the deputy asked. "All manner of things. Used to be called Cemetery
Road. Couple years back that changed." Jebidiah's interest was aroused. "Tell us about it,
Old Timer." "Now I ain't one to believe in hogwash, but there's
a story about the road, and I got it from someone you might say was the horse's
mouth." "A ghost story, that's choice," said Bill. "How much time would the road cut off going to
Nacogdoches?" the deputy asked. "Near a day," Old Timer said. "Damn. Then that's the way I got to go," the
deputy said. "Turn off for it ain't far from here, but I wouldn't
recommend it," Old Timer said. "I ain't much for Jesus, but I believe
in haints, things like that. Living out here in this thicket, you see some
strange things. There's gods ain't got nothing to do with Jesus or Moses, or
any of that bunch. There's older gods than that. Indians talk about them." "I'm not afraid of any Indian gods," the deputy
said. "Maybe not," Old Timer said, "but these
gods, even the Indians ain't fond of them. They ain't their gods. These gods
are older than the Indian folk their ownselfs. Indians try not to stir them up.
They worship their own." "And why would this road be different than any
other?" Jebidiah asked. "What does it have to do with ancient
gods?" Old Timer grinned. "You're just wanting to challenge
it, ain't you, Reverend? Prove how strong your god is. You weren't no preacher,
you'd be a gunfighter, I reckon. Or, maybe you are just that. A gunfighter
preacher." "I'm not that fond of my god," Jebidiah said,
"but I have been given a duty. Drive out evil. Evil as my god sees it. If
these gods are evil, and they're in my path, then I have to confront
them." "They're evil, all right," Old Timer said. "Tell us about them," Jebidiah said. –•– "Gil Gimet was a beekeeper," Old Timer said.
"He raised honey, and lived off of Deadman's Road. Known then as Cemetery
Road. That's 'cause there was a graveyard down there. It had some old Spanish
graves in it, some said conquistadores who tromped through here but didn't
tromp out. I know there was some Indians buried there, early Christian Indians,
I reckon. Certainly there were stones and crosses up and Indian names on the
crosses. Maybe mixed-breeds. Lots of intermarrying around here. Anyway, there
were all manner people buried up there. The dead ground don't care what color
you are when you go in, 'cause in the end, we're all gonna be the color of
dirt." "Hell, " Bill said. "You're already the
color of dirt. And you smell like some pretty old dirt at that." "You gonna keep on, mister," Old Timer said,
"and you're gonna wind up having the undertaker wipe your ass." Old
Timer cocked back the hammers on the shotgun again. "This here gun could
go off accidentally. Could happen, and who here is gonna argue it didn't?" "Not me," the deputy said. "It would be
easier on me you were dead, Bill." Bill looked at the Reverend. "Yeah, but that
wouldn't set right with the Reverend, would it, Reverend?" "Actually, I wouldn't care one way or another. I'm
not a man of peace, and I'm not a forgiver, even if what you did wasn't done to
me. I think we're all rich and deep in sin. Maybe none of us are worthy of
forgiveness." Bill sunk a little in his seat. No one was even remotely
on his side. Old Timer continued with his story. "This here beekeeper, Gimet, he wasn't known as much
of a man. Mean-hearted is how he was thunk of. I knowed him, and I didn't like
him. I seen him snatch up a little dog once and cut the tail off of it with his
knife, just 'cause he thought it was funny. Boy who owned the dog tried to
fight back, and Gimet, he cut the boy on the arm. No one did nothin' about it.
Ain't no real law in these parts, you see, and wasn't nobody brave enough to do
nothin'. Me included. And he did lots of other mean things, even killed a
couple of men, and claimed self-defense. Might have been, but Gimet was always
into something, and whatever he was into always turned out with someone dead,
or hurt, or humiliated." "Bill here sounds like he could be Gimet's
brother," the deputy said. "Oh, no," Old Timer said, shaking his head.
"This here scum-licker ain't a bump on the mean old ass of Gimet. Gimet
lived in a little shack off Cemetery Road. He raised bees, and brought in honey
to sell at the community up the road. Guess you could even call it a town.
Schow is the way the place is known, on account of a fella used to live up
there was named Schow. He died and got ate up by pigs. Right there in his own
pen, just keeled over slopping the hogs, and then they slopped him, all over
that place. A store got built on top of where Schow got et up, and that's how
the place come by the name. Gimet took his honey in there to the store and sold
it, and even though he was a turd, he had some of the best honey you ever
smacked your mouth around. Wish I had me some now. It was dark and rich, and
sweeter than any sugar. Think that's one reason he got away with things. People
don't like killing and such, but they damn sure like their honey." "This story got a point?" Bill said. "You don't like way I'm telling it," Old Timer
said, "why don't you think about how that rope's gonna fit around your
neck. That ought to keep your thoughts occupied, right smart." Bill made a grunting noise, turned on his block of wood,
as if to show he wasn't interested. "Well, now, honey or not, sweet tooth or not,
everything has an end to it. And thing was he took to a little gal, Mary Lynn
Twoshoe. She was a part-Indian gal, a real looker, hair black as the bottom of
a well, eyes the same color, and she was just as fine in the features as them
pictures you see of them stage actresses. She wasn't five feet tall, and that
hair of hers went all the way down her back. Her daddy was dead. The pox got
him. And her mama wasn't too well off, being sickly, and all. She made brooms
out of straw and branches she trimmed down. Sold a few of them, raised a little
garden and a hog. When all this happened, Mary Lynn was probably thirteen,
maybe fourteen. Wasn't no older than that." "If you're gonna tell a tale," Bill said,
"least don't wander all over the place." "So, you're interested?" Old Timer said. "What else I got to do?" Bill said. "Go on," Jebidiah said. "Tell us about
Mary Lynn." Old Timer nodded. "Gimet took to her. Seen her
around, bringing the brooms her mama made into the store. He waited on her,
grabbed her, and just throwed her across his saddle, kickin' and screamin',
like he'd bought a sack of flour and was ridin' it to the house. Mack Collins,
store owner, came out and tried to stop him. Well, he said something to him.
