Hallowed Ground Read Online Free Page A

happened since then."
    "Tragic," The Deacon said, lowering his eyes and shaking his head.   Creed couldn't tell if he'd lowered that gaze in deference to a higher power, or to hide his expression.
    "I think it must be a sign," The Deacon continued, raising his gaze to meet Creed's once more.   "Last night, the rooks arose, and I should have seen it then.   Someone has been taken on to the next world.   There must be a service.   God's word must be heard."
    "We’ve survived just fine without a preacher," Creed said flatly.
    "It was not chance that found me at your door, Provender Creed," the Deacon said, laying a hand on the younger man’s shoulder.   "It was divine provenance."
    It wasn’t until they were halfway back to town that Creed realized he had not told the man his name.

Chapter Six
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    The church had been closed since the death of Goodman James, the stunted barrel of a preacher who'd tended the spiritual needs of Rookwood for decades.   James had fallen to the croup a year back, and after that, attendance on Sunday fell to nothing.   Services had been sketchy, at best, and James' propensity toward drunkenness and cursing often failed to convince his 'flock' that he had their eternal well-being in mind.   His sermons turned far too often to the collection plate, and his messages were aimed directly at those who he found particularly sinful, while ignoring those who dropped by the rectory with a bottle, or a fresh pie.   The red vines on his ruddy cheeks declared his preference for all to see.
    No one had taken up residence in either rectory or church.   They were afraid, at first, that they'd catch whatever the preacher died of.   After that, they were afraid whoever moved in would be expected to preach.   For whatever reason, the only time the doors of the church were open and the floors swept was for a funeral.
    When Creed rode back into town, The Deacon and two of his followers trailing slowly behind, he headed straight for Boone's.   As they passed a young barefoot boy in clothing so ragged it looked ready to rot off his flesh, Creed called out to him.
    "Go fetch Sheriff Brady. Tell him to meet us over at the saloon."
    The boy stared past Creed at the strangers.   He seemed rooted in place, and it wasn't until Creed dug his heels into his horse’s sides and charged that the youth reacted.   He leaped up onto the wooden boardwalk, took a last glance at The Deacon, then turned and raced off down the street.   Creed led the way to Boone's, dismounted, and tied off his horse.
    The Deacon remained in the saddle a few moments longer.   He raised his eyes to the heavens, and Creed was sure he saw the man sniffing, like some kind of animal on a scent.   When The Deacon lowered his gaze, it settled on Ma Kutter's place, and he frowned.   Creed followed that gaze, but he saw nothing.   Ma's door was wide open, but that wasn't strange during the day.   No one in Rookwood bothered to lock their doors, other than Boone and the sheriff.   None of them had anything worth stealing – at least not worth stealing and dying over.
    The Deacon dismounted and stood beside Creed.   Folks had started to gather up and down the street, staring.   They didn't get much traffic through Rookwood, and they weren't fond of strangers.   There was only so much of anything to be had – if someone new came along, they were likely to want a share.   Creed turned and entered the saloon, and The Deacon followed, his two companions falling in behind him like a couple of puppies.   The two hadn't said a word since they'd left The Deacon's camp, and it grated on Creed's nerves.
    It didn't take long for the Sherriff to show.   Very little happened in Rookwood that Brady wasn’t elbow deep and muddy in.   He probably knew Creed was bringing in strangers before they crested the ridge.   Moonshine never hurried.   He didn't think