Calla Bryn Sturgis by Stephen King

Author:Stephen King [King, Stephen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

4

Now he surveyed the men of Call Bryn Sturgis, not even glancing at George Telford. The feather sagged in Telford’s hand. He sat down on the first bench, still holding it.

Callahan began with one of his slang-terms, but they were farmers and no one needed to ask for an explanation.

“This is chickenshit.”

He surveyed them longer. Most would not return his look. After a moment, even Eisenhart and Adams dropped their eyes. Overholser kept his head up, but under the Old Fella’s dry and bitter gaze, the rancher looked petulant rather than defiant.

“Chickenshit,” the man in the black coat and turned-around collar repeated. A small gold cross gleamed below the notch in the backwards collar. On his forehead, that other cross—the one he’d supposedly carved in his flesh with his own thumbnail in partial penance for some awful sin—glared under the lamps like a tattoo.

“This young man isn’t one of my flock, but he’s right, and I think you all know it. You know it in your hearts. Even you, Mr. Overholser. And you, George Telford.”

“Know no such thing,” Telford said, but his voice was weak and stripped of its former persuasive charm.

“All your lies will cross your eyes, that’s what my mother would have told you.” Callahan offered Telford a thin smile Tian wouldn’t have wanted it pointed in his direction. And then Callahan did turn to him. “I never heard it put better than you put it tonight, boy. Thankee-sai.”

Tian raised a feeble hand and managed an even more feeble smile. He felt like a character in a silly festival play, saved at the last moment by some improbable supernatural intervention.

“I know a bit about cowardice,” Callahan said, turning to the men on the benches. “I have personal experience, you might say. I know how one cowardly decision leads to another…and another…and another…until it’s too late to turn around, too late to change. Mr. Telford, I assure you the tree of which young Mr. Jaffords spoke is not make-believe. The Calla is in dire danger. Your souls are in danger.”

“Hail Mary, full of grace,” said someone on the left side of the room, “the Lord is with thee. Blessed is the fruit of thy womb, J—”

“Bag it,” Callahan snapped. “Save it for Sunday.” His eyes, blue sparks in their deep hollows, studied them. “For this night, never mind God and Mary and the Man Jesus. Never mind the sneetches and light-sticks of the Wolves, either. You must fight. You’re the men of the Calla, are you not? Then act like men. Stop behaving like dogs crawling on their bellies to lick the boots of a cruel master.”

Overholser went dark red at that, and began to stand. Diego Adams grabbed his arm and spoke in his ear. For a moment Overholser remained as he was, frozen in a kind of crouch, and then he sat back down. Adams stood up.

“Sounds good, padrone,” Adams said in his heavy accent. “Sounds brave. Yet there are still a few questions, mayhap. Haycox asked one of em.

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