The Blues on Highway 61

Friday night at Jackie’s Cold Day Inn was a little like story time for kids at the library on Saturday mornings. The usual Friday night customers were there. Sheriff Tom, his sidekicks Doc Harris and Les; Gary and Mike from the Conoco station; Doris and Flora. Even church lady Becky was a Friday night regular now. She could nurse a few ounces of wine for hours if need be. Like the others, she liked to hear new stories or old ones retold. There were a dozen more folks clustered in the tables near the Sheriff’s table.

Sheriff Tom and Doc Harris were taking turns telling about the time Randy Wilkins, the minister, was shot to death. It was a long story that had been told several times in the intervening years. Sometimes when a detail was left out someone in the audience would point it out, like a child noticing mom or dad skipping a page in a bedtime story.

I was taking sips of my Jack on the rocks in my favorite bar, relaxing, enjoying the story.  I’d be on the road again tomorrow visiting farmers and ranchers in Slate, Snyder, Post, then down to Midland before returning to the home office in Amarillo. The rain gods had been kind this year, bumper crops of everything including the farm equipment I sold.

Sheriff Tom put his drink on the table, stood up then got down on his haunches and said, “Now it’s just me and Buckshot. I squatted next to him and said, ‘Buckshot, it went down this way. You went chasing after this jackrabbit, the minister yelled at you. Reg turned around, tripped and fell. He didn’t mean to pull the trigger as he fell. Is that what happened?’

“He didn’t have to say a word. He hung his head down almost to the ground. Right then I knew I had the truth.

“’Course, I didn’t tell it this way at the inquest. I made it sound like I figured it out by myself, kept Buckshot out of it. The squirrelly DA might wanna charge him with reckless endangerment or something.

“Folks kept asking was it murder or an accident but all I said was I’m still investigatin’. I knew for sure how it happened but I didn't have the autopsy or ballistics reports yet. How would it look if I go to the DA with -- Mr. DA it was accidental death, this here dog’s an eye witness. Got any doubts all you gotta do is make 'im raise his right paw, swear 'im in.’”

The woof, the whole woof, and nothing but the woof

This was one of the story’s punch lines and even though we’d heard it before and knew it was coming, we laughed. It was a natural break in the story and Tom always took his time before continuing, give folks a minute or two to use the facilities, freshen their drinks, or socialize.

He finished the story like he always did, gradually lowering his voice so that we had to lean in to hear the end.

Story telling time was over but a stranger sitting two tables away spoke up.

“Excuse me folks. My name’s Daniel. Don’t mind me. I’m just passin’ through on my way to California but it looks like you folks like stories. I got one, a true one. Sheriff?”

Tom hesitated for a moment then said, “Folks, you know all my stories. What say we hear a new one?” Nobody disagreed.

Sheriff Tom raised his drink in one hand and gave Daniel a thumbs up with the other. Go ahead.

The stranger nodded, emptied his drink and asked Jackie for another. He straightened up in his chair gave the crowd a once over glance and began.

“Anybody here know somebody ever sold his soul to the Devil?”

No one said a word but everybody was thinking.

“I didn’t think so. Selling your soul is serious business. People been known to die suddenly and not too well right after confessin’ it, part of the contract, complete secrecy or pay the price. Some try to run and hide but when the Devil tracks ‘em down I hear tell they die of fright. Scared to death -- for real.

“I know a fella who sold his soul. This ain’t a story I heard from the second cousin of my neighbor’s aunt. It was told to me by the man himself who did it a long time ago. Tell you the truth I haven’t checked to see if anything happened to him since then. After all, nobody really knows what all is in the contracts. Could be by telling, it puts the listener in the Devil’s list, too. Some days I can’t help it, I can’t stop looking over my shoulder.

Before ballpoint pens you signed in blood.

“I was working in South Carolina when I met him at a bar where he was playing his guitar once, twice a week. I don’t think he got paid much more’n beer money. He was an ok musician but not good enough to get anybody excited about. The bartender told me he’d been kickin’ around different bars for years hopin’ to be discovered some way but in twenty years nobody’d come up and offered him anything more’n free beer for his trouble.

“Anyhow, I got to know him pretty good. Andy Olson was his name, called himself Lonesome Olson, and his songs sure seemed to prove it. I told him once he oughta think about learning songs with a little more hope in ‘em but he looked at me like he’d heard that a lotta times before and just didn’t have the spirit for it. Late one night we’d been drinkin’ whiskey insteada beer. I had a big paycheck that week and I was celebratin’ something or other, don’t remember what.

“So we’re sittin’ there sharin’ some fine rye whiskey and he leans over, looks over one shoulder then the other and whispers that when he was just a kid, like 17 years old, he sold his soul to the Devil. I almost laughed out loud then I remembered where we were. Little towns like the one we were in, folks take their beliefs pretty serious. Mention the Devil and folks are liable to look at you funny like you might be THE ONE their preacher’s warned them about all their lives.

“He scooted his chair closer to me and said he’d never told anybody about the deal he made with the Devil, maybe come to a bad end by telling. But goin’ now on twenty years he figured Ole Scratch didn’t remember him anymore. Hell with it, gotta tell somebody.

“He said when he was a kid, he was wanting’ to play guitar real bad. There was a fella there who could play all night and never the same song twice. I think he said his name was Weepy Whims, owing to him making his guitar sound like it was hurtin’ real deep inside. Accordin’ to the kid grown men and women up and cried like babies when he played the blues. And nobody was embarrassed. No, sir. They go up to Weepy, give him money to thank him for makin’ ‘em feel bad I suppose.

“Well, one night after everybody’d gone home it was just Andy and Weepy sittin’ there. Looked like there was at least ten dollars, mostly dimes and quarters in Weepy’s old hat. And the kid says I wanna play like you. Weepy, old and sad looking, tells the boy there’s a high price to pay for becomin’ a genuine bluesman. The kid’s crushed, hell, he ain’t got no money. Matter of fact, hardly anybody in that poor town had any money in those days. But Weepy says you don’t need no money. He says he can see the fire in Andy’s eyes and guessed if there was fire in his belly, too, it would work for the kid like it worked for him. Gonna tell him the secret.

“There’s a place in the Mississippi delta, he whispers, where the top bluesmen go to get their talent, a particular crossroad where they go at special times at midnight to meet the Devil in the flesh. The Devil he can make you a bluesman like Robert Johnson, King of the Delta Blues, but you owe him your soul when you die. Outa nowhere he pulls out a paper, a contract that binds you to the bargain. You gotta sign it in blood and swear to tell nobody or else he’ll claim your soul on the spot.

