Guns, Bars, Women, and Wolves

Texas Tornado Jr.

 

Sheriff Tom put on his new Stetson and checked himself out in the hallway mirror. He tipped the brim, winked at his image and murmured softly ‘You still got it.’  His wife stood in the kitchen wiping down the Formica countertop. She said the new hat made him look more professional. Truth was, he missed his old hat. Wearing it for the last 10 years, it fit his head just right. A dust devil whipped it off his head while he was out hunting with Jorge. The wind carried it up so high Tom couldn’t see it anymore. At least his jeans and uniform shirt were still the same. He looked at his boots and decided he’d have Rollo clean and polish them  this afternoon after he finished his rounds.

His routine was to visit the businesses in Panhandle on foot every couple of weeks, pick up latest gossip, what was going on, show his face, make it look like he was earning his pay. He liked being Sheriff. Naturally curious, he was interested in everyone and everything that happened in his town. His mind was an encyclopedia of names, face, places, events from yesterday to 30 years before.

Some days just start out wrong

Mona, the dispatcher, greeted him when he walked into the Sheriff’s Office. He checked his messages and told Mona he’d be touring the town on foot most of the day. She said check in every couple of hours just in case we need you.

‘In case we need you?’ Mona was nobody’s fool. If she’d been born a man she’d be the one strutting around town and Tom would be working for her, fix her coffee in the morning. Mona dragging in the criminals, snarling, “Book ‘em, Danno.”

He stood on the sidewalk outside the office, looked left, right, deciding which way to go. South towards the train station or north to the city limits.

The Touch of Class restaurant bar was open, serving flavored coffee and overpriced croissants to tourists passing through. The locals stop in once in a while but mostly it’s a tourist stop. The prices being on the high side, locals dress up in their good clothes when they go there to celebrate special events like anniversaries, weddings, and the like.

Tony, the lounge musician, was standing on the sidewalk enjoying a smoke before starting his shift waiting tables until evening when he played soft music on a baby grand for the dinner guests. On his off days he goes to Lubbock or Amarillo to play in jazz clubs. Tom asked him once if he liked playing in the restaurant. He said, “It’s a job. All I gotta do is figure out the average age of the customers, play the music from that time, make ‘em feel like it’s prom night again. But I’ll tell you, Tom, if someday you hear I’ve put a gun to my head you’ll know I played ‘Windmills of the Mind’ for the last time.”

No, no. Not "Windmills of the Mind" again.

He skipped Les’ General Store and the bank. He’d catch up with Les at Jackie’s later on. He waved hello to Laurie across the street. She was setting up a table with knick knacks and stuffed toys on the sidewalk in front of her gift shop. It was hard to figure how she made a living selling birthday cards and figurines. Could be she was getting alimony from her ex husband, a lawyer for an oil company in Odessa. She came back to Panhandle three years after they wed. All she said to Tom was, “I’m back. He’s not.” If Jackie or any of the other women knew more, they weren’t saying.

He turned the corner heading east now. Milo’s Craft Shop was still closed but he saw Milo through the window. It looked like he was teaching Wendy and her wife some self-defense moves. Wendy’s pretty fit and can take care of herself but you never know when you need that extra something. He’d seen her jogging around town early mornings; tall, lithe, she had a steady miler’s stride. Tom knocked on the window and waved. They waved back.

Milo’s a strange bird, a transplanted ex college professor from California who relocated  to Panhandle for reasons of his own. To look at him you wouldn’t know he could take down any man in Panhandle one on one. To hear him talk you wouldn’t know he was trained in Martial Arts, not expert, mind you, but plenty good enough. That goofball, Steve, found that out the hard way. Milo put his lights out so fast even people who saw it weren’t sure how he did it.

The smell of eggs, bacon, and curly fries hit his nose. He wasn’t hungry but some of Mamacita’s industrial grade cowboy coffee in a go cup would hit the spot. The diner was near full so he had to wait near the door until mamacita, Chela, saw him. Looking around, nodding good morning to everyone who noticed him, he saw the Blue Star and the Gold Star on the far wall. Tom and a lot of his friends signed up for Vietnam out of a sense of patriotism but were soon disillusioned. Most of them made it back. The Gold Star was for Chela’s nephew.

The coffee might be a little thick this morning

Tom thought about his last two weeks in Vietnam. He was a short timer waiting for an available-space flight home. The CO put him on the MP detail because of his size. It was crappy duty, mostly breaking up bar fights among grunts too drunk to do each other any real harm; making the rounds, uniform stinking of vomit and stale beer, hoping, hoping, hoping for an empty seat in the next C-130 to take him home.


On his last patrol he and his partner, Sgt. Rolfe, were on the strip, looking in on every bar, making eye contact with the grunts. Always, the bar girls jeered at them or made lewd suggestions. They had just come out of the Best California Bar when they saw a grunt leaving a bar across the street. He was pulling a bar girl by her wrist, a beer in the other hand. It was hard to tell if she was resisting or just playing along until they got to the hot sheet hotel next door. Half hearted resistance was part of the game between the grunts and bar girls. It made the grunts feel persuasive like when they were convincing their girlfriends back home to put out.

Tom understood the drunkenness, the powerful drive for sex in a time where survival in the next 24 hours was iffy. Get some joy now because there may not be another time. Or as a grunt once put it, ‘Man, you could wake up dead tomorrow’.  Tom knew that feeling. It was an odd kinship with his fellow grunts even if their behavior anywhere else in the world would embarrass them.

But now the girl was screaming as the grunt pulled her into a narrow space between the bar and the hotel. He slapped her hard and she went down, knocked unconscious. He dragged her further into the alley.

Tom took off his helmet, gun belt, the MP armband, handed them to Rolfe and ran across the street. That’s all he remembered all these years later. Early the next morning Rolfe yelled at him to wake up, grab his duffel bag and get his ass to the tarmac, he was going home right now.

Somehow Sgt. Rolfe pulled some strings, called in a lot of markers and got Tom a seat on the next flight. No time to explain, he said. Just get outa here or you’ll miss the flight. He made it out. Two years later when Tom was still in California, not ready to go home yet, he chanced on Rolfe who told him what he’d done to the grunt that night. He said he wasn’t sure but maybe Tom killed the guy. Rolfe didn’t know one way or the other. Sorry, man.

All those years gone by and Tom still thinking that of all the things you do in life, killing is one of the things you can’t undo. Shake it off, Tom. Keep moving.

Coffee in hand, Tom walked from Mamacita’s towards Gustav’s barber shop. He could see 90 year old Gustav through the window gesturing with his scissors while he talked to the man in the barber chair. There weren’t any customers waiting on the bench outside the shop yet.

There’s no way to be kind about Gustav’s skills. He's always been a terrible barber. Customers sit in his chair, get shorn like sheep in ten or fifteen minutes then go home where their wives do their best to even out the mess.

Men don’t go there for haircuts. Gustav’s is a place where you can sit with your friends, trade gossip, make deals, or read old Field & Stream magazines while you wait your turn. Gustav hears all the talk and passes information about who’s looking to buy or sell some livestock, crops, or a hay baler. A bad haircut is an acceptable price to pay for a place to do a little business, socialize in the shade, away from daily cares for an hour or two.

Tom sat on Gustav’s outdoor bench, took his hat off and put it by his side, sipped coffee. The Call Grill directly across the street featured their World Famous Pizza. He’d been called there during a blizzard because Harley was tearing the place apart. It was the closest Tom had ever come to drawing his gun on a suspect but he was able to convince Harley to surrender by telling him Bible stories. Tom smiled at the memory of Harley, 6foot5 inches and 240lbs of stupid, working his brain hard to follow the David and Goliath tale, finally realizing that he was David and the chair leg he was holding was no match for Tom’s .45 caliber Goliath.

