Unraveled by Reavis Z Wortham

hair. “Fine, then.”
    â€œGood. Let these folks have a good time and win some.”
    They stood in silence for a long moment while Delmar waited for more. When nothing else came, he sighed loud and long. “Were you a carney?”
    â€œNope, but I’ve been at this a long time.”
    â€œI expect you’ll be here every night?”
    â€œMost likely.”
    The carney studied his worn out shoes. “You want some tickets?”
    â€œNaw. I won’t need a ticket to get in.”
    The man’s faint smile faded.
    â€œOh, by the way, make sure them rides are safe, too. I don’t want nobody hurt around here.”
    Ned left, passing the young woman with the baby. His demeanor changed and he stopped to let the toddler grab his finger. He handed the woman a folded bill with his other hand. “This is for you to get this baby some clothes. She looks like she could use some shoes and something for that runny nose. What’s her name?”
    She spoke around the cigarette bobbing in the corner of her mouth. “Amanda.”
    â€œYours?”
    She raised an eyebrow. “You asking for professional reasons, or personal?”
    â€œI like to know who’s in my county.”
    â€œDid you ask the rest of these carneys around here?”
    â€œNope, but none of them others’ got a baby on their hip, neither.”
    She studied on his answer for a second. “Connie.”
    â€œHowdy Connie. Don’t you blow that money on cigarettes. They’re gonna kill you, you know.”
    â€œIf they don’t something else will.” The woman blew smoke from her nostrils without taking the toonie from her lips. “Thanks Sheriff.”
    Ned sighed, “Constable,” and left.

Chapter Nine
    A wheezing International pickup pulled off the highway and up our drive, trailing a cloud of blue smoke. It was after breakfast on Sunday and I was in the hay barn with Grandpa, helping him put out some nuggets for the cows. Neither he nor Miss Becky considered that work, no more’n her cooking breakfast or the dinner already simmering on the stove.
    He slapped a lid on the 55-gallon barrel and walked to the front of the truck backed halfway into the pole barn’s hall. “You recognize that truck?”
    I hopped into the bed and leaned over the top of the cab. The pickup pulled up the slight incline and parked behind Grandpa’s Plymouth. “Nossir.”
    Half a dozen black-haired kids rode in the back, and the cab looked to be full of people. You could squeeze four folks into those Internationals, if they were kinfolk and didn’t mind rubbing shoulders, but it looked to me like they’d packed in at least seven, four adults with little kids on their laps. That explained why the driver’s whole arm and shoulder was out the window.
    I could tell he was Indian right off, most likely Choctaw, ’cause that’s what we had the most of around our part of the state. The truck idled while Hootie gave it a good barkin’. Miss Becky came out on the porch. We couldn’t hear what she was saying, but she talked to someone through the window. Grandpa left the front fender and took a step toward the house.
    The passenger door opened. My breath caught when Miss Becky threw up her hands, the dish towel flying overhead.
    Grandpa jolted when her scream drug us. He reached in the front pocket of his overalls, pulled out his pistol, and started downhill. “Mama!”
    I jumped up on the cab. The biggest kid in the back threw something over the side of the truck. I’d been watching The Rat Patrol on TV the night before and expected it to blow up like one of those satchel charges. He followed it and run at Miss Becky. I shouted and waved my hands, hoping to attract their attention so she could get away.
    The guy’s long black hair was flying every which-a-way as he charged up on the porch and grabbed Miss Becky. She shrieked and started beating