Robert Johnson, King of the Delta Blues

Stevie Ray Vaughn & Buddy Guy

“For those of you that don’t know it, just about every blues or rock musician worth spit since then is rumored to got his talent the same way; T Bone Walker, Gatemouth Brown, Big Joe Williams and a thousand others. A lotta them died young, too, ‘bout the same age as Mr. Johnson. But I’m getting away from Andy Olson’s story.
 

“Andy wants it so much he begs and begs Weepy to tell him where the Crossroads is but Weepy’s not sure and says no. After a while Andy was such a pest that Weepy gives in, tells him what he wants to know. He hands the kid a wrinkled five dollar bill and says go to the Thin Dime Pawn Shop and buy the guitar in the window. Tell the old skinflint I’ll pay him the the other three dollars next week.

“He buys the guitar, next day takes off hitchin’ his way from South Carolina to the Mississippi delta where the the Devil and the Crossroads wait. He asks around, near starves to death before he finds out where the Crossroads are and when the next full moon is comin’.

“Midnight at the Crossroads, Andy’s scared outa his mind about meetin’ the Devil face to face. Somewhere far away a church bell chimes the hour. Suddenly there’s a flash of light, smoke and the smell of brimstone. The Prince of Darkness himself stands before Andy who’s like to pee his pants.

The Crossroads, US61 and US49

“Ole Scratch don’t waste no time. He looks at his watch and gets down to business. He tells Andy he knows what he wants and says here’s the contract sign it. Do it quick I got other things to do tonight. So Andy signs the contract and asks now what happens. When can I play the blues?

“The Devil reaches into his coat pocket, pulls out a little ledger and says you’re in luck, Andy Olson. BB King’s dead. You can have his spot. Startin’ tomorrow, next five, ten years, you come here at midnight every Monday, Wednesday, Friday and we’ll start you on the basic chords. Plan of being here ‘til dawn. Can you hum St. James Infirmary?”

 

Blues road: Louisiana to Minnesota 1400 miles

Texas Tenderfoot

On my second day on the job selling farm and ranch equipment in Panhandle I was arrested for assaulting a man with a wooden club. According to the Sheriff it didn’t matter if the blow was intentional or accidental. The victim’s skull was fractured and the concussion made him see double. No choice. I was under arrest.

I wasn’t alone in jail. Jorge Washington De La Cruz was in the same cell. My new friends Jim and Milo were in the next one. Everyone else arrested in the brawl ended up in a jail in the next town. There was room for all of us in the Panhandle jail but feelings were high and the Sheriff thought it best to separate the warring parties until the formal hearing before the circuit judge. He wasn’t due to show up for three days. I felt like a kid sent to sit in the corner to think about what I just did.

My first day hadn’t gone too badly. I was the replacement for Mac McCarthy, the sales rep who’d died suddenly. I’d spent five years in the Amarillo home office taking phone orders from the field and now I was on the road where I thought I belonged, driving the backroads all over the Texas Plains, taking in the arid land and the electric blue sky above it.

Sitting in the cell I tried not to think about getting fired. Instead I thought about the previous day when I found Jackie’s Cold Day Inn. The bar is in a old building showing its age, the foundation settled just a little askew like an old man past his prime sitting on his porch with enough light in his eyes that it made you want to sit with him for a spell; hear his stories about the times before you were born. It was my kind of place, a little shabby but I still wiped my shoes before going in.

The word brown was the first one that came to mind. The walls, floor, tables and bar seemed to be made from the dark brown lumber of a single tree. Half dozen scuffed, square tables, big enough for a four man poker game or if you don’t mind sitting too close, six polite players who minded their feet and elbows. The seven beer clocks above the backbar, each displaying a different hour and minute, banished all thoughts of time and provided muted neon light.

I was temporarily blinded after coming in from the Texas sun. I heard a voice say, “Just stand there a minute.” It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim interior.

“Are you lookin’ for directions or a drink? It’s mighty hot out there. You look like a Jack and beer man. What’ll it be?”

I gestured at the row of bottles behind the bar with my map. “How about directions and a drink? Or do I have to choose?”

She ignored my question and said, “You’re the man’s takin’ over Mac’s territory. Heard about it.”

I gave her my name and said, “Yes, I’m the new sales rep.”

Then rapid fire, “I’m Jackie. This is my bar. Welcome to Panhandle. Pull up a chair. Beer and Jack, right? This your first time in outside sales?”, she asked. I nodded yes.

She set my beer on the table, put her fingertips to her lips, looked me over and said, “I thought so. You got new boots, new hat, and no tan like you been locked up in… prison or an office for years.  And your boss called, told me to let Mac’s customers know you’re comin’.

“Just so you know, Mac was like family to us. Some folks are grievin’ like they lost a favorite uncle. But Mac won’t be hard to replace. All you gotta know is a thousand corny jokes (some of ‘em dirty), a few hundred stories, model and make of each piece of equipment the ranchers and farmers own, how old the stuff is, what a new one will cost, some harmless gossip. That’s on your first day.

“And don’t fret if you don’t know everybody’s name or how they could be related to each other, family feuds, the kids’ names, grandkids. That can wait for the second day.”

I gulped half my beer.

Then she slowed down, reached across the table and touched my arm. “I’m not tryin’ to scare you, mister. You’ll be OK. If you stick around a while I’ll introduce you to the Sheriff and a coupla his friends. Good folks. They’ll be here by and by.”

I glanced out the window and saw three men walking towards the bar. The tallest one wore a uniform and a Sheriff’s badge on his chest. A shorter man next to him was in a baggy suit, a wrinkled tie loosened around his neck, a fedora apparently rescued from a Goodwill donation box. He carried a doctor’s black bag. The third man was dressed in jeans and a snap button shirt.

So there I was in a Twilight Zone version of Gunsmoke. A no-nonsense Sheriff, a rumpled doctor, a woman saloon owner and who knows which other characters would pop in.

Jackie said, “You’re sittin’ in the Sheriff’s chair. Give it up when he comes in. He likes it ‘cause he can see the front and back doors, the bar or look out the window at the street.”

I asked about the other chairs and Jackie shrugged. “Sit any place you want.”

The men came in and stood at my table giving me a once-over. Jackie introduced me as Mac’s replacement and said, “Okay, the man with the gun is Sheriff but I figure you guessed that. Name’s Tom. The one in the bad suit and needin’ a shave is Doc Harris, and this is Les, he owns the General Store a coupla doors down.”

Doc Harris and Les tipped their hats, sat down but Sheriff Tom remained standing, thumbs looped over his gun belt. “Son, I’m gonna need you to come to my office and leave your fingerprints before sunset today. If you’re carryin’ any weapons, hand ‘em over now.”

Something made me raise my hands in the air, surrendering to whatever crime I’d committed. Maybe because I was sitting in his chair?

Jackie looked out the window and said, “Oh, oh. Tom, that’s D.C.’s truck in the middle of the street. Looks like trouble, smoke comin’ out of it.”

