Burrows

by Reavis Z. Wortham

  He held his hand up to stop me, his eyes sad. “Don’t say nothin’. You don’t owe me any explanation. But you owe one to your granddaddy, and Miss Becky. This is gonna break her sweet old heart. I swan, I never would have believed it if I hadn’t seen this with my own two eyes.”

  Looking forever lost, he turned to leave and was nearly to the corner when the colored man in the cell across the aisle stood up and put his hands on the bar.

  “Tell your granddaddy it’s in the bottoms.”

  Big John turned around. “What did you say to that boy, Norbert?”

  “Nothin. I didn’t say nothin’ to nobody. Just singin’ is all.” He sang low, almost tunelessly.

  I learned a long time ago,

  From someone that oughta know,

  That no one knows the truth about a woman.

  You know they’s kinda strange,

  Yeah lawd they’s kinda strange,

  But they say we’re stranger.

  He turned and lay down on the bunk facing the brick wall.

  “Well, don’t be saying nothin’ else to that boy right there or I’ll match that mouse under your other eye.” Mr. John left without another word.

  “Kinda strange,” Norbert told the wall. “Kinda strange, kinda strange.”

  Tears still leaked from my eyes nearly an hour later when Grandpa and Mr. O.C. came back to get me. Deputy Harvey fiddled with his keys and finally unlocked the iron door. Grandpa studied me with his hands in his pockets. “Well, what did you think about being in jail?”

  I wanted to run across the cell and into his arms, but he stood there like he was watching his cows. “I didn’t like it.”

  Mr. O.C. scratched the back of his neck. “You want to hear the sound of that door shutting behind you again?”

  I fought down a sob and drew a deep breath. “Nossir.”

  “Well then,” Grandpa said. “You remember what it was like to be with these outlaws the next time you want to get into any foolishness. Now, you straighten up and fly right so you won’t see the inside of this place no more.”

  “I will.”

  We left, me walking between the two old lawmen, followed by the deputy. Mr. O.C. wouldn’t leave it alone. “You know, Ned. This is like when we walk a man to the gallows, him between you and me, with a deputy behind us to shoot the prisoner in case he tries to run.”

  “That’s right, but Top’s learned his lesson, haven’t you?”

  Not trusting my voice, I nodded and fought more tears until we got on the elevator Mr. Jules held for us. He gave me a sympathetic wink and took us down to Mr. O.C.’s floor. In his office, all my stuff, except for the match and cigarette, was in the only chair that wasn’t full of papers. I put everything back in my pockets while they ignored me and talked law business.

  “Ned, Merle Clark didn’t come home three days ago and Shirley is getting worried.”

  “Why are you telling me, O.C.? I ain’t constable no more.”

  “Well, dammit you cranky old fart, you know about everybody in the county, and I thought you might keep your ears open and help Cody. I done told him this morning and now I’m-a tellin’ you.”

  “Merle’s probably laid up drunk somewhere. Did Shirley think he went across the river?”

  “She didn’t say. He left for the field the usual time and didn’t come home.”

  “Anybody find his truck?”

  Mr. O.C. sighed and twiddled his flyswatter. “Nope. The tractor was sitting in the shade where he left it after he plowed all day. He just got in his truck and disappeared.”

  “I’ve thought about doing that myself from time to time.”

  “Yep, but you never did it. Keep an ear open and help Cody, if he needs it.”

  “He’s doing fine. He’d do a lot better if people’d quit calling on me whenever they need the law. They need to get in the habit of calling Cody.”

  “They will.”

  Grandpa finally picked up his hat. “Well, I reckon we’ll go. Top, you ready?”

  I was more than ready. We said goodbye to Mr. O.C. He winked at me as we left. In the elevator Mr. Jules’ crooked old hand gave me a little pat on the shoulder to let me know things were all right.

  When we came out of the courthouse doors, Miss Becky and Pepper were waiting in the cool shade of the crepe myrtles on the north side. Pepper frowned. “Why are your eyes red? You don’t look good.”

  “I don’t feel too good, neither.”

  “Come here and let me see if you have fever.” Miss Becky put the back of her fingers on my forehead and cheek. Embarrassed, I pulled away and glared at Pepper.