Further down at the corner, Mike was busy hosing down the driveway at his gas station. Both bay doors were open, somebody’s blue pickup on the lift. Thirty-five years ago it was Nichol’s Conoco. Over time it had been Jerry’s Conoco, then Chuck's Conoco, and now, Mike’s. He was making enough money from leasing land to the Love’s Truck Stop at the crossroads so he could hire people to run the gas station and go fishing if he wanted. But Mike was living the life he’d decided on in high school, to own a gas station with a two bay garage.

Only the name on the deed changes

Tom finished his coffee, tossed the cup in the trash can by the bench and made his way up the street to the Post Office.

There’s no house to house mail delivery in Panhandle. You pick up your letters and packages from Millie at the Post Office across the street from Jackie’s Cold Day Inn. If somebody gets a letter from a relative who never writes, it likely means somebody’s dead or dying. The magazines in plain brown wrappers are for lonesome ranch hands. Letters from out of town lawyers could be a divorce is in the air. Who do you know that ain’t gettin’ along? Final notices from creditors all pass through Millie’s hands and straight to the gossip mill.

Some people think Millie has an uncanny ability to know stuff before it happens but not really. Being Postmistress in the tiny Post Office means Millie has a lot of time to put two and two together even if 2+2 adds up to a peanut butter sandwich from time to time.

She checked Tom’s mail slot but he didn’t have any. Millie said, “If you see Mike let ‘im know that his uncle sent a picture postcard from Arizona where he’s visiting friends. Everything’s fine. He’s coming back in a couple of weeks. And please check his chickens for water and feed.” Tom tipped his hat and left.

On the second floor above the Post Office there’s an empty office where Marcus M. Marcus, Esq. practiced for a few years before moving on to a town where no one knew what a bad lawyer he was. Tom gazed up at the windows, ghost images of Marcus’ name fading in the sun.

He remembered the time Marcus tried to embarrass him during a trial. The case was so trivial Tom couldn’t remember what it was about anymore. He pictured himself on the witness chair, Marcus, strutting like a banty, chest puffed up, hands behind his back. He stops pacing, shoots his chin at Tom.

Marcus M. Marcus, Esq.

“So, Sheriff, you think you’re a pretty good law enforcement officer? Perhaps the best peacekeeper in Texas? Well now, that’s a might conceited, wouldn’t you say?”
“Maybe it is, Marcus, but don't forget, I’m under oath.”

Tom turned away from the Post Office to go to Jackie’s bar across the street. He looked both ways and stopped to let a pickup go by. Jorge was driving, old Newman riding shotgun, his 30-06 cradled in his arms. Instead of driving by, Jorge stopped, asked Tom about going hunting next Sunday. They were hauling a load of cedar fence posts and barbed wire to Newman’s place. Newman jacked his rifle to show Tom it wasn’t loaded. Tom’s rules. Only Newman was allowed to carry a gun in town.

Jorge and Newman together was an odd pairing considering that Newman had once accused Jorge of cattle rustling. The  case went nowhere, of course. Everyone knew Newman was a crank.

Tom didn’t ask about the dozen or so plastic water jugs and the box full of old tennis shoes partially covered with a tarp in the truck bed. He wasn’t supposed to know anything about that.

Not your business, Sheriff

Inside Jackie’s bar Doc Harris, Les, Mike, and Jackie were sitting at the table near the window watching Tom looking up at Marcus’ old office then standing next to Newman’s truck, talking to Jorge.

Doc Harris gestured towards the street with his drink. “I was just thinkin’ about the time we were sitting around a campfire, fishing trip. Tom, Les, Mike, Milo, and me. We were mostly ragging on each other and when we wore that out, Mike says if you could be any animal what would you be? I said I was happy being a human animal.”

Les put his arms out like wings and said, “I remember wanting to be an eagle flying up high riding thermals, go anywhere I want. Just up and go anytime. And Milo said foxes are pretty cool animals, a combination of a cat, stealthy, quick; and a dog, loyal and tough.”

Mike pointed to himself. “Me, I’d be a stud horse.”

Jackie looked at him sideways, “You, Mike? A stud horse? Doc’s buddy, the shrink at Texas Tech, might have a word or two ‘bout that.” Doc Harris stroked his chin, nodding.
Jackie asked, “What did Tom say he’d wanna be?”

Doc: “Tom said wolf, an all-weather beast, survives anywhere he happens to be. We went on like that for a while changing which animal would suit us but Tom always said wolf.”

Les said, “You know, that kinda fits. Tom looks everything over all the time like he’s taking notes. He walks in here, looks to the back, the sides, the bar, counts the customers, who they are, where they’re sittin’. It’s like he’s on guard every second.”

Jackie said, “I think Tom really thinks he’s a wolf and we’re his pack.”

Doc leaned far back in his chair, rested his hands on his belly and said, “You might be right, Jackie, you might be right.”

Jackie sighed. She knew the signs. Here it comes she thought.

“Wolves live in packs. When they migrate from one place to another they travel single file. The old and the weak ones lead. You might think that’s so they’re the first to go if the pack is attacked but that ain’t why. What they do is set the pace so none of ‘em fall behind. After them come the strongest and toughest males to fight in case of an attack by other predators. The females follow them. The alpha wolf is last. He’s the rear guard. He’ll be the first to challenge and fight attackers sneaking up from behind. He’s the leader looking ahead on the trail, watching the rear. In human terms he’s the Sheriff of the Pack.”

In the street Tom slapped the roof on Newman’s truck, waved goodbye and headed to Jackie’s.

It was Jackie who started it. As Tom stepped into the bar she raised her face to the ceiling and howled, then Les, Mike, and Doc howled, too.

Tom hesitated a bit, hooked his thumbs over his gun belt. “You all know coyotes aren’t a protected species in Texas, right?

HIZZONER DE MARE

  

“Mayor Mike Wilson, 69, died in his sleep last night. His wife, Mary Ann, told our reporter that he had gone to bed around 9:00 PM and when she went to check on him an hour later, she found him sitting up in his bed with an open bible on his lap. The distraught widow refused to answer any questions, begging callers to leave her to her grief.”

So read the top story in the “Rancher’s Weekly” in Shorthorn, TX (population 6000). Only four of those 6,000 knew that the Sheriff, responding to a frantic call from an unknown female, found the Mayor out behind the stockyards next to his car stone cold dead, with his pants down around his ankles. The caller was never found.

The death of a small town mayor is usually not news anywhere except among the locals who then gossip about it for years afterwards. But in the faraway state capital, Austin, the news was a shock to legislators and lobbyists who depended on Mayor Wilson in every statewide election for decades. It seems he had a gift for supplying whatever numbers of votes were needed to swing a victory for his party. How a small city in a small county could routinely provide more votes than there were eligible voters was a mystery no one in Austin could fathom but none of them cared to wonder about for too long.

Mayor Mike Wilson had become very rich during his 30 year tenure as mayor. His second wife, Mary Ann, 28, had once been 2^nd runner up in the Miss Dairy Queen pageant, 2^nd runner up in the Texas Teen contest, and 2^nd runner up in the Miss Texas competition. Now she was the 2^nd richest widow for 500 miles around.

By the time the real truth of the mayor’s death became known six months later, Wilson’s heir apparent had re-established the connections to Austin’s grifters, and the graft resumed as before. But at least the locals had the mayor’s inglorious death to sift through; and small town grist mills grind exceeding fine.