We rushed out to the street. Smoke was billowing from the engine. The driver opened the hood and flames shot up. I ran to my car and grabbed the fire extinguisher I keep in the trunk, pulled the locking pin and smothered the fire. Tom, Doc Harris and the driver leaned over the smoking engine. Les said he'd get Mike's tow truck from the Conoco on the corner and trotted off.

The driver had the fierce look of a man who if you wanted to ask what time it was, you’d better have a damn good reason for asking. I looked him over. Plaid shirt, jeans, steel toe work boots, thick mustache, not tall or short. If you took off the mustache, the cowboy hat, and put on a headband, let his black hair grow out, it was easy to imagine him or his grandfather riding with Geronimo. He put his hand on the fender and looked at his truck as though it were his pony gone lame. He turned to me, said thanks, and followed the tow truck.

Tom said, “Fast thinkin’, son, it coulda gone south right quick.  Let’s go inside. I’m buyin’.”

Jackie already had our beers on the table. We sat down and I listened to the men speculate as to why the truck caught fire. Les and Doc praised me again, man of the hour. I asked about the scary driver, the one Jackie called D.C.

Les was the first to speak. “The Mexican guy. That’s Jorge Washington De La Cruz. We call him Washington D.C. Good guy, looks mean but ain’t. He’s the kind you want on your side, steady as a rock. Got a little spread out near Shamrock.

The Sheriff pulled a small notebook from his shirt pocket, glanced at it, put it away, and said, “I talked to your boss yesterday. Says you been in his outfit five years, you know your stuff, never been arrested.”

I allowed that what he said was true and asked what else was in his notebook.

“Oh, nothin' much ‘cept where you went to Kindergarten, ex-girlfriends, names, addresses, military records, stuff like that.” He pulled the notebook out, opened it and gave it to me.

The only entry on the page was my name and my boss’s phone number.

“Relax, son. This ain’t an interrogation, not now anyway. What reputation you’ll get around here is the one you make. You had a good start on that today, puttin’ out that fire like you did. No questions, no hesitation, did what needed to be done right quick. Mac was among us eleven years, as straight up a friend as anybody’d wanna have. If anybody knows what he did before that, where he came from, it’s news to me. He never said, nobody asked.”

He stood up and motioned to Les and Doc, “I’d like to stay longer but I just remembered we hafta go see the mayor. Gotta bug up his butt about graffiti on the gazebo in the park. I guess he don’t remember carvin’ and writin’ his name everywhere he could when he was a kid. Nice meetin’ you.”

They left just as Jorge Washington was coming in. They stood at the entrance for a minute talking about Jorge’s truck. Jackie busied herself in the stock room rearranging boxes.

Jorge saw me, took the chair across from me and signaled Jackie for a drink. He introduced himself and thanked me again for putting out the fire in his truck. I nodded you’re welcome.

I said, “I don’t think the Sheriff likes me. It’s like he’s trying to read my face and my mind at the same time. He looks at me the way my father did when he thought I was lying to him.”

He studied me for a moment while we waited for his drink. “Don’t take it too personal. And don’t worry about it. Tom’s a good lawman. Figuring people out is his job. He’s gotta know who everybody is so he knows what to do if you get crossways with the law. And he wants you to know that. Did the same thing to me and still does it sometimes.

Jackie ambled over with drinks for Jorge and for herself. She settled into a chair, took a tiny sip and said, “He’s not the only one. When a stranger like you turns up he might not notice anything except the feelin' that everybody’s staring. What’s happening is whoever you are, they’re thinkin’ how to describe you in a few words, tell their friends what they think. After a while they’ll agree on three or four words.

“Everybody’s seen you today’s done it already. Me, I’m thinkin’ Tenderfoot. Some smarts. Not Mac. The Not Mac part’s gonna be hard to beat. Trust is hard to come by.”

Jackie stood and drained her drink. “Wendy told me she won’t be able to go to your fiesta tomorrow, Jorge. She’s gotta go to a baby shower for a friend of hers. I can’t come either, gotta keep this place open.” As she walked away Jorge said, “I feel like I owe you for what you did today. You saved my engine. Why don’t you come to my fiesta tomorrow?”

I told him I didn’t want to intrude on his family but he just laughed. “I have a fiesta before each harvest then another after the harvest. My ‘family’ is the migrant workers and their families. A lot of them. We have music, good Mexican food, some beer, and a lot of fun. You and a few others will be the only gringos but you’ll be welcome. I’ll draw you a map to my ranch. ”

He motioned to Jackie for drinks and lit a cigarette. “You’re wondering who I am. I’m nobody special. Born and raised in Southern California. Settled here when I met my wife. This fiesta is in honor of my mother and father. They were migrants almost their whole lives. It’s lonely work. Years go by without seeing your relatives and as they die off the connections to their lives and hometowns are lost, usually forever. The ones that stay here like me become orphans eventually. The fiesta is for making connections, being a family, at least for a little while.”

We talked for awhile, finished our drinks and went our separate ways. I spent the next day paying courtesy visits to a few of my customers and visiting the local businesses. On the way I met Milo in his crafts store. Jim and his wife, Angel, were shopping there. When I told Milo I was invited to Jorge’s fiesta he told me he was, too, and so were Jim and Angel. We agreed to ride to the fiesta together that afternoon.

There were more than a hundred people at the fiesta. Music poured out from Jorge’s stereo on the porch. There were tables set up buffet style with a row of mamacitas laughing and joking as they prepared tamales, tacos, enchiladas, rice, beans, and something called mole. Off to the side another group of women made tall steaming piles of corn and flour tortillas. Two large bowls of red and green salsa rested on each end of the buffet line.  There were dozens of kids playing tag or hide and seek. There were smiles and laughter everywhere.

The Jolly Green Giant's mom

Jim and Milo headed for the beer kegs. Angel went to help Jorge’s wife take party pictures while Jorge took me around introducing me to his friends. It seemed like every time I stopped moving someone offered me a plate of food. I took one and went searching for Jim and Milo. They were sitting on a bench chowing down on enchiladas and beer under a large cottonwood tree by the barn.

We talked about the fiesta and Jorge for a while. Turned out that Milo and Jorge, being war veterans, bonded over that. Jim and Jorge had rescued each other in mismatched bar fights. Jorge’s wife, Jenny, came by and took pictures of us swilling beer and stuffing our faces with red enchiladas.

“The thing about Jorge,” Jim said, “is that he don’t look, sound, or act the way some folks think he should. Now, he does look dangerous to some. That mustache and the way he looks pissed off all the time? Well, hell, what you look like ain’t something you can do much about. As you can see, I’m good lookin’ as hell. I just can’t help it.” Milo and I rolled our eyes.

Milo said, “Yeah, and that oversize Buck knife of his doesn’t help either.”

