The Black Train Read Online Free PDF Page A

aroused unless a gal shat on him. The younger man guessed something similar was going on here. Weird, he thought. “Come on now, let’s git. Oh, and where’s my money?”
    The quivering, plump hand held it out, a personal check for thirty dollars.
    “Thanks,” the younger man said.
    “Let’s go to lunch,” came more hacked sobs. “Anywhere you want.”
    “Naw. Got business.”
    Wet eyes implored him. “At least, at least tell me I do it better than your lover…”
    A futile exhalation. “You do fine, that’s for sure,” came the overly generous charity. Actually, it was mediocre work. “But I told you, I ain’t got no lover, and I don’t never get attached in somethin’ like this. You know that. This deal’s gotta be like what we agreed. One thing in exchange for another. Right?”
    Dismally, the fat man nodded.
    “Here, lemme help ya up,” the younger man offered. He grabbed a fat hand. Ooof! Ya damn near weigh more than a fuckin’ washer’n dryer! Once up, the guy wouldn’t let go of his hand. Ain’t nothin’ worse than a mushy fag. He pulled away.
    The fat man stared, tears still streaming. “I’d do anything for you…”
    Oh, man! The younger man knew he needed to be careful. After all, this was good money for fast work. “Look, I can tell you’re out’a sorts right now, so I’m gonna take off. I’ll walk back. But just you stay here a while and calm down, git yourself together. You don’t wanna be going back to town all cryin’ like ya are. And wipe that mess off your face.”
    A jowly nod, a handkerchief across the eyes, lips, and Vandyke.
    “That’s better.” The younger man held up the check. “You call me when ya wanna go again.” And then he turned and walked off.
    He strode right out of the clearing into a path between the high grass not even shoulder-wide. Dissolving words faded behind him:
    “I love you…”
    Shee-it…
    He strode faster, to get away. Walking was fine. He liked the fat man’s car—a new Caddy, with some fine a/c—but when he got in these mushy moods, shit—
    I’ll walk.
    Another step and—
    Damn it to hell!
    —he stumbled and fell. His knees thunked, and when he arched around to see what he’d tripped on…
    His mind quieted.
    A brown skull, half buried, looked back at him.
    He wasn’t squeamish but then he did believe some of it. He’d seen some things, for sure—out here, and at the house…
    A quick chill rippled up his sunbaked back. He knew the skull was very old. He also knew it was likely the skull of a slave, not a soldier killed in the field.
    The skulls were actually all over the place.

C HAPTER T WO
I
    “You’re right,” Collier said to the old woman. He marveled over one of many glass display cases. “Your inn is like a mini-museum.” Below his gaze lay an array of Civil War-era implements. Each one was labeled. MESS PAN —1861, MORTISE TWIVEL —1859, .36- CALIBER SELF-COCKING STARR REVOLVER —1863.
    “Just you take a look at the Gast Museum downtown and tell me what we got here ain’t a lot finer’n more interesting,” Mrs. Butler bragged.
    The next case sported gloves, belts, and footgear. “Brogen?” he asked of the clunky black shoe.
    “That was the standard combat boot back then. They were as important to a fella’s survival on the battlefield as his rifle.” She leaned, pointed to a different styled shoe. The gesture caused Collier to run his gaze across the sweep of her bosom, after which he blinked hard to sideswipe the distraction.
    “But this ’un here,” she continued, “was the cream’a the shoe crop. The Jefferson shoe, or bootee as it was called. Mr. Collier, you could put that shoe on right now and it’d fit better than any fancified Gucci you might buy today.”
    Collier looked at the high-top leather shoe. Save for a few scuffs, it looked in excellent condition. The label read: FEDERAL PATTERN JEFFERSON BOOTEE —1851— WORN BY MR. TAYLOR CUTTON, RAIL INSPECTOR FOR THE EAST TENNESSEE AND