Read Online A Dust Bowl Tale of Bonnie and Clyde by James Lee Burke - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Lee Burke
Ads: Link
there’s a posted sign that
says otherwise, I didn’t see it.”
The woman next to him was pretty and had strawberry-blond hair and a beret tilted
over one eye. She looked like a happy country girl, the kind who works in a dime store
or in a café where the truckers come in to make innocent talk. She leaned forward
and grinned up into Grandfather’s face. She silently mouthed the words “We’re sorry.”
“Did you know you have mud on your license tag?” Grandfather asked the driver.
“I’ll get right on that,” the driver said.
“You also have what appears to be a bullet hole in your back window.”
The driver removed a marble from the ashtray in the dashboard and held it against
the light. “I found this on the backseat. It was probably a kid with a slingshot,”
he said. “I saw a kid up on the train trestle with one. You a lawman?”
“I’m a rancher. The name is Hackberry Holland. You didn’t give me yours.”
“Smith,” the driver said.
“If you’ll tell me your destination, Mr. Smith, maybe I can he’p you find your way.”
“Lubbock. Or anyplace there’s work. I work on automotives, mostly. Is that an antique
firearm?”
“A forty-four Army Colt. Most of the time I use it for a paperweight. You know automobiles,
do you?”
“Yes, sir, you could say that. I see automobiles as the future of the country. Henry
Ford and me.”
“Turn left at the paved road and stay due west,” Grandfather said. “If you see the
Pacific Ocean, that means you passed Lubbock.”
The man in the backseat rolled down the glass. He was short and not over 120 pounds
and wore a suit and tie and a short-brim hat cocked on his brow the way a dandy might.
He had a long face, like a horse’s hanging out of a stall. He also had the kind of
lopsided grin you see on stupid people who think they’re smarter than you. His breath
was as rank as a barrel of spoiled fruit. “My name is Raymond. This here is my girlfriend,
Miss Mary,” he said. “We’re pleased to make y’all’s acquaintance.”
The woman sitting next to him had a cleft chin and a broad forehead and a small mean-spirited
Irish mouth; her face was sunken in the middle, like soft wax. She was smoking a cigarette,
gazing into the smoke.
“There’s a busted spar in my cattle guard,” Grandfather said. “Don’t pop a tire going
out. I’d appreciate you not throwing that whiskey bottle in my trees, either.”
“Tidy is as tidy does,” Raymond said.
Grandfather rested one hand on the bottom of the window. He let his eyes roam over
Raymond’s face before he spoke. “The man who kills you will rip out your throat before
you ever know what hit you,” he said. “I’m not talking about myself, just somebody
you might meet up the road, the kind of fellow who turns out to be the worst misjudgment
you ever made.”
“We apologize, sir,” said the woman in front, leaning across the driver so Grandfather
could see her expression more clearly. Her smile made me think of somebody opening
a music box. “We didn’t mean to bother y’all. You have a mighty nice spot here. Thank
you for being so gracious and kind.”
“No harm done,” Grandfather said.
I wanted her to say something to me, but her gaze stayed fixed on Grandfather.
The driver slowly accelerated the car, a nimbus of brown dust rising from the wax
job, our visitors’ silhouettes framed against the headlights. There was a long bright-silver
scratch on the left fender. After they were gone, I could feel Grandfather’s eyes
on me, like he was about to give me a quiz to see how dumb I was at that particular
moment. “What are you studying on, Satch?” he said.
“The car and the way they treat it don’t fit. You think they’re bank robbers?”
“If you haven’t heard, there’s no money in the bank to rob. Or in the general store.
Or in the bubblegum machine at the filling station. Where in the name of suffering
says otherwise, I didn’t see it.”
The woman next to him was pretty and had strawberry-blond hair and a beret tilted
over one eye. She looked like a happy country girl, the kind who works in a dime store
or in a café where the truckers come in to make innocent talk. She leaned forward
and grinned up into Grandfather’s face. She silently mouthed the words “We’re sorry.”
“Did you know you have mud on your license tag?” Grandfather asked the driver.
“I’ll get right on that,” the driver said.
“You also have what appears to be a bullet hole in your back window.”
The driver removed a marble from the ashtray in the dashboard and held it against
the light. “I found this on the backseat. It was probably a kid with a slingshot,”
he said. “I saw a kid up on the train trestle with one. You a lawman?”
“I’m a rancher. The name is Hackberry Holland. You didn’t give me yours.”
“Smith,” the driver said.
“If you’ll tell me your destination, Mr. Smith, maybe I can he’p you find your way.”
“Lubbock. Or anyplace there’s work. I work on automotives, mostly. Is that an antique
firearm?”
“A forty-four Army Colt. Most of the time I use it for a paperweight. You know automobiles,
do you?”
“Yes, sir, you could say that. I see automobiles as the future of the country. Henry
Ford and me.”
“Turn left at the paved road and stay due west,” Grandfather said. “If you see the
Pacific Ocean, that means you passed Lubbock.”
The man in the backseat rolled down the glass. He was short and not over 120 pounds
and wore a suit and tie and a short-brim hat cocked on his brow the way a dandy might.
He had a long face, like a horse’s hanging out of a stall. He also had the kind of
lopsided grin you see on stupid people who think they’re smarter than you. His breath
was as rank as a barrel of spoiled fruit. “My name is Raymond. This here is my girlfriend,
Miss Mary,” he said. “We’re pleased to make y’all’s acquaintance.”
The woman sitting next to him had a cleft chin and a broad forehead and a small mean-spirited
Irish mouth; her face was sunken in the middle, like soft wax. She was smoking a cigarette,
gazing into the smoke.
“There’s a busted spar in my cattle guard,” Grandfather said. “Don’t pop a tire going
out. I’d appreciate you not throwing that whiskey bottle in my trees, either.”
“Tidy is as tidy does,” Raymond said.
Grandfather rested one hand on the bottom of the window. He let his eyes roam over
Raymond’s face before he spoke. “The man who kills you will rip out your throat before
you ever know what hit you,” he said. “I’m not talking about myself, just somebody
you might meet up the road, the kind of fellow who turns out to be the worst misjudgment
you ever made.”
“We apologize, sir,” said the woman in front, leaning across the driver so Grandfather
could see her expression more clearly. Her smile made me think of somebody opening
a music box. “We didn’t mean to bother y’all. You have a mighty nice spot here. Thank
you for being so gracious and kind.”
“No harm done,” Grandfather said.
I wanted her to say something to me, but her gaze stayed fixed on Grandfather.
The driver slowly accelerated the car, a nimbus of brown dust rising from the wax
job, our visitors’ silhouettes framed against the headlights. There was a long bright-silver
scratch on the left fender. After they were gone, I could feel Grandfather’s eyes
on me, like he was about to give me a quiz to see how dumb I was at that particular
moment. “What are you studying on, Satch?” he said.
“The car and the way they treat it don’t fit. You think they’re bank robbers?”
“If you haven’t heard, there’s no money in the bank to rob. Or in the general store.
Or in the bubblegum machine at the filling station. Where in the name of suffering
Similar Books
