Free The Front Porch Prophet by Raymond L. Atkins

and was standing on a pallet raised ten feet in the air by Rocky’s forklift. There was a strip of heavy denim looped around Clyde’s neck, the other end of which was tied to a ceiling joist directly above. Rocky had decided to hang the scoundrel, which was better than he deserved, and Clyde had not handled this reversal of fortune well. Luckily, cooler heads prevailed, although it appeared at the time that Howard left Clyde standing on tiptoe somewhat longer than was absolutely necessary before he was cut down and fired. Rocky had to go to the regional hospital for an evaluation but was pronounced sane. He was allowed to come back to work with a write-up in his file and a stiff warning about hanging management.
    As for A.J., he had enjoyed his fill of textiles and did not take advantage of the employment opportunity that Howard Hoyt had offered. Eugene urged A.J. to come help him run a little import business he had started, and A.J. was intrigued at first. But ultimately he took a pass when he discovered that Eugene’s fledgling enterprise consisted of high-speed runs in the Lover to Denver, where the old Chrysler was loaded with as many cases of Coors beer as it would hold for transport back to Cherokee County for resale at three times its purchase price.
    “You’re missing the boat,” Eugene said in an exasperated tone when A.J. informed him that he appreciated the offer, but he felt he wasn’t cut out for the occupation. Instead, he hired on dragging slabs at a little sawmill down in the valley. The work was unpleasant but not intellectually demanding, so he had plenty of time to think. And what he thought about was Maggie.

CHAPTER 4
    Don’t investigate my demise too thoroughly.

—Excerpt of posthumous letter from Eugene Purdue to
Red Arnold, Cherokee County Sheriff
    IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON ON THE FOLLOWING SAT urday when A.J. rolled into the clearing for his second visit with Eugene. He parked Johnny Mack’s old bulldozer next to Eugene’s Jeep, which had deteriorated appreciably during the previous week. He left his bat on the dozer and climbed down. He and Rufus had already enjoyed their reunion for the day, and it had gone poorly for Rufus. The big canine left the encounter visibly shaken, as if the sight of A.J. banging the Louisville Slugger against the track of the Cat while yelling
It’s showtime!
had upset him. A.J. had not intended to offend his foe’s sensibilities and almost certainly would have veered away before impact, but Rufus hightailed it before A.J. had the opportunity to explain. For a large dog, Rufus was extremely fleet of paw when the need was upon him.
    It had taken most of the day to reclaim the road, and A.J. was tired. He walked slowly to the porch where Eugene sat, quietly rocking. The scene appeared much as it had the week before, with one notable exception. The Navy Colt lay on the cable spool with its barrel split and flared. The proud old gun’s Jeep, tree, and Fox shooting days were over. They had come to an end as all things eventually must, saddening A.J. in a way he could not readily explain. He sat down heavily next to Eugene, who was busy loading his replacement weapon of choice, a twelve-gauge pump shotgun that looked vaguely familiar.
    “What did you do to Rufus?” Eugene asked conversationally. “He came tearing through here awhile ago like he was on fire.” He raised the shotgun and sighted down the barrel. “Pull,” he said. Then he shot the Jeep.
    “Rufus doesn’t like the bulldozer,” A.J. explained, reaching for a beer in the cooler on the floor. “I may need to make Johnny Mack an offer on it.”
    “Pull,” Eugene said, again shooting his faithful vehicle. “You need to quit scaring my dog like that. He might get skittish, and I like a dog to have plenty of spirit.”
    “No problem. He’s loaded with spirit.” A.J. took a sip of his cold beer. “What happened to the Colt?”
    “I guess it was too old to work for a living,” Eugene said. “It