  “You’re fine.” Miss Becky turned to Grandpa with a concerned look on her face. “Everything work out all right?”

  He gave her small grin. “Ummm humm.”

  My breathing was finally getting back to normal when I saw the two prisoners, Scar and Crooked Teeth, from upstairs. They came down the courthouse steps, dressed like deputies. I gasped and pointed at them, thinking they were making a jailbreak and had killed men for their uniforms.

  When they noticed us standing in the shade, Crooked Teeth waved at Grandpa. He smiled, nodded, and waved back. “Much obliged, boys. I’ll see y’all later.”

  Stunned, I watched him turn toward the square without changing expression. He started to rest his right hand on the gun at his belt, then realized it was no longer there. He stuck it in his pocket, instead. “Now you know.”

  “What?” Miss Becky didn’t understand our conversation.

  “Nothin’ much. Talk among menfolk. How you been acting in school, Pepper?”

  “Fine, Grandpa.”

  He gave her a long eyeball before answering. “Uh huh. Let’s go and get done here so we can get on home.”

  Chapter Five

  Still feeling good about his little joke on Top, Ned was sure he’d gotten the youngster’s attention. He dropped everyone at the house when they got back from town and drove up to Neal Box’s general store. Ned recognized Rank Pickles and Curly Baxter, two hard working young cowboys on C.J. Emerson’s ranch out west of Forest Chapel. Several other loafers gathered around the bed of Rank’s battered 1940 Chevy pickup.

  Ned slowed to a stop, tires crunching on the bottle-cap parking lot. He joined them beside the truck. “Boys.”

  They nodded a greeting in unison. “Mr. Ned.”

  “Whatcha got in there? Somebody shoot a lion, Harlan?”

  Harlan Westlake ran a little cotton farm up near Forest Chapel. “Naw, Mr. Ned. We’re admirin’ Rank’s new tires.”

  “Those are nice caissons. Rank, you boys been up on the river north of y’all’s ranch in the last few days?”

  Rank shrugged. “We get up there ever now and then. It all depends on where the cows are. Why?”

  “Well, me and Cody helped haul a feller out of the river this morning and I doubt he drowned. His head was already gone when he went in. I was wondering if you’ve seen anybody on C.J.’s place lately. I believe he went in between y’all and where the river shallows up some out on Sandstone Ledge.”

  “I thought you was retired,” Curly said.

  “I am, but I figured I’d give Cody a hand with this one.”

  Rank leaned on the dented front fender and cleaned his nails with a pocketknife. “I haven’t seen anything, Mr. Ned. Shoot, I barely get off the place these days and that’s usually to come up here to the store. We only went to Chisum a little while ago because we needed tires.”

  “That’s right.” Curly fished a plug of Days Work chewing tobacco out of his shirt pocket. “What makes you think he went in there? It’s a long old river.”

  Ned rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s a good question, but if he’d gone in anywhere between Garrett’s Bluff and y’all’s place I figure he’d a-hung up long before he got to Center Springs.”

  Curly bit off a chew and tucked the remainder back in his pocket. “We’d remember if we saw anybody, because that would be an event. We just work cows and don’t
see too many folks.”

  “All right boys. Let me know if you hear anything.”

  “Sure will.” Rank shaved off a chunk of thumbnail and eyed the new arrival with disgust. “Shoot. There’s Duane.”

  Duane Crowly was the community’s skinny little problem child who still needed to learn a few manners. It wasn’t that the young man wanted to cause trouble. Trouble always arrived right behind the nineteen year old who didn’t have a clear understanding of where the lines were drawn.

  Duane annoyed them by settling one cheek on Rank’s open tailgate, tilting his Stetson back, and barging right into the conversation. “What are y’all talking about? There’s nothing back here but empty feed sacks and post-hole diggers.”

  Curly leaned over and spat a thick stream of brown tobacco juice. “We were talking about Rank’s new tires, Duane.”

  Duane examined the tires. “Shoot. This rubber is the best part of this old heap now. Rank, why don’t you sell this wreck and buy a truck that will go with them new wheels?”

