Gold Dust

by Reavis Z. Wortham

  Mr. Brown noted the dark circles under Mr. Green’s eyes and felt a fresh pang of worry. “Anyway, the things we’re doing over here are bothering me. Releasing bacterium over Winnepeg was one thing, but to take that shit to New York and releasing it there isn’t right.”

  “Our job isn’t to question it.”

  “I think we should have questioned San Francisco and Georgia and Florida. Those experiments didn’t go exactly as planned, either. How many people got sick? You’d have thought we’d learned our lessons in that one.”

  “So why do you think this thing in that little hick town bothered you so much?”

  Mr. Brown dug another cigarette out of the pack and tapped it on the table. “I was raised in the country and those are the same kind of people. Good people who just want to live their lives and not be bothered.”

  A patriot to the core, Mr. Green dug a throat lozenge from the flat box and crunched it between his teeth. “They’d rather be bothered by the communists when they come marching over here and say, ‘Thanks for building such a great country, but it’s ours now,’ those kind of people?”

  They were silent as Mr. Green chased the Parke-Davis throat lozenge with another toonie. “Everything we’re doing is for the safety of this country, and our families, your mother and daddy, and everyone.”

  “I see what you’re saying. It’s just that we’re on American soil.”

  Mr. Green choked down another small chuff in answer. “I signed on the dotted line to protect our country. We’re doing what needs to be done, so I don’t have any regrets. You better get your mind right about it. You’re either on the side of right or wrong. If you start questioning that, then you need to find something else to do.”

  Mr. Green’s hand shook when he shot his cuff to check the time. “Think about that a little more before they send us home to Fairfax. I’m headed back to the motel.”

  “Go to the doctor if you’re not feeling better tomorrow morning.”

  Mr. Green drained his water glass with a shaking hand. “Probably a good idea.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Thursday morning, Ned let the kitchen’s screen door clap behind him. The sun was barely above the trees and the damp air was thick with the odors of cow flop and pasture weeds. “Mama, why’s Tucker out there in the yard, sleeping in his car?”

  One of many nephews, Tucker, head back and mouth wide open, was asleep behind the wheel of his rump-sprung Buick under the sycamore near the drive.

  “He’s been working the late shift somewhere up outside of Hugo and was so sleepy he couldn’t make it all the way home this morning.”

  “I didn’t smell no whiskey.”

  “My lands. He’s not drunk. Not everybody who comes across the river at night’s been drinkin’. The boy’s tired and he probably didn’t want to go home, because the kids’d wake him up if he did.”

  Ned reached through the door into the living room and dropped his hat on the television before circling the kitchen table to sit in his usual place. “Well, he shoulda’ come in the house. That boy’s past thirty-five and still bouncing around taking odd jobs like a teenager.” Ned glanced through the screen. “He needs a haircut, too. At least he could have laid down on the couch. He’s gonna get a mouth full of flies.”

  “Yeah, and you’d be shaking him awake to ask why he was here.”

  “Wouldn’t have done no such of a thing.”

  Miss Becky rolled her eyes and slid two fried eggs on his plate. One of the boys coughed softly in the bedroom and her brow furrowed. “I believe that cough’s getting worse.”

  “Which one was it?”

  “Top. Mark’s better this mornin’.”

  “Well, his lungs are weak. That’s why he’s having a worse time of it.”

  Halfway through his eggs, they heard Tucker’s car whine to a start. Ned saw it pull onto the highway and head toward the store. “Top gonna be able to go to school today?”

  “It’s just a cough.”

  “He’s been doing a lot of that these past few days.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by the jangling phone. Miss Becky let Ned keep after his breakfast and hurried to answer before the phone woke the boys. She wanted to give them at least another half hour.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Constable Parker’s house?”

  “Yes it is.”

  “I need to talk to him. I know where there’s a still out toward the Boneyard Slash. It’s the biggest one I’ve ever seen.”

