Jewel of Hiram (The Chronicles of Crash Carter Book 1)

by Frank Felton

  Hank died much the same way as he lived most of his life – on a piece of machinery. In this case, it was a tractor, and about half a 12-pack into plowing one of his beloved Milo fields. The man had lived quite the life, and his final deed would be worthy of the evening newscast no doubt. It would have suited him just fine.

  Even at 80 years old, the man still plowed, shredded, planted Milo, and cut hay. It had become his passion in life to work and live on the land, though he always found his way to Steve’s Place (now called Domel’s) at the end of a long day to drink a few beers with the other old timers. It was essentially a chat room for farmers. Elmo was long since gone.

  He died of a heart attack early in the afternoon. It was a pleasant late April day. There would be no need for further inquiry of the coroner with this one. He was tilling a field to remove encroaching weeds in preparation for a stand of Milo.

  As per his annual routine, he planted the Milo before he planted his garden, because a late frost might come before Easter. It wouldn’t harm the Milo, but it could wreak havoc on his tomatoes and jalapeno peppers. He never missed planting either of them, but he always wished for late frost just to kill the grasshoppers before they could hatch out. A mild winter meant more insects in the summer.

  Despite Hank calling it quits and slipping the chains of human form, the tractor he occupied had yet plenty of life in it. Unlike an automobile, a tractor has a throttle. Once set forward, the engine will not stop for anything, except the clutch or brake, neither of which this particular driver could manage in his then condition.

  The tractor kept going another six miles with Hank slumped over the steering wheel, his body bouncing with life over every obstacle the John Deere encountered. Miles of barbed wire he barged through came unattached from their posts, and tangled up in the plow. He accumulated an impressive array of items behind him – a lawn chair, a gate, garbage can, and of course, Perry Coffield’s mailbox.

  Old Perry actually thought Hank died and ran over his mailbox on purpose, out of spite, as the two of them had a few cross words from time to time. Perry was the mayor, and as die-hard, blue-dog Democrats, they always buddied up around election time. Around here, local politics ran second to only high school football as primary entertainment.

  The mighty John Deere took down 12 fence rows in total, then crossed a county road, taking with it one of the marker signs. It clipped McQuary’s turkey house, letting loose a swarm of poultry to wonder the countryside. Later that night, the local coyotes had a Thanksgiving feast. The Deere then became wedged in McQuary’s feed silo for nearly 30 minutes, allowing several folks to draw near with video cameras. None were adequately brave to get near enough to cut the engine as the tires still spun with fury.

  The Deere would wriggle free and proceed across a hay patch, at which point the plow became unhitched and the tractor pressed on alone. With a flattened front left tire, it began a slow turn to the port side. The final hurdle was a small stream, easily negotiated, before dueling to a draw with a 100-year old pecan tree.

  The tree was some 14 feet in diameter, and neither side would yield right of way. The diesel engine, with a belly full of fuel, would have kept spinning the tires perpetually, or until they ruptured. By now a gaggle of farmers had gathered in hot pursuit on this final victory lap, and were able to cut the engine. Hank had made it halfway to Thorndale by the time all was said and done.

