Between the Stalks

by W.E. Turner

The day after Charles Gutterman came in to tell me about him and Ruby takin' out the wall in their kitchen, this young man showed up at The Beer Joint. He told me he'd been hitchhikin' up along the Interstate and stopped off at the Stuckey's down by the Caroline exit, then walked on inta town.

He was a tall, good-lookin', but kinda skinny kid. He stopped inta my place 'cause, bein' a kind of "man-o'-the-world" like he was, he knew a tavern in a small town was just about the best place, next to the post office, to get information on people and since with the way he'd had to walk he come to The Beer Joint first, he came on in.

"Give me a Budweiser, please," he said, settin' his army knapsack up on the bar.

"Well... Uh..., son," I starts out, kinda slow.

"You want to know if I'm twenty-one, don't you?" he asked me with a smile.

I nodded at 'im and smiled back, 'cause his smile was that infectious. I liked 'im, right away. He seemed like such a good-natured kid, and you could see a look in his blue eyes--a kind o' intelligence and friendliness--that just made you want to like 'im.

Then this fella produces his driver's license and all, to show me he really was twenty-one (actually, he was twenty-three) and I give 'im his beer. Then he proceeds to tell me o' how he's lookin' for a lady named Ruby Gutterman.

"Ruby Gutterman," I says, rememberin' what she told me that time before about her boy that she said dropped out o' college and became a bum. "Why, I bet you're her son, ain't ya?"

He looked kinda surprised at that, but then nodded his head and stuck out his hand. "That's right. Name's Wyatt Henderson."

Well, for the next hour or so, Wyatt and I got to know each other. Seemed like Ruby was right about one thing; he'd done a lot o' things since he'd dropped outta school. But she was wrong about him bein' a bum, though. He wasn't. He was an explorer; and the thing he was explorin' was the United States. He told me about hitchhikin' all the way up the Alaska Highway ta Fairbanks an' about Cowboyin' in Texas and about spray paintin' parts for Chevrolets up in Flint, Michigan, and about all the other things he'd done an' all the people he'd met. I suppose he was on his way ta becomin' one o' those type o' people that we'd later get ta callin' "Hippies," but that name hadn't really come inta use in '65.

Now, Wyatt's brown hair was kinda long, down to the neck of his Oklahoma State University Swim Team T-shirt, but he didn't have no beard. He filled out that T-shirt real good, too, even though he was kinda on the skinny side, like I said. He was neat an' clean and his clothes looked like they was well cared for. All together, he seemed like he was just a normal, well-mannered young man.

"Where 'bouts you comin' from, now?" I asked 'im.

At this, Wyatt kinda looks down, like he was shy or didn't know how I'd take what he was gonna say next. "Selma, Alabama," he said.

"What was you doin' down there? Voter registration?"

He shook his head. "No. I'm not an idealist, like that. I was just lookin' around. Meetin' people. Talkin' to 'em. I just heard that Selma was someplace where... Mmmm... something significant was goin' on." He kinda shrugged. "Always wanted to see somethin' significant."

"So. What'd you see?"

He looked kinda sad at that, which was somethin' I hadn't expected. "Lotta scared people," he said. "Scared and angry. Angry because they're scared."

Now, that seemed to me to be a very perceptive type thing to say, for someone who was just twenty-three. "What're they scared about?" I asked.

He sighed. "Change," he said. Then he smiled, but didn't have no laughter in his eyes. "People are afraid of change."

This was all gettin' a little too deep for me. Too philosophical. Heavy, I guess, like some o' the young folks might say. "Well," I said. "That's somethin' you don't have to worry about around here. Nothin' much ever changes around Caroline."

"What does go on around here?"

"Nothin' much. Farmin'. Usta have us a lead mine, here. Lead n' zinc. Then it all got mined out an' the mine closed. Now, it's just farmin'. Little huntin' 'n fishin'."

"You do much hunting?" he asked.

"Ever' chance I get," I said. I pointed at the mounted deer head over the bar. "Got that eight-pointer up there up by the Big Spring about four years ago." Then I pointed to the mounted Largemouth Bass over the door. "Caught that twelve-pounder in the Spring River, year before last." I looked 'im steady in the eye. "Why, I hunt an' fish most ever' place there is in these parts. Unless th' land belongs to Jake Bodre, that is. Can't hunt on his land."

"How come?"

"Long story. I'll tell you 'bout it, sometime."

"In fact," I goes on, "day after tomorrow's September First. Dove season starts. How'd you like ta go dove huntin' with me?"

"I don't have a gun."

"You could borrow your step-dad's," I said.

At that, he looked up at me kinda sharp, like maybe I was treadin' on some sensitive ground.

