Starr County Line

by Chris Gilbreath

  “I reckon we’re done talkin,” JD said. He got up and folded the metal chair and walked back to the office.

  Night settled. JD left the station house and headed out of town on 650. He wanted to get past the city limits and roll down the windows and drive fast. He hadn’t made it very far when the radio crackled.

  “JD,” the voice said, “It’s Sadie. Neighbors over on 1431 are sayin Tammy and Ronnie Ferris are at it again.”

  He keyed the mike. “I’m on my way,” he said.

  “You want me to send Roe?” she asked.

  He thought about it. “No,” he answered. “You just tell him to set tight. Call Ange, tell her I’ll be a runnin late.”

  He rubbed his sore chin as he bounced over the cheap tar. Gravel kicked up in the wheelwells. The local FM station had switched to the gospel show and he listened for a minute. The preacher was talking about temptation. The power over man temptation had. The push and pull. Hellfire licking at a man’s heels as he ran from what was right into the arms of what was wrong. Women. Booze. Drugs. Money.

  He turned the radio off as he turned onto 1431. The Ferris place was just a half country mile west of the trailer park. Rumors said Ronnie Ferris was carrying on with a girl from the trailer park. The old men would talk about it in the Wagon Wheel and wink at one another. The old women would talk about it and shake their heads. JD didn’t much care one way or the other. Still, if Ronnie was carrying on with someone, he wished he’d stop because the only time he ever saw these folks was when he was coming out in the dark of night to stop one of them from killing the other.

  He pulled into the gravel drive and the headlamps shone on Tammy Ferris standing in the patchy grass in front of their dilapidated frame house with a .38 aimed at Ronnie. He knew right away the situation was already dicey. She didn’t look away from Ronnie as he pulled up. Ronnie had the look of a man who just got a death row reprieve. JD got out, but didn’t undo the safety strap on his gun. Tammy was shouting at Ronnie something awful, profanity spewing from her mouth.

  He waved as he approached, trying to get her attention. Ronnie almost ran towards him, but he stopped himself. Good thing, JD thought. Tammy stopped cursing and just stood there, huffing and puffing and pointing the gun at Ronnie.

  “Sheriff,” Ronnie said, “that crazy bitch took a shot at me!”

  “Shut up, Ronnie,” JD told him. “Tammy, why don’t you point that thing at me for a minute?”

  Tears were streaming down her face. She kept the gun on Ronnie. JD could tell she was somewhere else and if he didn’t bring her back soon, she might just finally put a hole in Ronnie and be done with it.

  “Tammy,” he said, “I’m talkin to you.”

  He walked slowly towards her, one careful step at a time. A cat ran from beneath the porch and crawled up under their beat up sedan. Even it knew things were set to boil.

  “Tammy,” he said, “you need to listen to me. You gotta put that gun down. Whatever he’s been doin, it ain’t worth killin him over. You don’t want to spend your life in prison.”

  She pulled back the hammer on the .38 with considerable effort. If she pulled the trigger, the knockback would probably make her shoot the tree Ronnie was standing in front of. He glanced and could see she’d already done so once.

  “Ain’t nothin happened here can’t be undone or squared away,” he told her. He kept moving slowly towards her, his right hand far away from the Magnum on his hip. He reached his left behind him and slipped the cuffs off his belt and kept them hidden. He opened one cuff and kept his thumb against the rotating arm.

  “Hell you say,” Ronnie stammered, “I want this crazy bitch in jail, Sheriff. She’s tried to kill me!”

  “I ain’t gonna tell you again to shut up, Ronnie,” JD warned.

  He was now within ten feet of Tammy. She held the gun straight out with both hands, her arms fully extended. He could see her struggling to hold it on Ronnie. She blinked several times rapidly to get the tears from her eyes.

  “Tammy,” he said. She suddenly spun and looked down the sight at him. He froze cold and had to stop his hand from instinctively dropping to his gun.

  “There you go,” he said. “Now, let’s be careful. You got that thing cocked, don’t forget. I ain’t here to hurt you. We just need to clear up what’s goin on.”