Jorge found me and said, “The piñata is ready. You’re my guest so you go first.”

Well, about piñatas... The best way I can describe it is that it’s like Pin the Tail on the Donkey except you use a club to smack a moving target. And you’re blindfolded.

Not actual size

How it actually happens

Jorge handed me a club, blindfolded me, and spun me around so I didn’t have a clue where the piñata was except that it was nearby, suspended on a rope about 6 feet off the ground and that Jorge held another rope that would move it horizontally and upward.

Screaming kids hovered around the edges hoping I would break the piñata and spill the candy in a clay pot hidden inside. Jorge said to listen to the crowd for directions on when to swing. I listened to the crowd but it didn’t help... They were yelling in Spanish.The noise was deafening.

I found out what happened next while I sat in jail with Milo, Jorge and Jim.

There’s something about Jim aside from his impressive size and brawling skills. He seems to know when there’s trouble coming just before it arrives. A bunch of roughnecks tried to crash the party and somehow Jim sensed trouble so he and Milo went to meet them. One of the six crashers ran across the yard to grab a beer keg. Me, I was trying to make sense of the yelling when somebody yelled “swing!” in English. I did and smacked the beer thief across his forehead with the club. In the meantime, Jim, Milo, and Jorge worked at forcefully disabling the others.

The Sheriff pulled up a few seconds later. He’d been following the party crashers who’d been speeding and weaving all over the road.

He saw Jim and Milo beating on the crashers and one of them bleeding at my feet. And me, holding a club, the blindfold around my neck like a bandana. He arrested the lot of us.

We spent Saturday night in jail. Sunday morning Sheriff Tom rousted us out of our bunks banging on the cell bars with his nightstick at 5:00 AM.

“You fellas kept me up half the night interviewin’ witnesses which, by the way, did not include any of Jorge’s Mexican guests. They ran off the minute I showed up. Can’t say I blame ‘em. Law enforcement ain’t kind to ‘em most times. So all I got now is some witnesses with stories that don’t match up just right. Rise and shine. Coffee’s comin’ up in a bit. And I wanna talk to each of you before you can match up your stories.”

He unlocked the cells and told us we could move around, stretch our legs if we wanted. But no talking. Jorge was the first to be questioned. I was last.

Three hours later the Sheriff told us we were free to go except for me. We went into his private office. He pointed me to a chair across from his. There were several 4x6 photos scattered on his desk.

The Sheriff lit a cigarillo and picked up a picture, studied it for a moment and said, “You ever play pro ball?” Where was he going with this question?

Before I could answer he said, “Jenny takes pictures of the fiestas every year, makes albums she and Jorge keep. They take pictures of each family, write the names on the back. They give copies to anybody wants some so they can send them to relatives in Mexico, Guatemala, or wherever."

Tapping on the pictures on his desk he said, “These pictures were taken last night. Jenny and Angel drove to Lubbock this mornin’ to a 24 hour photo place and paid extra to have the film developed right away. Jenny got pictures of the roughnecks breakin’ up the fiesta. Pictures of Jim, Milo, and Jorge takin’ care of business. And she took these pictures of you and the killer piñata.”

He handed me a short stack of pictures. I was in each one looking clumsy and confused, swinging wildly at a piñata that was bouncing in the air, several feet behind me. The kids were laughing hysterically.

He held up another picture. “Now, this one could get you 10 to 15 in Huntsville except for the two pictures showing the crasher runnin’ towards you, beer keg in his arms. It’s lucky you still got the blindfold on when you took that home run swing at his head. Lucky, too, it was a broomstick and not a Louisville Slugger.

“Jenny snapped it just right. Good form, swing from the hips, push off with your right leg. Only seen that in ball players with natural talent. Now, I ask you again. You ever play pro ball? I’m needin’ somebody to bat cleanup on my softball team. Looks like you could be him.”

Coffee, Tea or Five Card Draw

Chances are 1 in 649,740 you'll get this hand. 

I arrived in Panhandle in the early morning. The fall harvest was coming up and I had a trunkful of farm equipment catalogs to distribute to my customers. I wanted them read my materials over the winter. There would be no sales pitches on this trip, just stop in, say hello, talk about the weather, give out the catalogs.

I was interested in listening to the ranchers talk about their upcoming plans, of course, but I also wanted to know what happened at the poker tournament that pitted Jackie’s Women Only Club against the men of Panhandle. All I knew was that the women had challenged the men to a charity benefit poker tournament a month before. The players would put up a $25 stake. That came to $600. Some businesses ponied up to fatten the pot. The money was for repairs on the library bus that made regular rounds to ranches and farms bringing books and magazines to the kids and adults who couldn’t make it into town on their own. I know in some places the only book in the house is a Bible.

As I drove by Jackie’s Cold Day Inn I saw her sweeping the sidewalk. I decided to stop and chat. It was too early for my usual Jack so we had coffee instead and took a table near the coffee pot. Wendy poured out three cups and joined us.

Jackie dropped sugar cube in her cup, took a sip, and said, “We won.”

“The women won?” Both Jackie and Wendy rewarded me with radiant smiles

Jackie leaned back in her seat and said, “Yeah, we did. We got all the money, $1,845. The bus is gettin’ a new engine, transmission, and two new tires. There was 70 or more of us, drinkin’, havin’ fun, givin’ free advice to the players. There’s a few couples  who won’t be gettin’ along for a while but nothin’ too serious.

“Sheriff Tom laid out the rules --- anybody not havin’ a good time hasta leave or stand in the corner facing the wall. Doc and Wendy were in charge of knowin’ the rules of Five Card Draw in case there was any disagreements. We’re feelin’ pretty good about the turnout and the money.

“There was some side betting going on mostly on which man would come out on top... Steve. A few of  ‘em thought Jackie had the best chance among the women.

I raised my hand like a cop saying stop. “Isn’t betting illegal in this county?”

“Well, lemme put it this way. There was a man who looked like Tom, wearin’ jeans, a snap button shirt and shiny boots. You could ask around, I ‘spose, but nobody remembers seein’ the Sheriff in the bar.”

She winked at me, “More coffee?” and continued.

“We had twelve on each side. At first, the men played it for laughs but then they noticed that we were winnin’. Willis was the first to lose his stake. Then Lonny was done. A couple of hours later it was three men against five women. The men got more serious but it didn’t help much. They were still losin’. On our side, Millie was the first woman to drop out. Flora lost tryin’ to buy the pot. She stopped payin’ attention for a minute and Steve took her down with Jacks over 8’s, smug look on his face. I was hopin’ she’d last longer. She’s a smart one.

“It evened up some, three on three now. Mike, Don, and Steve on one side. Me, Becky, (we call her the church lady), and Doris on the other. I made a dumbass play, holding on to two pair, low number cards, and bettin’ too much, and lost. Doris hung on but didn’t have enough chips to stay in. So she was gone along with Don. Then Becky played Mike like a two dollar fiddle and he went down. She was so still the whole time, made me think of a five foot tall volcano, a little smoke rising, might blow up anytime.

