Neal Barrett Jr. Read Online Free

town was dirt-poor, but there was plenty of food and drink to be had if you could pay. And what kind of man could do that? Men who sold meat, Howie decided, and men who stole what they got from someone else. Like preachers and other damn fools. There sure weren’t any farmers or storekeepers here drinking ale and eating meat.
    Howie ordered potatoes and bread, promising himself that he wouldn’t overdo it this time. The sack of coins he’d taken from the men who’d tried to kill him in the woods was growing light. When that was gone, he would be right back where he’d been. And what then? He wouldn’t kill a man to get his purse. He might do a lot of things, but he wouldn’t do that.
    Ritcher Jones appeared with two mugs of ale, placed one before Howie, and quickly took a seat.
    “Well now, I trust you had a fine night,” Jones said. He wore a smile wide as a barn, and a clean blue shirt. “A man needs his blessed sleep, and that’s the truth. Sleep cures a man’s ills and prepares him for the day’s work ahead. Rest is precious food and drink for the soul.”
    Howie looked straight at Jones. “Listen, what the hell do you want with me, mister?”
    “What do I want? What do I want with you? ” Jones spread his hands wide. “Why, not a thing, son. Not a thing except the chance to share drink with a friend.”
    “I don’t recall you and me bein’ friends.”
    “Well, now. That’s the truth. It surely is. But you never can tell. That’s the thing, you see. You simply never can tell.”
    Howie didn’t touch his ale. It was clear plain talk didn’t bother Jones at all. The man’s fine manner and easy ways made it seem as if you’d welcomed him to sit all along, and that irritated Howie no end. He was about to tell Jones to take his drinks and walk away when a crowd burst in through the door.
    There were five bearded men, all wearing torn bits of uniform they’d saved from the war. Howie recognized them all from the night before, including the two who had tried to pick a fight. The sixth man was a stranger, and not like the other men at all. Shorter than the rest, he had a nearly square head, and features squeezed tight on his face. He wore a clean pair of butternut pants, a green army shirt with a sea-blue-and-white shoulder patch, and new boots. His hair was combed straight back, and his beard was neatly trimmed,
    Several men rose at once to shake the stranger’s hand. His friends called for drink, and soon there was a large crowd of admirers gathered about a table in the front.
    “Who you reckon that might be?” Howie asked, then remembered that he hadn’t asked Ritcher Jones to leave.
    Jones raised a brow. “That, I believe, would be the famed Anson Slade. A local hero of sorts.” The preacher took a deep healthy swallow from his mug and carefully dabbed the corners of his mouth. “A survivor, it would seem, from that terrible massacre to the south.”
    Howie looked puzzled. “What massacre is that? There isn’t no fighting ’ round here, or none I heard about.
    Jones hesitated, then seemed to understand. “Ah, of course. I forget you just arrived. It wasn’t a fight , so to speak. No, sir. Plain slaughter is what it was. And innocent youngsters at that.” Jones looked solemnly at his hands. “God rest their souls. Those fine boys and girls all killed or carried off and Silver Island burned to the ground. The whole place just—Good heavens, boy, are you all right?”
    Howie couldn’t move. He felt as if a big fist had reached in and ripped out his heart.
    “What—what happened?” He strangled on the words. “What happened to Silver Island?”
    Ritcher Jones gave Howie a curious look. “Why, it’s just like I said. It’s all gone. The whole thing. Rebels took the place by surprise, though God knows how they got this far east. Here now, you drink some of this ale—”
    Howie struck out at the mug, came to his feet and sent the stool clattering across the floor. Ritcher Jones