The Zona Read Free Page B

feeling his breath enter and leave his lungs.  He had left his mule tied to an overturned car a half hour away to ensure a quiet approach.  Lead closed his eyes and felt the rough texture of the door under his fingertips. The shack was constructed from scrap boards and planks of plywood, tin, and iron.  An old mare stood saddled and tied to a stake.  A wooden shingle propped against the shack named it CIBOLA in uneven tar letters.
    Lead pressed his palm against the door.  Heat radiated from the iron.  He pushed lightly, silently.  It did not budge.  Lead pulled his hand back and opened his eyes.  He watched the sweat of his fingers evaporate from the door’s surface. Lead took two steps and kicked out.
    The door flung off its hinges and landed in a cascade of dust.  An older man sat on a leather coach inside, turning the page of a book.  The man contemplated the busted door with apparent disinterest then returned to his book.
    “About time you showed up, Preacher,” the man said.  “I was thinking they had forgotten me.”
    The man dropped his book to the dusty floor and placed his hands, palms-down, on the polished wooden table in front of him.  He lifted his face to examine Lead with rheumy blue eyes.
    “I’m glad the waiting’s done just the same,” he said.
    Lead raised his silver cross.  “I am here under the authority of our Lord and Savior to speak with Terence Wood.  Are you him?”
    “I am him.” the man replied.
    Lead strode to the coffee table and set down a rope and blanket.
    “Choose,” he said.
    The man’s eyes lingered on the rope and blanket.  He looked back to Lead.
    “That’s a funny proposition, Preacher.”
    Lead stood, his right hand slipped under his shirt.
    “If I choose the rope, you bind me and take me to the parish.  I’ll then go to Purgatory, and God willing, I’ll be converted through influence, coercion, and perseverance into a Goodman.”
    The old man spat in the dirt before continuing.
    “On the other, if I pick up the blanket, you put bullets in me.  The bullets achieve their goal of punching holes in my flesh, which in turn makes it impossible for me to conduct the everyday business of living and I’m found to be a Goodman posthumously, so to speak.”  He spat again.  “I guess you could say I’m a winner either way.”
    “I’m not here to discuss your matter, tis between you and the Lord.  I shall render no appeals.”  Lead said.  It was impossible to keep the trembling from his voice.
    “Nor would I expect you to hear my appeals.  I’m just putting voice to thought.”  The old man said, palms still firmly pressed to his wooden table.   “It’s funny to me that the Church says I can only be good through submission or death.”
    “I said choose, old man.  Take one!”  The anxiety fires flared in Lead’s chest.
    “You ever read any Aristotle, Preacher?”
    Lead remained silent.
    “I suppose that’s probably not taught to the younger parishioners.  Aristotle was a heathen.  Anyway, he said a good man is a man who understands and pursues happiness, which is subjective, meaning up to the man.  He goes on to say that the best life belongs to a man who can live a life of virtue, but get this, virtue is also subjective, not objective which is up to everyone but the man.  Do you like that?  He claimed good and virtue are up to us!”
    Lead pulled the Van Cleef from his shirt.
    “Oh good.” said the old man, “You’ve invited influence.”
    Lead cocked the hammer; the snap of it was amplified in the confined cabin.
    “You’re going have to choose old man, no delay.”  Lead pointed the gun at Terence’s face.
    “As I was saying, Aristotle said a good man is a happy man, and a happy man is one who realizes acting under subjective goodness is a reward unto itself.  Do you know what makes you happy, Preacher?”
    “Serving God makes me happy.”  Lead said.  His hands shook.
    “Obviously,” Terence said with a wry grin.