“It was one helluva finish. It was down to Becky and Steve playin’ the last hand, all the money was on the table, $1845. Winner take all. We all got real quiet, even Chatty Cathy. Steve made a big show of layin’ his cards facedown on the table while Becky held her cards close, almost touchin’ her nose. Swear to god I heard the music from one of them Clint Eastwood westerns, a showdown in the middle of Main street.

“Steve turned his cards over one at a time, a big ole GOTCHA smirk on his face.  A sure winner, three Queens, Ace high. His buds come up, slap ‘im on the back. Everybody in the bar knew that ‘trips’ of anything’s hard to get, hard to beat. The women groaned and the men whooped. Sweet, sweet victory.

“But it wasn’t over. Becky flipped her cards on the table like a riverboat gambler, real slow, one at a time. King of Hearts... King of Spades... Seven of Hearts. I thought her next card would pair up with the Seven of Hearts. Two pair don’t beat three of a kind --- huge mistake! But then she flipped the King of Diamonds. Steve looked like Becky’d just walloped him upside his head with her purse. You know, I think he mighta liked that better. For a minute it looked like he was gonna turn the table over, he was so mad. He saw all of us women coming up behind Becky and he changed his mind and sat down, glared at his three Queens.”

I told Jackie it sounded crazy when she proposed the tournament. Men against women in a poker game for a year of bragging rights. The men were practiced poker players after all, playing against each other for years. And the women?

“Tell you the truth, Jackie, I didn’t think they’d be too interested in playing poker.”

Jackie agreed, nodding slowly. “Well, when I told ‘em my idea they didn’t like it one bit. To them, poker meant smelly cigars and stale beer stinkin’ up the house, same old raunchy jokes, late nights. And who’s gotta clean up after they’re gone --- the women!

“I begged ‘em to try it just the once. Play for pennies, I said, I’ll put up the stakes. Lo and behold, some of them started gettin’ the hang of it. From then on it was all “check”, “call”, “raise”. It helped that me and Wendy served up a lotta free wine. When the meetin’ was over I told ‘em the first trainin’ class was the next night. I had a full house.

“I figured I could teach the women some basics, like rankin' winnin' hands, good hand, bad hand, when to fold and the like. Honest, I wasn’t expectin' to win. It takes skill, a lotta practice, a damn good memory and a powerful desire to win. I had less than a month  to get the women ready so I didn’t put much into it at first. The tournament wasn’t about winnin' anyway. It was a stunt for gettin' up enough money to fix the damn library bus.

“Most of the men I asked said no or kinda laughed at the idea of playin' against women even if it was for charity. ‘Embarrassin', one ‘em said, ‘for the women’.

“I was gettin’ discouraged until I remembered something Doc Harris told me once. He said if you wanna hurt a woman, attack her looks. If you wanna hurt a man attack his pride. So I went after the men with this: You won’t play against us ‘cause you’re afraid to lose. That riled ‘em up but good.”

“Becky, the church lady surprised me. It wasn’t long ago she wouldn’t even touch a deck of cards, let alone gamble, Devil’s Workshop, Road to Hell and all that. But this was for charity like Bingo so her minister said it was ok. Anyhow, she jumped into it with both feet, takin’ notes while the other women described the ‘tells’ they knew from a lifetime of watchin’ their men. Stuff like his left eye twitches when he’s fibbin’. Squints like Clint Eastwood when he wants to look tough, rolls his shoulders, and so on. Peggy over the library told me Becky checked out some books on poker.

Wendy refilled my cup and said, “Jackie, don’t forget about Steve.”

“Oh, yeah, Steve. I ran into him at Les’s store one afternoon. We were talkin' about the tourney. You know Steve, how cocky he acts. He says, ‘I’m guessin' it won’t take 15, 20 minutes and it’ll be over.’”

Jackie clenched her fists and took a deep breath.

“Then the sumbitch really torqued my jaws. He says, ‘Jackie, I’m a pretty fair poker player and I might be goin’ against my kind but I’ll tell you what I can do. I’m willin’ to help you gals out by teachin’ your ladies how to play winnin’ poker, make the tournament more interestin’ and last a little longer.

“He gives me his shit eatin’ grin like he’s already won, and all’s left is which of the men will be top dog and he’s sure it’s gonna be him. I smiled at him and said you’re probly right about who wins but it’ll be fun and that old bus gets a new engine out of it. Let me think on it, let you know.

“I’ll tell you what, inside I was pissed to a fare thee well but I didn’t show it. What I was thinkin’ right then was when we get that old bus fixed the front bumper is gonna be the last thing he sees before he leaves this life for the next one.

“I was still steamed when I got back to the bar. Wendy says what’s wrong and I tell her what Steve said. I was mad all afternoon and Wendy stayed out of my way. We finished gettin' the bar ready for the early customers and settled down for some wine.

“I’m sittin' there sippin' my wine and gettin' mad about Steve all over again. Wendy says Steve’s pretty sure of himself. I said yeah, he’s been that way since we were in high school a hundred years ago. All the girls thought he was hot stuff, jealous of me because he was my steady. Except for the thinnin' hair and the beer belly he’s still the same know-it-all asshole.”

Wendy leaned over and put her hand on my arm and said, “I told Jackie about when Milo was teaching me self defense he said when your opponent is bigger and stronger than you, what you do is turn his size and strength against him. Use his power to beat him. Milo’s got 40 pounds on me but I flipped ‘im on his back just like he showed me.”

Jackie said, “What Wendy said gave me an idea. Men are bigger and louder than most women and they got a lotta experience playin’ cards. What if we used that to figure out their moves in the poker game?

“Once we had the basics of Five Card Draw I spent the last two weeks teachin’ the women about ‘tells’ and not worry about their hand so much. And we saw it work at the tournament when Becky bluffed Mike but good. He showed his hand, winkin' or makin' faces at his friends. Becky showed nothin'. Just kept uppin' the bet. He’s keepin' up bettin' and raisin' so damn sure he can beat the little old church lady clutchin' her cards so hard her knuckles look like they’re gonna bust out the skin. She keeps raisin' the bet ‘til Mike’s outa chips and has to fold. Found out later he had a pair of 10’s, Queen high. Wanna know what Becky had? Becky had nothin', not a pair, not even part of an inside straight, nothin' at all.”

Wendy slapped the table and laughed, “You shoulda seen what Becky’s face the whole time she’s playin’ him. It was like one of those giant statues you see on TV, a bunch of ‘em look alike, nobody knows who made ‘em. Easter Island.