About how he shouldn't do it, least that's the way I heard it. He didn't push
much, and I can't blame him. Didn't do good to cross Gimet. Anyway, Gimet just said
back to Mack, 'Give her mama a big jar of honey. Tell her that's for her
daughter. I'll even make her another jar or two, if the meat here's as sweet as
I'm expecting.' "With that, he slapped Mary Lynn on the ass and rode
off with her." "Sounds like my kind of guy," Bill said. "I have become irritated with you now,"
Jebidiah said. "Might I suggest you shut your mouth before I pistol-whip
you." Bill glared at Jebidiah, but the Reverend's gaze was as
dead and menacing as the barrels of Old Timer's shotgun. "Rest of the story is kind of grim," Old Timer
said. "Gimet took her off to his house and had his way with her. So many
times he damn near killed her. And then he turned her loose, or got so drunk
she was able to get loose. Time she walked down Cemetery Road, made it back to
town, well, she was bleeding so bad from having been used so rough, she
collapsed. She lived a day and died from loss of blood. Her mother, out of her
sickbed, rode a mule out there to the cemetery on Cemetery Road. I told you she
was Indian, and she knew some Indian ways, and she knew about them old gods
that wasn't none of the gods of her people, but she still knew about them. "She knew some signs to draw in cemetery dirt. I
don't know the whole of it, but she did some things, and she did it on some old
grave out there, and the last thing she did was she cut her own throat, died
right there, her blood running on top of that grave and them pictures she
drawed in the dirt." "Don't see how that done her no good," the
deputy said. "Maybe it didn't, but folks think it did," Old
Timer said. "Community that had been pushed around by Gimet finally had
enough, went out there in mass to hang his ass, shoot him, whatever it took.
Got to his cabin, they found Gimet dead outside his shack. His eyes had been
torn out, or blown out is how they looked. Skin was peeled off his head, just
leaving the skull and a few hairs. His chest was ripped open, and his insides
was gone, exceptin' the bones in there. And them bees of his had nested in the
hole in his chest, had done gone about making honey. Was buzzing out of that
hole, his mouth, empty eyes, nose . . . or where his nose used to be. I figure
they'd rolled him over, tore off his pants, they'd have been coming out of his
asshole." "How come you weren't out there with them?"
Bill said. "How come this is all stuff you heard?" "Because I was a coward when it come to Gimet,"
Old Timer said. "That's why. Told myself wouldn't never be a coward again,
no matter what. I should have been with them. Didn't matter no how. He was done
good and dead, them bees all in him. What was done then is the crowd got kind
of loco, tore off his clothes, hooked his feet up to a horse and dragged him
through a blackberry patch, them bees just burstin' out and hummin' all around
him. All that ain't right, but I think I'd been with them, knowing who he was
and all the things he'd done, I might have been loco, too. They dumped him out
on the cemetery to let him rot, took that girl's mother home to be buried some
place better. Wasn't no more than a few nights later that folks started seeing
Gimet. They said he walked at night, when the moon was at least half, or full,
like it is now. Number of folks seen him, said he loped alongside the road,
following their horses, grabbing hold of the tail if he could, trying to pull
horse and rider down, or pull himself up on the back of their mounts. Said them
bees was still in him. Bees black as flies and angry, whirling all about him,
and coming from inside him. Worse, there was a larger number of folks took that
road that wasn't never seen again. It was figured Gimet got them." "Horseshit," the deputy said. "No
disrespect, Old Timer. You've treated me all right, that's for sure. But a
ghost chasing folks down. I don't buy that." "Don't have to buy it," Old Timer said. "I
ain't trying to sell it to you none. Don't have to believe it. And I don't
think it's no ghost anyway. I think that girl's mother, she done something to
let them old gods out for awhile, sicced them on that bastard, used her own
life as a sacrifice, that's what I think. And them gods, them things from
somewhere else, they ripped him up like that. Them bees is part of that, too.