  He must have been smiling proudly as he loosened grip with the terrestrial scene and floated on up to Heaven.

  ~~~

  He was gone, and I was now the sole remaining steward of the Jewel of Hiram. The only other man on the planet who knew its location was now a ghost. He passed on his legacy to his grandson, Troy, and his sister Dottie; but it was Troy who would receive the burden of the Jewel.

  I only had a passing knowledge of this kid, who was born after I left Milam County. Suffice to say, apples don’t fall far from trees. This kid was Hank Benson reborn, complete with all the foibles and defects, raw human emotion and unbridled ability. As his grandfather came up the hard way, this kid would be born into a much less austere life.

  At least, at first.

  25. The Fledgling

  April, 1987, Milam County, Texas

  Long before he ever met Crash Carter, Troy Benson wanted to be a pilot. He built his first airplane when he was seven years old. The young man had his head perpetually in the clouds, and as with many of his ill-fated endeavors, the approach to this airplane might best be described as Ready-Fire-Aim. Generally speaking, just as most things in his life, this one would not work out quite as he had anticipated. Yet, he remained undeterred.

  A school bus rambled down the gravel road, leaving behind it a contrail of billowing dust. The driver, eager to finish her route, came to a halt in front of the Benson homestead. They were some 10 miles northeast of the nearest town and just on the edge of the school district’s boundary. It was the last stop on the route.

  With nothing for miles but row upon row of cornstalks and rolling pastures parched by the arid climate, a herd of cattle grazed lazily and moved across the plain. Newborn calves suckled the teat for fresh milk, while tails whipped back and forth as industrial strength flyswatters. The bus came to a stop in front of a rusty mailbox, halfway smashed in during some drunken teenage hooligan’s mischievous odyssey the week prior.

  Out here there isn’t much law, but there were plenty of guns. While teenagers didn’t have a shopping mall or arcade to misspend their youth, smashing mailboxes was as aberrant as most behavior escalated. Anything more and you’d likely find the business end of a .12-gauge shotgun, or worse, stampeded by an angry bull. The gun was mostly for show, but a bull was deadly serious. The old Aggie war hymn Farmer’s Fight is not just a song played at football games.

  The door of the bus opened with a gaudy screech, as two small children emerged with backpacks and lunchboxes, and raced toward the gate. While Troy could easily outrun his younger sister, he let her keep up right to the end. Having completed her duty for the day, the driver put the yellow dog brute into reverse, and sped away, the wheels grasping for traction, throwing rocks and dirt behind it.

  “First!” Troy yelled, touching the gate just a split second before Dottie.

  “No fair, Troy! You cheated on purpose!” she screamed.

  “Give me five,” he said, holding out his hand. Dottie quickly recovered from her loss, and smacked his hand. She never backed down from a challenge from her older brother. She tried to emulate him. Dottie was so nicknamed because Troy could not pronounce the “s” in Doris when she was born.

  “Up high.”

  “Down low; tooooo slow!” he proclaimed, yanking his hand away at the last moment.

  “I’m telling mom!” she yelled, climbing through the gate. She was off running again, down the quarter mile or so of gravel road that led to their house. Troy kept up, skipping along behind her, letting her enjoy the lead again. As they neared the end of the drive, he slowed to a walk.

  “Wait a minute, Dot,” said the boy to his younger sister.

  “What for?” she replied.

  “Come here for a minute. Help me move this box into the road.”

  Troy walked to the side of the road, where knee-high coastal Bermuda grass kept hidden an object. It lay discreetly next to a pile of old junk iron their father kept near the bend in the road.

  “What are you doing that for?”

  “It’s a secret. Just help me move it.”

  “OK.”

  Dottie helped her brother drag a box ramp into the gravel road. The road was bordered on either side by barbed-wire fences to keep cattle inside. This ramp was integral to Troy’s plan for the day. He spent most of the time this week in school sketching the details on his notepad rather than paying attention to the teacher.

  Despite the temperature outside reaching more than 100 degrees, they had yet to lose a bead of sweat. They were well-accustomed to the Texas climate. There would be two hours before mom arriv
ed home from work. Dad was gone until the following morning, as he was working swing shift at the ALCOA plant. He left the house half an hour before they got off the bus.

  His father, an ironworker by trade, and cattle ranching hobbyist, taught Troy the basics of welding. He was an artisan of the steel, and in time Troy might follow in his footsteps. At seven years old he lacked any finesse or craftsmanship but could bead two pieces of metal together fairly well. He’d been practicing over the past few weeks, and today he would put his newfound vocation to the test.