Jackie sighed and stared into her coffee cup. “Goes to show you. If anybody knows how to hide what they’re thinkin’ or feelin’ when it counts, it’s women. That’s how women my age were brought up. Men grow up different --- they don’t have to hide it when they’re pissed off, disgusted, or anything. Women, we’re supposed to say sorry even when we’re right, saves some of us from gettin’ beat up. No way it’s right but that’s the way it’s been as far back as I know.”

I saw Wendy’s face harden. She’s from a younger generation and times are changing too slowly for her.

“Like I said, in my day women  were raised different from men. Think about it a minute. From the very beginnin' boys are put outdoors like livestock to butt heads with each other like billy goats. They hafta yell and holler above the noise from cattle, tractors, threshers, and each other. Their life is loud sunrise to sunrise. Boys become men all their lives hearin’ and usin’ their outside voices.

“Most women are raised indoors. They learn the quiet ways of cooking, sewing, cleaning, raisin' babies, all the time hearing inside voices. Wendy here’s got it better but there’s still a long way to go.”

The phone rang and Wendy went to answer it. Jackie and I sipped our coffee while we waited for her to come back.

“That was Doc Harris. Wanted to know if we were here. He’s on his way over.”

A few minutes later Doc Harris came in and took the chair next to me. “Mornin’ all. Wendy, you got some coffee for me? What’s good, Jackie?”

“Oh, not much, Doc, just tellin’ our friend here about the poker tournament.”

Doc Harris stirred two sugar cubes into his coffee, drank half of it, looked at me and said,

“Everybody had a great time, even the losin’ side. You look at it seriously, though, there’s no way the women win. They been playin' a couple of weeks against men who learned poker in the Army, at weekly poker games and such. Hell, even the worst players know enough to fold or hold even if they lose most of the time. No, sir. No way the women  win. What nobody counted on was Jackie’s smarts.”

Jackie pursed her lips and shook her head side to side. “Doc, you’re thinkin’ too much. It don’t take a lotta smarts to figure out what we did. Poker’s a game of strategy and deception. We had both, their side was every man for himself.

“Number one: All of ‘em think they’re great poker players, playin’ against each other. You don’t improve playin’ against the same five men. You get better goin’ against players better’n you, learn what you gotta do to win.

“Number two: The women know their men better’n they know themselves. We learned their tells. We hid ours as best we could. I heard some folks say they beat themselves. Nope. We beat ‘em fair and square.”

Doc stroked his chin and was about to say something but Jackie interrupted, “See? That’s your tell when you’re gonna say you think I’m right.”

He stared at her for a long second and put his hand down. “Yeah, I was gonna say that. Then I was gonna tell you I called Tom and Les. They’ll be here in a minute. They’re at Milo’s picking up the banner.”

Turning to Jackie I said, “Banner?”

Jackie said, “Hold on, Doc. I was savin’ this for last. I really like tellin’ it.” Wendy went to the bar and came back with four shots of bourbon.

“The day before the tournament, we’re gettin’ the bar ready, settin’ up the tables. We’re busy. Steve comes in and says he thinks we oughta commemorate the tournament, make it an annual thing. How ‘bout the losing side has to put a banner over your bar sayin’ something like, ‘Panhandle, Where the Women Are Strong and the Best Poker Players Are Men.’ And it has to stay up until the next tournament.

“Hell, I just wanted him outa here so I said, sure, sure, why not, and forgot about it until we won.”

“Yep”, Doc said, “aside from losin’ braggin’ rights for a year the losin’ side has to pay for the banner. Tom, Les, and me are puttin’ it up this morning.”

“What does it say?”, I asked.

“Panhandle, Where the Men are Good Looking and the Best Poker Players are Women.”

Moonshine, horses, and tennis shoes

Old man Newman smiled at me without malice for the first time in the 15 years I’d been calling on him. And for the first time in 15 years he wasn’t cradling a rifle across his body while we talked. Instead, he reached out to hand me a jar of his homemade white lightning. I took the jar and looked over his shoulder at the rifle leaning against the barn.

He must have seen something in my eyes and asked for the jar back. He took it, unscrewed the lid, took a deep swallow and said, “I don’t give this stuff away to anybody. I’m ready to sign on to that John Deere you been itchin’ to sell me for 10 years.”

Newman is my hardest sell. Other ranchers and farmers on my Amarillo to Midland sales route can be difficult but it’s natural for them to hem, haw, and bargain for the best possible price. I get something, they get something, and a handshake closes the deal. With men like these a handshake means more than a formal contract. On the other hand, Newman is the kind of man who’s suspicious of everything including Kleenex boxes that offer up another tissue the instant you pull the top one out.

It was already close to sundown, the end of another day in the heat of early Spring. I drove into Panhandle and parked across the street from Jackie’s Cold Day Inn. I knew Sheriff Tom, Les, and Doc Harris would already be at their usual corner table.

I like Jackie’s bar. It’s the kind of place where orderliness is the exception. I would be alarmed if I walked in and found the tables and chairs arranged in a symmetrical pattern. The only things lined up in any order are the whiskey bottles and glasses along the back bar. Jackie’s Cold Day Inn looks lived in, and that’s the way the others and I like it.

My friends said Hi and invited me to sit with them. Jackie brought my Jack on the rocks, nodded at the jar of white lightning I’d set on the table. She squared her shoulders put her hands on her hips and snapped, “I’m supposed to think that’s water, right? In case you don’t know it, homemade hooch is illegal in this county. And in case you haven’t noticed the man sittin’ across from you, the one with the big star on his chest, gun on his hip, he’s the Sheriff sworn to uphold the laws of this land for the betterment of the community and to the detriment of those who break the law.”

I wasn’t expecting a lecture like that, especially from Jackie. She picked up the jar, opened it and took a sip and winked at me.

“Just coverin’ my ass in case ole Tom here decides to bust you. I got three witnesses heard me warn you.” I turned to the men and saw them smiling. Les shaped his hand like a gun and blew imaginary smoke from the barrel. Wendy giggled behind the bar. Panhandle's been on my sales route for over 15 years and I’m still that city slicker from Amarillo.

Tom reached for the jar and held it up to the light and shook it. “Clear as glass. A lot of moonshine’s cloudy from bad filterin’, give you a sour bellyache to go along with a three-day hangover. I’d say Newman took his time with this, all copper fittin’s, I’ll betcha, start to finish. Not much call for it these days except for Newman and the Crawford boys, holdouts to the last I guess.”

Clear as your conscience, pure as your heart

He shook the jar one more time and I asked why. “Watch the bubbles”, he said and shook it again. “Big bubbles that disappear fast means it’s high proof whiskey. Small bubbles that stick around means it’s low proof. This here is probly 120 proof or there ‘bouts, best for nippin’ while you work. You want the good shine, it’ll be clear with big bubbles, just like this one.