  For the first time in her life, Miss Becky questioned a caller. “Have you seen a lot of stills?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Ran a few in my day.”

  “That’s what I figgered, Doak Wheeler.”

  The caller on the other end was silent for a long moment.

  “Doak. I know that’s you.”

  The man on the other end cleared his throat. “Yessum.”

  “When’d you get out of the pen?”

  His voice softened. “’bout six months ago, Miss Becky.”

  “And you’re right back in it?”

  Her scolding brought Ned into the living room. “Who is it, Mama?”

  “Doak, you’re out and free. Don’t go messing up again.” She handed Ned the receiver and returned to the kitchen, a world she knew and controlled.

  Ned came through two minutes later wearing his hat, badge, and pistol. “I’ll be back directly.”

  “You be careful, Daddy. He might be up to something.”

  “I ’magine he’s trying to get rid of the competition so he can go back to cookin’ ’shine.” Ned pecked her wrinkled check and left, letting the screen slam behind him. “Get them boys up. They’re sleeping the day away.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Owen the cattle rustler sat behind the wheel of his truck parked in the dirt lot in front of Dickey’s Beer Stand that same morning. Dickey’s wasn’t a honky-tonk like the joints across the Red River from Powderly, more than ninety miles to the east. It was the roughest place to buy beer that Owen had ever seen, and he’d been raised in the mean oilfields outside of Odessa, Texas.

  Nothing more than a square cinder-block building, it had only a metal front door and one rectangular window barely big enough to slide a case of beer through. Customers knocked on a steel flap, ordered, then slid the money through. Moments later, the beer appeared and the transaction was complete.

  To Owen, it looked like a fort in the Oklahoma wilderness.

  That appearance was reinforced by a thick stand of trees surrounding all three sides and broken only by the two-lane highway leading north to Yuba, and south across the river to Bonham, Texas, fifteen minutes away. Thick hardwoods grew right to the shoulder on the opposite side of the road.

  Owen scratched the back of his neck through the greasy hair hanging over his collar and watched Dale take a case of Miller High Life from the slot window. Resting the cardboard box on the narrow sill, he cracked the pop-top and took a long drink.

  The owner’s voice came through the small window loud and clear. “Hey, feller. You can’t drink that on the property!”

  Ignoring the man, Dale kept the can to his lips and swallowed until it was empty. He belched and pitched the can against the cinder-block wall. “Okay.”

  “Hey Good Looking” filled the truck cab as Dale pushed the beer through the open passenger window and dropped it on the dusty seat. “This is the damnedest place I’ve ever seen.”

  “Rough country.” Owen pulled the case to the middle of the bench seat.

  “They don’t know rough.” Dale got in and slammed the door.

  “You probably shouldn’t be dickin’ with these people. We need to keep our heads low.”

  “Hell, all he saw was the money.”

  “You don’t know that. I bet he keeps an eye on this lot.”

  �
�What’s he gonna do, yell at me some more?” Dale popped the top on a fresh can and took another drink. “Man, that’s good.”

  Owen shrugged and plucked a beer from the box. He cracked the pop-top and took a long swallow, stopping only when a banged-up Ford pickup with Texas plates slid to a hard stop in the lot, only three feet from the building. Startled and thinking it might be the local constabulary, he lowered the can below the door sill.

  He relaxed when a hard-looking red-faced man in overalls emerged from behind the wheel. From his dark tan, Owen took him for a farmer and watched him reach back inside the cab and withdraw a twelve-gauge pump shotgun. His jaw set, the man’s manic look and unruly brown hair stuck up as if he’d just gotten out of bed.

  Owen tilted the can as if he were watching a movie at the drive-in. “This oughta be good. Wait a minute. I’m curious to see what’s about to happen.”

  The metal plate thumped down on the inside of the slot window, but the owner’s voice came through loud and clear. “Lester! Get back in your truck and get on outta hea’!”

  Lester shouldered the weapon and pointed it at the window. “You owe me that money!”