  Harlan Westlake backed away from the anticipated killing. Another more faint-of-heart farmer quietly left. Ned watched with interest, wondering how Rank would handle the irritating pest.

  He never twitched. “Well, Duane, my daddy gave me this old truck. It’s worth a lot more than you think.”

  To a man, besides Duane, everyone at the store knew there are things in this world shouldn’t be insulted; trucks, dogs, and wives included. Duane didn’t have enough sense to let it go. “Man, if it was me I’d use this beat up old wreck to give the weeds something to grow around.”

  Curly practiced his shallow breathing, hoping that when Rank went into a blind rage he wouldn’t notice him standing nearby and shoot him for simply knowing Duane.

  Rank causally reached out, grabbed Duane’s oversize ear with a callused thumb and forefinger, and pulled his wide eyes around to the front bumper. The assemblage in the parking lot brightened at the sight.

  “School just took up, son. Now you listen with that other ear. See that crease in the bumper, next to the right headlight? I put it there when I was ten years old. Daddy was teaching me how to drive a standard shift and I hit a cultivator when I was trying to remember where the brake pedal was.

  “See here. These scratches along the fender and door are a matched set with the other side. I got them the night Curly, Blackie, and I graduated from high school and went flying down a dirt road in Forest Chapel like we had good sense. The road turned, but we didn’t. We plowed through a five-strand bob-wire fence and stopped nearly a hundred yards deep in a pasture full of rodeo stock with bad attitudes.”

  Duane’s eyes crossed from the pain. Rank led him toward the cab. The farmers standing nearest the truck backed away, chuckling.

  “That dent in the door there perfectly fits the side of my head. On my twenty-first birthday the girth broke on my saddle while I was chasing a calf past the catch pen. Right there’s where I stopped.

  “About all that’s left of the driver’s seat is a scrap of material and a couple of springs. Dad, who’s long gone now, wore out the material. I’m wearing out the springs.”

  Duane’s eyes bugged out like a mouse in a trap when Rank squeezed harder and gave his now very red ear a little shake for emphasis.

  “Dad and I put in the gun rack when I was about eight. He carried his old Winchester in the top rack, and my BB gun always rode in the bottom.”

  Rank pulled Duane’s ear around to the passenger door. Eyes watering, Duane followed. The gathering crowd of spectators scrambled out of the way. Rank pointed. “Daddy put that crease in the door when his eyes got so bad he couldn’t hardly see to drive. The gate by the barn wasn’t quite as wide as he remembered. The post didn’t give, but the sheet metal did. See this?” He pointed at one particular dent surrounded by several others.

  “I think,” Duane gasped. “Do you want me to?”

  “Those scratches came from the night Nelda and I backed into a ditch and got stuck when we should have been home where we belonged. I jacked it up, she gunned the engine, and when I shoved it off, and the handle flipped up and hit the tailgate. I’m lucky it didn’t knock my fool head off.”

  Rank completed his tour by returning Duane to their starting point. “With Daddy driving, I shoved hay over this tailgate to feed the stock from the time I was big enough to walk. Then when I was grown, my boys did the same while they were still in diapers. Nelda was convinced they’d fall off and get killed, but I told her no one ever died from falling into cow paddies.

  “I’ve cleaned birds on the tailgate, hauled deer home in the bed, and carried Clay Tate to the hospital when he fell off the roof of his hay barn and broke six ribs. This truck is my office and all those tools are what I use to make a living. I like this old truck. It has a lot of memories. And if you don’t annoy me any more, you can live to have a few more memories, and dents, too.”

  He let go.

  Duane rubbed his newly liberated ear and settled his hat. “Nice truck.”

  “Thanks.”

  The farmers laughed and slowly scattered, breaking into smaller groups to talk about crops or the weather. Ned was about to leave when Cody Parker turned his El Camino off the highway and coasted to a stop beside the domino hall. Ned grinned at the new constable who showed up a minute late and a dollar short.

  “Ned, we’ve been calling the house and trying to get you to answer. O.C. tried your old Motorola, too. I went by and Miss Becky told me you were here.”

  “What’s wrong?” Ned was annoyed to see some of the loafers drifting back to better hear their conversation.

