Abbadon tipped his hat at Dixon and indicated he wanted inside the soddy. Dixon squared his shoulders and filled the doorway with his body.
The stranger grinned at the sergeant as though he knew exactly what Dixon was thinking. But he couldn’t. No one could read minds, not even the devil—so Dixon’s mother had said.
“Good day, Sergeant. How is Mr. Black?” Abbadon removed his hat and twirled it on his finger.
And why did it matter to the man? “Not much better.”
“I’ve come to pay my respects.”
Dixon sealed his lips in a tight line. Better not to antagonize and ask for more trouble.
Something brushed against his shoulder. Barty’s hand. He could smell Barty’s tobacco laden breath.
“Abbadon, good to see you.” Barty gave Dixon a shove. “Let the man in, Dixon.”
Dixon grunted and moved aside. What did Abbadon have to do with Joab? There must be a connection. Yet, outside of Abbadon’s arrival the day Joab’s son died—killed in a most unusual way, he might add—there was no reason to assume that one man had anything to do with the other.
“You goin’ to close the door, or become it yourself?” Nathaniel’s words came with a hint of snideness.
Dixon couldn’t leave now. Not with Abbadon there. He turned on his heel and stepped back into the soddy, closing the door behind him.
While Barty and Nathaniel extended their hands to Abbadon, Dixon studied the stranger. The man’s pale face glowed in the dark of the sod house, an eerie light. But Barty and Nathaniel didn’t seem to notice. They seemed smitten with the man.
Much of the town seemed taken in by Abbadon. What was it about him? He seemed to burrow into people’s hearts like a bloodsucker, unannounced and unwanted, feeding on their secrets. At least, that’s how Dixon felt. However, most people did not show a fear of Abbadon. Why then did Dixon sense the man was ready to send him to the judgment seat?
The stranger’s gaze met Dixon’s. His eyes flicked like a snake’s. “Sergeant, were you not heading some place?”
“I decided to stay.”
Joab made a gurgling sound like a man being stabbed.
Dixon took one step and knelt beside his friend.
Joab’s face, what wasn’t covered with pussy sores, turned red. His eyes …
Dixon’s heart stopped.
Joab’s eyes were spears. Sharp. Ready for war. And cast upon the heart of Abbadon. They did know each other, and, by the looks of both men’s faces, they hated each other.
A knock echoed through the soddy.
Barty opened the door, and Pastor Perkins stood before them, a sentinel between the light behind him and the dark in the soddy. He removed his hat, revealing a head of thick, gray hair.
His coat hung long, an oversized mantle draping from his shoulders. He appeared a giant in the room, and when he nodded to each man, he wore the look of one who knew much but loved even more.
Except when his eyes met Abbadon’s. They locked like bulls’ horns.
Abbadon’s head twisted until the connection severed. He stared at the floor.
Dixon lowered his gaze, unable to look Pastor Perkins in the eye. He never could feel comfortable in the man’s presence—always felt as though the pastor knew everything he’d ever done wrong.
Dixon rose and stepped away from Joab. Perhaps the pastor could help his friend, even if he might despise Dixon.
Shuffled feet thudded against the wall. Dixon looked toward the sound.
Abbadon, now appearing as though he saw a ghost, stood plastered against the wall. His shoulders closed around his chest. The creature had a bad case of fear.
He slunk along the wall and slipped out the door, as quiet and defeated as a wounded dog after a fight.
Did the pastor have something on him? Did they have some previous altercation? Perhaps the drifter should be followed.
“Joab, you have suffered greatly.” Pastor Perkins’ soft voice stilled Dixon.
“Destruction from God.” Joab gasped. His face knotted, and he cried in agony.
Dixon bent beside his friend.
The pastor leaned over Joab, his breath moving the man’s hair. He touched Joab’s brow and frowned.
“My son, dead … my farm … my skin …” Joab gulped for air.
Pastor Perkins laid his hand on Joab’s, but he offered no words of comfort.
Outside, the coyotes howled at the evening sky, and crows cawed great finds of grain to each other. Above the soddy the wind blew, speaking through the stove pipe, almost soothing in its winnowing.
Perhaps, just perhaps, this would be the end of Joab’s suffering. Dixon could only hope.