I was a traveling farm equipment salesman ranging from the Panhandle to Brownsville in South Texas. Shorthorn was on my route and I had made a habit of stopping for a short beer at the “Almost OK Corral Bar & Grill”. Jesse the bartender set a mug of beer at my usual place at the bar when he saw me drive up.

“Hey, it’s good to see you again. How ya been?”

“Doing ok. Sales are better than last year. The new Slice n’ Burn nutcutters are a hit with the ranchers all up and down the Panhandle. I think it’s the mother-of-pearl inlays on the handles and the built-in cauterizer that does it; all electric, two lithium batteries; go all day. Bull to steer in under a minute. Probably sell just as good here. Might even sell some to the Mexicans across the border.”

Early prototype of "Slice n' Burn"

The three cowboys sitting at the far corner of the room were guffawing loudly. One of them said something else and the laughter got louder.
 

“What’s that about?”

“Oh, you heard about how Mayor Wilson really died, right? Well, since the truth came out that’s all anybody is talking about. First, they said they were shocked. Then they said, oh yeah, I knew all about it. Then with each telling somebody added a new tidbit, true or not. Then when that game got old they started making jokes. Now they’re making jokes about Wilson’s young widow being the 2^nd easiest lay in the county; the cowhands going back for seconds, that sort of thing. Not saying she’s slow witted or anything but you ask her anything and she says, 'Just a second.' Tending bar I hear all this stuff over and over.”

The front door opened and a man stood there for a moment as though he had forgotten why he’d come.

“That’s Cal”, said Jesse as he set a longneck on the counter. “He must be at least 80 by now, lookin’ better n’ me and I’m only 60.”

He was 170 pounds of old cowboy, sunburned sinew and gristle spread over 6 ft. 2 inches. He took off his greasy hat, gave it a dusty slap against his thigh, grabbed the longneck and sat two stools away from me. He gave me a squinty sideways look that told me he’d decided I was harmless, took a long swallow of beer, and signaled Jesse for another.

The cowboys started laughing again and Cal snorted in disgust. “Sumbitches call themselves cowboys. Just sittin’ there gossiping like a bunch of old hens. Don’t know shit about cattle or horses. What’r they cackling about now, Jesse?”

“Same as yesterday, the Wilsons.”

“Shit.”

He caught me looking at him. Turning to me he said, “You’re not from around here, I can tell. California, I bet.”

Before I could answer he said, “Mister, Mayor Wilson was the slickest Texas politician you never heard of. I didn’t like him much but then there’s damn few people I do like. Wilson had the good ole boys in Austin eating out of his hand for years. Imagine that! A dirt poor cattle rancher become a millionaire from miscounting votes. Paid off for Shorthorn, too -- a rodeo arena and Community Center that holds more people than live in the whole county for god’s sake. You tell me how a pissant town like this gets the State and the Feds to build us brand spankin’ new courthouses. First Class all the way, too. A lot of money got spent out here in the middle of nowhere.”

He didn't say any more, turned back to his beer. I couldn't help myself. I just had to ask. “So how did a dirt poor cattleman become mayor?”

Cal winked at Jesse who shook his head, grinning, and started polishing his beer mugs. Cal turned full on to me and said, “Well, now we’re talking about the mayor’s race in ’81. That’s how he got in the first time. He won again two years later. After that nobody bothered to run against him. But that first race --- that was something to behold. There weren’t no TV commercials and stuff. It was just old fashion rallies with lotsa speechifying. Hell, nobody running had any money; and besides, this county’s so poor there wasn’t any spare money to donate. The campaign signs looked like cheap copies of “Wanted” posters like you see in the movies.

 

“Jesse, do you remember the first time Wilson got elected?”

Jesse put the mug down and leaned against the bar. “Yeah, I thought the town had gone nuts. Five candidates for a job that pays nothing. It was Big Bill, Randy, Cody, the blind Meskin guy Raúl, and Wilson.”

Cal said, “What a hoot! Big Bill ran his campaign from the county jail. Randy was in the psych ward in Amarillo. Everybody knew Cody was nuts. And Raúl was blind and deaf!”

I looked back and forth at Jesse and Cal. The hook was set. I swallowed it and followed with the line and sinker. I put a twenty on the bar and asked for another round of beer.

Cal paused and waited until Jesse came back with fresh beers, including one for himself, pocketed my twenty and laid a stack of ones next to my mug. Fresh beer in hand, Cal said, “Big Bill had a fine opinion of himself and he liked his guns. He strutted around town campaigning suited up like a TV gunslinger; six shooter strapped low, snug up against his leg. His big idea was to bring law and order to Shorthorn, except the only crimes we had were petty vandalism. Hell, the last big crime was the Calahan boys rustling a half dozen steers back in ’78. Them dumbasses got lost out past Wild Rose Canyon. Me and the boys rescued them a week later nearly dead from thirst. Had to keep their daddy from beatin’ ‘em to death.

“Jesse, you were at Big Bill’s last rally, before he went to jail, right?”

What Big Bill saw in the mirror

“Yeah, I was. Ole Bill was holding a rally at the town square going on and on about how he didn’t want Shorthorn to become like the big cities full of crime and drugs. Some guy standing in the back asked if he knew who was shooting campaign signs full of holes. Big Bill ignored him at first but the guy kept on about it. I was standing next to a guy who was holding up a sign with a picture of Cody’s face on it. Big Bill saw it and pulled out his shooter and put two bullets in it. One in each eye, quick like. Everybody scattered or hit the dirt except for the Sheriff who stood his ground and arrested him. Judge Porter put Bill in the clink for a 30 day stretch at county."

Cal said, “UFO’s, the Marfa Lights. You travel around a lot. Ever see any? Randy did, all the time. Don’t rightly know what UFO’s had to do with being mayor but he ran for it anyways. For years Randy told the folks about triangle shaped aircraft flying over his land but nobody else ever saw ‘em. Everywhere he went, everybody he talked to got an earful about his visions. Nobody believed him, of course. Some of us laughed in his face. About a month before the vote he started hallucinating about being abducted by aliens and being probed like a hamstrung hog. That last thing made the folks at his rallies kinda uncomfortable, but I think it was the tinfoil covering the windows in his house that made his wife commit him to the psych ward in Amarillo for six months.

Got Milk?

“The hell of it is that in 2005, the flyboys at Lackland AFB in San Antone, fessed up about experimental, triangle shape aircraft they had secretly tested about the same time that Randy said he saw them. Now he won’t stop talking about how the Air Force was just covering up the truth about alien visitors.”

“Then there was Cody”, Jessie said. “Lotta folks here and about thought maybe he spent too much time alone in the desert. He had a fossil museum over on Third and Main. Visitors would go in and look at the fossils he’d dug up over the years, which was fine until Cody went into his talks about how the earth was 6,000 years old; how his bone collection proved beyond a doubt that men and dinosaurs walked the earth at the same time. Some tourists stood and listened (he could go on for hours). Most of them backed out as fast as they could.

“But, I gotta tell you. At one of his rallies he did say one thing that almost made sense.”

 Cal’s eyebrows shot up and he glared at Jesse.

Cody's Flintstonemobile

“Now, don’t look at me like that, Cal. It’s crazy, I know, but it made me stop and think for a minute. He was telling the crowd that Shorthorn would do itself real proud if it elected him, a God fearing Christian. There were some ‘Amens’ in the crowd. Then a kid in the front row asked how did Noah get the dinosaurs into the Ark? The crowd got real quiet, like they never thought of that before. Thinking, how did dinosaurs get on the Ark?

“’That’s easy,’” Cody said “Dinosaur eggs”.

