Feast for Thieves (6 page)

Sure enough, twenty yards ahead a semitrailer lay on its side. The driver was already out, fuming at the wreck. His truck was jackknifed across the road, blocking both lanes of traffic, and the sheriff stopped the squad car and set the brake. We both jumped out and started jogging toward the accident. Off to the side in the field lay a Packard Custom Super Eight crumpled on its roof, all its window glass shattered. Whoever had driven that car needed to have some big money to own a piece of fine automotive craftsmanship such as that. A woman stood near the car, pacing. Her hands were balled up in fists, blood matted on one side of her head, her nose looked broken, and she was hollering in screams, letting loose one long wail after another. The sheriff’s deputy was already on the scene—I could tell by his uniform, the same fella who’d shot at me after Crazy Ake and me robbed the bank. The deputy was crouched on his knees next to the Packard, peering inside. The sheriff made for the ditch.

“Roy?” A tremor shook in the sheriff’s voice.

“Truck driver’s okay,” the deputy answered. “Just a cut across the forehead.” He rose from his crouch, turned and faced us gravely. “That’s more than I can say for Ridge Hackathorn, though.” He motioned toward the Packard. “I’m sorry, Sheriff. I know he was close to you.”

The sheriff’s eyes narrowed shut. He paused a minute, swayed slightly, then swallowed hoarsely. “Emma been notified?”

“I had Martha give her a call. She’ll be here shortly.”

“You told her to leave the children at home, I hope.”

The deputy inhaled harshly. “No sir. I figured they had a right to know.”

A fighting man is trained to know when another man will make his move. For a split second I thought the sheriff was going
to haul off and swing at the deputy. Instead, he changed course and glared hard at the other lawman, then motioned toward the hollering woman who stood nearer the road.

“Anyone coming for Luna-Mae?”

“No sir. She’s okay, despite the look of her wounds. I had Martha notify Ava-Louise at the tavern. She said to call an ambulance and that Oris Floyd would pick up the cost.”

“Oh! That’s mighty Christian of him.” The sheriff spat the words.

I glanced again at the hollering woman and noticed for the first time how shapely she was in spite of her ailments. Her dress was torn at the shoulder and I wondered if the sheriff’s friend might have had something to do with that. I was beginning to piece together the story.

“You called Gummer for the tow truck?” the sheriff asked. “Gotta get this traffic moving soon.”

The deputy nodded.

“Well, not much to do until he arrives.” The sheriff turned to me and motioned to his deputy. “Roy, you should know Rowdy Slater. He’ll be the new preacher in town. Reverend Rowdy, you should know Deputy Roy Malwae. He’s law and order through and through.”

We shook hands. Roy was a skinny fella, all bone and gristle, and his hand was soft as a woman’s. He eyed me suspiciously and asked, “Have we met somewhere before?”

I shook my head and glanced away. The sheriff stepped between us. “Rowdy, go see if you can calm Luna-Mae down. She helped land herself into this mess I wouldn’t doubt, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t need a charitable hand.”

I glanced toward the hollering woman and hesitated. I didn’t want to stay close to the deputy’s prying eyes, but I wasn’t known much for calming women down neither.

“Go on.” The sheriff gave me a firm pat on the shoulder. “It’s your job.”

I climbed the bank of the ditch and walked toward the woman. Her nose was broken all right, and one eye was puffy and swollen. I’d seen enough black eyes in my time to know it wasn’t due to the traffic accident.

“Ma’am?”

The woman stared at me and hollered but said nothing.

“You going to be okay?” I asked.

She stopped hollering long enough to sniff. “Does it look so?”

“Just trying to help, that’s all. I’ll check the bleeding on your head if you want.”

“Deputy already did that. I’ll be fine. Sheriff say anything about me?”

“Only that you might need help. Maybe you can sit down somewhere? Find some shade out of this sun.”

She hollered again, then laughed. It was a cold laugh, death-scared like someone unused to public speaking gives at the start of a talk. “You best be prepared to take a hike, mister, unless you want your nose smashed. A fight’s going to break out any moment, and it ain’t going to be pretty.”

“You threatening to hit me?”

