leaving me there to die, as I would have preferred. But I suppose the Lord still has plans for me ... or at least I would assume He did, if I still believed in Him.”
Schofield talked like a preacher, all right, the words just flowing out of him like a river. He wore a serene expression the whole time he was talking about the horrible thing he’d done, and The Kid could come to only one conclusion.
His cellmate was loco. Pure loco.
But that didn’t really matter as long as Schofield didn’t interfere with the plan. The Kid nodded. “Thank you for tellin’ me about that, John. Must have been rough on you, all right.”
“I’ve made my peace with it,” Schofield said. “I may not have burned in the church that day, but I know I’ll burn in hell when my time comes.”
“Wait a minute,” The Kid said with a slight frown. “I thought you said you didn’t believe in God.”
“I don’t.”
“Then how can you believe in hell? You can’t have one without the other, can you?”
“I believe that you can.”
“I don’t see how.” The Kid wasn’t sure why he was debating theology with this lunatic, but if he was going to be sharing a cell with Schofield it was probably a good idea to learn as much about him as he could.
“Look around you,” Schofield said.
“At this prison?”
“At this world. If this isn’t the anteroom of hell, what else can it possibly be? Think of all the sin and suffering that goes on constantly, the human misery and degradation that’s all around us. When people tell me to go to hell, Waco, I tell them there’s no need. I’m already there.”
With that he started to laugh softly, and The Kid felt an unaccustomed chill go through him.
Loco or not, John Schofield was friendly and unassuming. Knowing what he did, The Kid didn’t think he would ever actually like the man, but figured they could get along all right. And since Schofield had been locked up at Huntsville for seventeen years, he certainly knew how things worked in the prison.
For instance, as they were walking toward the mess hall that evening, The Kid mentioned Ike Calvert, the trusty who had brought him his blanket and extra uniform, and Schofield frowned. “Never trust that little weasel.”
“He told me he can get just about anything a fella might want.”
“He probably can, but the price might wind up being more than you’d want to pay. He’s an evil man, Waco. I know that after the things I’ve done, I’m not one to be talking, but Calvert is truly an agent of the Devil.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” The Kid didn’t expect to have any dealings with Calvert, but it was good to know if he did, he should tread carefully.
The tables and benches in the mess hall were bolted to the floor. Guards prowled constantly between them, keeping an eye on the prisoners to make sure nobody tried to swipe a spoon that could be used to make a weapon.
“They keep a close count on utensils, bowls, and anything else that might prove to be dangerous,” Schofield explained. “If even a single spoon turns up missing, we’re all searched and so are our cells until it’s found.”
“I’ll bet fellas manage to steal one every now and then anyway,” The Kid said.
“Of course. Every man harbors the desire to commit murder inside him. Some are unable to control it.”
The Kid might have argued with that ... but he remembered how he had once pulled the trigger of a rifle he was holding to a man’s head. Did the fact that the man was one of those responsible for his wife’s death make a difference? Was that cold-blooded killing any less murder?
The Kid had long since stopped worrying about it except on the occasional dark night of the soul.
“Who are some of the troublemakers in here?” he asked quietly as he and Schofield ate.
“Well, there was a man named Boozer ... but he was killed in an escape attempt several months ago. He may have been the worst. But nature abhors a vacuum, you know. Do
Schofield talked like a preacher, all right, the words just flowing out of him like a river. He wore a serene expression the whole time he was talking about the horrible thing he’d done, and The Kid could come to only one conclusion.
His cellmate was loco. Pure loco.
But that didn’t really matter as long as Schofield didn’t interfere with the plan. The Kid nodded. “Thank you for tellin’ me about that, John. Must have been rough on you, all right.”
“I’ve made my peace with it,” Schofield said. “I may not have burned in the church that day, but I know I’ll burn in hell when my time comes.”
“Wait a minute,” The Kid said with a slight frown. “I thought you said you didn’t believe in God.”
“I don’t.”
“Then how can you believe in hell? You can’t have one without the other, can you?”
“I believe that you can.”
“I don’t see how.” The Kid wasn’t sure why he was debating theology with this lunatic, but if he was going to be sharing a cell with Schofield it was probably a good idea to learn as much about him as he could.
“Look around you,” Schofield said.
“At this prison?”
“At this world. If this isn’t the anteroom of hell, what else can it possibly be? Think of all the sin and suffering that goes on constantly, the human misery and degradation that’s all around us. When people tell me to go to hell, Waco, I tell them there’s no need. I’m already there.”
With that he started to laugh softly, and The Kid felt an unaccustomed chill go through him.
Loco or not, John Schofield was friendly and unassuming. Knowing what he did, The Kid didn’t think he would ever actually like the man, but figured they could get along all right. And since Schofield had been locked up at Huntsville for seventeen years, he certainly knew how things worked in the prison.
For instance, as they were walking toward the mess hall that evening, The Kid mentioned Ike Calvert, the trusty who had brought him his blanket and extra uniform, and Schofield frowned. “Never trust that little weasel.”
“He told me he can get just about anything a fella might want.”
“He probably can, but the price might wind up being more than you’d want to pay. He’s an evil man, Waco. I know that after the things I’ve done, I’m not one to be talking, but Calvert is truly an agent of the Devil.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” The Kid didn’t expect to have any dealings with Calvert, but it was good to know if he did, he should tread carefully.
The tables and benches in the mess hall were bolted to the floor. Guards prowled constantly between them, keeping an eye on the prisoners to make sure nobody tried to swipe a spoon that could be used to make a weapon.
“They keep a close count on utensils, bowls, and anything else that might prove to be dangerous,” Schofield explained. “If even a single spoon turns up missing, we’re all searched and so are our cells until it’s found.”
“I’ll bet fellas manage to steal one every now and then anyway,” The Kid said.
“Of course. Every man harbors the desire to commit murder inside him. Some are unable to control it.”
The Kid might have argued with that ... but he remembered how he had once pulled the trigger of a rifle he was holding to a man’s head. Did the fact that the man was one of those responsible for his wife’s death make a difference? Was that cold-blooded killing any less murder?
The Kid had long since stopped worrying about it except on the occasional dark night of the soul.
“Who are some of the troublemakers in here?” he asked quietly as he and Schofield ate.
“Well, there was a man named Boozer ... but he was killed in an escape attempt several months ago. He may have been the worst. But nature abhors a vacuum, you know. Do
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