"Charles Gutterman," I said. "He's your step-dad, ain't he?"

He nodded, but didn't look too happy at the prospect.

"Charles has an Ithaca 37," I said. "Somehow, though, he calls it a Remington. But it ain't. It's an Ithaca. Dam' good gun. Don't think Charles even realizes what he's got."

"I take it Charles doesn't hunt much."

"Naw," I said. "He'll shoot 'em if the birds come ta him, then fall right in his lap. But ta get out in the fields an' really hunt?" I shook my head. "Naw. That ain't his style. He'll let ya hunt on his land, though."

He thought about it a bit, then nodded, smilin'. "I'd be happy to go huntin' with you, Mr. Johansson," he said.

"Jim," I said.

"OK. Jim."


Well, that's how I got me a huntin' partner for the fall of 1965. Wyatt and I hunted almost ever' weekend after that. We started out huntin' doves in September, then switched to Teal and Ducks in October, then Quail and Geese in November. We even got us a couple o' Snipe (that really is a bird, you know; kinda like a woodcock) and about three or four 'coon. And we hunted squirrels all autumn long.

Now, Wyatt wasn't really that much of a hunter when the season started. He said his dad, who'd been a policeman back in Salisaw, never had much chance to take him. Wyatt was a good shot, though. He said his dad did teach him that much. Wyatt told me he'd been on the rifle team as well as the swim team back at Oklahoma State, where he'd taken ROTC and had been all set to go on inta them upper level classes, where you're committed to go inta the Army as an officer after graduation. About that time, though, Wyatt dropped outta college and, accordin' to Ruby, became a bum.

But, anyway, Wyatt became a good hunter, on top o' bein' a good shot, durin' the course of that autumn. I remember many a cold, frosty fall mornin', drivin' over to Charles and Ruby's place. Wyatt'd let me in and we'd sit there in Ruby's new, big kitchen, where the wood stove was. Wyatt'd stoke up the fire in the stove and you could smell the wood smoke and feel the chill on your back and the warmth on your front as the house heated up. Ruby'd get up an' fix Wyatt and me a breakfast o' fried squirrel, fried eggs, biscuits and gravy made from the drippin's off the fried squirrel. Man, there ain't nothin' in the world better than a breakfast like that on a cold, fall mornin'. Then, about the time Charles was gettin' up to go out and tend his stock, Wyatt and me would take off for the fields.

All the time we was out huntin', Wyatt was learnin' about the woods and the rivers and the hills of Southwest Missouri. I always tried to teach 'im the right way to do things and how to respect the land and other people's property. Would have taught 'im to respect other people, too, but he already knew a good deal about that--a gift from his Ma and Dad and all the time he'd spent travelin'.

I remember one day we had my dog, Bobo, out with us, huntin' squirrels. We was out amongst the wooded hills down along... well, never mind where it was. Anyway, ol' Bobo lowered his nose down to the ground, after we told 'im ta get a squirrel, and he traveled along with his nose furrowin' through the dead leaves on the ground like a plow and ever' once in a while raisin' his ol' head to give out a yelp o' pure joy, 'cause huntin' squirrels was what Bobo loved more than anything.

Wyatt an' me was hurryin' along in Bobo's wake an' before long, we hear 'im soundin' off, way down t'ward the end o' the little valley we was in. That's about the time I heard a high, shrill whine; you could just barely make it out over the sound of me an' Wyatt crunchin' through the leaves.

I slowed down and stopped. "Wyatt," I calls out.

He slowed and stopped and turned his head around, over his shoulder, still anxious to get on down to where Bobo had the squirrel treed. "What's the matter, Jim?" he asked. "You OK?"

"Yeah," I said. "Call the dog back." Wyatt had my whistle around his neck and I was tellin' him to give Bobo the recall signal.

"No," Wyatt says, kinda defiant. "Can't you hear? Bo's got 'im treed. Come on. Let's go." He starts off, again, at a trot.

Pew! Ziiiinnnggg! A bullet richocheted off this big, mossy rock about ten feet in front o' Wyatt.

"What the hell was that?" Wyatt said, stoppin' right in his tracks and lookin' around, up at the hills.

"That's a warnin', Wyatt," I told 'im. "A warnin' that we shouldn't go too much farther up this draw."

Wyatt just looked at me, kinda puzzled. "What is it?" he asked.

"Just call the dog back," I said.

Still lookin' kinda puzzled, Wyatt put the whistle up to his mouth. He gave out two long blasts, then two short. He waited a while, then repeated the call. We could hear that Bobo'd stopped his bellerin' and a few minutes later, the dog come trottin' back through the dry leaves towards us. Back in the direction Bobo'd come from, I could just barely make out a little wisp o' smoke.