She laughed again. “No, not you, mister. Do I need to spell it out? Within the next thirty seconds, the wife of Ridge Hackathorn’s going to come screeching down this road. She’s going to see her husband lying with his neck broke in that Packard over yonder, then take one look at me and finally figure out what’s been going on these past six months. That’s when the fight’s going to break out. If she don’t kill me first, then the sheriff will soon enough.”

I stayed silent a moment, not understanding the breadth of her words. The woman hollered again. I’d been around enough medics to press the ailment issue again if all else was failing, so I asked, “Mr. Hackathorn do that to your eye? We can find some
cool water somewhere. Press it over the eye.”

The woman stopped hollering, sniffed again, and gave a snort of repulsion. “Yeah. It was him all right. But forget the cool water—it’s too late for that. My nose broke in the crash. Same with my head. Cut’s not deep, I can tell. Shoot—the way I look now, I ain’t going to be able to work for weeks.”

This time I kept my mouth shut. It wasn’t the first occasion I’d been around women such as Luna-Mae, although usually I was buying such a woman a drink, helping her get comfortable before heading upstairs hand in hand.

She looked toward the mesquite grass of the field and changed her tone. “Last week he told me he loved me. What an idiot I am. He promised he was leaving his wife and told me to meet him at the plant today where he’s the foreman and we’d head out together. Well, I met him as agreed, and we started driving up the road, see? I had my suitcase with me, stupid as anything, and when he asked what it was for, I reminded him of his promise and he broke out laughing.” She hollered a blue streak again, a nervous laugh of hilarity, like her mind was churning on something big and it had no place to land.

“You ain’t stupid, ma’am.” I wished I had a handkerchief to give her.

Her tone turned stern again. “‘No man loves a whore.’ That’s what Ridge Hackathorn reminded me of, his exact words, and when I got angry at him is when he blackened my eye. I told him to let me out by the side of the road—I didn’t even care about the money this time. Well, he got in such a huff that when he turned the corner from the Plant Road onto Highway 2, he lost control of the steering wheel just as that truck was coming straight toward us. Poor fool swerved a couple times, the truck jackknifed, and we went over onto our roof into the other ditch. Snapped his neck like a twig. So now you know the whole story. You a deputy too? You sure don’t look like one.”

“Not a deputy, ma’am, no.”

“What then? Why ain’t you writing any of this down? You work for the mayor—he’s already got all I own. You can tell him off for me, too. I don’t care anymore.”

My mind was reeling, and I wasn’t sure how to answer the woman—not about trying to help her, and not about what I did and why I was there. I sure didn’t feel like any reverend. I was still wearing the only clothes I owned, the clothes worn into the river—so I reckoned I didn’t look like a reverend neither. Fortunately just then a Mercury station wagon pulled up behind the sheriff’s car so I didn’t need to answer. I swallowed dryly and we both looked at the car. A woman climbed out along with four kids. Luna-Mae groaned, “Oooooh, here it comes.”

The woman climbing out was a few years older than me, I guessed, maybe twenty-nine or thirty. She was pretty and her hair was neatly done and she wore a yellow dress with a flowered pattern running lengthwise. The oldest child, a boy, looked maybe nine or ten. A girl followed in age, then another two younger boys. The smallest looked about four or five, I reckoned, about the same age as my niece.

Sure enough, Mrs. Emma Hackathorn glanced at the smashed Packard lying out in the field and let out a yell. Sheriff Barker sprinted up and was at her side in a jiffy while Deputy Roy stayed with the body in the car. The sheriff spoke low to the woman, laying his hand on her shoulder. She broke down in tears and collapsed in a ball on the pavement. He crouched down along with her and gathered her in his arms, holding her close, then gathered the children to him and hugged the family together. The oldest boy wouldn’t come over, and stood by himself. I found it strange that the sheriff would hold one of the townspeople in such a familiar manner. She was sobbing on his chest now, long impassioned cries, and I thought the woman might die from her wailing, I rightly did.

From the other direction came an ambulance. It drove slowly along the shoulder and stopped behind the overturned semitrailer.

“This would be my ride.” Luna-Mae quickly turned to go. She dried her tears, tried to smile, and added, “Stop by the tavern and say hello whenever you get a chance, whoever you are.”

