A Congregation of Jackals

by S. Craig Zahler

Tomorrow morning he would meet Godfrey at the station, take a train north to Pennsylvania, meet Dicky there (the New Yorker had wired him yesterday), and then board the continental rail and ride it to the western horizon, where his past awaited him like a dark room filled with bear traps.

“It’s like we’re flying up in the clouds,” observed Godfrey. “Enjoy the view. I’m pretty sure we don’t have angels making beds for us in heaven.”

“I think I have learned more than enough about you this evening.” “Why’s that? Because I’m not allowing you to talk down to me like you did when I first got here? Because I’m not okay with you smirking at me in your superior way? I may not know how to catch a butterfly or anything about wine, but strand me in the wilderness, and I can find my way back. Give me some tools, and I can build a house—I built the one I live in. Tell me to track somebody across any terrain, and I can do it as good as an Indian. Give me a book, and I can read it just the same as you can. And there isn’t a finer lady in the whole world than the one I raised up myself—I know that for a fact.” “What is your point?” “There’s a very big difference between being intelligent and being smart.” “Bravo.”

“I am not angry.” “Your dead butterflies might disagree with that. They might tell you that you kill them to take back beautiful little pieces from the Lord who robbed you of your husband. Colorful pieces of revenge.”

Oswell scanned the flat plains and wondered what would rise up from the dry dirt that day and attempt to pull him and the rest of the Tall Boxer Gang into the earth.

Heart racing, Dicky squeezed off a shot that splattered crimson onto the dust that floated behind the foe’s head. The agglutination of grit and blood fell like gumdrops to the ground, and the man toppled a moment later.

Dicky sucked air, and a boot slammed onto his neck. His watery eyes looked up. Standing overhead was the talker, whose bronzed brow and prickly beard dripped blood and sweat while he wheezed from the bullet the gambler had sent into his anatomy. His tangled black hair looked like leaking oil, and his obsidian eyes were unblinking and reptilian.

“None of us are martyrs. We all did bad things and deserve to hang. I just wanted Miss Jeffries to know that there was never any malice in James Lingham.” “And you?” asked T.W. “I wanted to be sheriff when I was little, but things went bad for me, and I turned mean.” “That’s how it happens,” said her father. At that moment, the petite woman noticed that the voices of her father and the outlaw sounded very much alike.