  “Issac Reader went over to have supper with Miss Onie Mae Brooks and found the whole family dead.”

  Ned felt his face go numb and his heart beat wildly. He’d grown up with Onie Mae. He might have married her at one time when they were teenagers, if things had worked out differently. “I’god. How long ago did he find her? What happened?”

  “Nearbout’s an hour ago I reckon. He didn’t say how they died. The funeral home has an ambulance on the way out there right now and Mr. O.C. wants me and you to meet them. Sheriff Griffin will be there directly.”

  “I thought you was retired, Ned,” Duane said, still rubbing his ear.

  The old man turned and pointed his finger. “I am, and men my age call me Ned. Boys your age generally call me Mr. Ned, or Mr. Parker. How ’bout you try one of them two.”

  “Yessir, Mr. Ned.”

  “That sounds better. C’mon Cody. You’re the constable, and I ain’t. Thissun’s yours.”

  While Cody frowned at the order, Ned hurried across the parking lot to his car. Dusty inside and out, the sedan had once been his own office on wheels. He made a frustrated sound in his throat when he turned the key and the Motorola remained silent. He’d paid for the unit himself, and when he retired, Ned left it in the car so he could listen in on the chatter at night. It was a comfortable security blanket that took the edge off retirement.

  However, for the past month the radio worked fitfully one day and not at all the next. Since the county no longer paid for repairs, Ned used the local shade tree mechanic, Rod Post, to keep the radio alive. Rod assured Ned he’d figure out what was wrong, but so far, his attempts at chasing down the electronic gremlins were disappointing.

  Frustrated, Ned slapped the side of the unit a couple of times and the power light came on. He snatched the microphone off the mount and keyed the thumb switch. “Martha, this is Ned.”

  The radio crackled and the dispatcher came on. Depending on the situation, the sheriff’s office communicated over the radio through a mix of plain talk, code numbers, and small town familiarity. “Ned, for god’s sake, O.C.’s about to bust a gut because he hasn’t been able to talk to you. We got a call that said somebody killed Onie Mae Brooks and her whole family. He wants you to get over there right now.”

  Forgetting that Cody should have led the way, he keyed the mike again as his tires squalled on the pavement. “I know.
Cody told me. We’ll be there directly.”

  “Holler and tell us what you find.” Ned recognized O.C.’s voice through the tinny speaker.

  “I’ll have Cody call in when we know more. He’s the constable now, not me.”

  O.C. didn’t answer and Ned replaced the microphone on its metal bracket. Seeing Cody behind, he stomped the accelerator and the big engine roared.

  Chapter Six

  Onie Mae lived with her son Josh and his wife in the family home in Forest Chapel, overlooking the fertile bottomland he farmed after his dad passed.

  She had been part of Ned’s life ever since they were kids attending the one-room schoolhouse in Center Springs. The thought of her murder sat like a lump of clay in Ned’s stomach as his sedan flew down the highway at more than eighty miles per hour.

  The winding country roads weren’t made for speed, and after each turn Ned breathed a sigh of relief when there wasn’t a cow, or a slow-moving farm truck, or a tractor puttering along in his lane. He pushed the accelerator even harder each time he saw the highway was clear, feeling the front end loose and shaky through the steering wheel.

  The two-lane concrete split to a farm to market blacktop that narrowed into a skinny tree-lined county road. Ned steered onto the gravel, forcing himself to slow down on the curves, knowing he’d quickly slide into the steep cut banks, especially if he hit a thick blanket of fallen leaves. A cloud of dust filled his rearview mirror as gravel rattled against the undercarriage.

  He braked to make a fishhook left-hand turn up the hill, barely avoided the ditch, shot up the Brooks’ steep tree-lined drive, and slid to a stop in the open yard. Issac Reader’s battered farm truck sat beside Josh’s newer Ford. A normally jerky little man, Reader was even more animated as he jumped out of the cab at the sight of Ned’s car.

  “Listen, Ned! They was dead when I got here!”

  As usual, Isaac started talking before he was close enough to be understood, which always annoyed Ned to no end. He opened the door and killed the engine. Isaac closed the distance, still talking.