They ain't no regular honeybees. They're some other kind of bees. Some kind of
fitting death for a bee raiser, is my guess." "That's silly," the deputy said. "I don't know," Jebidiah said. "The Indian
woman may only have succeeded in killing him in this life. She may not have
understood all that she did. Didn't know she was giving him an opportunity to
live again . . . or maybe that is the curse. Though there are plenty others
have to suffer for it." "Like the folks didn't do nothing when Gimet was
alive," Old Timer said. " Folks like me that let what went on go on." Jebidiah nodded. "Maybe." The deputy looked at Jebidiah. "Not you too,
Reverend. You should know better than that. There ain't but one true god, and
ain't none of that hoodoo business got a drop of truth to it." "If there's one god," Jebidiah said,
"there can be many. They are at war with one another, that's how it works,
or so I think. I've seen some things that have shook my faith in the one true
god, the one I'm servant to. And what is our god but hoodoo? It's all hoodoo,
my friend." "Okay. What things have you seen, Reverend?"
the deputy asked. "No use describing it to you, young man,"
Jebidiah said. "You wouldn't believe me. But I've recently come from Mud
Creek. It had an infestation of a sort. That town burned down, and I had a hand
in it." "Mud Creek," Old Timer said. "I been
there." "Only thing there now," Jebidiah said, "is
some charred wood." "Ain't the first time it's burned down," Old
Timer said. "Some fool always rebuilds it, and with it always comes some
kind of ugliness. I'll tell you straight. I don't doubt your word at all,
Reverend." "Thing is," the deputy said, "I don't
believe in no haints. That's the shortest road, and it's the road I'm gonna
take." "I wouldn't," Old Timer said. "Thanks for the advice. But no one goes with me or
does, that's the road I'm taking, provided it cuts a day off my trip." "I'm going with you," Jebidiah said. "My
job is to strike at evil. Not to walk around it." "I'd go during the day," Old Timer said.
"Ain't no one seen Gimet in the day, or when the moon is thin or not at
all. But way it is now, it's full, and will be again tomorrow night. I'd ride
hard tomorrow, you're determined to go. Get there as soon as you can, before
dark." "I'm for getting there," the deputy said.
"I'm for getting back to Nacogdoches, and getting this bastard in a
cell." "I'll go with you," Jebidiah said. "But I
want to be there at night. I want to take Deadman's Road at that time. I want
to see if Gimet is there. And if he is, send him to his final death. Defy those
dark gods the girl's mother called up. Defy them and loose my god on him. What
I'd suggest is you get some rest, Deputy. Old Timer here can watch a bit, then
I'll take over. That way we all get some rest. We can chain this fellow to a
tree outside, we have to. We should both get slept up to the gills, then leave
here mid-day, after a good dinner, head out for Deadman's Road. Long as we're
there by nightfall." "That ought to bring you right on it," Old
Timer said. "You take Deadman's Road. When you get to the fork, where the
road ends, you go right. Ain't no one ever seen Gimet beyond that spot, or in
front of where the road begins. He's tied to that stretch, way I heard
it." "Good enough," the deputy said. "I find
this all foolish, but if I can get some rest, and have you ride along with me,
Reverend, then I'm game. And I'll be fine with getting there at night." –•– Next morning they slept late, and had an early lunch.
Beans and hard biscuits again, a bit of stewed squirrel. Old Timer had shot the
rodent that morning while Jebidiah watched Bill sit on his ass, his hands
chained around a tree in the front yard. Inside the cabin, the deputy had
continued to sleep. But now they all sat outside eating, except for Bill. "What about me?" Bill asked, tugging at his
chained hands. "When we finish," Old Timer said. "Don't
know if any of the squirrel will be left, but we got them biscuits for you. I
can promise you some of them. I might even let you rub one of them around in my
plate, sop up some squirrel gravy." "Those biscuits are awful," Bill said. "Ain't they," Old Timer said. Bill turned his attention to Jebidiah. "Preacher,
you ought to just go on and leave me and the boy here alone. Ain't smart for
you to ride along, 'cause I get loose, ain't just the deputy that's gonna pay.
I'll put you on the list." "After what I've seen in this life," Jebidiah
said, "you are nothing to me. An insect. . . . So, add me to your
list." "Let's feed him," the deputy said, nodding at
Bill, "and get to moving. I'm feeling rested and want to get this ball
started." –•– The moon had begun to rise when they rode in sight of
Deadman's Road. The white crossroad sign was sticking up beside the road. Trees
and brush had grown up around it, and between the limbs and the shadows, the
crudely painted words on the sign were halfway readable in the waning light.
The wind had picked up and was grabbing at leaves, plucking them from the
ground, tumbling them about, tearing them from trees and tossing them across
the narrow, clay road with a sound like mice scuttling in straw. "Fall always depresses me," the deputy said,
halting his horse, taking a swig from his canteen. "Life is a cycle," Jebidiah said. "You're
born, you suffer, then you're punished." The deputy turned in his saddle to look at Jebidiah.
"You ain't much on that resurrection and reward, are you?" "No, I'm not." "I don't know about you," the deputy said,
"but I wish we hadn't gotten here so late. I'd rather have gone through in
the day." "Thought you weren't a believer in spooks?"
