rich man.
And then what? Doc White asked.
Jarrett started to say something but thought better of it.
He was a well-dressed man with the beaten face and accent of a rough-neck. Jones figured hed spent many a day in the heat with oil deep under his fingernails and sun burning his neck before people started calling him sir.
A full silver moon hung overhead. Big and fat, the way a moon can only look in the country, and Jones didnt even need a flashlight as he found the tire tracks with ease and squatted down, studying the pattern. He found matches in his shirt pocket, filled his bowl with tobacco, and lit it.
He looked up at the long endless road when he got the pipe going, Doc studying the tracks over Joness shoulder.
Firestone, Doc said.
New?
Last years make.
You boys can tell that just from the tracks? Jarrett asked.
Jones stood and walked along the tracks, taking the exact direction the farmer had noted. He pulled a small leather notebook from his coat pocket and inked in a few passages.
Hes headed south, Jones said, pipe set hard in his teeth.
But the tracks go to Tulsa, Jarrett said.
Yes, sir, they do, Jones said.
Dirty kidnappers, White said. Remember when wed catch fellas like this and chain em to a mesquite tree like Christmas ornaments?
No, I dont, Doc. You mustve confused me with someone else.
Horseshit, White said. Those Mexes jumped us outside Harlington? Remember? Theyd been running whores and cheating cards out of the Domingo Roach, and we got some of em and tracked the rest down a trail whered theyd laid a fire. Those bastards ambushed us right there, and we shot three of em dead? That wasnt that long ago.
Nineteen hundred and thirteen.
You said you dont recall.
I just wanted to see if you remembered who shot who.
You boys were Rangers? Jarrett asked.
Did you know Jim Dunaway?
Sure, White said. He lasted two weeks before being mustered out for drunkenness and insubordination.
The silence was broken by the grumble of a low-flying airplane, and the men craned their heads to watch it pass in the night.
They continued on, following the tracks, Colvin driving slow behind them, the engine ticking and their feet crunching on gravel, moonlight leading the way.
About a half mile down from the crossroads, Jarrett about jumped out of his britches at the sight of a coiled rattlesnake raising its head, ready to strike.
Holy shit!
Jones shined his light, and the snake slithered off into the ditch.
Shoot it, Jarrett yelled. Shoot it!
Im not gonna shoot it, Jones said. Has the same right bein out here as us.
You ever been bit? Jarrett asked. Nearly killed me one time.
They just actin according to their nature, Jones said. Cant fault em for it.
Shoot it.
No, sir.
Jarrett walked off in the moonlight and returned with a fat river stone he had to hold in both hands. He got within six feet of that old rattler, shaking its tail for all its worth, and launched the stone at the snake, sending it writhing and turning with a broken back. He retrieved the rock and slammed it back down a half dozen times before the snake, bloody and broken, tried to coil and strike a final time, but only twitched on account of the nerves.
In the moonlight they watched Jarrett spit and try to catch his breath.
Man cant show anger toward nature, Jones said in a whisper to White. Any fool knows that. Thats what separates us.
5
Monday, July 24, 1933
O kay, so the song went like this: Harvey Bailey and Verne Miller had robbed three banks since Kansas City, none of them worth squat, but the little stash growing into something neat and tidy, a figure to work with,
And then what? Doc White asked.
Jarrett started to say something but thought better of it.
He was a well-dressed man with the beaten face and accent of a rough-neck. Jones figured hed spent many a day in the heat with oil deep under his fingernails and sun burning his neck before people started calling him sir.
A full silver moon hung overhead. Big and fat, the way a moon can only look in the country, and Jones didnt even need a flashlight as he found the tire tracks with ease and squatted down, studying the pattern. He found matches in his shirt pocket, filled his bowl with tobacco, and lit it.
He looked up at the long endless road when he got the pipe going, Doc studying the tracks over Joness shoulder.
Firestone, Doc said.
New?
Last years make.
You boys can tell that just from the tracks? Jarrett asked.
Jones stood and walked along the tracks, taking the exact direction the farmer had noted. He pulled a small leather notebook from his coat pocket and inked in a few passages.
Hes headed south, Jones said, pipe set hard in his teeth.
But the tracks go to Tulsa, Jarrett said.
Yes, sir, they do, Jones said.
Dirty kidnappers, White said. Remember when wed catch fellas like this and chain em to a mesquite tree like Christmas ornaments?
No, I dont, Doc. You mustve confused me with someone else.
Horseshit, White said. Those Mexes jumped us outside Harlington? Remember? Theyd been running whores and cheating cards out of the Domingo Roach, and we got some of em and tracked the rest down a trail whered theyd laid a fire. Those bastards ambushed us right there, and we shot three of em dead? That wasnt that long ago.
Nineteen hundred and thirteen.
You said you dont recall.
I just wanted to see if you remembered who shot who.
You boys were Rangers? Jarrett asked.
Did you know Jim Dunaway?
Sure, White said. He lasted two weeks before being mustered out for drunkenness and insubordination.
The silence was broken by the grumble of a low-flying airplane, and the men craned their heads to watch it pass in the night.
They continued on, following the tracks, Colvin driving slow behind them, the engine ticking and their feet crunching on gravel, moonlight leading the way.
About a half mile down from the crossroads, Jarrett about jumped out of his britches at the sight of a coiled rattlesnake raising its head, ready to strike.
Holy shit!
Jones shined his light, and the snake slithered off into the ditch.
Shoot it, Jarrett yelled. Shoot it!
Im not gonna shoot it, Jones said. Has the same right bein out here as us.
You ever been bit? Jarrett asked. Nearly killed me one time.
They just actin according to their nature, Jones said. Cant fault em for it.
Shoot it.
No, sir.
Jarrett walked off in the moonlight and returned with a fat river stone he had to hold in both hands. He got within six feet of that old rattler, shaking its tail for all its worth, and launched the stone at the snake, sending it writhing and turning with a broken back. He retrieved the rock and slammed it back down a half dozen times before the snake, bloody and broken, tried to coil and strike a final time, but only twitched on account of the nerves.
In the moonlight they watched Jarrett spit and try to catch his breath.
Man cant show anger toward nature, Jones said in a whisper to White. Any fool knows that. Thats what separates us.
5
Monday, July 24, 1933
O kay, so the song went like this: Harvey Bailey and Verne Miller had robbed three banks since Kansas City, none of them worth squat, but the little stash growing into something neat and tidy, a figure to work with,
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