Brother Billy-Bob's Revival

In the cattlemen's hall, the atmosphere was more fired than a bowl of three-alarm chili. The room was packed tighter than a saloon girl's bustiere and not even a weevil could have squeezed through the door. Brother Billy-Bob had returned to Laredo.

"The sermon this fine evening, brethren," he announced, leaning like a predatory crow over the podium, "is The Creation."

"Praise be," shouted old Ma McDermott from the back row, already waving her arms high above her best gingham bonnet.

"We all know what was created on the first six days, don't we?" demanded Brother Billy-Bob. The throng murmured. "I don't hear so good," bellowed Billy-Bob, marching along the stage, his black coat flapping in rhythm to his stride.

"YESSIR," shouted the flock.

"And on the seventh day," Brother Billy-Bob continued, eyes blazing like coals as they raked every upturned face. "What was created on the seventh day, brothers and sisters?"

"Hallelujah," cried somebody, and the congregation took that as a signal to rise. Whooping and hollering, they stomped on the wooden floor of the cattlemen's hall. A pregnant women fainted, but was kept on her feet by the sheer pressure of the crowd.

Brother Billy-Bob dropped to his knees and pointed at the assembly. "Let me hear you," he thundered. "Let me hear you all give thanks, for on the seventh day was created...." Loud as it was, Brother Billy-Bob's voice could hardly be heard above the roar.


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