Bill said, and made with his now familiar snort. "You said it didn't
matter to you." The deputy didn't look at Bill when he spoke. "I
wasn't here then. Place has a look I don't like. And I don't enjoy temptin'
things. Even if I don't believe in them." "That's the silliest thing I ever heard," Bill
said. "Wanted me with you," Jebidiah said. "You
had to wait." "You mean to see something, don't you,
preacher?" Bill said. "If there is something to see," Jebidiah said. "You believe Old Timer's story?" the deputy
said. "I mean, really?" "Perhaps." Jebidiah clucked to his horse and took the lead. –•– When they turned onto Deadman's Road, Jebidiah paused and
removed a small, fat Bible from his saddlebag. The deputy paused too, forcing Bill to pause as well.
"You ain't as ornery as I thought," the deputy said. "You want
the peace of the Bible just like anyone else." "There is no peace in this book," Jebidiah
said. "That's a real confusion. Bible isn't anything but a book of terror,
and that's how God is: terrible. But the book has power. And we might need
it." "I don't know what to think about you,
Reverend," the deputy said. "Ain't nothin' you can think about a man that's gone
loco," Bill said. "I don't want to stay with no man that's
loco." "You get an idea to run, Bill, I can shoot you off
your horse," the deputy said. "Close range with my revolver, far
range with my rifle. You don't want to try it." "It's still a long way to Nacogdoches," Bill
said. –•– The road was narrow and of red clay. It stretched far
ahead like a band of blood, turned sharply to the right around a wooded curve
where it was a dark as the bottom of Jonah's whale. The blowing leaves seemed
especially intense on the road, scraping dryly about, winding in the air like
giant hornets. The trees, which grew thick, bent in the wind, from right to
left. This naturally led the trio to take to the left side of the road. The farther they went down the road, the darker it
became. By the time they got to the curve, the woods were so thick, and the
thunderous skies had grown so dark, the moon was barely visible; its light was
as weak as a sick baby's grip. When they had traveled for some time, the deputy said,
obviously feeling good about it, "There ain't nothing out here 'sides what
you would expect. A possum maybe. The wind." "Good for you, then," Jebidiah said. "Good
for us all." "You sound disappointed to me," the deputy
said. "My line of work isn't far from yours, Deputy. I
look for bad guys of a sort, and try and send them to hell . . . or in some
cases, back to hell." And then, almost simultaneous with a flash of lightning,
something crossed the road not far in front of them. "What the hell was that?" Bill said, coming out
of what had been a near stupor. "It looked like a man," the deputy said. "Could have been," Jebidiah said. "Could
have been." "What do you think it was?" "You don't want to know." "I do." "Gimet," Jebidiah said. –•– The sky let the moon loose for a moment, and its light
spread through the trees and across the road. In the light there were insects,
a large wad of them, buzzing about in the air. "Bees," Bill said. "Damn if them ain't
bees. And at night. That ain't right." "You an expert on bees?" the deputy asked. "He's right," Jebidiah said. "And look,
they're gone now." "Flew off," the deputy said. "No . . . no, they didn't," Bill said. "I
was watching, and they didn't fly nowhere. They're just gone. One moment they
were there, then they was gone, and that's all there is to it. They're like
ghosts." "You done gone crazy," the deputy said. "They are not insects of this earth," Jebidiah
said. "They are familiars." "What?" Bill said. "They assist evil, or evil beings," Jebidiah
said. "In this case, Gimet. They're like a witches black cat familiar.
Familiars take on animal shapes, insects, that sort of thing." "That's ridiculous," the deputy said.
"That don't make no kind of sense at all." "Whatever you say," Jebidiah said, "but I
would keep my eyes alert, and my senses raw. Wouldn't hurt to keep your
revolvers loose in their holsters. You could well need them. Though, come to
think of it, your revolvers won't be much use." "What the hell does that mean?" Bill said. Jebidiah didn't answer. He continued to urge his horse
on, something that was becoming a bit more difficult as they went. All of the
horses snorted and turned their heads left and right, tugged at their bits;
their ears went back and their eyes went wide. "Holy hell," Bill said, "what's
that?" Jebidiah and the deputy turned to look at him. Bill was
turned in the saddle, looking back. They looked too, just in time to see
something that looked pale blue in the moonlight dive into the brush on the
other side of the road. Black dots followed, swarmed in the moonlight, then
darted into the bushes behind the pale, blue thing like a load of buckshot. "What was that?" the deputy said. His voice
sounded as if it had been pistol-whipped. "Already told you," Jebidiah said. "That couldn't have been nothing human," the
deputy said. "Don't you get it?" Bill said. "That's
what the preacher is trying to tell you. It's Gimet, and he ain't nowhere
alive. His skin was blue. And he's all messed up. I seen more than you did. I
got a good look. And them bees. We ought to break out and ride hard." "Do as you choose," the Reverend said. "I
don't intend to." "And why not?" Bill said. "That isn't my job." "Well, I ain't got no job. Deputy, ain't you
supposed to make sure I get to Nacogdoches to get hung? Ain't that your
job?" "It is." "Then we ought to ride on, not bother with this
fool. He wants to fight some grave crawler, then let him. Ain't nothing we
ought to get into." "We made a pact to ride together," the deputy
said. "So we will." "I didn't make no pact," Bill said. "Your word, your needs, they're nothing to me,"
the deputy said. At that moment, something began to move through the woods
on their left. Something moving quick and heavy, not bothering with stealth.
