Hallowed Ground Read Online Free Page B

fast, talk fast, or act fast.   In fact, the only time Creed had seen the man challenge a snail was with his gun.   In that one thing Brady was gifted.   He could make lightning look like molasses if the moment called for it.   It was a mighty fine skill for a lawman to have, for sure.
    The door opened and the sheriff entered.   He stood still, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the dimmer interior light.   Creed kept his eye on the bar, where Silas Boone had slid a full shot glass of rye in front of him.   He didn't care much what Brady thought, and he'd just as soon not be tied to the visitors either.   Best to wait and see how things rolled out.
    The Deacon wasn't a patient man, it seemed.   He stepped away from the bar, where he'd ignored Silas' offer of a drink, and held out a hand to Sheriff Brady.   To his credit, by Creed's way of thinking, Brady didn't take it right off.   He met The Deacon's gaze steadily, and then, very slowly, he raised his hand and shook.
    "Welcome, neighbor," Brady said.   His voice was laid back and slow, like everything else about him.   Neighbor, not stranger.   Brady spoke like that all the time.   Creed perked up a bit.   The man's voice was like the weaving, hypnotic head of a rattle snake when he brought it to bear, and just then, in those few words, it sounded deadly.
    "I thank you for the welcome," The Deacon replied smoothly.   "It sounds as though my arrival might be more fortuitous than I'd imagined."
    "How's that?" Brady asked.   "And, before we get too far into the howdy-dos, maybe you'd do me the honor of an introduction?"
    Creed turned slowly and pulled off his hat.   He caught Brady's eye and waved the hat in a slow arc toward the strangers.
    "Sheriff Brady," he said, "Meet 'The Deacon.'   Deacon, Sheriff Brady.   Deacon here's got him a camp out past the gulch, tents and wagons far as the eye can see.   I thought you might want to make his acquaintance."
    Brady stared at Creed for a moment – longer than he had to – and Creed wondered if he'd made a mistake stepping back into the mix.   Then the sheriff turned back to The Deacon.
    "That right?" he asked. "You folks set up a camp?"
    The Deacon nodded.   "We've been on the road a while now.   There was a need for rest, and I felt the call.   When that happens, I put down roots.   I hope it won't be an imposition."
    "No one owns that land," Brady replied, rubbing at his jaw.   "Still, we don't take much to strangers here in Rookwood.   There's a scarcity of just about everything a man needs to survive.   We're off the main supply trail, and we're pretty close with our socializing."
    Brady hesitated, then went on.
    "I guess what I'm sayin' is, you're welcome to rest out there, and you're welcome to visit the town while you're here, but don't assume too much, and don’t expect to be welcomed by folks with open arms.   If I were you, I reckon I'd be looking to be back on the road soon.   It's best for all concerned if you take my meaning?"
    "I understand," The Deacon replied. "And let me put your mind at ease, Sheriff.   We've got everything we need in camp, and some to spare, if it comes down to it.   We're a peaceful folk.   One thing we are not is parasites.   We keep to ourselves, and when we get the chance we spread the word of the Lord."
    "You're a preacher, then, and not just a deacon?" Brady asked.
    This caught the stranger by surprise.   Just for a moment his eyes flashed and his jaw stiffened.   Brady caught it.   Creed caught it too.   He'd turned with his back to the bar, watching the exchange.   It passed like lightning.
    "You've had a death," The Deacon said, shifting topics smoothly.   "Mr. Creed here tells me you've no man of God.   I'd be honored to perform the ceremony.   No one should go to meet the Maker without a proper burial."
    "We've gotten along well enough without