“That Jack in your glass is the same stuff, lower proof but before it got here it was ‘aged’ in oak barrels for a few years. That’s where the brown color, smokey flavor, and the high price tag come from. White lightin’, you can drink it as soon as your catchin’ jug is full. Cheap, too, compared to your Jack.”

Tom opened the jar, smelled it and said, “When I was growin’ up my daddy and Dale Newman were pretty good friends, fished and hunted together before and after they both retired. But it wasn’t always that way. Before I was born, my daddy, bein' the Sheriff, was on one side of the law. Dale was on the other side, makin’ and sellin’ moonshine. My daddy told me about it one day we were fishin’. Dale Newman was dead by then, left the ranch to his son.

“Maybe you noticed that ole Newman’s the only man I let carry a gun in town. Only me and my deputy carry guns. Everybody else leaves 'em at home or locked up in their trucks. I’ll get to why in a bit.

“Back in the day some counties were dry, some wet. This county was dry but you had to look hard to think the townsfolk were behind the idea. Newman’s daddy was busy havin’ his name written in a bunch of arrest records. Small stuff, usually. Drunk drivin’, disturbin’ the peace, minor assault charges, like that.”

Les shifted in his chair, stirred his drink with his finger and said, “Dale wasn’t a bad guy. Matter of fact he was famous for a while. He captured a bank robber down in Snyder in ’38 or ’39. You probly never heard of him. They called him Jesuit James because he dressed like a priest when he robbed small town banks, hit six of 'em before he got caught.

“Dale was just finished doin’ 30 days in the Snyder lockup for assault and feelin’ bad about his life. Repentance was on his mind when he saw the robber priest hustlin' down an alley and he thought it was a good time to confess his sins, get right with the Lord. But the robber started runnin' and dropped his gun. Dale tackled 'im, saved the day.

“After that he settled down some, raised a few head of cattle and hogs. Dale was a pretty decent rancher but he had a coupla bad years, couldn’t pay off his bank loans. So he looked around for ways to make some cash. He had a still in his barn and started sellin’ the lightnin’ but wasn’t makin’ enough money so he built a bigger still. Wasn't long before Tom’s daddy discovered it, took an axe to it, put him out of business.”

Wendy brought clean ashtrays and a bowl of pretzels. Doc Harris took a handful. Between crunches he said, “Next thing he did was build a still up in the hills, away from roads and cattle trails where nobody’s lookin’. Workin’ day and night Dale put the still together and got busy makin’ his first batch. Anyway, he was dog-tired, dozed off, and the still got too hot, exploded. The pieces were scattered all over god’s half acre and lucky for Dale, if you can call him lucky at this point, sleepin' behind some rocks saved his life. One thing, though, some boilin' mash splashed on his butt, burned through his pants and gave him an embarrassin' burn.

“A cowboy roundin’ up strays a mile or two away heard the explosion, saw the smoke risin’ in the sky. He found Dale tryin’ to pour water on his behind, cool it down. There wasn’t anything Dale or the cowboy could do about the burn which wasn’t too deep but it still hurt like devil. Best thing was to get him into town, see a doctor.

“It was quite a sight for the townsfolk not used to too much excitement about anything in those days. They turned out to watch the cowboy ride in, leadin’ a pack mule with Dale strapped across it like a trophy buck, arms hangin’ down one side, legs down the other, butt in the air. Some said they saw smoke risin’ off his behind. I don’t know as that’s true. Sometimes folks just make things up.

“The bank let him slide on his loan while he healed up but let him know that the clock was tickin’ steady. He knows the only way to make money was moonshine so he tried some more. This time he had his boy helping, teachin' him the trade, I guess. The kid was 12 years old, probly.”

Doc Harris paused and looked at the ceiling and said, “Anybody here know ole Newman’s first name?”

Tom said, “It’s Lynn, Lynn Newman. Nowadays it’s a girl’s name but my daddy told me that in the 1920’s, 30’s Lynn for a boy wasn’t unusual. Besides it was a Newman family name from Scotland or England, some place like that, goin’ back a hundred years maybe more.”

“Yeah, Lynn,” Doc said, “how could I forget that? Anyhow, Dale and his boy, Lynn, got the new still set up and workin’, this time watchin’ the temperature. One of 'em would mind  the still while the other stood watch high up on the rocks in case the Sheriff or anybody else come snoopin’.

Doc nodded at Tom, "You tell it, you know it best."

“My daddy and Dale played cat and mouse for months. Dale kept movin’ the still, one step ahead until my daddy caught him and his boy dead to rights in the hills near Comanche Springs.

12 Pack for the weekend

“Dale saw my daddy and dropped his gun, went down on his knees like his insides went all soft, started cryin’. His boy tried to get near but Dale pushed him away, ashamed to let his boy see him cryin’. Lynn was cryin’, too, seeing his father humiliated like that, givin’ up without a fight.

“The boy turned his gun on my daddy.

“‘Boy! Dale shouted. Put it down.’

“Of course, daddy arrested Dale and sent the boy to his aunt in Pampa. Judge Thompkins set bail at $25. Dale was a real proud man and it was a real puzzle to see him cryin’ like he did. Any man, includin’ me, would soon blow his brains out than cry in front of his son.”

Tom put both hands on his drink and stared into it for a moment.

“It wasn’t ‘til later that I found out why.

“What happened was, about four months before I arrested Dale, the banker, Sid Murphy, showed up at the ranch with foreclosure papers in hand. Dale said gimme another 30 days, I can sell the lightnin’ in my barn and have your money.

“Now, Murphy didn’t get rich by showin’ mercy, I can tell you. He looked over Dale’s inventory of shine and knew right away he could get double that sellin’ it himself over in Hudspeth County. Greedy people don’t think for a minute about lettin’ the other fella win a little. No, sir, all money is theirs, all the time. Blood suckers like Murphy win by makin’ the other fella lose everything.

“He says to Dale, ‘Here’s how it’s gonna be. You sell me the shine for half what you get now. That discount goes to your mortgage. And you only sell to me. I hear you’re goin’ behind my back, I’ll just hafta let the Sheriff know what you’re up to, you go to jail, lose your ranch, probly lose your boy, too. Deal? Deal? Come on now, say it. Deal. Say it.’

“Dale hangs his head and says deal."

Tom clenched his fist and rasped, “Lynn’s next to his daddy hearin’ the banker, hatin’ him like poison, thinkin’ they could shoot ‘im, feed him to the hogs, nobody’d ever know.”

All of us suddenly decided we needed another sip of whiskey. Tom relaxed, leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarillo.

“Dale kept makin’ the lightnin’, givin’ it to Murphy like he said. Then he made a special batch to get a better price.

“He and the boy went to Murphy’s private office and waited while Murphy puffed his cigar, ignorin’ them, pretendin' to read the papers on his desk.