  He thought she might speak, but she just blinked some more. He could see now she’d been hit in the mouth. Her lips were purpled and swollen. Dried blood.

  “I got three folks down on the slab at Flores’ place, Tammy, I don’t want to be the fourth and by God, Ange might drive out here and burn this place to the ground with you in it if you pull that trigger.”

  He at least hoped she would.

  “Now how bout you put that gun down and we’ll set and talk a while. I know he’s roughed you up, I can see that. What say we call this one square and I’ll take him in.”

  That didn’t sit well with Ronnie.

  “Soon as I get out, I’ll just come back here and kill her,” Ronnie vowed.

  Tammy quickly swung the gun back to Ronnie and JD knew she would probably shoot him. He had one chance. He planted a boot in the gravel solid and lunged, his left arm coming out with the opened cuff. She saw him and he could tell she didn’t know what to do, hadn’t planned any of this out. Then again, he thought, plans tend to fly with the crows when you get punched in the mouth.

  He banged the cuff down on her right wrist and with his right hand slapped the gun. It went flying towards the porch and when it hit, the hammer dropped. The bullet went into the window unit and it started to sputter and hiss. The cat ran howling from beneath the car and headed towards the road. Won’t be back anytime soon, JD thought. Smart move.

  He wrenched her arm down. She was still looking at Ronnie, her left hand pointed straight at him. He was right, she would have shot him. He could see Ronnie eyeing the .38 as it lay smoking near the foot of the porch. He unsnapped the strap on the holster and drew his gun on him.

  “Ronnie, don’t you go and do somethin stupid,” he told him. “Set your ass down in that yard.”

  He kept the gun on him until he obliged and sat down in the rotten leaves. He half hoped a snake would bite him. He turned Tammy’s back to him and cuffed her, then walked over and retrieved the .38 from the dirt. He flipped the cylinder out. He shook his head as he dumped the rounds out into his palm and threw them into the woods.

  “I’m sorry, Sheriff,” she told him.

  “I’m sorry, Sheriff,” Ronnie said, mocking her.

  “Shut up, you piece of shit!” she screamed, staggering forward to kick at him. JD jumped in front of her and held her for a moment until she calmed down. He turned around to Ronnie, who was holding his arms up in front of his face.

  “Hey,” he said, looking down at him. Ronnie looked up. JD punched him in the face, knocking him out in the yard. He stuffed the .38 into his waistband and walked Tammy to the Blazer and helped her get in.

  He looked at his watch in the station parking lot. The bus to Houston would leave in thirteen minutes. He looked over at the frightened young woman with the swollen lip in his front seat. She rubbed the red marks on her wrists where the cuffs had bit in.

  “You get on that bus and go home,” he told her, “and don’t you come back to Pinto, Tammy, or I will arrest you and you will go to prison. When you get home, you file them papers. Get it done, get it over with, get on with your life.”

  She nodded her head.

  “Go on now,” he told her.

  She opened the door and stepped out of the Blazer. She picked up her small bag and stopped and looked at him. The parking lot lights framed her in yellow. She was a pretty girl.

  “You always do things this way?” she asked him.

  “What way is that?” he asked.

  “Your own way, I guess,” she answered. “I shot at Ronnie. Hell, I pointed a gun at you. And you’re just lettin me go.”

  “Maybe you wished it come out some other way,�
�� he said.

  “No, I ain’t sayin that, Sheriff,” she told him. “But you sendin me home to Houston, makin me divorce him, that ain’t the way I thought it would turn out when you pulled in the drive.”

  He almost laughed.

  “The way I figure it, Tammy,” he said, “you probably didn’t want to do none of what you did tonight until you found out what you found out and if you hadn’t of married Ronnie, you wouldn’t of done none of it.”

  “Is that your way of sayin it’s his fault?” she asked.

  “It’s my way of sayin it come out about the best way it could,” he told her. She seemed to roll it over in her mind before she nodded in agreement with him.

  “You think I could give you a hug, Sheriff?” she asked.