  “You put your money on the wrong team, man. The Pirates lost and that’s that!”

  “You know damn good and well that I bet on the Astros.”

  “Nossir! You put your money down on the Pirates.”

  “No. I didn’t! I don’t never bet on anyone else, and you owe me a thousand dollars.”

  “You were drunk and you know it. I’ve never put them kinds of odds on a game no how. You just dreamed it.”

  Lester cut loose with the shotgun, punching a hole in the sky and startling Owen so bad his foot came off the clutch and the engine died. Lester moved with dream-like speed and slowly shucked another shell into the chamber. The window’s metal slide dropped and he threw another load into the steel and surrounding cinder blocks.

  He jacked another shell into the magazine. The empty hull made a hollow click on the packed gravel. His dull eyes flickered back and forth as he took the measure of the two men in the truck. “Y’all want some of this?”

  Dale slipped the Luger from his waistband and held it out of sight, waiting.

  Owen raised both hands from the wheel as casual as if he were waving. “That’s between y’all. Not us.”

  Lester turned away with glacial speed and walked past the front of the truck and around the corner as if he didn’t have a care in the world. The cattle rustlers waited, listening.

  The shotgun crumped again, echoing off the trees around back. Two deeper reports coming a millisecond apart reached the two men waiting in the truck.

  Moments later, Lester came around the corner, the front of his overalls covered in bright red blood, the material shredded. He stumbled and caught himself with one hand on Owen’s hood. Their eyes met through the bug-splattered glass and Owen saw dozens of small holes from a shotgun blast weeping blood through the bib of his overalls and the shirt underneath.

  Lester pushed off and staggered toward his truck. Throwing the shotgun through the open passenger window, he opened the door and followed it inside, falling sideways in the seat.

  “Damn! You weren’t a-kiddin’ this is rough country.” Dale drained the half-empty beer in his hand.

  Owen twisted the key and the engine roared. “I believe we better get out of here.” He shifted into reverse as the front door opened and the owner in wrinkled khakis and a stained plaid shirt emerged with a sawed-off double-barrel shotgun. His unruly gray hair stuck out in tufts and he hadn’t shaved in days, but it was the ten-gauge in his hands that caught the rustlers’ attention.

  “Dayum!” Owen felt the back of his neck tingle at the sight of the twin bores that looked as big around as culverts.

  The owner jerked his head back toward the cinder-block building. “Y’all don’t leave. I need you for witnesses.”

  Dale shook his head. “We’re gone.”

  The muzzle rose, but Dale was faster and the Luger centered on the owner’s chest from a distance of only six feet. “Don’t you raise that shotgun.”

  Owen shifted into drive and slowly pressed the foot-feed. They pulled out of the parking lot and Dale kept the muzzle on the man with the shotgun until they hit the highway. Owen glanced over his shoulder to see the owner walking toward Lester’s truck, but it was the flashing lights on the Oklahoma Highway Patrol car appearing over the rise a mile away that worried him the most.

  “Uh, oh.” Dale laid the pistol on the seat and threw the empty can out as they crossed the Red River bridge into Texas.

  “Don’t worry.” Owen’s eyes flicked to the mirror. “He’s so far back he won’t be able to recognize the truck. For all he knows, we were just driving by.”

  Watching over his shoulder, Dale took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “He’s pulling into the beer joint.”

  “See what I told you.” Owen opened another beer with one finger and saluted the windshield with the can. “Man, that was intense!”

  “If that’s what you want to call it.” Dale swiveled to face forward. “Where to now?”

  “Where we were going in the first place. The sale barn in Childress. I want to see what they’ve got moving through there.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  An hour east of Center Springs, Ned and John Washington pulled their cars off the highway onto a winding dirt road that led to a heavily wooded area in far northeast Lamar County. Sheriff Cody Parker and Deputy Anna Sloan turned in behind them in separate cars.

