shocked to find Wayne.
“Well, good morning, Senator.”
“Wayne! I am surprised to see you back so soon. When did you arrive?”
“I came in last night, Senator. I didn’t want to disturb you.”
The older man nodded his appreciation, and then his face became serious. “And how is your family handling the tragedy?”
The assistant lowered his head. “As best as can be expected, sir. My sister’s death was unanticipated, of course. The lack of the most basic facilities made the situation even worse. We had to dig the grave ourselves, and there wasn’t a proper preparation of her body. I built the casket myself, out of scrap lumber.”
Moreland put his hand on Wayne’s shoulder and squeezed gently. “I’m so very, very sorry, my friend. You know I wish I could have done more for your family, Wayne.”
“Thank you, sir. I do appreciate your condolences. Thank you again for the use of your aircraft. It was more than generous,” Wayne replied.
Wayne brightened and changed the subject. “Sir, I have to review the security assignments for the week. Can I set aside some fresh waffles and canned fruit for your breakfast this morning?”
The senator rubbed his stomach and smiled. “Much better than the oatmeal I had planned—much better indeed.”
Chapter 2
Meraton, Texas
December 22, 2015
Pete was sweeping the barroom floor while subconsciously running through a to-do list of the day’s tasks. Since the marketplace had grown and thrived, it was becoming more and more work to keep his small business up and running.
Whisking the small pile of road dust and sand into the pan, he opened the front door and proceeded to return the collection back to its original location. Pete paused in the threshold, looking at the new sun rising in the east. It was going to be another clear, cool day in Meraton, and the market should see a good number of customers with the fair weather. He smiled and strolled out onto Main Street, heading around the corner of Pete’s Place to deposit his dustpan cargo.
After the small pile of sweepings was dumped on the ground, Pete returned to inventory his receipts. What a funny way of running a business , he thought. Normally an entrepreneur would count the day’s take, but that method didn’t apply anymore.
Reaching behind the bar, Pete lifted a cardboard box to the counter and began looking through the miscellaneous items he had bartered in exchange for liquid refreshments.
The first items were bullets. Ammunition was small, easy to carry, and held universal value—or so one would think. Shaking his head, Pete sorted the dozen or so rounds, finding he was the proud owner of several calibers that wouldn’t fit any weapon he owned. Those would be traded for something else if he could ever find the time to set up his own table in the marketplace.
The remain ing items in the cardboard cash register included sewing supplies, a cigar, three tomatoes, two sets of shoelaces, and a dull pocketknife. Pete thumbed through the hodge-podge, amusing himself as he hummed the seasonal ditty, “Twelve Days of Christmas,” with an emphasis on “and a partridge in a pear tree.”
It was the stack of handwritten IOUs in the bottom of the box that bothered him the most. Pete read through several of the small notes and grunted. The extension of credit had been a difficult balancing act since mankind’s humble beginnings and the establishment of commerce. Pete had happily exchanged a drink for an IOU to help get the town trading again—to help rebuild a society.
At first, he’d had little expectation of ever collecting. Now, he was producing his own libations and had raw material costs. Pete sighed, “I have to eat , too.”
Carrying the veggies to the small kitchen in the back of the bar, he couldn’t help but analyze Meraton’s situation. It wasn’t just Pete’s Place that suffered from a lack of currency. Betty was managing The Manor, trying to keep the town’s centerpiece hotel
“Well, good morning, Senator.”
“Wayne! I am surprised to see you back so soon. When did you arrive?”
“I came in last night, Senator. I didn’t want to disturb you.”
The older man nodded his appreciation, and then his face became serious. “And how is your family handling the tragedy?”
The assistant lowered his head. “As best as can be expected, sir. My sister’s death was unanticipated, of course. The lack of the most basic facilities made the situation even worse. We had to dig the grave ourselves, and there wasn’t a proper preparation of her body. I built the casket myself, out of scrap lumber.”
Moreland put his hand on Wayne’s shoulder and squeezed gently. “I’m so very, very sorry, my friend. You know I wish I could have done more for your family, Wayne.”
“Thank you, sir. I do appreciate your condolences. Thank you again for the use of your aircraft. It was more than generous,” Wayne replied.
Wayne brightened and changed the subject. “Sir, I have to review the security assignments for the week. Can I set aside some fresh waffles and canned fruit for your breakfast this morning?”
The senator rubbed his stomach and smiled. “Much better than the oatmeal I had planned—much better indeed.”
Chapter 2
Meraton, Texas
December 22, 2015
Pete was sweeping the barroom floor while subconsciously running through a to-do list of the day’s tasks. Since the marketplace had grown and thrived, it was becoming more and more work to keep his small business up and running.
Whisking the small pile of road dust and sand into the pan, he opened the front door and proceeded to return the collection back to its original location. Pete paused in the threshold, looking at the new sun rising in the east. It was going to be another clear, cool day in Meraton, and the market should see a good number of customers with the fair weather. He smiled and strolled out onto Main Street, heading around the corner of Pete’s Place to deposit his dustpan cargo.
After the small pile of sweepings was dumped on the ground, Pete returned to inventory his receipts. What a funny way of running a business , he thought. Normally an entrepreneur would count the day’s take, but that method didn’t apply anymore.
Reaching behind the bar, Pete lifted a cardboard box to the counter and began looking through the miscellaneous items he had bartered in exchange for liquid refreshments.
The first items were bullets. Ammunition was small, easy to carry, and held universal value—or so one would think. Shaking his head, Pete sorted the dozen or so rounds, finding he was the proud owner of several calibers that wouldn’t fit any weapon he owned. Those would be traded for something else if he could ever find the time to set up his own table in the marketplace.
The remain ing items in the cardboard cash register included sewing supplies, a cigar, three tomatoes, two sets of shoelaces, and a dull pocketknife. Pete thumbed through the hodge-podge, amusing himself as he hummed the seasonal ditty, “Twelve Days of Christmas,” with an emphasis on “and a partridge in a pear tree.”
It was the stack of handwritten IOUs in the bottom of the box that bothered him the most. Pete read through several of the small notes and grunted. The extension of credit had been a difficult balancing act since mankind’s humble beginnings and the establishment of commerce. Pete had happily exchanged a drink for an IOU to help get the town trading again—to help rebuild a society.
At first, he’d had little expectation of ever collecting. Now, he was producing his own libations and had raw material costs. Pete sighed, “I have to eat , too.”
Carrying the veggies to the small kitchen in the back of the bar, he couldn’t help but analyze Meraton’s situation. It wasn’t just Pete’s Place that suffered from a lack of currency. Betty was managing The Manor, trying to keep the town’s centerpiece hotel
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