  “I reckon there ain’t no harm in it,” he answered. He got out of the truck and met her as she walked around the front. She wrapped her arms around him tight and squeezed. He patted the back of her head. The bus pulled into the parking lot and moved around to the back of the station. He pushed back on her and brushed her hair out of her eyes.

  “Go on now,” he told her.

  She turned to walk to the station doors.

  “Thank you, Sheriff,” she turned to say.

  He watched the bus leave the parking lot. She waved at him and he waved back. He fired up the Blazer and started for home. About half way to Ange’s house, something pulled him in a different direction. Before he knew it, he was driving on 650, headed back to Boles’ house.

  “Hey, Roe,” he called on the radio, “you awake?”

  Roe answered him and asked how things turned out at the Ferris place. He told him the story and then told him he was going to drive by Boles’ place to check on it.

  He meandered down the bumpy country road in the dark, keeping his eyes to the lane in case some critter ran out in front of him. He thumped over a dead snake. He watched the headlamps light the poles on old barbed wire boundaries no longer observed by anyone.

  He rounded the curve on Bowie and saw Boles’ house up ahead on his right. He could see it in the dark because the lights were on. He hit the brakes and dimmed the lamps and sat in the road with the engine idling. The lights in the house went off after a few minutes and he saw a big Bronco pull out onto Bowie and turn right. He followed in the dark.

  There would be no street lights for at least another two miles. He might not be seen, but it would be a rough ride in the near pitch black. He was thankful there was no high bright moon on this night to alert this party to his presence. He trailed along nearly a hundred yards back and tried to match the speed of the Bronco. It held at about forty miles an hour on the bad road. Pretty casual driving out here in the middle of nowhere, he thought.

  “Roe,” he called on the radio, “holler at me.”

  “Yeah, Sheriff,” Roe answered. “Somethin happen at Boles’ place?”

  JD wrenched the wheel as the suspension bottomed out on a huge pothole. He dropped the mike in the floor.

  “Gotdammit,” he cursed. He leaned down to pick the mike back up.

  “Listen, Roe,” he said, “I gotta get off this thing and watch the road. I pulled up on Boles’ place just as a late model Bronco come out the drive. I’m followin now on 650, looks like they’re headed towards Jefferson.”

  “I’m on my way,” Roe told him.

  “No, you just set tight there in the jail,” he ordered. “I’ll be in directly. I’ll keep you posted.”

  He dropped the mike in his lap. The first of the new street lights on 650 were coming into view. He’d be spotted now for sure if they hadn’t spotted him already. He winced at the prospect. He wished he could shrink into the surrounding blackness and monitor this party from farther out. Something about it all made his stomach turn in a way he was not accustomed to.

  As the Bronco drove under the series of clear Mercury lamps on 650 and began to accelerate, JD turned on his headlights. Won’t be the dumbest thing you’ve ever done, he thought, but it might end up being real close. The Bronco maintained its increased speed. The radio squawked.

  “Sheriff, where you at?” Roe asked.

  “We just merged onto Jefferson,” he told him, “like theys makin the loop.”

  “You reckon they seen you?” Roe asked.

  “Oh, I reckon they have,” he answered. “We’re the only two vehicles out here.”

  “Shit, Sheriff,” Roe said, “you gotta get outta there.”

  “Watch your cussin, Roe,” he reminded. “They’re stickin to the left lane. 83’s just up ahead. We’ll see what they do. Maybe they’ll just leave town and not come back.”

  “You don’t think they’re gonna do that, though,” Roe said.

  He keyed the mike and held it for a moment.

  “No,” he said, “I surely don’t.”

  He listened to the hum of the radials on the grooved pavement. He pushed the button and rolled down the window. The overnight breeze cooled his neck. He could smell the exhaust from the Bronco. He wondered what it was like for dogs when they hunted bear. He’d seen them do it once, how they picked up the scent and chased headlong into what seemed like certain death. He swallowed hard.

  The Bronco arrived at the left turn to 83, and paused a moment at the blinking red light. He didn’t know what he would do if they waited for him to get closer. He let out a sigh as they turned onto the state highway and continued on. He stopped at the signal and then turned onto 83. The county line was just up the road about two miles. He figured he needed to go at least that far. He wished he could speed up and get a license plate number.