  A career moonshiner, Doak Wheeler described the landmarks leading to the still on Boneyard Slash Road, and even the game trail cutting through the woods. Following his instructions, they cruised the twisting road until it finally stopped short of a cut bank not far from the creek. A rotting barn leaned against two walnut trees, as if they refused to let the weathered old structure give up.

  The sun was straight overhead. Unseen blue jays screamed in the woods and a breeze shook the leaves. It was far from silent when they killed their engines on the shaded road. A nearby grove of oaks outlined the footprint of a house long gone. The grass was beaten down where vehicles had recently parked. They faced their cars outward, just in case there was trouble.

  Armed with his Remington pump and a pocket full of shells, Deputy Washington led the way into the woods, speaking softly. “Mr. Ned, the last time me and you saw Doak, he was on his way to the pen after we arrested him for making whiskey. Mr. O.C. didn’t think he’d ever get out.”

  “Well, he did.” Ned trailed behind with a double-bit axe over his shoulder. He glanced back to keep an eye on Anna. He’d never had a woman deputy go along to bust a still and didn’t know what to think of the idea.

  Little light passed through the dense woods as a breeze rustled the leaves overhead. The earthy smell of thick humus filled the air. Game trails spider-webbed through the trees, but the one they followed was beaten wide by many feet. Birds sang and an unseen animal rustled just out of sight, breaking into a run at the approach of the officers.

  Cody brought up the rear. “Y’all be careful. This could be some kind of ambush.”

  “Doak ain’t like that. I’ve spent half my life taking that boy to jail, but he ain’t no liar. There’s a still up ahead. In fact, I just caught a whiff of woodsmoke.”

  “You know he’s gonna be back in business pretty soon.” Cody’s voice was low. “If I was to guess, I’d say he’s wanting us to take out the competition.”

  “Might be, but it’ll be one less still, and if Doak goes back to work, I’ll find him. He makes the best whiskey in the county, but that boy don’t know a hill of beans about hiding his equipment.”

  John raised his head and sniffed. “Smoke, sure ’nough.” His voice was so low. “And grass.”

  “Huh? I don’t smell no grass.”

  John stifled a grin. “Marijua
na, Ned. Somebody’s smoking weed up ahead.”

  Cody didn’t try to hide his amusement. “Give me a minute. Anna, be careful.”

  “You didn’t tell anyone else to be careful. Cody, I’ll be fine.”

  “Well, I don’t want you to get hurt’s all.”

  “I’m going to stay with you, Mr. Ned.” Anna spoke over his shoulder and into his ear, barely mouthing the words.

  Ned watched Cody disappear into the woods to come in beside the still itself. When he turned back, John was gone. They’d done this so many times he knew the big deputy was headed for the opposite side.

  Ned waited for a full two minutes before continuing. Anna was breathing hard behind him. “He worries about you.”

  Anna sighed. “I know it, but he doesn’t have to. He doesn’t worry about John.”

  “John wasn’t shot with a shotgun. Cody’s still guilty about that.”

  “Why now? I held up my part of that feud a while back.”

  “Cain’t say. We’ve waited long enough. Let’s go.”

  Pistol in hand, he crept forward until the odor of smoke grew stronger, avoiding thick grapevines dangling from branches sixty feet off the ground. Ned stopped beside a large sycamore and peeked around the trunk to find the biggest boiler he’d ever seen. It sat in the dappled sunlight under the tall hardwoods that broke up the column of smoke. Using his head, he indicated to Anna that he wanted her to move up to his left side. She slipped around a buckeye bush and stopped.

  John’s deep, powerful voice came to them from across the clearing. “Sheriff’s Department. Y’all don’t move. Get them hands up!”

  Pistol ready, Ned stepped into full view to find two long-haired young men rising from quilt pallets almost at his feet. He lowered the muzzle to cover them. “You hippies be still!”

  Cody was louder. He popped into sight from behind the still. “Don’t!”