I put the lead on Bobo's collar and Wyatt and me started back toward my pickup. We both had our rifles reversed, over our shoulders, our hands holdin' onto the barrels. I told Wyatt he oughtta carry his rifle that way, like I was doin' with mine.

"You figure there's a moonshine still up there in that draw, don't you, Jim?" Wyatt asked me.

"Wouldn't know," I said. We walked on for several steps. "If I was you, Wyatt," I told 'im, "I'd just forget all about it. Forget the whole thing."

Wyatt looked at me, his mouth set into a hard line, defiant, just like I'd seen his mother do lots o' times when she had her dander up. We walked on in silence.

"Why'd they do that?" Wyatt asked me when we got back to the truck.

"That," I said with a sigh, "was a gentleman's warnin'. They give us two of 'em. They might have given us another one, if we'd a' gone on. But three was about all we woulda gotten. After that," I shrugged. "Well, it's said there's been people go up there inta them hills,... Ain't never been heard of, no more."

Wyatt looked at me like he wasn't sure he believed what I told him. Then, he looked kinda puzzled and confused.

"Why do they do that?" he asked me. "Moonshine. There can't be much money in it. I mean,... Durin' Prohibition and all... But now? 1965?"

"Tradition," I told 'im. "Their folks've always done it, so they do, too. Old ways die out hard." I looked at Wyatt and kinda smiled. "But they don't change easy. Takes time. But that don't mean folks gotta be mean about the whole thing. That's why they give us that warnin'."

Wyatt just nodded, thinkin'; storin' that information for use, later.

In the meantime, for the next month or so, ol' Ruby set about fixin' up Harvey Wychoff's old barber shop as a beauty parlor.

Wyatt and Charles helped 'er out, whenever they could. Wyatt'd found himself a job and apartment over in Carthage, and only came home to Charles and Ruby's farm on weekends. That's when most of the work got done.

They took out ol' Harvey's great big chrome, leather and marble barber chair (I wanted that chair for myself, but my wife wouldn't go for it, so I sold it to a man over in Joplin) and they put in a haircut-and-shampoo chair and sink in one corner and a couple o' hair settin'-and-dryin' hoods in the other.

Now, Wyatt done all this work for his Ma with a kinda smirk on his face. He figured she was just wastin' her time, tryin' to make a go of a beauty shop in a little, dinky town like Caroline.

"Why would anybody want to get their hair fixed around here?" he used to ask me while he was sippin' on a beer there in The Beer Joint. "They wanna look good while they're out sloppin' the hogs or somethin'?"

But after Ruby opened the place and built up just a land-office business in no time at all, ol' Wyatt kinda changed his tune. He found out women like to look good no matter where they are and what they're doin'. And, if someone who's good at what they do (like Ruby was) is close at hand, then those folks will take advantage of the service that's right there in their own town.

Now, Paul Freiberg and I were just happy as could be that Ruby's Beauty Shop was such a success. I guess Paul just bragged it up somethin' fierce at the next County Council meetin'. It added another business to the town of Caroline and made it seem less like the town was dyin'. Made it seem that what me and Paul were doin'--tryin' to keep the town alive--wasn't such a futile gesture, after all.


Durin' the week, Wyatt worked for the H.E. Williams Company over in Carthage as a spray painter and was makin' fairly decent money. He still didn't have no car, though. He'd either hitchhike back and forth to Carthage on weekends or Ruby'd go inta town on Fridays to pick 'im up, then take 'im back on Sunday.

For the most part, Wyatt enjoyed those drives between Carthage and Caroline with his Ma. Of course, you can't get much prettier country in the autumn than southwest Missouri. They tell me New England's better in the fall, but I ain't never seen it. Until I do, I'll take Missouri.

Wyatt described to me what those drives was like. Seemed like they always started off with Wyatt chidin' his Ma a little bit for not stoppin' at the stop sign that was about a quarter mile west of their house. That's where the road from Pierce City curves around and the county road that ran in front of Charles' and Ruby's house merges in with it.

You could look south from the county road and see if any traffic was comin' up from Pierce City and Ruby would look, then speed right on through the stop sign, 'cause there was seldom anything comin' from that direction.

"Mom," Wyatt would say, "you didn't stop."

"Didn't have to," Ruby would come back. "Wasn't any traffic."

"You're still supposed to stop."

"Who says so?"

"The law."

"Well," Ruby would say, "if I see the sherriff comin', I'll stop. But if he isn't and there isn't any other traffic, I won't. Who's gonna know?"

"I will," Wyatt would say and he'd smile and Ruby would smile back. It was kinda like their own private joke.

