Page 4 of Property of Legend

“Hudson Welles,” Milton says, his voice already smug.“You’re under arrest.”

“For what?”

“Attempted theft of livestock.Montgomery boy says you were stealin’ his mama’s prize mare.”

I laugh.“That’s bullshit.Just saddled her up, takin’ her out to ride with Sophie.”

Milton laughs.“Now that’s some bullshit.We all know you’re not supposed to be on Montgomery property, and we all know why.”

“Sophie Montogomery knows I’m here.Just ask her.”

Dix shrugs, already moving toward me with cuffs.“Tell it to the judge.”

There won’t be a judge.

Not that night.

Not the next.

They throw me in the old holding cell behind the courthouse, the same jail my great-great-grandfather laid brick on.The place smells like mold and piss, the cot’s rusted through, and the metal toilet runs nonstop.No arraignment.No hearing.Just four walls and silence.

I wait.

A day turns to two.Then a week.

I pound the bars.Yell.Threaten.

Nothing.

I starve between trays with oats and crusts of bread.Drink water out of the toilet.Somethin’s not right.This ain’t what I hear the old folks complain about, their tax dollars, feeding and housing prisoners.

And then he shows up.

Reverend Ezekiel Crowley.Black suit, no tie, shirt open, gold cross glinting in the light, hair slicked back like a damn televangelist from hell.

He stands outside the bars, smilin’ like he already owns my soul.

“Hudson,” he says, voice sugarcoated.“Why did you abandon your family?Leave Pearly Gates.You were chosen.”

“You gonna bail me out or just preach at me?”

His smile drops.

“You tried to run.To forsake your destiny.This is the Lord’s way of correcting your path.”

I step up to the bars, grip them hard.“You had ‘em leave me in here.You told ‘em to.”

“You’ll thank me someday.”

He walks off before I can cuss him out properly.

I spend two more weeks in that cell.

Rotting.

Thinking about Sophie.About her waiting in that barn with a bag.About the look on her face when I didn’t show.

She probably thinks I left her.

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