“Tired of waitin’, Dale said, ‘Mr. Murphy, here’s a sample of shine I just run off my still. 160 proof, best yet. I’m figurin’ you can give me a better price. Here, have a taste, tell me I’m wrong.’

“Murphy looked up, patted the papers on the desk and said, ‘This here’s your mortgage contract and the payment schedule. Sorry, Dale but the numbers ain’t workin’ out. The only way you’re gonna pay it off is by droppin’ your price some more from now on.’

“Dale jumped out of his chair, bumped the desk and spilled the lightnin’ on the desk. Murphy tried to save the papers, forgettin’ the cigar in his hand. The moonshine, 80% alcohol mind you, flashed, set the papers and the desk on fire. They put it out but the desk was scorched bad. Murphy yelled, ‘Get out! Don’t come back ‘less I tell you to.’

“That was two weeks before my daddy busted Dale’s still for the last time. But he couldn’t stop thinkin’ about Lynn and how the boy looked seein’ his father down on his knees, cryin', beaten down, hopeless.”

Tom paused and stubbed out his cigarillo while Wendy replaced the empty glasses with fresh drinks.

“Daddy drove to Pampa where the boy was stayin’ with his aunt. He wasn’t sure what he was gonna do or say to the kid, the one who woulda shot ‘im except his daddy said don’t.

“When he got to the house he took off his gun belt and his badge, put them in the cruiser. The boy was sittin’ on the steps on the porch.

“He told the boy he came by to tell him his daddy was ok. Not in jail or anything like that but maybe he would be later on because moonshinin’ was against the law just like shootin’ a man. He could tell the boy was hatin’ on ‘im like he was the day he arrested his father.

“He sat next to the boy not sayin’ anything. Then the boy said, ‘You ever shoot anybody?’ My daddy told him no, never saw a need to. My job is to keep people safe. When a crime is committed, I find out who did it and catch the bad guy. I carry a gun just in case I might need to shoot rattlers. Do you think your daddy broke the law?

“The boy said yeah but it wasn’t his fault. The banker made him do it.”

Sheriff Tom paused, looked at each of us sitting around the table to let that sink in. He took a long pull on his drink and said, “One thing about interviewin’ kids is they’ll tell you everything they know then they shut up.

“My daddy says to Lynn, how did the banker make your daddy break the law? The boy told the story about the banker forcin’ Dale to sell him the hooch for a low price. Said if he didn’t he’d take away the ranch and turn him in to the law. Then he talked about the fire in the banker’s office, the papers on the desk. He got riled up when he got to the part about my daddy findin’ them and the still, the arrest. Now he was here and just wanted everything to be the way it was before.

“The banker tried to foreclose on Dale a few weeks later without the mortgage papers that Dale had accidentally burned up. Murphy told the judge that a handshake deal was a man’s sacred bond, an agreement between men of honor, a tradition as old as the Holy Bible, on and on until he ran out of breath. Well, Judge Thompkins wasn’t havin’ any of that, said a handshake might mean plenty out on the range but it wasn’t worth a bucket of spit in a court ah law, ordered Murphy to hand over the deed by the end of the day.

“So Dale kept his ranch, Lynn come home from his aunt’s place in Pampa, but the boy wasn’t the same. Just twelve years old, he’d seen what most boys don’t see about their old man 'til after they’ve been on their own for a while, that sometimes even the toughest men can look weak. After that, you never saw Lynn Newman, man or boy, without a gun. Pitiful, my daddy said.

“There’s no guns allowed in town. Been that way since before my daddy was Sheriff. He understood that Lynn had seen the truth about his father long before he was supposed to and that it broke something inside him.

“My daddy had a lotta pull in his day, lot more ‘n me for sure. He made it a rule that Lynn could carry his gun anywhere he wanted. That’s the rule today. Lynn Newman’s the only man I let carry a gun in the city limits but the deal is, it ain't loaded. He needs to shoot somebody, he’s gotta see me first. If it’s ok by me, I give him three bullets and tell ‘im, make 'em count.”

Les leaned back in his chair, chuckled and looked around the table. I thought that was the end of Tom’s story but then I saw a look pass from Les to Doc Harris, to Jackie, back to Sheriff Tom.

Jackie nodded and Tom rolled his shoulders, warming up, I guessed, for what was coming next.

“Folks hear Newman’s name, they screw up their faces like you put some kinda stink under their noses, call him a crank or worse. I tell you, the things you don’t know about some folks, when you find them out, can make you feel pretty small. Been lots of times I wanted to say what I know but ole Newman's right sayin’ what he does is nobody’s business.

“Eight, nine years ago I was helpin’ round up the last of some wild horses on Newman’s spread. I thought the dispatcher was kiddin’ when she told me there was six of them pasturing near Newman’s artesian well. I read someplace that there used to be millions of them from here to California. I felt bad about roundin’ them up for the BLM but I know they’re taken care of, lot of 'em adopted by folks with enough money and caring in their hearts."

Tom swallowed hard. "Mustangs, last free horses in the land, go where they want, do what they want and nobody to tell ‘em otherwise. Well...”

Doc Harris made a show of clearing his throat and blowing his nose. The rest of us became fascinated by our hands, the stained table top, and the dingy ceiling.

Tom continued, “Headin’ back after the roundup around sundown I passed by a shack, the kind where you store tools for fencin’ and such 'cause it's too far to go back to the ranch house every time you need something. But I saw it wasn’t locked. Inside I found maybe a dozen pair of old tennis shoes, plastic water bottles, a few cans of corned beef hash, the kind with a loop on the lid so you don't need a tool to open it.

“Next time I saw Newman I asked him about it. Said he’d check it out, not upset or excited, just his usual dead-eye look so I let it drop, didn’t think about it for a long time.

“Jorge and me were riding home from huntin’ one time and I told him about the shack. He fussed with his stirrup but didn’t say anything, sorta like he wasn’t interested. He turned toward the trail to his place and said, ‘A thousand miles is a long way to walk on one pair of shoes’, and he rode off. That's when I knew what the shoes and water were all about.”

I sensed there was more. The Sheriff took his time lighting another cigarillo as if considering whether or not to say more.

He took a deep drag, blew the smoke to the ceiling, then looking at me he said, “So now you might think I got Newman six ways to Sunday if I want. He’s makin’ hooch on the side and he’s helpin' out folks that ain’t supposed to be here. The Feds call it aidin’ and abettin’.

“If I was a hard ass I’d take him down for the moonshine but there ain’t a DA from here to Texarkana who gives a good goddamn about an old moonshiner. And somethin’ else. So far’s I know it ain’t against the law to give shoes to strangers even if you don’t know who they are, where they’re from or where they’re goin’.”

A journey of a thousand miles begins with a good pair of shoes.
Jorge Washington De La Cruz