Anyway, Wyatt said he used those drives with his mother to get to know her a little better, and vice versa. He'd always been his daddy's son, it seems like, and so was a little bit removed from his Ma. They'd talk about what he planned to do with his life and she told him about what her life had been like these last few months.

One time, Wyatt said he told her that he couldn't understand why she married Charles.

Ruby told 'im how it was lonliness and sadness at always bein' around Wyatt's dad's memory back in Salisaw that made her accept Charles' offer of marriage and to sell her house and business and move with Charles to Missouri.

"Well, Mom," Wyatt said. "I can't really blame you for that, I guess. But it was a little hard for me to take. It seemed to me like a betrayal of my dad."

"It wasn't," Ruby told him. "Your dad didn't want me to stay there, bein' sad, all alone. After his first heart attack, he told me I needed to find someone else if he died. We discussed it. I told him to do the same thing if I died."

Wyatt looked away from her, lookin' out the window at the country goin' by. "I guess you know," he told her after a while, "that it's made me kinda bitter toward Charles, don't you?"

"Yes," Ruby said. "But don't be, Wyatt, honey. Charles is a good man. Good to me. He'd be good to you, too, if you let him."

"OK, Mom, I'll try."

Just about that time, Ruby seen a turtle crossin' the road, over in the other lane, up ahead of her car. A pickup was headin' their way in the other lane, too, about a quarter mile away. Ruby swerved the car, headin' straight toward the turtle, then heard the crunch as her tire hit it. She swerved back into the her own lane, again, as the pickup sped on toward her car.

"Goddam Terrapin," she said, just as the pickup (its horn blarin') passed her and as Wyatt let out a huge sigh of relief.

She was a corker, all right.


Ol' Wyatt was a bit of a corker, too; a trait he likely got from his mother. I suppose there were a lot of times, when he and I wasn't out huntin', that Wyatt was kinda bored with the farm. Oh, he'd help Charles with whatever had to be done, like gettin' in firewood for winter and splittin' an' stackin' it or mendin' fences or other things. But, other times, he was probably just lookin' for somethin' to do.

Sometimes, Wyatt would climb the tall oak trees that stood around the barn lot on the farm. He'd climb way up to the top, where the branches got thin and would just barely support his weight. He'd hide there, amongst the leaves, surveyin' the land until he saw Ruby come out of the farmhouse.

"Ma," he'd call out to her. "Oh, ma."

Ruby'd look all around, wonderin' where her boy's voice was comin' from.

"Ma."

"Where are you, Wyatt?" she'd finally holler out, kinda exaspirated with 'im.

Wyatt would just crouch there in the leaves, laughin' his fool head off. He never did tell her where he'd been hidin' till weeks later.

Other times, Wyatt would sit up in the barn loft, the door into the hay mow open, and he'd imitate the sounds of Ruby's chickens as they scratched in the dirt and cackled in the barn yard. Or else, he might chase Ruby's Rhode Island Red Rooster around the lot, tryin' to pluck out its long tail feather. He'd chase that rooster two or three times around the barn, then give it up for a while. But, next time he'd see the rooster, he'd give it another chase; maybe goin' in the reverse direction around the barn, this time.

One night, Ruby went out to the hen house with a flashlight and plucked that old rooster's tail feather out. She came back to the house and give Wyatt the feather.

"Maybe now you'll quit chasin' my chickens," she told 'im.

"Ah, Mom," Wyatt said, kinda disappointed. "I wasn't really tryin' to catch 'im. I was only doin' it for the exercise." Wyatt shook his head and kinda looked sad because his mom had spoiled his fun. But the next time him and me went huntin', I noticed that long rooster tailfeather was stuck in the band of Wyatt's huntin' hat.


Some folks might think that a little town like Caroline would be far removed from the cares of the world; things like the War in Vietnam, drugs and teenage pregnancy. But that wasn't so.

Two or three boys from the area had already been drafted by late in 1965 and a couple of 'em had been to Vietnam. One boy from over in Mt. Vernon, the county seat, had even died over there. The draft and the war was a big thing in lots o' people's minds.

"Do you think you're gonna get drafted?" I asked Wyatt one day while we were in a duck blind over on Hank Lewis's big pond, waitin' for some ducks or geese to come in.

"I don't know," Wyatt said.

"Will you serve, if you are?" This was a time when draft-card burnin' and boys takin' off for Canada to avoid the draft were feature stories on the TV newscast almost every night.

"If I'm drafted," Wyatt told me, "I'll probably join the Navy."

"Why would you do that?" I asked 'im. "If you're drafted, you'd only have to serve for two years; if you join the Navy, you'd be in for four. That don't make sense, to me."

