The Right Side of Wrong by Reavis Wortham Page A

Ned answered the unvoiced question. “The judge put me back in again around Thanksgiving.”
    â€œYou don’t hear about too many constables being appointed where I come from. They’re usually elected.”
    â€œYou’re right. Judge O.C. Rains does things a little different in this county. Probably won’t be another one appointed, neither, but he did it and I’m glad. I hear you’re trying retirement now, too.”
    â€œIf you can call this retirement. I’ve been working twelve hours a day since I moved in. That’s your house up there on the hill, the first one this side of the creek bridge, right?”
    â€œSure is…been the family home place since grandpa built it. I heard this Buchanan land was sold. Glad to see you putting it back together. Looks like you had some building experience.”
    â€œFigured the Chevrolet wearing a red light and a long antenna parked in the yard was yours.”
    It annoyed Ned to have Tom Bell turn the conversation back around in the opposite direction he intended to go. O.C. was convinced Bell was a good man, but Ned needed to find out for himself. He still couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a lot about Tom Bell he needed to know. “I see you decided to rebuild the porch first.”
    â€œYep. I knew I’d spend considerable amount of time here. I intend to work my way through this, one small bite at a time.”
    â€œThat’s the way to do it all right. A lot of folks bounce around from one place to the next on a job like this.”
    â€œI like a plan.”
    â€œI can see you do.” He tried again. “The kids say you’re from the Valley.”
    â€œYep. Two stores in a little community this size is unusual. I traded with Oak Peterson a few days ago, since the post office is in his store. That’s where I get my retirement check. I might drop by the domino hall one of the days. I’d like to sit in on a hand of forty-two. They don’t have any trouble in there, do they? Since the county is dry I’d imagine drinking stays on yonder side of the river.”
    Ned was surprised at how good the wiry gentleman was at deflecting his questions. No matter how hard he worked to bring the conversation around to his interests, Tom easily directed it to other topics.
    â€œAw, every now and then some knothead gets aggravated over a game, but I don’t never get called in for it. I imagine a bottle or two shows up when they take a notion, but you’re right, most the drinkin’ is done over there in Juarez. The problem is the drunks always drive back home.”
    â€œJuarez?”
    â€œYep, that’s what we call the beer joints across the river there in Oklahoma. It’s the same as Juarez…”
    â€œAcross the Rio Grande,” Tom Bell finished the sentence for him. “I know it well. We call them cantinas down in the Valley, but I imagine you have another name for ’em up here.”
    â€œYep. We call ’em joints, or honky tonks.”
    â€œThey’re all the same. There’s always a certain amount of drinking going on near where men live and work.”
    â€œYou lived in the Valley a long time?”
    â€œAll my life.”
    â€œThe kids said you was born here. The place changed hands a few times, but the last few years all it’s been is squatters moving in and me having to tell them to leave.”
    â€œI can tell it’s been empty a long time, but the bones are still good. That’s cause the roof held. Your squatters must have kept the holes patched. Had it leaked, the whole place would have rotted, and as it was, there were still a few places that let the water in. It’ll make a good house when I’m done, good enough to finish out my days, what’s left of them.”
    â€œYou live by yourself?”
    â€œMy wife died thirty years ago. Never saw the need to get remarried. How do y’all get along with