Jebidiah looked in the direction of the sounds, saw someone, or something,
moving through the underbrush, snapping limbs aside like they were rotten
sticks. He could hear the buzz of the bees, loud and angry. Without really
meaning to, he urged the horse to a trot. The deputy and Bill joined in with
their own mounts, keeping pace with the Reverend's horse. They came to a place off the side of the road where the
brush thinned, and out in the distance they could see what looked like bursting
white waves, frozen against the dark. But they soon realized it was tombstones.
And there were crosses. A graveyard. The graveyard Old Timer had told them
about. The sky had cleared now, the wind had ceased to blow hard. They had a
fine view of the cemetery, and as they watched, the thing that had been in the
brush moved out of it and went up the little rise where the graves were,
climbed up on one of the stones and sat. A black cloud formed around its head,
and the sound of buzzing could be heard all the way out to the road. The thing
sat there like a king on a throne. Even from that distance it was easy to see
it was nude, and male, and his skin was gray—blue in the moonlight—and the head
looked misshapen. Moon glow slipped through cracks in the back of the horror's
head and poked out of fresh cracks at the front of its skull and speared out of
the empty eye sockets. The bee's nest, visible through the wound in its chest,
was nestled between the ribs. It pulsed with a yellow-honey glow. From time to
time, little black dots moved around the glow and flew up and were temporarily
pinned in the moonlight above the creature's head. "Jesus," said the deputy. "Jesus won't help a bit," Jebidiah said. "It's Gimet, ain't it? He . . . it . . . really is
dead," the deputy said. "Undead," Jebidiah said. "I believe he's
toying with us. Waiting for when he plans to strike." "Strike?" Bill said. "Why?" "Because that is his purpose," Jebidiah said,
"as it is mine to strike back. Gird your loins men, you will soon be
fighting for your life." "How about we just ride like hell?" Bill said. In that moment, Jebidiah's words became prophetic. The
thing was gone from the gravestone. Shadows had gathered at the edge of the
woods, balled up, become solid, and when the shadows leaped from the even
darker shadows of the trees, it was the shape of the thing they had seen on the
stone, cool blue in the moonlight, a disaster of a face, and the teeth . . .
they were long and sharp. Gimet leaped in such a way that his back foot hit the
rear of Jebidiah's animal, allowing him to spring over the deputy's horse, to
land hard and heavy on Bill. Bill let out a howl and was knocked off his mount.
When he hit the road, his hat flying, Gimet grabbed him by his bushy head of
straw-colored hair and dragged him off as easily as if he were a kitten. Gimet
went into the trees, tugging Bill after him. Gimet blended with the darkness
there. The last of Bill was a scream, the raising of his cuffed hands, the
cuffs catching the moonlight for a quick blink of silver, then there was a
rustle of leaves and a slapping of branches, and Bill was gone. "My God," the deputy said. "My God. Did
you see that thing?" Jebidiah dismounted, moved to the edge of the road,
leading his horse, his gun drawn. The deputy did not dismount. He pulled his
pistol and held it, his hands trembling. "Did you see that?" he said
again, and again. "My eyes are as good as your own," Jebidiah
said. "I saw it. We'll have to go in and get him." "Get him?" the deputy said. "Why in the
name of everything that's holy would we do that? Why would we want to be near
that thing? He's probably done what he's done already. . . . Damn, Reverend.
Bill, he's a killer. This is just as good as I might want. I say while the old
boy is doing whatever he's doing to that bastard, we ride like the goddamn
wind, get on out on the far end of this road where it forks. Gimet is supposed
to be only able to go on this stretch, ain't he?" "That's what Old Timer said. You do as you want. I'm
going in after him." "Why? You don't even know him." "It's not about him," Jebidiah said. "Ah, hell. I ain't gonna be shamed." The deputy
swung down from his horse, pointed at the place where Gimet had disappeared
with Bill. "Can we get the horses through there?" "Think we will have to go around a bit. I discern a
path over there." "Discern?" "Recognize. Come on, time is wasting." –•– They went back up the road a pace, found a trail that led
through the trees. The moon was strong now as all the clouds that had covered
it had rolled away like windblown pollen. The air smelled fresh, but as they
moved forward, that changed. There was a stench in the air, a putrid smell both
sweet and sour, and it floated up and spoiled the freshness. "Something dead," the deputy said. "Something long dead," Jebidiah said. Finally the brush grew so thick they had to tie the
horses, leave them. They pushed their way through briars and limbs. "There ain't no path," the deputy said.