Wyatt shook his head. "Maybe not," he said. "But if I'm drafted, it's the government tellin' me what to do; if I join, at least I'm the one makin' the choice. I'd still have to follow orders and all, but at least it would be my choice to put myself in that position, not the government's."

"That's a pretty fine line to draw," I told him.

"It is," he agreed, "but at least I'm the one drawin' it."

Then, long about the middle of December, even before Christmas come around, Wyatt was just gone, real sudden-like. Of course, there was all sorts o' rumors flyin' around about why it was he left. One of the most often-discussed rumors on why Wyatt took off had to do with the Krautz girl; Debbie Krautz. I knew her and Wyatt had gone out together a couple o' times to dances or movies over in Mt. Vernon, but Wyatt had done told me there wasn't nothin' serious between the two of 'em. I figure the difference in their ages and backgrounds--him bein' twenty-three and havin' been to college and all over the country and her only bein' sixteen and not too bright, anyway--didn't make her too good a prospect for him to be courtin', anyway.

But, it turned out Debbie was pregnant and everybody in town put two and two together and it come out, in their minds at least, to that bein' why Wyatt took off. But Debbie ended up marryin' Ronnie Beckmeier, who was the father of the baby, it turned out, and ever'body just forgot about Wyatt after a bit.

But Ruby and Charles filled me in on why it was that Wyatt took off.

Seems like about the first of December, Wyatt got a notice from the draft board to report for his pre-induction physical just after the first of the year. Then, he'd checked around in Joplin and Springfield to try to get into the Navy but they wasn't sendin' anybody to boot camp until the middle of January, so he took off to California (where his brother lived) and joined the Navy out there.

Ruby told me she got a call from him that first week in January, while he was at the bus station in Los Angeles, ready to board the bus for San Diego.

"Now, you be sure to write me and send me your address at Boot Camp when you get there," Ruby told him over the phone.

"I will, Mom," he told her. "And, Mom...."

"Yes?"

"You be sure to stop at that stop sign, now, you hear?"

"I won't do it," Ruby told him, with a laugh.

"You'd better," he came back. "I'll know it if you run that stop sign, now."

"How will you know that?"

"Oh," he said. "I've got my sources."

Ruby told me, later, that she just laughed at him.


Well, Wyatt was as good as his word. He wrote to Ruby and gave her his address at Boot Camp, then kept on writin' at least once a week, tellin' her about life in Boot Camp and what all he was doin'. Wyatt told her about how he went through the try-outs for UDT Training (that's "Underwater Demolition Team").

In this try-out, a recruit has to run a mile is such-and-such a time while totin' a rifle and wearin' his "Boondockers" (those are the heavy shoes they make 'em wear in Boot Camp); then he has to swim for a mile inside a certain time, then do a certain number of sit-ups, chin-ups and push-ups within a specified time. Wyatt, bein' the athelete he was (he got to Oklahoma State on a swimmin' scholarship, you know) just excelled at all them tests. I like to think the time he spent outdoors with me, traipsin' all over the hills, helped get him inta condition for the whole thing, too, but he probably would have passed 'em, anyway. Accordin' to his letters, though, what really made the Navy sit up and take notice was how well Wyatt could shoot. He said that ability practically made him a shoe-in for UDT or even the Seals, which is kind of like a "Super Elite" UDT.

Ruby used to come in The Beer Joint whenever she got a letter from Wyatt and let me know what he was up to. She showed me several of 'em and nearly ever' one ended by sayin' somethin' like "be sure to say 'Hi' to Charles and 'Old Jim' down at The Beer Joint." It made me feel good to know he was thinkin' about me.


One day that spring, though, Ruby came into The Beer Joint to give me some bad news. It wasn't about Wyatt; it was to tell me she was gonna have to close the beauty shop.

"But, why?" I asked her. I almost felt like she'd stabbed both me and the town of Caroline right in the heart.

"Because the place is just too small," she told me. "I'm gettin' so much business these days that I'm gonna have to put in another chair and hire someone to help me out. There isn't enough room to do that in that shop."

"But couldn't we,..." I started out, graspin' at straws.

Ruby shook her gray head to cut me off. "I've talked to Bernice Sunderman, Charles' late wife's sister-in-law, down in Pierce City. She runs a shop down there that has two chairs. Has a young girl workin' with 'er. Well, Bernice wants to sell her shop 'cause her and her husband want to move to Florida."

"Barney Sunderman wants to move to Florida?" I asked her, all surprised. This was the first I'd heard about it. It seemed like the world was changin' too fast for me to keep up with.

"Yeah," Ruby said. "I told Bernice 'yes,' Jim. We've already signed the papers. I take possession next month. That'll give me time to tell all my customers and to move out all my stock and equipment. But I'll still pay rent on the place for the next couple of months or so."

