Dangerous Undertaking by Mark de Castrique Read Free Book Online

walking again, carefully placing his rhododendron stick on the crossties. “Yeah, we covered Roddey up and the old man asked me into the cabin. He and I shared some corn—liquor that is,” he added with a chuckle. “As a Methodist, I considered it medicine to calm my nerves. Only then did he tell me his name. Jake McGraw.
    “You see, Barry, I’d performed a spiritual function for Jake no one in my seminary class could have imagined. I was an outsider, but Jake McGraw needed me. Praying over Roddey was doing the Lord’s work. I understand that now. After that, Ol’ Jake came down every Sunday and sat on the back corner of the back bench. He was still a strange old hermit, but in his own way, he gave me a stamp of approval. Believe me, it didn’t go unnoticed by the other mountain folk. In a year, Hickory Nut Falls was my largest congregation. Today, there is a church there instead of a chicken coop. And a parking lot too.
    “Ten years later, your dad and I buried Jake beside Ol’ Roddey. And I swear at the final ‘Amen,’ a coon dog howled from the mountain top.”
    “Yeah, right,” I laughed. “You’re doing a number on me.”
    “It’s true,” said Pace. “You can ask Charlie. He was a friend of Jake’s.”
    The preacher pointed to a break in the bordering pines. I saw a field sloping away from us. Halfway down the hillside, a massive workhorse plodded along. Behind him, with both hands guiding the wooden plow, a skinny man in blue bib-overalls stepped over the clods of freshly turned earth. The old guy was eighty if a day.
    “That’s Charlie Hartley,” said Pace.
    “Don’t believe I know him.”
    “Well, you’re about to.” He swung the walking stick in the air and caught the farmer’s attention. The man pulled back on the reins and hollered “whoa-up.” The gentle beast lumbered to a halt and snorted his displeasure. He shook his head, twisting his neck around the sweat-stained collar to roll an eye toward the barn at the far end of the field.
    “Charlie’s never had a tractor touch his soil. Got no use for them. His horses are his children.” The preacher left the railroad tracks and started across the field. “Come on,” he said. “Rude not to talk a spell.”
    “Hello, Reverend,” said Charlie. He wiped the sweat from his hands with a red bandanna and grasped Pace’s right one with both of his own. “Good to see you.” He looked me over. “They finally get you some help?” he asked Pace.
    The Reverend laughed. “Yeah, but he ain’t it. This is Barry Clayton. He’s Jack Clayton’s boy. Barry got shot up at the Willard funeral last week.”
    “Heard something about that,” he said with a nod. “You work with your pa?”
    “They don’t call me Buryin’ Barry for nothing.”
    The old man didn’t crack a smile at the joke I’d been saddled with since junior high. He turned to his horse like Pace had turned to me.
    “This is Ned. He’s paying for his pleasure. Told him last February he shouldn’t have jumped Nell. With her foaling just a couple months off, it’s just him and me to ready the winter field.” He turned and lectured the animal. “Remember that next spring ’fore you go mountin’ your plowmate.”
    The horse flipped his tail as if to say “lay off.” Charlie chuckled at the big stallion’s rebuttal. “Course you are giving me a grandchild of sorts. Guess I should be grateful.” He reached into his shirt pocket for a sugar cube, and, as the horse took the treat, Charlie scratched the coarse hair between his dapple ears.
    “What are you fellows doing walking in on the Hope Quarry spur?”
    “Guess you didn’t know Dallas Willard’s still missing,” said Pace.
    “Nope. Ain’t been to town since Monday.”
    “He hasn’t been seen since the shooting. Then his truck shows up yesterday by the railroad about two miles south of where the quarry spur splits off. Search parties spent today combing half the county.”
    “Anything I can