Cal said, “Nobody ever thought Big Bill, Randy, or Cody stood a yella dog’s chance of winning but there ain’t much to do on market day after the shopping’s done so going to the voter rallies was a way to pass the time. Make a day of it, you know?”

Jessie added, “Well, with the three of them out of the way, that left Raúl and Wilson as the only candidates with any chance of winning. Which I thought was kinda funny because I didn’t figure Raúl had any chance at all, being a Meskin and all of us being whites but people were talking him up. The tide was moving his way just 10 days to go to Election Day. Didn’t I say things were crazy? Maybe something in the water.

“I couldn’t figure it until he came into the bar one afternoon and started talking to me about my ex-wife. He knew stuff nobody else could know except my divorce lawyer and my ex.

“That’s when I knew that blind and deaf Raúl was blackmailing half the town. He mighta been half blind but his hearing was real good.

“How did he do it? Raúl made his living by being a gopher and courier for a lot of the lawyers working out of the old courthouse. They paid him a buck or two for each delivery. They gave him contracts, settlements, and decrees to deliver from one lawyer to another. He wore bad suits, looked sloppy, didn’t ask any questions, and was always available. Everybody knew him and paid him no mind. He just hung around the offices, listening to lawyers talking among themselves or on the phone. He read the documents they gave him to deliver. So, if the Sheriff got you on a domestic beef, Raúl knew all about it. Divorced --- details. Bad debts – details. Raúl was the fly on the wall in the town’s livin', breathin' soap opera.”

I know everything. Everything

Jesse took the empty bottles off the counter and went to fetch another round.

Cal cleared his throat and said, “Only thing Wilson was good at was lyin’. Smart people thought he was dumb. Yes, sir. He was so dumb he got rich. He didn’t know much about ranching but he knew people. You might say he was coyote smart. No matter what you did to protect your chicken pen or your pocket, he’d find a way in.

“He always had big plans that never worked out, like the idea to make his place into a Dude Ranch. Or the time he thought NASCAR would come to Shorthorn if it was promoted right; always looking for an easy way to make a fast buck. Couldn’t rightly tell why he wanted to be mayor. The job wasn’t much at all.

“Ya know, the Meskin, Raúl, almost won, too. If it wasn’t for the County Clerk giving Wilson the votes we woulda had a blind, deaf, Meskin mayor. If anybody thought there was something fishy they didn’t say nothin’. Wilson wasn’t anybody’s idea of a mayor either, but at least he was white.

Cal saw the look on my face when he said that. He put his hands up to his chest palms up and said, “Things ain’t like that anymore. Town’s changed; people changed.” Glancing over at the laughing cowboys in the corner, he said, “Well, most of us anyway. Maybe you can leave one of your nutcutters with me on account. Might have a need for it after all.”

Jessie cleared the empty the longnecks on the counter, rubbed his chin and said, “Best move Wilson made was to marry Betty Jo, the County Clerk, a few months after the election. Folks scratched their heads over that. Betty Jo was plain as can be; thirty years old, a spinster for sure. But when Wilson looked at her he saw a beautiful thing. He saw POWER and an easy way to get it. With Betty Jo counting votes he could sell Shorthorn County votes to Austin --- as many as they wanted. All he had to do was propose to Betty Jo and win the first time.”

It only matters who counts the votes

                         

Author’s Note:
This story is fiction. However, some of the characters in it are based on an real election that took place in a real town in Texas in my lifetime. For the purposes of this story, the candidates’ attributes were modified to make the story believable. They were more bizarre in real life.

Home Fires

“Dead Man’s Hand, a pair of black Aces and a pair of black Eights,” Doc Harris said as he stared down at his whiskey, stirring it with his finger. “That’s what Wild Bill Hickock’s hand was before he was blown to kingdom come, bullet in the head courtesy of Jim McCall. Ole Jim got the short end of a long rope for it.”

How you win and lose at the same time

Doc Harris sat slumped in his chair looking grumpier than usual. We were sitting at our customary table at Jackie’s Cold Day Inn waiting for Sheriff Tom. He’d taken Judy Butler to the courthouse in Snyder where she faced charges for inciting a riot in Preacher Jason’s church. Tom figured he’d stick around for the hearing expecting Judge Edwards to dismiss the charges being that Jason was his brother-in-law and they hated each other's guts.

Jackie brought a tray of drinks and set it down. She looked out the window. “Hmmph, those two.”

Across the street in front of the Post Office Milo and Laurie, single adults, were acting like teenage kids who'd just discovered the opposite sex.

We could see them through the window but couldn’t hear what they were saying. He hopped on one foot then the other, pulled at his hat or shoved his hands into his pockets then out again, dancing the whole time as though Laurie was shooting the dust at his feet with a six-shooter. Laurie focused on his face, arranging loose strands of hair behind her ear, licking her lips, eyes wide open as though she were looking in a mirror to make sure she looked alright before going out the door. If I didn’t know they were adults I would guess their age at 14, maybe 16, tops.

Jackie pursed her lips and squinted. “It’s hard to tell with those two. I was pretty sure they'd be a couple by now. This takes much longer I know I’m losing my touch. I had me three husbands and can’t remember how many boyfriends so I know a thing or two about courtin’ and romance.

"I can’t read much into Milo, him being from California, but Laurie, I’ve known her and her family for years; never figured her to have so much patience. If it was me, I woulda grabbed him by the ears and planted a big ole kiss on ‘im months ago. Pretty clear she’s interested. See her hands? Keeps brushing her hair back or clenching ‘em together. And she looks ‘im straight on like, ‘Come on, Milo, I want it, too.’ Jackie sighed and went back to wiping down the bar."

Doc Harris grumped, "They'll get around to that soon enough, Jackie. Those two been alone too long. You hear people say love makes the world go round. No, that ain’t it. It’s just a polite way of sayin’ love makes the world go up and down." Jackie gave him a dirty look. Wendy giggled.

Sheriff Tom came in, did his customary look see around the bar and waited while I vacated his chair. He waved his index finger at Wendy who nodded and poured out a tumbler of his favorite whiskey. She fixed another for me and Doc.

Tom said, "Judy Butler's off the hook. The judge dismissed the case and told the preacher to pound sand."

Information Central

I could see Millie in the Post Office busy sorting mail, talking with her customers, glancing at Milo and Laurie through the screen doors every few seconds as though her mind was a time lapse camera snapping stills that she would later condense, summarize, then turn into gossip to share with the town. Millie knew everyone’s secrets. To her, gossip was just another day of news around town. To everyone else, she had better and far more interesting information than any newspaper or radio show.

At 5 o'clock Millie turned the "Open" sign to "Closed" and padlocked the doors but instead of heading south she stepped between Milo and Laurie and crossed the street to Jackie's place. Millie pops in once in a while to socialize with her best friend, Jackie. Poor Milo was so focused on Laurie he jumped back a foot when Millie said hello as she passed.

Wendy made her a bourbon over ice at the bar. Millie saw us sitting at the corner table. Jackie waved her over and we scooted our chairs to make room.

We watched Milo and Laurie stumble through the ritual of saying goodbye.

Millie bummed one of Tom's cigarillos and drained half her drink. She blinked hard and raised her eyes to the ceiling and blinked again. Wendy got busy pouring her another drink. She took a deep breath and said, “Don't need another one, Wendy. Give it to Tom or somebody.”

Vitamin Jack

She looked out the window. Pointing with her tumbler she said, “Those two, Milo, Laurie, are as borin’ as bible study. Not like Jim and Angel. Panhandle's never seen a pair like that before.”

Jackie saw the question on my face and said, “Jim and Angel met on Friday night, woke up together Saturday, got married on Sunday. Fought all day Monday and skipped work for a week."

