Deadman's Crossing Read Free

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.
    “Turnoff 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