ahead. A line that could be an overgrown track coming in from the left.
If it was the track, it looked dis-used. Blocked from the highway by a bank of earth.
What were the odds seeing her again? Or finding a bunch of cops waiting on me.
I checked both ways on the highway. Nothing coming. I kept on, the wind picking up, clumps of bunchgrass flicking around the edge of my vision.
I reached the edge of the track. Started down it. Past a couple of empty-looking barns, rusted fencing, the ground hard, bleached by sun. Anybody saw me; a stranger, I'd stand out, the same as any place.
I thought of Jesse. Jesse must've known a hundred places like it.
If any cop was stationed to cut off the track, it was going to be tight. We weren't going to be doing any talking.
I could see the rooftops of buildings in the distance, now. If I only had a gun.
Jesse's day, they carried as many as they could—Navy Colts, the most part; they took time to load. You carried a bunch, shot 'em all, got the hell out. They say he had his first job loading pistols, age of sixteen, in the war. Blew the top of his finger clean off. But he never went unarmed—that time to the end of his life.
There were more buildings, now. The track giving way to regular road. Couple of one-story houses. An old garage. A hoist. Bunch of scrap iron rotting out front.
Ahead, there was another road leading off right. To the edge of town.
6 th Street , the panel read. It lead north, towards the buildings. Up there was going to be Main.
I walked fast. Parallel with the highway. The wind lifting dust up in the air.
Everything was deserted. The only sound, a loose gate, banging and blowin'. I forced myself not to run down the empty lane. Reached eleventh street.
11 th & Holland. A grocery store. That was what she'd said.
I could still run.
But not yet.
I started to walk towards a yellow panel marked with a black cross—a rail road line. She'd said to cross it.
I could see cars moving, up on the highway. All the buildings to the north side. Nothing this side, just a slat-board barn, no doors, gaping black.
It was open ground—but I had to go across.
I stepped out, where the rail line ran to the distance. Heat radiating off the steel tracks. Smell of hot tar and oil.
Past the tracks, I came closer to a sidewalk. It was running the length of the main drag, the roadway part hid behind a strip of trees. Thin cypress. A narrow screen. I kept myself well behind it.
A girl like her—what could make her so desperate?
Fifty thousand dollars.
I'd give her the money, no lie.
I reached a gap in the screen of cypress trees. Drew breath. Gave it a second. Stepped out.
Above the sidewalk, a sign read; Holland Avenue.
Holland and 11 th .
Fifteen minutes. All I had to do was find a grocery store.
Find her. Inside the time.
Approaching from the south, a dusty truck starts to slow. Red and black Ford F350.
Whicher sees it as it rolls in.
A state trooper stands in the center of the highway—in front of his vehicle. He holds out his hand; the signal to stop.
Something about the truck makes Whicher start to walk forward towards it.
He strides down the baking highway. Draws level with the Border Patrol officers still staring down the scopes of their carbines.
“It's a woman, Marshal,” the left-hand shooter says.
“That so?”
“Real pretty-looking girl. I've got her right in my cross-hairs.”
Whicher carries on walking.
The truck pulls up. It stops, beside the trooper.
The girl inside rolls the window.
She pushes a strand of long dark hair behind her ear. She's in her mid-twenties. Hispanic. Attractive.
She's smiling at the trooper. Expecting a reaction.
Whicher tips his hat forward, against the glare of sun.
“Y'all don't mind officer,” he says, “I'd like to speak to the driver.”
The trooper turns, checks. Steps aside.
“Ma'am, if y'all wouldn't mind switching off the engine a
If it was the track, it looked dis-used. Blocked from the highway by a bank of earth.
What were the odds seeing her again? Or finding a bunch of cops waiting on me.
I checked both ways on the highway. Nothing coming. I kept on, the wind picking up, clumps of bunchgrass flicking around the edge of my vision.
I reached the edge of the track. Started down it. Past a couple of empty-looking barns, rusted fencing, the ground hard, bleached by sun. Anybody saw me; a stranger, I'd stand out, the same as any place.
I thought of Jesse. Jesse must've known a hundred places like it.
If any cop was stationed to cut off the track, it was going to be tight. We weren't going to be doing any talking.
I could see the rooftops of buildings in the distance, now. If I only had a gun.
Jesse's day, they carried as many as they could—Navy Colts, the most part; they took time to load. You carried a bunch, shot 'em all, got the hell out. They say he had his first job loading pistols, age of sixteen, in the war. Blew the top of his finger clean off. But he never went unarmed—that time to the end of his life.
There were more buildings, now. The track giving way to regular road. Couple of one-story houses. An old garage. A hoist. Bunch of scrap iron rotting out front.
Ahead, there was another road leading off right. To the edge of town.
6 th Street , the panel read. It lead north, towards the buildings. Up there was going to be Main.
I walked fast. Parallel with the highway. The wind lifting dust up in the air.
Everything was deserted. The only sound, a loose gate, banging and blowin'. I forced myself not to run down the empty lane. Reached eleventh street.
11 th & Holland. A grocery store. That was what she'd said.
I could still run.
But not yet.
I started to walk towards a yellow panel marked with a black cross—a rail road line. She'd said to cross it.
I could see cars moving, up on the highway. All the buildings to the north side. Nothing this side, just a slat-board barn, no doors, gaping black.
It was open ground—but I had to go across.
I stepped out, where the rail line ran to the distance. Heat radiating off the steel tracks. Smell of hot tar and oil.
Past the tracks, I came closer to a sidewalk. It was running the length of the main drag, the roadway part hid behind a strip of trees. Thin cypress. A narrow screen. I kept myself well behind it.
A girl like her—what could make her so desperate?
Fifty thousand dollars.
I'd give her the money, no lie.
I reached a gap in the screen of cypress trees. Drew breath. Gave it a second. Stepped out.
Above the sidewalk, a sign read; Holland Avenue.
Holland and 11 th .
Fifteen minutes. All I had to do was find a grocery store.
Find her. Inside the time.
Approaching from the south, a dusty truck starts to slow. Red and black Ford F350.
Whicher sees it as it rolls in.
A state trooper stands in the center of the highway—in front of his vehicle. He holds out his hand; the signal to stop.
Something about the truck makes Whicher start to walk forward towards it.
He strides down the baking highway. Draws level with the Border Patrol officers still staring down the scopes of their carbines.
“It's a woman, Marshal,” the left-hand shooter says.
“That so?”
“Real pretty-looking girl. I've got her right in my cross-hairs.”
Whicher carries on walking.
The truck pulls up. It stops, beside the trooper.
The girl inside rolls the window.
She pushes a strand of long dark hair behind her ear. She's in her mid-twenties. Hispanic. Attractive.
She's smiling at the trooper. Expecting a reaction.
Whicher tips his hat forward, against the glare of sun.
“Y'all don't mind officer,” he says, “I'd like to speak to the driver.”
The trooper turns, checks. Steps aside.
“Ma'am, if y'all wouldn't mind switching off the engine a
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