"You don't have to do that," I told her. We didn't have no lease on Harvey's old shop. Ruby just rented it out month-to-month, but I could tell she felt bad about leavin' me in the lurch like that.

"I'll need it to store a few things in," Ruby told me with a smile. She reached over and patted my hands, which I had out in front of me as I leaned on the bar.

"You've been a good landlord, Jim. And a good friend, too. I can see why Wyatt likes you so much."

"How is he?" I asked, perkin' up a bit at the mention of his name. "Get any more letters, lately?"

"Oh, he's fine. He'll be comin' home next month on his boot camp leave."

"Well, you tell him to come in and see me when he gets home."

"I will," she said as she started for the door.


But Wyatt didn't come home on Boot Camp leave. He stayed out in California with his brother. Seems like Wyatt had met a young lady while he was out there in California tryin' to get in the Navy and he wanted to spend time with her.

Wyatt's Ma was real disappointed when he didn't come home but was real pleased that Mother's Day when Wyatt sent her a picture portrait of himself in his sailor's uniform. It almost made up for not seein' him for the past six months.

Durin' the followin' few months, while he was goin' to his service schools to become a Gunner's Mate, Wyatt's letters started gettin' less and less frequent. Then, about the time when he was sent to the Seal Team Evaluation Training (or whatever it's called), Wyatt's letters almost stopped all together. Ruby said she only got letters about once every two months or so. She was just worried sick about her son.


One day that next autumn, I was headin' down to Pierce City to have my pickup worked on. I took the back way, headin' down the county road that ran in front of Charles and Ruby's farm. When I got to the stop sign at the intersection, though, I noticed Ruby's blue Ford was stopped there, not movin'. I got out of my truck and walked up to the driver's side door.

Ruby was sittin' behind the wheel, motionless, starin' off down the road. I knocked on the window glass and she kinda woke up, sorta startled and embarrassed because she'd been sittin' there for so long.

"You OK, Ruby?" I asked her. "You havin' car trouble?"

"No, no," she said, then kinda paused. "I just... ...stopped."

"Your car stopped?" I asked. I cocked my ear toward the hood. The engine seemed to be runnin' fine. "Why did ya stop? Got a flat or somethin'?"

"No, Jim," Ruby said, kinda exasperated at me because I wasn't understandin' what she was talkin' about. "I stopped."

I looked down the road both ways. There wasn't no traffic comin'. "Why?" I asked.

Ruby looked up at me and I could see the worry and care in her face. "Because Wyatt asked me to," she said.

She turned her face to stare back down the road and even though she wasn't lookin up at me no more, I could see tears wellin' up in her eyes. "He called me last night," she said, quietly. "He's goin' to Vietnam. Him and his whole Seal Team." The tears started spillin' over and runnin' down her cheeks.

"He's gonna get himself killed over there, Jim," she blurted out, all of a sudden. "I just know he is." She pounded on the steering wheel for emphasis. "He's gonna die!"

"Oh, now, Ruby. You can't know that."

"I do," she said. "I have the same kind o' feelin' I had when my brother got sent to Korea. He was killed over there, Jim. He died. The same thing's gonna happen to Wyatt. I just know it." The next thing you know, Ruby's sobbin' and cryin'--just all broke up.

I tell you, the transformation of Ruby from the forceful, dynamic woman that she was into this fragile, worried mother was kind of a frightenin' thing to see. She couldn't talk, she couldn't move; she couldn't do nothin' but just sit there and cry.

When I was finally able to get her attention, I had Ruby pull her car over to the side of the road, then I took her back home to Charles.


Wyatt finally came home, then. The Navy had given him a month's leave before they was gonna send him off to Vietnam. He spent the first two weeks of it out in California with his girlfriend, then flew into Springfield, where his mom and Charles met him. I would have liked to have gone, too, but I figured it woulda been intrudin' a bit.

O' course, I really liked the idea of Wyatt comin' home in the fall, 'cause that was huntin' season. But I only got to go huntin' one time with Wyatt while he was here, and that time was kinda disappointin'. I come over early, just like I used to, this one cold, rainy mornin', but ever'body in the house was up. Charles had plugged in an electic heater he had that made the kitchen all warm and toasty, but it put out that kinda hot, dusty metal smell in the air like electric heaters do. I know that's a small thing, but I was really lookin' forward to sittin' there in a cold kitchen and hearin' the fire in the wood-burnin' stove and smellin' the wood smoke and then feelin' the room slowly get warm as I smelled Ruby fryin' up some squirrel and bakin' biscuits and all, just like we usta do. But it just wasn't that way, this time. The breakfast was good, though, but we had sausage instead o' fried squirrel. Then, when we went out huntin', Charles came along with us. Now, Charles is a real nice guy and all, but it was like I had told Wyatt before, Charles ain't no hunter. He was always complainin' about bein' cold and wet and askin' why didn't we just go on back to the house and have some more coffee.