  As they approached the county line, he noticed the Bronco slowing down. He tried to match the deceleration but it was tricky and before he knew it, he found himself almost inside of fifty yards. His eyes were tired and he tried to rub the sleep out of one. At that moment, he saw something flip out the Bronco’s driver side window. It gleamed dully in the streetlight and bounced on the asphalt. He slowed to a stop and put the Blazer in park. He opened the door and looked it over.

  It was a spent brass shell casing from a long gun, a .223 Remington likely from an AR-15. He got out and took his pen from his pocket and stuck it into the open end and lifted the shell to his nose. He sniffed it. Freshly fired. He looked up and could see the Bronco had stopped some sixty, maybe seventy yards down the road. Brake lights were plainly visible.

  The world around him seemed to shrink away like paper in fire and he was back on the beach in 1945. He was standing on the volcanic sand with almost 30,000 other Marines, knowing the crosshairs were trained on them. He walked out in front as the American forces began to advance inland and he stared straight at what he knew was a Japanese pillbox camouflaged over one hundred yards away. He tried to look right into the eyes of the gunner inside and show him he was not afraid.

  The men in the Bronco had made their statement. Now, he would make his. He leaned into the vehicle and unlocked the shotgun. He wished he’d had a round chambered, but department regulations forbid it. He’d seen one too many cruisers come back with holes in the roof, thanks to the awful country roads. Now he wished he’d not written the regulation.

  He took the heavy .12 gauge Remington out of the locking mount and stood there behind the cover of the open door for a moment. Then he stepped out into the middle of the road. He tried to stare into the eyes of the men inside and show them he was not afraid. He spit at the center line in the asphalt. The brake lights went out and the Bronco began to roll forward slowly. He wanted to chamber a shell so he was ready but he didn’t. He stared straight at the rear window as the vehicle picked up speed. He waited for it to make a U-turn, but it didn’t. The driver kept going.

  He watched until the taillights disappeared in the black.

  He sat in the parking lot of King’s Market under the lights and rubbed his temples. He was on the ragged edge, when fatigue would eat at him like ants attacking a bug, but he knew he couldn’t sleep if he went home. He relived the scene on the road with the Bronc
o over and over again. In one scenario, he kept driving and didn’t turn back. In another, he marched straight down the road and emptied the shotgun into the big truck, killing every sonofabitch inside.

  He contemplated the foolishness of standing in the middle of the road, like he was John Wayne. This wasn’t some movie, he reminded himself, and he couldn’t dodge bullets. The fact that several hundred or so had missed him on Iwo was never lost on him, but he knew it also fueled some idea he had inside himself that he would always be all right, that he’d always make it out of a scrape.

  A knock on the window of the Blazer snapped him out of it. It was Carl Dixon, one of the town’s only Vietnam veterans. He worked the overnight shift at King’s. He rolled down the window.

  “You all right, Sheriff?” Carl asked.

  “Yeah, I’m all right,” he told him. “Just kindly gatherin my thoughts.”

  “I do that sometimes myself,” Carl said. “I just kinda get outta here and float away, you know?”

  “Well, sure, Carl,” he said. “I guess I sorta understand what you’re gettin at.”

  “Sheriff,” Carl began, “I had some fellas come in a little while back. Never seen em before.”

  “Drivin a late model Bronco?” JD asked.

  “No,” Carl answered, “it was a black Suburban. Not painted black like from the factory, but like a primer black. They got some gas, paid in cash. Mexicans.”

  He’d heard about the primer black vehicles the cartels used. Harder to see in the dark, harder to spot with lights. He’d even seen one over in Roma, when Albert had it towed in from the brush south of the border. It had been shot full of holes and the interior was splashed with blood.

  “All right, Carl, thanks,” he told him. He watched Carl amble back to the store on his prosthetic leg. Two doves called to one another in the darkness. He wondered if one would ever find the other, or if they were just passing the time in conversation.