  Dottie watched curiously from the porch as Troy strung grounding leads from a welding machine out to their Go-kart. Her gaze became more intense as the diesel-powered welding machine sputtered to life, releasing a puff of black smoke. The Go-kart was her prized possession, and she made sure to let Troy know that it was theirs and not his. Her primary concern at the moment was if Troy was going to break the Go-kart. However, she also wanted him to make it go faster, as he had proven so when he removed the rev-limiter two weeks ago which their father still had not discovered.

  This was a day and age when kids could be left at home alone after school let out. Cars and houses were unlocked as well. There hadn’t been more than a handful of murders in Milam County in the past 10 years. Not too long before, some out-of-towners tried to rob a convenience store. The clerk had wounded one of them with a .22 pistol, and, in a panic, they killed her. One died of lethal injection several years later, the other plead to life in prison. “Don’t mess with Texas” applies very much to those wishing to commit capital offenses. Nonetheless, the recent murder is why a gate now cordoned off the Benson property.

  Dottie looked away as the welding rod made contact with steel, unleashing a vibrant flash of light. The diesel engine bore down in a guttural change of tune to provide more electrons, releasing yet more plumes of black smoke. Their father always made them look away when he was welding, as the bright flashes could blind a young child just as surely as sitting too closely to the television. Finally, her curiosity could abide no more, and she walked out to get a closer look.

  “What are you doin’ Troy?” A rhetorical question, delivered in an attempt to mimic her mother’s same tone of voice.

  “I’m makin’ the Go-kart into an airplane.”

  “Nuh-uh. Like Grandpa Hank? Can I fly in it?”

  “Yep. Just like Grandpa. But mine’s gonna be better and go faster. ”

  “Don’t break the Go-kart Troy. Daddy said it’s mine too.”

  “Go back in the house, Dot, and shut up.”

  “Momma said you better not mess with Daddy’s stuff. I’m gonna tell on you!”

  “You do, and I won’t take you riding when I get this thing fixed.”

  “But, momma said….OK, I won’t tell.”

  “Go inside and watch cartoons.”

  This operation was simple in theory. He had identified two suitable pieces of junk iron that would serve as wings. It took him the better part of an hour to weld the “wings” to the frame of the Go-kart. In his mind, that was all he needed to attain flight. He had seen airplanes on television enough times to know that wings were the key ingredient; it was the only thing that separated them from cars. With that task accomplished, he shut off the welding machine and inspected the aircraft. He had about 20 minutes until mom got home.

  It took four pulls on the starter handle before the Briggs and Stratton engine cleared its lungs and crackled to life. Dottie heard the commotion and came running out of the house in Pavlovian style. She slammed the screen door against the house, eager, as always, to go for a ride in the Go-kart.

  “Wait a minute. Go get your helmet. This is an airplane, now. You’ll need it in case we have to do a crash landing.”

  “OK. Don’t leave without meeeee!” pleaded Dottie as she turned and ran back to the house.

  He previously used the ramp to jump his bicycle, but had never tried it with the Go-kart. He figured with enough speed, the machine would be propelled into the air and the wings would do the rest. Seven-year-old ingenuity is not known for its comprehensiveness, and Troy, well, he was more of a trial-and-error type of kid.

  Dottie jumped into the passenger seat, and Troy turned to “taxi” down the 200-yard straightaway. As he drove down the road, he pretended to do a pre-flight systems check, just as he remembered Grandpa Hank doing when they went flying. He turned the steering wheel, looked off to the sides, tapped on the seat, et cetera. These tasks were essential, as he recalled. He wasn’t sure why, but it sure looked cool when Grandpa did it.

  At the end of the road, he turned the Go-Kart around and pressed the gas pedal. The Go-kart reached top speed almost immediately, which was about 23-miles-per-hour. Dottie had a huge smile on her face, and kept yelling “faster, faster!” They rumbled down the road.

  As they approached the ramp, Troy held tight onto the steering wheel and clenched his teeth. This was the moment of truth. He pressed harder on the gas pedal, but it was already as far as it would go. Hitting the ramp, the front wheels launched into the air.

  He felt a jolt, as the ramp collapsed immediately under the weight of the machine. Dottie was thrown from her seat, as the front wheels left the ground but soon yawed hard to the right, putting the machine into a cartwheel. She tumbled into the ditch. Troy was still at the wheel when it barreled through a barbed-wire fence with its rear end first.