But there was a couple o' good things come outta that trip Wyatt made back here to Missouri. I think he growed up some and at the same time, got to know me and Charles a little better.

One day, I was back behind the bar of The Beer Joint, as usual, when Wyatt come in. Now, there ain't usually much traffic into the place between noon, when several people come in for lunch, and about five oclock, when the evening crowd starts arrivin'. Now, I call it a crowd, but it's usually only about eight or ten people that come in 'most every night--for socializin' more than for drinkin'.

Anyway, Wyatt comes in and I gave him a Budweiser, like I always did. He took it and just sat there, lookin' around at the place like he ain't never seen it before or, more likely, like he was afraid he wasn't ever gonna see it again.

"I'm gonna miss this place," he tells me.

"Gonna miss all us dumb ol' hillbillies, huh?" I said. Now, I just said that for conversation, you know. I really didn't say that in a mean kinda way, but I think Wyatt took it like that. He got this kinda hurt look on his face.

"Aw, Jim," he said, "I didn't ever think you were.... Or Charles, or anybody.... I never meant to imply that I thought you were stupid or anything." He shook his head, lookin' down. "I know I might have said something about it in my letters,... But I really didn't mean it."

He looked back up at me. "I know you're not dumb, Jim, but sometimes.... You used to make me wonder. Always talking like you're some kind of,..." he just let it trail off.

"Like I was some kind of hick?" I asked.

"Well, yeah," he said, lookin' a little bit sheepish. "It was,... you know,... like you were talking yourself down. Like you're dumb or something. Like you're putting on an act. Just acting like you really don't have any education."

I kinda grinned at that. "Education doesn't have anything to do with it, Wyatt. You've been around long enough to know that this world's full of educated idiots."

He nodded his head, a kinda half grin on his face.

"And, as for the way I talk,..." I went on. "That's no act, Wyatt. That's just,... Well, it's like picking up an accent after you've been in a foreign country for a while. It's kind of like you're a chameleon or something. You pick up the color of your surroundings so you can blend in; so you don't stand out from the crowd and call any undo attention to yourself." I paused and just looked at him a little bit. "You're in the military, Wyatt," I said. "You know what happens when you're different; whether you're smarter or dumber."

"Yeah," he said. "You don't want to do it, most of the time. If your superiors single you out because you're better than the rest, it can cause... resentment, I guess you'd call it,... amoung your peers.

"Right," I said. "And you don't want people to resent you, usually."

"And if you're dumber, you start getting all the shit details."

"Yeah," I said. "And sometimes, if you're smarter,... especially if you're smarter than your superiors... you start getting all the shit details, too, just to put you in your place."

"So you just go along with the crowd. Blend in."

"And that's basically what I'm doin', Wyatt. Blending in. I'm part of this community. I want to blend in with it. I don't want to call any undo attention to myself. I just want to provide a service to my peers... my friends... runnin' this beer joint... and try to get along with them the best way I can."

"Well, you do a damned good job of it, Jim," Wyatt said.

We continued talkin' together there in The Beer Joint until the evenin' crowd started comin' in. Wyatt left to go back to the Navy two days later.


Well, I can't keep you in suspense over it, so I'll just tell it... Wyatt did not get killed over in Vietnam, like his ma was so afraid would happen. He did get shot up pretty bad, though. He'd got wounded in the shoulder. Then, as he was bein' evacuated out, the helicopter he was in was shot down and crashed. He broke both arms and one leg, but Wyatt was the only man on board that helicopter who survived. I found this out later, though. All I heard at the time was that he'd been wounded and that they sent him to Balboa Naval Hospital in San Diego.


Now, my understandin' is that when someone got wounded so bad over there in Vietnam that he was evacuated back to the United States, the government usually sent that wounded man to the Navy or Army Hospital that was closest to his home. In Wyatt's case, though, since he joined the Navy out in California, his "Home of Record" was listed as Los Angeles. That meant he was sent to San Diego, more than seventeen hundred miles from where his Ma was.

Ruby just couldn't stand it, of course. Almost as soon as Wyatt was there in that hospital, Ruby packed up her bags and headed for San Diego. She stayed out there for about a month, visitin' Wyatt in the hospital and his brother, Randy, up in Los Angeles. When she came back, she came into The Beer Joint to see me.