She was working again, I could tell by her words, trying to survive, trying to make a dollar, and I stood on the road smack dab in the middle of this unraveling tale of confusion—one unloved woman climbing in an ambulance, another unloved woman huddled in a ball of tears in the sheriff’s arms. I stood there on the shoulder of Highway 2, not knowing anything else to do, and so I simply let time pass.

By and by another car drove along the shoulder and another woman got out along with a woman I recognized to be the sheriff’s secretary. The secretary glanced my direction, then rushed over to Mrs. Hackathorn, gave her a long hug, and helped her stand. The secretary and the other woman helped Mrs. Hackathorn and the children get in the second car. The secretary drove off back toward town with the woman and her children while the friend drove Mrs. Hackathorn’s Mercury following.

Ten minutes later a fella I guessed to be Gummer came with the tow truck. He worked for the next three hours to get the jackknifed truck pulled upright and off to the shoulder. I found some motion to my feet, introduced myself to Gummer by my first name only and helped him wrestle with the semitrailer, then I went back to the shoulder by myself and stood. Deputy Roy directed traffic while a hearse came to collect the body of Ridge Hackathorn. I didn’t walk near to the proceedings—I’d seen enough dead men in my day to last a lifetime—but I wondered more of who this man was. I knew he was once the proud foreman at the Murray plant, a man wealthy enough to buy a Packard and support a family. He was once the loving husband of Emma Hackathorn—at least he loved her enough once to marry her. He was once the father of
four young children, three boys and one girl. That counted for much in my book. Much indeed.

The sheriff talked to the mortician for a long time. I saw him signing papers. Then he climbed up the ditch and stood next to me. He shuffled his feet in the dirt of the highway’s shoulder. When he found his voice, he was all business.

“I got to head over to Rancho Springs and handle some more paperwork tonight. Deputy Roy will take you back to Cut Eye. It’s too late to get you settled at the parsonage, so we got a closet in the jailhouse with a cot in it. Stay there tonight and head back over to the café for breakfast. Sorry for not getting you any supper. You must be hungry.”

“I’m okay. Thanks for thinking of me, sir.”

“I’ll be tied up all tomorrow too. Lots to do to close this file. Deputy will take you over to the church after breakfast. Secretary will show you around and then you get to work. Understand what I’m saying? You better not skip town, that’s what I mean in plainest terms.”

“No sir. I understand, sir.”

The sheriff turned toward the field and stared at the Packard in the ditch. I turned around with him, and we stood without saying anything more, the sheriff and me. Maybe half an hour passed. Maybe forty-five minutes. He just kept staring at the waste of a wrecked car. His eyes were steeled with intent, the way a man’s eyes look when he’s lost someone he cares about. I’d seen that look in soldiers before. I’d felt the same look in my own eyes more than once myself. I decided to speak first.

“You knew this man, then—this Ridge Hackathorn? Deputy said he was your friend. You play cards together or something?”

It might have been another twenty minutes passed and still the sheriff didn’t say a word. Finally he spoke. He said one sentence, his voice staunch and unbendable.

“He was my son-in-law.”

In the dusk, a bird flew overhead. It flew not more than ten yards in front of us, and I recognized the breed at once due to its great concentrations in west Texas. It’s classed as a game bird, and it’s widely hunted in these parts. The bird was a mourning dove, and the sheriff said one more sentence, his voice just as resolute.

“This is why we need a preacher in this town.”

Sheriff Halligan Barker turned, walked wordlessly to his squad car, and drove into the night.

SIX

T
exas, land of abundance, is a self-sufficient inland empire. Folks from Montana with their wheat fields and folks from Iowa with their corn might disagree on this point, but I don’t give a hoot nor a holler. Not only does Texas feed much of the nation and the world, but it also provides its native sons and daughters with all the fruits of Mother Earth in plentiful profusion. Frankly, we’re big eaters in this state. We like our bellies round. And we’ve got the cattle, sheep, goats, hogs, and poultry to prove it—they’re known far and wide for their savor and quality. We’ve also got fresh fruits and vegetables—peas, beans, squash, carrots, radishes, tomatoes, apples, oranges, peaches, blueberries, melons—anything a mouth could want, all grown under balmy Texas skies, and all recognized for their topflight quality and deliciousness.