Tom chuckled and said, “That's the short version. Millie knows the whole story. Mind telling it again?”

Millie is in her 80s but she looks and acts 20 years younger. When her husband died she succeeded him as Post Master though no one remembers when she was appointed.

Sheriff Tom once told me that given the right breaks Millie could've been a first rate detective in some big city police department the way she put bits of information together to solve a mystery. As Post Mistress she saw everybody's mail – bills from creditors, credit card offers, letters from faraway family members. 'Hmmm, Sue Ellen hasn't written to her sister in years. Probly somebody died. Letters from lawyers going back and forth? Maybe Dave and Kimmie are calling it quits.'

And, of course, when people went to pick up their mail they'd talk to Millie and to each other with every conversation recorded, sorted, and filed away in Millie's brain.

Millie took a deep drag on the cigarillo, a sip of her drink and said, “Nobody gave 'em a Chinaman's chance of stayin' married more'n a week but something happened. When they were single it was Angel goin' her own way, not carin' if anybody liked it. Same for Jim. It didn't matter which way everybody else was goin', Jim, Angel, go against the grain if it suited 'em. If they cared what anybody thought, it never showed.

"For days after, nobody talked about anything else 'cept how Jim and Angel got together that night. Some folks weren't even there but they spun out stories anyway. Took me two weeks to figure out which stories matched up and which didn't, what really happened.

"Now Angel’s the kind who’ll say hi or spit in your eye, dependin’, no matter if you’re a banker or cowpoke. At Billy’s she’ll dance with anybody who asks, ‘cept Harley, and you know why. He knows better than to ask anyway. But when it comes to dating she’s picky. Until Jim come along I never knew her to have a steady beau.

"I heard one time her and Rory were getting' real friendly in a booth at Billy's Last Stand. He's sayin' how bout we go to my place. Angel says no thanks. He keeps up and she pushes him away, gets up and says loud enough for everybody to hear, 'Tonight ain't your night, babe. Many are called but few are chosen.' Rory pulled his hat down, put money on the table and snuck out the back door.

King James didn't like Rory either.

"I don't know that she has any close friends but you ask anybody and they'll say, yeah, Angel she's a friend of mine, ornery, stubborn as a mule, but a friend.

"Then you got Milo and Laurie. Can't figure them out just yet. It's not like they're kids, you know. Both 'em seen enough of the world to be careful and it's not like they just met. Laurie was married once. She had her pick back in the day and picked the wrong one. Lucky she got outa that early, anybody with eyes could see Carter was no good.

"Milo? He's all pluses far as I can tell. Quiet as hell, and he won't say nothin' I can work with. He's been around the world, that boy. You'all know he's walked ground most men will never see. Seems like he come out of it ok. I know there's other women interested besides Laurie. Marie at the library, for one.

"Jim's all muscle and scars from his job on the oil rigs. One look and you know who he is. He mighta lost a fight or two in his time but nobody's ever come back for seconds. Tom's probly told you stories about Jim and Jim and Angel getting into scrapes on the regular. Magnets for trouble those two.

"Jim didn't have a steady girlfriend before Angel. He was playin' the field. Good lookin', single, spent his money without thinking about it much. He knew Angel but didn't make a play for her, too many other women around for him to notice. She never gave him a second look either. When they finally met up close it was like a grizzly meetin' a wildcat. Only one of 'em was gonna come out in one piece.

"It was at Billy's Last Stand on a Friday night, late, people havin' a good time, live music, fancy dancin', boys playin' pool in the back. Angel and Judy Butler were sittin' together eyeballin' the boys in the band. Jim walks up, asks Judy to dance. She says no, that cowboy with the blue hat stepped on my toes last dance. Ask Angel.


"Angel's a real good dancer and Jim’s average but he does ok. They did some line dancin' for a couple of songs before The Lonesome Foursome played a slow song. Jim and her got close but not too close, they just met you know. But right off, there was a problem.

"Jim is left handed. He's used to making right handed women follow his lead. No problem there. He's Jim, he leads.

"Angel is left handed, too. She makes her partners go her way, left right, left right. Most of 'em catch on and go along.

Making it through another night

"The Lonesome Foursome are just startin’ Help Me Make It Through The Night when people are whisperin' and pointin' at Jim and Angel. She's pushin' one way, he's pushin' another way like pro wrestlers tryin' to leverage each other. Jim goes about 190. If Angel's an ounce over 120 it's a lot. So even money says he's gonna win this round. But anybody ever tried to push Angel around knows there’s always a price to pay.

"She lets go of Jim, steps back and says, “Do you wanna dance or do I have to drag you around the floor?”

"Then Jim does the wrong thing. He pushes his hat back on his head, puts his hands out like what'm I gonna do 'bout the little lady? Lookin' around at his friends, smirkin' a little.

"Angel gets red in the face, rears back, kicks him in the shin and when he bends down she knocks his hat off and stomps on it.

"Everybody's starin', wonderin' what's gonna happen next. Jim and Angel standin' legs apart, lookin' each other in the eye like gunslingers waitin' for the other one to blink.

"I don't know what Jim's thinkin' but I know you don't win a fight by walkin' away. Men like him will fight you to the last dead dog a’fore they quit. It’s all in the book, 101 Things Real Men Never Do.

"Maybe Angel's thinkin' the same way but maybe, too, she's thinkin' steppin' on his hat was worse than his crime. She picks up his hat, brushes it off and tosses it to 'im.

"Jim's a roughneck like a hundred others ‘round here but he's got some smarts. He sees she wants a truce. The band starts playin'. Jim puts his hat on, holds his arms out like askin’ do you wanna dance. She does the same thing.

"Well, Lord knows what went on their heads but before long they were holdin' each other like they're hangin' on a life raft."

Tom spoke up. "I didn't have to add up any clues to know what happened next. Saturday morning I got a call from the Easy Days Motel at the edge of town. Ed told me they checked in late Friday night. Had to quiet 'em down after some guests complained. Couldn't tell if they were fightin' or havin' fun. Next morning he finds the bed's broke. He knows Jim's good for it but he's lettin' me know just in case. He says they headed north on the 60.

"Next I get a call from the bartender at Billy's. Tells me Angel's pickup is still on his lot. He's worried about Angel. I tell 'im she’s probly all right, she's with Jim. He says uh oh. I tell 'im leave the truck there unless you hear from me."

Tom stopped to take a sip. "Jim's a rough one but I know he's never laid a hand on a woman. So far's I'm concerned Angel's with him cause she wants to be. If anybody’s in trouble it’s gonna be Jim.

"I call the Borger Sheriff and tell him let me know if he sees Jim's pickup parked in any of the motels. He says ok. I do the same with the Sheriff Don in Pampa.

"Thursday I check in with the Sheriff in Borger. He ain’t seen Jim’s pickup anywhere. But Don over in Pampa says Jim and Angel are holed up at the Cactus Flower Motel on Main street. So happens that’s across the street from Big Daddy’s Diner where Don takes his coffee and doughnut breaks now and then.

"Says Angel’s lookin’ fine but Jim looks like hell, draggin’ his butt across the street to the diner like he’s been sleepin’ on the street for a month. I thank him and call Jim’s boss let ‘im know Jim’s ok but probly won’t be at work too soon. Mr. Davis is used to his men not showin’ up regular like but he’s glad Jim’s ok. Says if I see Jim tell ‘im his pay’s bein’ docked.

"Now this love story happened, oh, ten years ago. Jim and Angel, you can’t say one name without the other -- JimenAngel. They’re still married, still fightin’ over this and that with each other or with somebody else. Them against the world like always. I guess some home fires never go cold."