"You don't know he come through this way." Jebidiah reached out and plucked a piece of cloth from a
limb, held it up so that the moon dropped rays on it. "This is part of
Bill's shirt. Am I right?" The deputy nodded. "But how could Gimet get through
here? How could he get Bill through here?" "What we pursue has little interest in the things
that bother man. Limbs, briars. It's nothing to the living dead." They went on for a while. Vines got in their way. The
vines were wet. They were long, thick vines, and sticky, and finally they
realized they were not vines at all, but guts, strewn about and draped like
decorations. "Fresh," the deputy said. "Bill, I
reckon." "You reckon right," Jebidiah said. They pushed on a little farther, and the trail widened,
making the going easier. They found more pieces of Bill as they went along. The
stomach. Fingers. Pants with one leg in them. A heart, which looked as if it
had been bitten into and sucked on. Jebidiah was curious enough to pick it up
and examine it. Finished, he tossed it in the dirt, wiped his hands on Bill's
pants leg, the one with the leg still in it, said, "Gimet just saved you a
lot of bother and the state of Texas the trouble of a hanging." "Heavens," the deputy said, watching Jebidiah
wipe blood on the leg-filled pants. Jebidiah looked up at the deputy. "He won't mind I
get blood on his pants," Jebidiah said. "He's got more important
things to worry about, like dancing in the fires of hell. And by the way,
yonder sports his head." Jebidiah pointed. The deputy looked. Bill's head had been
pushed onto a broken limb of a tree, the sharp end of the limb being forced
through the rear of the skull and out the left eye. The spinal cord dangled
from the back of the head like a bell rope. The deputy puked in the bushes. "Oh, God. I don't
want no more of this." "Go back. I won't think the less of you, 'cause I
don't think that much of you to begin with. Take his head for evidence and ride
on, just leave me my horse." The deputy adjusted his hat. "Don't need the head. .
. . And if it comes to it, you'll be glad I'm here. I ain't no weak
sister." "Don't talk me to death on the matter. Show me what
you got, boy." The trail was slick with Bill's blood. They went along it
and up a rise, guns drawn. At the top of the hill they saw a field, grown up,
and not far away, a sagging shack with a fallen-down chimney. They went that direction, came to the shack's door.
Jebidiah kicked it with the toe of his boot and it sagged open. Once inside,
Jebidiah struck a match and waved it about. Nothing but cobwebs and dust. "Must have been Gimet's place," Jebidiah said.
Jebidiah moved the match before him until he found a lantern full of coal oil.
He lit it and placed the lantern on the table. "Should we do that?" the deputy asked.
"Have a light. Won't he find us?" "In case you have forgotten, that's the idea." Out the back window, which had long lost its grease-paper
covering, they could see tombstones and wooden crosses in the distance.
"Another view of the graveyard," Jebidiah said. "That would be
where the girl's mother killed herself." No sooner had Jebidiah said that than he saw a shadowy
shape move on the hill, flitting between stones and crosses. The shape moved
quickly and awkwardly. "Move to the center of the room," Jebidiah
said. The deputy did as he was told, and Jebidiah moved the
lamp there as well. He sat it in the center of the floor, found a bench and
dragged it next to the lantern. Then he reached in his coat pocket and took out
the Bible. He dropped to one knee and held the Bible close to the lantern light
and tore out certain pages. He wadded them up, and began placing them all
around the bench on the floor, placing the crumpled pages about six feet out
from the bench and in a circle with each wad two feet apart. The deputy said nothing. He sat on the bench and watched
Jebidiah's curious work. Jebidiah sat on the bench beside the deputy, rested
one of his pistols on his knee. "You got a .44, don't you?" "Yeah. I got a converted-cartridge pistol, just like
you." "Give me your revolver." The deputy complied. Jebidiah opened the cylinders and let the bullets fall
out on the floor. "What in hell are you doing?" Jebidiah didn't answer. He dug into his gun belt and came
up with six silver-tipped bullets, loaded the weapon and gave it back to the
deputy. "Silver," Jebidiah said. "Sometimes it
wards off evil." "Sometimes?" "Be quiet now. And wait." "I feel like a staked goat," the deputy said. After a while, Jebidiah rose from the bench and looked
out the window. Then he sat down promptly and blew out the lantern. –•– Somewhere in the distance a night bird called. Crickets
sawed and a large frog bleated. They sat there on the bench, near each other,
facing in opposite directions, their silver-loaded pistols on their knees.
Neither spoke. Suddenly the bird ceased to call and the crickets went
silent, and no more was heard from the frog. Jebidiah whispered to the deputy. "He comes." The deputy shivered slightly, took a deep breath.