  A few minutes later, their mom arrived at the scene. She screamed when she saw Troy, covered in blood, limping back up to the house. Dottie was hysterical, but uninjured, and screamed about how they had “flown the airplane”. This made absolutely no sense to mom, and only added to her own confusion as she tried to assess the situation.

  Troy had lacerations on his arm, his leg, and across his chest. She quickly bandaged him up, and took him to the hospital. His dad had to take off work to come to the triage unit at Richards Memorial Hospital. When the doctors were finished with him, his mother and father came into the room. He could see the disappointment in their eyes, but at the same time, they were thankful he wasn’t killed or more seriously hurt.

  His father, hearkening back to his own days as a boy, knew there was precious little he could have done to prevent Troy’s unbridled spirit. Nor was there likely anything he could do in the future. The kid was always going to push the limits, and that was something he’d have to accept. It required an overnight stay, 32 stitches, and he had to wear a leg cast for three weeks.

  His mom was not of the same opinion, and found it difficult to contain her emotions. She cycled between tears joy and relief, and bordered on anger. Fortunately, she held her tongue, and gave him a hug and a kiss instead of a smack. She wasn’t given to swearing all too often, and knew it wouldn’t have come out right. Being raised a strict Protestant; she was never very good at swearing. Once, she had been enraged that Troy shattered the windshield of her car trying to hit a bird with a slingshot. She managed to call him a little son of a bitch. That faux pas had Troy’s dad in tears of laughter, and eventually, herself as well, once she realized what she unwittingly called herself.

  Dottie had a few bumps and bruises, but was entirely non-dissuaded from trying it again. She proclaimed as much to Troy and promised she wasn’t the one who told on him. Her cover up wasn’t exactly Watergate material. He liked his little sister, and they were best friends at that stage in life. Their relationship would have its ups and downs, but this moment in time would come to define a certain respect each had for the other. This infantile state would come to salvage their relationship many years later.

  Troy’s first hospital visit left an indelible stamp on his memory. His father, who could at times be overbearing, held his temper well, and sought to make this into a learning experience for his son. He bought Troy a book, What Makes Airplanes Fly, a book which Troy devoured in a day. He immediately saw the error of his design, and vowed that he would yet slip the bonds of earth.

  26. Becoming a Man

  The hospital stay was not as vivid, nor
jarring, as the trauma which would visit him three years later. It would leave a more permanent scar, one that would never truly heal. He would leave the hospital and become a near celebrity back at school. The other kids would sign his cast as he regaled them with stories of the ill-fated flight.

  He and Dottie would go on to many more adventures over that time, as their father, much to mom’s chagrin, could not seem to pass up bringing them new toys.

  After the duo “lost” a three-wheeler ATV, dad was forced to draw the line. Dottie finally confessed that it was at the bottom of a pond, despite her promise not to tell. After that, mom stepped in and crafted a new playbook. They were given bicycles, and helmets, and told to stay away from the county roads.

  By that time, Troy was old enough to start handling some of the smaller farm equipment. It was hoped the additional responsibility would temper his inclinations for mischief. His dad taught him to drive the old Massey-Ferguson tractor used for shredding pastures to remove excess grass and weeds. Troy took to operating equipment as a duck to water. He could soon operate just about any piece of machinery in the stable, but his farming career got off to a rocky start.

  As his dad turned him loose to begin shredding, he stood off to the side, and gave the thumbs up. Troy lined the tractor up to hug the edge of the pasture, engaged the power-take-off, and pushed the throttle forward. He shifted his focus on the far end of the field, wanting to ensure he cut a straight line. So focused was he on the straight line, he neglected to notice the shredder lodge itself into the barbed-wire fence and was now unraveling it post by post.

  His father began an all-out sprint to catch up with him, waving his arms and yelling, but the tractor was far too noisy. Troy tore out 75 yards of the fence before he caught a glimpse of his dad in the corner of his eye, and quickly pressed the clutch in to bring the tractor to a halt. He spent the next week stretching barbed-wire to repair the fence, a lesson which made him learn to pay closer attention to details in the future. Manual labor has that effect on people; it should be employed by more parents.