Wendy was standing behind the bar, elbows down, chin cupped on her hand. “Milo and Laurie are my friends. When they make up their minds I think they'll keep their fire goin'. Maybe not boilin' like Jim and Angel's but it'll always be simmerin'."

Texas Blues

THIS IS PART ONE. 

PART TWO IS TITLED "DON'T WORRY ABOUT HIM. HE FIGHTS LIKE A GIRL."

“Her name was Peggy. She had blue eyes like you’ve never seen, like the sky between winter and spring, bright, shining, electric. It’s that time of year, I know you’ve all been there. Your chest feels chilly but your back is warm. The sky’s so close you think you can reach up, pull it down over you and feel warm all over. That’s who Peggy was.” 

Steve snorted, made an hourglass shape with his hands and said, “So, what was the rest of her like?” One second later he was on his back holding his bloody nose with both hands.

“If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes I wouldn’t believe it was Milo who’d decked Steve like that. For one, Steve’s got 40 pounds and 10 years on ‘im. For another, Milo’s the kind that shoos flies insteada squashing ‘em.” 

You can stay as long as you mind your manners

Jackie put my glass on her tray and walked it back to the bar where Wendy was getting ready for the evening crowd. Jackie’s Cold Day Inn is a local favorite, a dark, dusty place without a jukebox or live music to disturb the customers’ conversations or solitudes. It was where I always went after long days in the sun selling farm equipment to ranchers who made it a point of pride to make me keep talking even after I knew the were going to buy. Come sundown I was ready for some cold beer or bourbon on the rocks, no more talking, just listening to other people tell their stories. 

Sheriff Tom, Les, and Doc Harris and I occupy the same table whenever I visit Panhandle but today I was alone. My drinking pals would show up later. They always did. Jackie brought me another bourbon, a beer for herself and sat across from me. 

She saw the question on my face and said, “Yep, that Milo, the guy owns the craft store where you can buy knittin’ needles, yarn, face paint for the kids, any kinda art supplies. He gave Steve a pretty good shiner and a busted nose. You bet he was surprised but no more ‘n the rest of us. We all stood up and Steve bailed, probly thinking we’d back Milo, Steve being who he is. You know, there’s people who are a pain in the ass. And there’s people who are just assholes. Steve’s an asshole. Got what was comin’ to ‘im in my opinion. 

“It happened last Friday. Milo’s not a regular, comes in once in a while, has drink or two and goes home. Wendy found out it was his birthday so we invited him to a party. He’s a nice guy, pretty much keeps to himself. He’s not bashful or anything, doesn’t ask questions but he listens to everything you say. 

“Nobody had enough candles so we brought what we had, put ‘em all on the cake. Anyway, we had a 200 candle cake. We sang happy birthday, gave him some cheesy gifts we bought at his store, the whole nine yards. Everybody had too many drinks and we started talking about old times. Milo was laughing and talking along with the rest of us. He had some funny stories about teaching Freshman English on the West Coast.” 

I saw the Sheriff, Doc, and Les crossing the street towards the bar. The door swung open and they came in. Wendy said, hi guys, and set their drinks down. We said our hellos, toasted the end of another day and waited for somebody to say something. 

“We were talking about last Friday, Milo and Steve. Have you seen Milo lately?” 

Doc Harris shook his head no, said Steve was in to see him about his nose. “Funny thing about that. Everybody saw the punch in the nose, but I think Milo musta hit ‘im twice. He’s got a fractured cheekbone, too. And, Tom, just so you know, he’s saying it ain’t over between him and Milo.” 

Wendy was drying beer mugs behind the bar. She stopped what she was doing for a moment, listening, and then went back to the mugs. 

Tom leaned forward and said, “I thought I had too much Jack in me, blurry vision. Now I’m not so sure Milo didn’t ring Steve’s bell twice. Two times with one hand or one time with each fist.” 

We chewed on that for a while then Tom spoke again. “I have to know who everybody is in case I gotta arrest them sometime. That way I won’t be surprised if somebody like Tony Lambert opens the door holding a baseball bat when I go looking for ‘im. 

“I remember when Milo moved here. He was unpacking the stuff for his store, lots of boxes of books and I thought he was setting up a bookstore, but he said, no, those are my books. I’ll be selling craft supplies, party stuff, and such. Well, a man that reads that much don’t usually settle in a place like Panhandle. Man like that wants to be around people more like him than us. Not sayin’ he’s better, he’s just different.

“Then I’m thinkin’ Milo’s running from something – bad marriage, the law or worse, could be a deserter. He says he was a professor at a university on the West Coast, retired. I make a buncha calls and everything he says checks out. One parking ticket 20 years ago. Didn’t exactly retire, just up and quit one day, packed his stuff, wound up here.” 

I said, “What does this have to do with Peggy Blue Eyes? Who was she?” 

Tom said, “You gotta understand, Milo’s not a steady drinker so whatever he says when he’s had a few is probly the truth and a lot more than he intended to tell. Said Peggy was a nun. Not when he met her but after.” 

That didn’t sound right. I said, “Milo meets Peggy. They fall in love and she backs off and becomes a nun?” 

“Wasn’t like that. He was on three day leave before shipping to ‘Nam, met Peggy at a block party in L.A. They hit it off, spent the three days talking about life and stuff. Third day she says she’s entering a convent next week so she can’t write to him or nuthin’. 

“Laid him pretty low. She was ‘the one’ and there was nuthin’ he could do about it. Then he thought Peggy was making it up about becoming a nun, letting him down easy. When he finished his tour he checked it out. What she said about the convent was the truth. Never saw her again. My friend at the VA told me he signed up for two more tours after that.

“Milo was talking about Peggy when Steve opened his yap, ruined the moment and got himself a broken nose.” 

“Wow”, I said. “What a sad story. Some birthday party.” 

Jackie said, “Well, that part of it, yeah. Once Steve left for the ER we forgot about ‘im.” 

Doc Harris gave Jackie a sly look and said, “Weren’t you and Steve hot stuff in high school?” 

Jackie choked on her drink, put her hand to her chest. “Doc, you don’t know the half of it. I know how it looked but it wasn’t that way. Oh, hell. Steve bragged so much everybody thought he knew everything about everything, especially about girls. What I knew was I didn’t wanna be a virgin anymore. I was 17, dating Steve, the hottest guy in school. I was ready and I thought he was, too. But he wouldn’t make a move so one night we’re at the drive-in watching a Gary Cooper movie, I don’t remember which one. I take his hand, put in on my boob. He jerks back like I was putting his hand in a bear trap and says he’d better take me home. And he did. A few years out of school a bunch of us girls we’re talking about him, comparing notes. We ended up agreeing Steve was ‘all talk, no hands.’ 

“I never saw Steve the same way anymore, let me down in more ways than one. All that macho confidence was all for show. It was Steve’s friend, Rick, taught me how things are done in the dark. 

“Don’t look so surprised, Tom. You might be the smartest, handsomest Sheriff for a hundred miles North, South, East and West of here now but back then nobody knew about me and Rick, including Steve. You never saw us holdin’ hands and stuff but we had our secrets. Good ole Rick, rest his soul. He wasn’t my idea of the love of my life but he was close enough. I’ll bet you good money if Steve found out about us now he’d say he knew it all along. Maybe someday I’ll tell ‘im, see if I’m right.” 

Les said, “Huh. Rick never said anything about you, Jackie, ‘cept how lucky Steve was. You and Rick, I never woulda guessed. 

“Rick was all right. Remember his old truck, Half- a-Horse? He and Steve were seniors then, worked on that junker all summer to get it ready for the Labor Day races. Problem was that old truck was plain wore out and the boys didn’t have enough money to fix it right but they did the best they could to make their dime look like a dollar. 