Jebidiah realized he too was breathing deeply. "Be silent, and be alert," Jebidiah said. "All right," said the deputy, and he locked his
eyes on the open window at the back of the shack. Jebidiah faced the door,
which stood halfway open and sagging on its rusty hinges. For a long time there was nothing. Not a sound. Then
Jebidiah saw a shadow move at the doorway and heard the door creak slightly as
it moved. He could see a hand on what appeared to be an impossibly long arm,
reaching out to grab at the edge of the door. The hand clutched there for a
long time, not moving. Then, it was gone, taking its shadow with it. Time crawled by. "It's at the window," the deputy said, and his
voice was so soft it took Jebidiah a moment to decipher the words. Jebidiah
turned carefully for a look. It sat on the windowsill, crouched there like a bird of
prey, a halo of bees circling its head. The hive pulsed and glowed in its
chest, and in that glow they could see more bees, so thick they appeared to be
a sort of humming smoke. Gimet's head sprouted a few springs of hair, like
withering grass fighting its way through stone. A slight turn of its head
allowed the moon to flow through the back of its cracked skull and out of its
empty eyes. Then the head turned and the face was full of shadows again. The
room was silent except for the sound of buzzing bees. "Courage," Jebidiah said, his mouth close to
the deputy's ear. "Keep your place." The thing climbed into the room quickly, like a spider
dropping from a limb, and when it hit the floor, it stayed low, allowing the
darkness to lay over it like a cloak. Jebidiah had turned completely on the bench now, facing
the window. He heard a scratching sound against the floor. He narrowed his
eyes, saw what looked like a shadow, but was in fact the thing coming out from
under the table. Jebidiah felt the deputy move, perhaps to bolt. He
grabbed his arm and held him. "Courage," he said. The thing kept crawling. It came within three feet of the
circle made by the crumpled Bible pages. The way the moonlight spilled through the window and onto
the floor near the circle Jebidiah had made, it gave Gimet a kind of eerie
glow, his satellite bees circling his head. In that moment, every aspect of the
thing locked itself in Jebidiah's mind. The empty eyes, the sharp, wet teeth,
the long, cracked nails, blackened from grime, clacking against the wooden
floor. As it moved to cross between two wads of scripture, the pages burst into
flames and a line of crackling blue fulmination moved between the wadded pages
and made the circle light up fully, all the way around, like Ezekiel's wheel. Gimet gave out with a hoarse cry, scuttled back, clacking
nails and knees against the floor. When he moved, he moved so quickly there
seemed to be missing spaces between one moment and the next. The buzzing of
Gimet's bees was ferocious. Jebidiah grabbed the lantern, struck a match and lit it.
Gimet was scuttling along the wall like a cockroach, racing to the edge of the
window. Jebidiah leaped forward, tossed the lit lantern, hit the
beast full in the back as it fled through the window. The lantern burst into
flames and soaked Gimet's back, causing a wave of fire to climb from the
thing's waist to the top of its head, scorching a horde of bees, dropping them
from the sky like exhausted meteors. Jebidiah drew his revolver, snapped off a shot. There was
a howl of agony, and then the thing was gone. Jebidiah raced out of the protective circle and the
deputy followed. They stood at the open window, watched as Gimet,
flame-wrapped, streaked through the night in the direction of the graveyard. "I panicked a little," Jebidiah said. "I
should have been more resolute. Now he's escaped." "I never even got off a shot," the deputy said.
"God, but you're fast. What a draw." "Look, you stay here if you like. I'm going after
him. But I tell you now, the circle of power has played out." The deputy glanced back at it. The pages had burned out
and there was nothing now but a black ring on the floor. "What in hell caused them to catch fire in the first
place?" "Evil," Jebidiah said. "When he got close,
the pages broke into flame. Gave us the protection of God. Unfortunately, as
with most of God's blessings, it doesn't last long." "I stay here, you'd have to put down more
pages." "I'll be taking the Bible with me. I might need
it." "Then I guess I'll be sticking." –•– They climbed out the window and moved up the hill. They
could smell the odor of fire and rotted flesh in the air. The night was as cool
and silent as the graves on the hill. Moments later they moved amongst the stones and wooden crosses,
until they came to a long wide hole in the earth. Jebidiah could see that there
was a burrow at one end of the grave that dipped down deeper into the ground. Jebidiah paused there. "He's made this old grave his
den. Dug it out and dug deeper." "How do you know?" the deputy asked. "Experience . . . and it smells of smoke and burned
skin. He crawled down there to hide. I think we surprised him a little." Jebidiah looked up at the sky. There was the faintest
streak of pink on the horizon. "He's running out of daylight, and soon
he'll be out of moon. For a while." "He damn sure surprised me. Why don't we let him
hide? You could come back when the moon isn't full, or even half full. Back in
the daylight, get him then." "I'm here now. And it's my job." "That's one hell of a job you got, mister." "I'm going to climb down for a better look." "Help yourself." Jebidiah struck a match and dropped himself into the
grave, moved the match around at the mouth of the burrow, got down on his knees
and stuck the match and his head into the opening. "Very large," he said, pulling his head out.
"I can smell him. I'm going to have to go in." "What about me?" "You keep guard at the lip of the grave,"
Jebidiah said, standing. "He may have another hole somewhere, he could
come out behind you for all I know. He could come out of that hole even as we
speak." "That's wonderful." Jebidiah dropped the now-dead match on the ground.
"I will tell you this. I can't guarantee success. I lose, he'll come for
you, you can bet on that, and you better shoot those silvers as straight as
William Tell's arrows." "I'm not really that good a shot." "I'm sorry," Jebidiah said, and struck another
match along the length of his pants seam, then with his free hand drew one of
his revolvers. He got down on his hands and knees again, stuck the match in the
hole and looked around. When the match was near done, he blew it out. "Ain't you gonna need some light?" the deputy
said. "A match ain't nothin'." "I'll have it." Jebidiah removed the remains of
the Bible from his pocket, tore it in half along the spine, pushed one half in
his coat, pushed the other half before him, into the darkness of the burrow.
