The Front Porch Prophet Read Online Free PDF

dispatched Charles Fox in the previous century. Loading the Colt was a complicated business, and he did not seem to notice A.J.’s arrival.
    Eugene’s appearance was startling. His shoulder-length white hair was in desperate need of a combing. His long white beard hung to his chest and was reminiscent of Rip Van Winkle’s whiskers. There was translucence to his skin, as if the full light of afternoon was shining through. As he sat there on his front porch, he reminded A.J. of an Old Testament prophet, a modern-day Elijah perched atop Mount Eugene, preparing to read the Law to the unworthy and to enforce it, if necessary, with the Navy Colt.
    A.J. cleared his throat to warn of his approach, then stepped up on the porch. Eugene continued loading, and A.J. viewed his surroundings.
    An old wooden cable spool sat between the two chairs on the porch and served as an end table. Its contents included a quart of bourbon, several pill bottles, a scattering of loading supplies, one of the Lover’s hubcaps that was spending its golden years as an ashtray, and an open can of gunpowder. A cigarette was burning in the hubcap like a slow fuse. A.J. reached down and removed the cigarette from the vicinity of the gunpowder. Eugene looked up from his work and gestured at the other chair, an oversized rocker. He had taken a liking to it one night on Slim’s porch and had swapped a bus hood for it. A.J. sat.
    Eugene finished loading the cylinder and slid it into the pistol. He raised the big pistol, cocked it, and took careful aim at the hackberry tree across the clearing. A.J. was gently tapping the porch rail with the bat while keeping a casual eye on the revolver. Eugene squeezed off a round at the hackberry tree. Bark flew.
    “Ten dollars says I can hit that tree six out of six times,” Eugene said. He rocked gently in his chair. A.J. looked at the tree. It was riddled.
    “Why are you shooting the tree?” A.J. asked. Eugene shot again. It was a hit.
    “That’s two,” he said. He took a short sip from the bourbon bottle before lighting a replacement cigarette. “So how about it? Ten dollars on six out of six? I’ll even shoot left-handed.” He had won a tidy sum over the years with this inducement. Since he was left-handed, it was not the sporting proposition it appeared to be.
    “A ten-dollar bet would put you under too much pressure,” A.J. observed. “If you missed, you might decide to shoot me to get out of paying. But if you need the money, I’ll give you ten dollars to shoot Rufus.”
    “It would take a cold son of a bitch to shoot his own dog for ten dollars,” Eugene said, again putting his cigarette down in the hubcap and drawing a bead on the tree. He fired four more shots. The doomed hackberry shuddered, as if it could see its own short, sad future. “Make it twenty and I’ll call him up here.” He removed the spent cylinder and slipped a loaded replacement into the pistol. His movements were sure.
    “How about if I pay you the twenty and just shoot him myself?” A.J. asked, reaching over to again remove a lit cigarette from the vicinity of the gunpowder. Eugene was a grown man and could blow himself up if he wanted to, but it would have to wait until A.J. left.
    “You know,” Eugene said, lighting yet another one, “if you’re out of smokes, I’d be glad to spot you a pack.” He took a deep drag before placing the cigarette in the hubcap. A.J. realized he was dealing with an immovable object so he picked up the can of gunpowder and moved it to the opposite end of the porch.
    “No, I’ve got cigarettes. I just don’t want to get fried. Also, I’d like to find out why you called me up here. Have you decided to forgive me for whipping your tail?”
    “Whipping
my
tail? Shit, what are you talking about? I was all over you like a cheap suit. I was on you like white on rice. I whipped you so bad your
kids
had black eyes.” He leaned back in his chair, obviously enjoying his own use of