“The day of the race they flipped a coin to see who would drive and Steve won. There wasn’t any more they could do, filled the tank at Ben’s Conoco. First prize was $500, big money for Steve and Rick. ‘Course, they didn’t win but everybody who was there remembers Half-a-Horse. Ask around. Half-a-Horse is a legend. Steve still won’t talk about it. 

“Tom can tell you the rest of it. He stayed ‘til the end.” 

Tom drew an oval on the table with his finger. “The winner was the racer who completed the most laps around a half mile course in 15 minutes time. Nobody shows up for 15 minutes of entertainment so the land developers frontin’ the race had a whole carnival setup, rides for the kids, hot dogs, watermelon eating contests, some damn good barbecue, country music bands, the works. They had something for everybody. The race was the big finish. 

“There’s about 20 racers, all junkers, mostly teenagers like us drivin’ hard for that $500 prize. My ride quit after two laps. Half-a-Horse is doing ok, leading sometimes, falling behind, catching up. The crowd’s really into it cheering every time the racers pass the finish line. 

“About ten minutes in, something goes wrong with Half-a-Horse. Steve never figured out what. I just think that old truck’s time had come. Whatever it was, the only thing working was the steering. Half-a-Horse was stuck at 30 miles an hour, wouldn’t downshift and Steve couldn’t shut the engine off. All he could do was steer. You might wonder why didn’t he just hit the hay bales surrounding the track. If you ever hit anything at all at 30 miles an hour you know why he didn’t do it. 

“The 15 minute time limit comes and goes, the race is over. A guy from Borger wins, gets the money. Meanwhile Steve and Half-a-Horse keep going round and round, full tank a gas and all. A few folks stayed around for a while, cheering them on, not exactly makin’ fun, but it was late in the day. Everybody was wore out from all the carnival stuff. At the end it was just Steve and Half-a-Horse going around the oval, me watching. Even Rick went home after an hour. Took another two hours to run out of gas.

Half-a-Horse's last days

“That would have been the end of it, but a stringer from Amarillo picked up the story and it went regional then statewide in all the papers. Steve and his truck were famous in the worst way. He hid out for a while but he came out eventually. Half-a-Horse disappeared. Neither of the boys ever said how or when.” 

Wendy came over to clear the empties and the ashtrays. We were quiet while she worked. When she was done she said, “I don’t think Milo’s showing us all his cards. Sometimes when we’re here alone we sit and talk. Nothing serious, mind you, just everyday stuff about his store, people around town. I don’t know what it is but sometimes he seems like a lion tamer being careful not to turn his back on the cats. Careful with his words, a little too much. Everybody’s got secrets, mostly embarrassing ones. Milo’s secrets, I don’t know what to think. 

“I saw the punch. From where I was standing I could see Steve from the back. Milo came over the table like lightning. I don’t drink when I’m working so I’m sure Milo hit ‘im twice with his left hand so fast it was a blur. So what about that? Milo’s right-handed. I’ve seen lotsa fights. Even lefties lead with their right.” 

Doc Harris said, “That explains both fractures and their location. Wendy, are you sure he hit ‘im twice? Real sure?” Wendy nodded. 

Tom sat back, patted his tummy with both hands and said, “So we have a ninja among us. Three tours in ‘Nam, he coulda been counterintelligence, or CIA. He never said which military branch. If any of that’s true it means he coulda killed Steve if he was inclined to. It also means you damn well better have receipts if you want your money back for the ribbons you’re bringing back to his store.”

[The story continues in "Don't worry about him. He fights like a girl"]

You're Nobody 'Til Somebody Shoots You

  The race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, but that's the way to bet. Damon Runyon

I walked into my favorite Texas hole-in-the-wall bar, Jackie’s Cold Day Inn, just as Sheriff Tom was finishing one of his stories.

Arms spread wide, a drink in his hand, he said, “...Mister, I know I made you mad but I ain’t leaving ‘less you tell me what you got against the horse I rode in on.” Perfect ending. I made a mental note to ask Tom to tell me that one someday.

Sheriff tugged at his neck brace and winced when he tried to sip his drink. Doc Harris gave him a stern look. “You don’t stop messing with it I’ll put a cone on your head.” Tom waved him off.

Jackie brought my Jack & Coke, set it down. She handed Tom a straw, put her fingertips to her lips and said, “It looks good on you, Tom. That gray color brings out the color of your skin.”

I asked what happened to Tom’s neck and Les said a band of Apaches ambushed Tom in Carlsbad. Lucky for him, Milo was there to save him from certain death. Jackie said she heard it was at least 30, or was it 300 Apaches against the Sheriff and Milo. Battle of the Little Bighorn, Part Two.

Tom set his jaw, took a slug of bourbon and glared at Les and Jackie. Les, he just smiled while Jackie flounced back to the bar.

If there’s anything a storyteller hates is for somebody to tell his story all wrong. Especially if the story mocks him. He’d twisted his neck reaching for his handcuffs after Milo laid out a couple of rowdy cowboys. Tom’s neck still hurt and he wasn’t even in the fight. “Long story,” he said to me.

Tom sat back in his chair. Doc Harris rattled a pill bottle and pushed it towards the Sheriff.

“This is powerful stuff, take it as you need it. I’ve called my doctor friend in El Paso to look after you while you’re visiting. His phone number’s on the bottle.” Tom gave Doc a sour look but he put the pills in his shirt pocket.

Tom was going to El Paso the next day to give a speech at a Sheriff’s convention. By coincidence I had to be in El Paso for sales training on the new farm implements I’d be selling all over the Texas Plains the following Spring. Doc Harris was letting Tom travel as long as I was driving. The trip would take eight hours so we agreed to start early the next day.

The next morning I knocked on the door at Tom’s house. His dog Sunuva met me on the porch, sniffed my shoes, checked out the tires on my rental, peed on two of them.

Tom's dog, Sunuva, on duty

Tom looked terrible. As he put it, he felt like an old truck with the air leaking out of all the tires. He perked up with coffee from the go cup I bought at Mamacita’s diner.

As we reached the outskirts of town we passed some kids from the high school track team running single file up the road.

“That takes me back a buncha years. Growing up, kids, we used to race all the time, see who could run the fastest. Charlie García almost always won even when he gave us a head start.

“Eighth grade the three of us joined the track team. It was grade school so we didn’t have spikes just tennis shoes ‘cept for Charlie. His folks couldn’t afford tennis shoes so he ran barefoot. The coach wrapped his big toe and the ball of his foot with trainers tape, wide and thick. Didn’t matter to Charlie, he ran like a Whitetail deer.

 

“He wore spikes for the first time in high school. After that, nobody ever beat him. Nobody. Some folks thought he mighta gone to college on scholarship, but it was 1967, Vietnam got ‘im instead. That growed him up in ways like it did most of us. After ‘Nam he left town, traveled and worked construction everywhere in the country for years and ended up in El Paso. Charlie, he turned out all right. Good wife, good kids, home at last.”

As we headed south on the 87 I thought about the other time Tom and I had gone to El Paso and met with Charlie García. We’d gone to a bar in Juárez and drank ourselves silly. Over the years Charlie had occasionally mailed Tom postcards telling about where he was. I remembered how we’d looked at the postcards while Charlie told the stories behind them. I thought about  Charlie describing himself as a tumbleweed, drifting here and there until he found a home, a wife, and a family. Tom was right. Charlie was home at last.

We drove in relative silence for several miles. Tom talked about various landmarks on the horizon telling of old Indian campsites he’d found, the boundaries of ranches that had changed over time.