The moment it entered the hole, it flamed. "Ain't your pocket gonna catch inside that
hole?" the deputy asked. "As long as I hold it or it's on my person, it won't
harm me. But the minute I let go of it, and the aura of evil touches it, it'll
blaze. I got to hurry, boy." With that, Jebidiah wiggled inside the burrow. –•– In the burrow, Jebidiah used the tip of his pistol to
push the Bible pages forward. They glowed brightly, but Jebidiah knew the light
would be brief. It would burn longer than writing paper, but still, it would
not last long. After a goodly distance, Jebidiah discovered the burrow
dropped off. He found himself inside a fairly large cavern. He could hear the
sound of bats, and smell bat guano, which, in fact, greased his path as he slid
along on his elbows until he could stand inside the higher cavern and look
about. The last flames of the Bible burned out with a puff of blue light and a
sound like an old man breathing his last. Jebidiah listened in the dark for a long moment. He could
hear the bats squeaking, moving about. The fact that they had given up the
night sky let Jebidiah know daylight was not far off. Jebidiah's ears caught a sound, rocks shifting against
the cave floor. Something was moving in the darkness, and he didn't think it
was the bats. It scuttled, and Jebidiah felt certain it was close to the floor,
and by the sound of it, moving his way at a creeping pace. The hair on the back
of Jebidiah's neck bristled like porcupine quills. He felt his flesh bump up
and crawl. The air became stiffer with the stench of burnt and rotting flesh.
Jebidiah's knees trembled. He reached cautiously inside his coat pocket,
produced a match, struck it on his pants leg, held it up. At that very moment, the thing stood up and was brightly
lit in the glow of the match, the bees circling its skin-stripped skull. It
snarled and darted forward. Jebidiah felt its rotten claws on his shirt front
as he fired the revolver. The blaze from the bullet gave a brief, bright flare
and was gone. At the same time, the match was knocked out of his hand and
Jebidiah was knocked backwards, onto his back, the thing's claws at his throat.
The monster's bees stung him. The stings felt like red-hot pokers entering his
flesh. He stuck the revolver into the creature's body and fired. Once. Twice.
Three times. A fourth. Then the hammer clicked empty. He realized he had already
fired two other shots. Six dead silver soldiers were in his cylinders, and the
thing still had hold of him. He tried to draw his other gun, but before he could, the
thing released him, and Jebidiah could hear it crawling away in the dark. The
bats fluttered and screeched. Confused, Jebidiah drew the pistol, managed to get to his
feet. He waited, listening, his fresh revolver pointing into the darkness. Jebidiah found another match, struck it. The thing lay with its back draped over a rise of rock.
Jebidiah eased toward it. The silver loads had torn into the hive. It oozed a
dark, odiferous trail of death and decaying honey. Bees began to drop to the
cavern floor. The hive in Gimet's chest sizzled and pulsed like a large, black
knot. Gimet opened his mouth, snarled, but otherwise didn't move. Couldn't move. Jebidiah, guided by the last wisps of his match, raised
the pistol, stuck it against the black knot, and pulled the trigger. The knot
exploded. Gimet let out with a shriek so sharp and loud it startled the bats to
flight, drove them out of the cave, through the burrow, out into the remains of
the night. Gimet's claw-like hands dug hard at the stones around
him, then he was still and Jebidiah's match went out. –•– Jebidiah found the remains of the Bible in his pocket,
and as he removed it, tossed it on the ground, it burst into flames. Using the
two pistol barrels like large tweezers, he lifted the burning pages and dropped
them into Gimet's open chest. The body caught on fire immediately, crackled and
popped dryly, and was soon nothing more than a blaze. It lit the cavern up
bright as day. Jebidiah watched the corpse being consumed by the
biblical fire for a moment, then headed toward the burrow, bent down, squirmed
through it, came up in the grave. He looked for the deputy and didn't see him. He climbed
out of the grave and looked around. Jebidiah smiled. If the deputy had lasted
until the bats charged out, that was most likely the last straw, and he had
bolted. Jebidiah looked back at the open grave. Smoke wisped out
of the hole and out of the grave and climbed up to the sky. The moon was fading
and the pink on the horizon was widening. Gimet was truly dead now. The road was safe. His job was
done. At least for one brief moment. Jebidiah walked down the hill, found his horse tied in
the brush near the road where he had left it. The deputy's horse was gone, of
course, the deputy most likely having already finished out Deadman's Road at a
high gallop, on his way to Nacogdoches, perhaps to have a long drink of whisky
and turn in his badge. Saddle
up your own horse and head on back here Thursday, January 13, for more of
Champion Joe's Mojo madness! "Deadman's Road" was originally published
in Weird Tales #343 (2007). It later
appeared in The Shadows, Kith & Kin
(Subterranean Press), and Deadman's Road (Subterranean Press).
"Deadman's
Road" © 2007 By Bizarre Hands, LLC. All rights reserved. |