the church after breakfast. Secretary will show you around and then you get to work. Understand what I’m saying? You better not skip town, that’s what I mean in plainest terms.”
“No sir. I understand, sir.”
The sheriff turned toward the field and stared at the Packard in the ditch. I turned around with him, and we stood without saying anything more, the sheriff and me. Maybe half an hour passed. Maybe forty-five minutes. He just kept staring at the waste of a wrecked car. His eyes were steeled with intent, the way a man’s eyes look when he’s lost someone he cares about. I’d seen that look in soldiers before. I’d felt the same look in my own eyes more than once myself. I decided to speak first.
“You knew this man, then—this Ridge Hackathorn? Deputy said he was your friend. You play cards together or something?”
It might have been another twenty minutes passed and still the sheriff didn’t say a word. Finally he spoke. He said one sentence, his voice staunch and unbendable.
“He was my son-in-law.”
In the dusk, a bird flew overhead. It flew not more than ten yards in front of us, and I recognized the breed at once due to its great concentrations in west Texas. It’s classed as a game bird, and it’s widely hunted in these parts. The bird was a mourning dove, and the sheriff said one more sentence, his voice just as resolute.
“This is why we need a preacher in this town.”
Sheriff Halligan Barker turned, walked wordlessly to his squad car, and drove into the night.
SIX
T exas, land of abundance, is a self-sufficient inland empire. Folks from Montana with their wheat fields and folks from Iowa with their corn might disagree on this point, but I don’t give a hoot nor a holler. Not only does Texas feed much of the nation and the world, but it also provides its native sons and daughters with all the fruits of Mother Earth in plentiful profusion. Frankly, we’re big eaters in this state. We like our bellies round. And we’ve got the cattle, sheep, goats, hogs, and poultry to prove it—they’re known far and wide for their savor and quality. We’ve also got fresh fruits and vegetables—peas, beans, squash, carrots, radishes, tomatoes, apples, oranges, peaches, blueberries, melons—anything a mouth could want, all grown under balmy Texas skies, and all recognized for their topflight quality and deliciousness.
That’s why at 6:20 the next morning I was already lined up outside the Pine Oak Café with at least two hundred other hungry fellas ready for Cisco Wayman to open the door at 6:30. They was all plant workers mostly, I could tell by their uniforms, lucky fellas with jobs living in the apartments and plant housing down the street. The Murray’s first shift started at 8 a.m., I ascertained by their talk, and the fellas would have plenty of time to eat up and drive up the road for the day’s work.
Sure enough, a man I guessed to be Cisco opened the door at the crack of half past the hour, and all us boys piled throughin a rush. My stomach was growling something fierce and I just had time to glimpse the all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet laid out along tables in the middle of the café—piles of hickory smoked bacon, flapjacks and johnnycakes with their rich cornmeal texture; succulent eggs; warm buttermilk biscuits; tender waffles; steaming apple pork sausage links and mounds of honey hams; a hot roast beef ready for carving; uncountable platters of fried country-cut potatoes and onions; bowls of grilled mushrooms, ripe avocado, creamy coleslaw, and fried grits; dishes of butter; jugs of syrup; milk, coffee, and orange juice; oranges, apples, bananas, and grapes; barbecue sauce, salsa, ketchup, and pepper sauce—yes sir, I saw it all in one clear and glorious picture. It was how I imagined a feast in heaven might look, if a man such as myself would be permitted to enter, and I ain’t a man for crying but I do admit the sight of such Texas culinary profusion was just about
“No sir. I understand, sir.”
The sheriff turned toward the field and stared at the Packard in the ditch. I turned around with him, and we stood without saying anything more, the sheriff and me. Maybe half an hour passed. Maybe forty-five minutes. He just kept staring at the waste of a wrecked car. His eyes were steeled with intent, the way a man’s eyes look when he’s lost someone he cares about. I’d seen that look in soldiers before. I’d felt the same look in my own eyes more than once myself. I decided to speak first.
“You knew this man, then—this Ridge Hackathorn? Deputy said he was your friend. You play cards together or something?”
It might have been another twenty minutes passed and still the sheriff didn’t say a word. Finally he spoke. He said one sentence, his voice staunch and unbendable.
“He was my son-in-law.”
In the dusk, a bird flew overhead. It flew not more than ten yards in front of us, and I recognized the breed at once due to its great concentrations in west Texas. It’s classed as a game bird, and it’s widely hunted in these parts. The bird was a mourning dove, and the sheriff said one more sentence, his voice just as resolute.
“This is why we need a preacher in this town.”
Sheriff Halligan Barker turned, walked wordlessly to his squad car, and drove into the night.
SIX
T exas, land of abundance, is a self-sufficient inland empire. Folks from Montana with their wheat fields and folks from Iowa with their corn might disagree on this point, but I don’t give a hoot nor a holler. Not only does Texas feed much of the nation and the world, but it also provides its native sons and daughters with all the fruits of Mother Earth in plentiful profusion. Frankly, we’re big eaters in this state. We like our bellies round. And we’ve got the cattle, sheep, goats, hogs, and poultry to prove it—they’re known far and wide for their savor and quality. We’ve also got fresh fruits and vegetables—peas, beans, squash, carrots, radishes, tomatoes, apples, oranges, peaches, blueberries, melons—anything a mouth could want, all grown under balmy Texas skies, and all recognized for their topflight quality and deliciousness.
That’s why at 6:20 the next morning I was already lined up outside the Pine Oak Café with at least two hundred other hungry fellas ready for Cisco Wayman to open the door at 6:30. They was all plant workers mostly, I could tell by their uniforms, lucky fellas with jobs living in the apartments and plant housing down the street. The Murray’s first shift started at 8 a.m., I ascertained by their talk, and the fellas would have plenty of time to eat up and drive up the road for the day’s work.
Sure enough, a man I guessed to be Cisco opened the door at the crack of half past the hour, and all us boys piled throughin a rush. My stomach was growling something fierce and I just had time to glimpse the all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet laid out along tables in the middle of the café—piles of hickory smoked bacon, flapjacks and johnnycakes with their rich cornmeal texture; succulent eggs; warm buttermilk biscuits; tender waffles; steaming apple pork sausage links and mounds of honey hams; a hot roast beef ready for carving; uncountable platters of fried country-cut potatoes and onions; bowls of grilled mushrooms, ripe avocado, creamy coleslaw, and fried grits; dishes of butter; jugs of syrup; milk, coffee, and orange juice; oranges, apples, bananas, and grapes; barbecue sauce, salsa, ketchup, and pepper sauce—yes sir, I saw it all in one clear and glorious picture. It was how I imagined a feast in heaven might look, if a man such as myself would be permitted to enter, and I ain’t a man for crying but I do admit the sight of such Texas culinary profusion was just about
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