He fussed with the neck brace. “Carlsbad. Just for the record,” he said, “there were only two Indians and they were the good guys.

“Milo and I went fishin’ at Red Bluff in Reeves County two weeks ago. I had some time off and his craft shop wasn’t doin’ a dime’s worth of business so we decided to catch us some White Bass or some Stripers at the reservoir.

“Of course, Milo didn’t catch any fish. He doesn’t bait his hooks but he’s good company, reads a lotta books I never had time for. According to him, the fish and him have a deal. He won’t bother baitin’ his hooks and they won’t pull on his line and disturb his reading.

“Anyhow, our fishing trip was over, we’re heading home but we stop in Carlsbad for some chow. There’s a pair of Indians at another table, a young one and an old one. Can’t say for sure they were Apache, but some kinda Indians. For sure they weren’t white and didn’t look Mexican. The old one's probly 60, 70 years old, gray hair down to his shoulders, wore a thin necklace made of colored beads and four wolf fangs.

“I found out after that the young one was called Big Chief at work and he didn’t mind. Everybody at an oil rig has some kind of nickname. He wasn’t all that big but he worked the chains, the most dangerous job for a roughneck. Old time chain guys are easy to spot what with missing fingers, deep scars across their arms and noses. Whenever the chains go haywire it’s time to call EMS or the undertaker.

“His real name was Ted Whitefeather from the Mescalero Apache Reservation in New Mexico. He and his uncle were passing through Carlsbad on their way back to the reservation when they stopped for a beer where me and Milo were having sandwiches from the grill.

“We’re sitting there eating corned beef sandwiches, the Indians at another table minding their own business when a pair of cowboys come in whoopin’ and hollerin’ like they’ve never been indoors in polite company. They get some beers at the bar, start looking around and they see the Indians. One of ‘em starts in on ‘em makes noises with his mouth like he’s seen Indians do in the movies. The Indians don’t pay them no mind and that don’t sit well with those yahoos and they swagger to the Indians’ table like TV cowboys.

“One cowboy stands next to Big Chief and the other one next to the old Indian. He says, ‘Say, old man, can you do a rain dance?. We sure could use it hereabouts.’ The other one laughs like that’s the funniest thing anybody’s ever said about anything since the beginnin’ of time. The bartender reached down below the bar and kept his hand there.

“The Indians ignored the gits and didn’t even look up at them. Then the cowboy points to the old Indian’s necklace and says, ‘Hey, Geronimo, you some kinda wolfman? Whooeeee, I’m scared just looking at this guy.’ By now the young Indian’s ‘bout had enough and says, ‘Show some respect, he’s a chief in my tribe. His name is Chief Nando, Warrior Wolf from the White Mountains, Protector of the Young.’

‘Boy howdy, that’s some fancy name you got there, Chief. So when the phone rings you gotta say all that?’

“Milo and me we’re watching this and I’m keeping one eye on Milo. He’s tensing up something fierce, fists clenched, eyes buggin’ out. I saw the bartender edge over to the end of the bar nearest the Indians. The cowboys glanced at us and saw me, an outa shape old man, and Milo, a smallish guy with glasses. No real threat. You don’t know Milo’s trained in martial arts unless you know him like we do.

“The cowboy grabs at the old Indian’s necklace and the young Indian jumps up but the cowboy next to him lands a roundhouse right that sends him to the floor. The cowboy was fixin’ to kick but he never had a chance. Milo was on ‘im like white on rice, put ‘im in a headlock, flipped him on his back and came down on the cowboy’s forearm with a knee. That was the first cracking sound I heard. The second crack I heard was when the bartender laid some wood on the other cowboy’s head with a half size Louisville Slugger and the fight was over, five, six seconds tops. Me, I’m just standing there with my thumb…. never mind.

“I yelled at the bartender to call the Sheriff. I stepped on a beer bottle while I was reaching for my handcuffs, slipped, went ass over elbows and landed on my neck. Now I gotta wear this brace ‘til Doc says I can take it off.”

I asked if the Indians said anything while they waited for the Sheriff and EMS.

“We talked for a bit. Big Chief thanked us getting them out of a jam and so on. Then he said something I didn’t get right away but Milo laughed as soon as he heard it. Big Chief says, “Do you know what is the most important thing about our Sacred Rain Dance?” I allowed I didn’t know. He leans over and whispers, ‘Timing’”.

When we got to El Paso I carried Tom’s bags into the hotel where his fellow lawmen greeted him enthusiastically. My hotel was across town and I spent the next three days learning about the new tractors and furrow makers that would change the lives of my customers in wondrous and miraculous ways.

Tom’s speech went well at the Sheriff’s convention. He was the man of the hour, respected and honored by old and young LEOs. I was tied up whole days at my training sessions so we didn’t have much time to visit with Charlie except for dinner at his house the night before we left for home. He looked very much at ease. I noticed he was growing a little paunchy though he could probably still outwork anybody half his age. Neither of them drank like they used to but seemed to enjoy it more.

We decided to take the same route home taking U.S. 62 heading east. Tom unsnapped the neck brace and made me swear not to tell Doc Harris.

As we drove through Whites City Tom told me about a retired Sheriff at the convention. The old guy was a legend among the Sheriffs of the southwest. During his 33 year tenure he'd single-handedly captured many of New Mexico's most notorious criminals. After one cocktail party he was surrounded by younger men, one of whom wanted to know how come his sidearm was a vintage .45 ACP instead of the Glock 19 the others favored. He gave the kid the side eye and said he had his reasons. Number one: It only has seven shots so you need to be damn sure where and why you’re shooting. Number two: It’s inaccurate at any distance over a few yards but when you do hit the target, it will go down and stay down. Number three: He carries a .45 because nobody makes a .46.

Arriving at La Mesa we took the 87 North towards Lubbock. The road signs to different cities reminded Tom about the day he’d been shot.

“Fifteen years ago I was down in Big Spring, visiting a friend at the VA hospital. I was at a bakery buying coffee across the street from the Credit Union when I saw two young fellas wearin’ dusters walk in. Overcoats in 80 degree weather, better check it out. Those two were robbing the place. One of them had a pillowcase to hold the money and the other held his coat open with his left hand, said the dynamite strapped to his chest would blow up if he pressed a switch in his other hand.”

Tom paused, took some time to pour coffee from my Thermos jug and said, “You hear all the time about criminal masterminds. Police chiefs on TV shows talk about master criminals they haven’t caught. The fact is, real masterminds are pretty easy to catch because they’re rational and logical. Get in their heads to figure out their next logical move and bingo they get caught. It’s the dumbass criminals that are hard to catch because there’s no way to figure out what they’re gonna do next. You gotta wait ‘til they do something stupid like the two I saw robbing the Credit Union. They’re wearin’ dusters. Only place you see outlaws wearing dusters is in the movies, for Pete’s sake.”

He rubbed his left shoulder and stared at nothing for a long time. I kept my eyes on the road and waited for more.

“I didn’t draw my gun that day, (maybe I shoulda). Too many folks in there, so I walked up to Mr. Dynamite and cold cocked him. His buddy panicked, pulled a snub nose .32, shot me, saw what he’d done and passed out. Folks said that was the bravest thing they ever saw until they noticed like I did, that the dynamite sticks were actually road flares. You can light a road flare but I’ll be damned, you can’t make it explode. I lost a lotta blood and had a collapsed lung.

“Well, even so, the newspapers and TV played it up pretty good, picture in the paper and everything. They made me a hero for a few days while I was laid up. That’s law enforcement for you. You’re nobody ‘til somebody shoots you.”