She showed me pictures of Wyatt. In one, he was lyin' in a hospital bed. He was all there but both his arms and one leg was in traction braces and those limbs was all bandaged up so thick you couldn't see no skin. In fact, the only bit of skin you could see was Wyatt's face. And even though it was a little bit swole up and scratched pretty bad, you could see he had a big ol' grin on it. She also showed me Wyatt's Purple Heart and Silver Star medals, which he sent home with Ruby.

"Bet you're proud of 'im, ain't ya, Ruby?" I said.

"Proud isn't the word, Jim," she told me. "'Relieved' probably says it better. Relieved and so, so glad he's back and all in one piece."

"Are they gonna let him out of the Navy because of this?" I asked her.

"Probably," she told me. "The doctors told me they figure it'll take him about a year to get fully recovered. Then he'll probably get a Medical Discharge."

"Is he gonna come back here to Missouri when he gets out?" I asked.

"I don't think so. He's pretty stuck on this girl he met out there in California. He's probably gonna marry her and live in Los Angeles."

I guess I looked a little disappointed when she told me that.

"But you'll get to see 'im in a few months. After his broken arms and leg heal, they're gonna send him home on convalescent leave."

I smiled at that news.


But I didn't get to see Wyatt again for about another seven years or so. He'd stayed out in California when he got his convalescent leave and moved to L.A. to live when he got his discharge from the Navy. He got married to this girl he'd met when he first went to California and he and her had a couple of kids.


In the meantime, a lot of things changed around Caroline. A convenience store chain convinced Paul Frieberg to come to work for them as manager of their new Gas and Grocery down at the intersection where the state highway meets the interstate. The government decided to close the Caroline Post Office, so that put my wife out of a job. Ruby Gutterman sold her beauty shop down in Pierce City to the young girl who'd been workin' for her. Ruby said she just couldn't do the job any more; said she just wasn't able the hold her hands up above her waist all day long like she had to do while she was fixin' hair. Then Charles and Ruby moved down to Disney, Oklahoma. Charles' son lived down there by Grand Lake and Charles and Ruby bought a forty-acre farm between Disney and Pensacola. They put their eighty acres at Caroline on the market and had a few people lease the land for a while, but those folks never bought the place. Then, early in the spring of 1974, they finally found a buyer. That buyer was Wyatt Henderson.


One day, I was standin' behind the bar, my back turned to the door, washin' glasses, when a man came in The Beer Joint.
"Be with you in a moment," I said as I dried off my hands. I turned around and didn't recognize this tall fella with a big, lion's mane-like shock of grayin' brown hair. He was wearin' a flat-brimmed leather cowboy hat and had on a blanket poncho to ward off the chilly, misty spring rain that was fallin' outside. He looked like somethin' out of a Clint Eastwood Italian Western movie.

"Pardon me," he said. "Could you tell me the way to get out to the Gutterman farm?" Then, not able to contain himself any longer, he broke out into a big ol' grin. Then I knew who it was.

"Wyatt," I said, reachin' out my hand to his. "It's good to see you, son."

"Hi, Jim. Nice to see you, again, too."

Well, for the next couple of hours, we sat there in The Beer Joint, catchin' up on old times.

Wyatt told me he was divorced, now, and that he'd come back to Missouri to get away from what he called "that Rat Race" out in California. He told me he'd been makin' his livin' out there as a commercial photographer, workin' for magazines and advertisin' agencies and the like.

"But now," he said, "I'm going to raise horses. Quarter Horses. Racers. I know the land around here isn't that great for farming, unless you just barely want to get by. Somebody I know taught me about that." He grinned at me. "But the land here makes makes good pasture. I learned quite a bit about horses while I was out in California. I'm going to get me some good stock and see if I can't make a go of raising race horses."

"Well, I wish you luck," I told him. "But it's gonna take a lotta hard work."

"Yes," he said, "but I'm not afraid of that."

"I know," I said.

After that two hours had passed, it seemed like we'd done talked about everything there was to say for the moment. I had a warm, glowin' feelin', just to have Wyatt back near me, but other than that, I can't really put into words the things I was feelin'.

But, anyway, I think Wyatt kinda sensed the whole thing was gettin' a bit awkward after a while, too, so he gets up and puts his hat back on.

"I guess I ought to get on out to the farm," he tells me. "The realtor gave me the key. I just hope there's some firewood around there. Kinda chilly, tonight."

"Charles put in propane heat about four, five years ago," I told him. "He took out the old wood-burner."

Wyatt looked kinda disappointed at that.


All that summer, Wyatt worked at makin' a go o' that horse ranch. He tore down that ol' barn o' Charles's (the one where he used to sit in the hay mow and make fun of the chickens) and he put up a big, fancy horse barn and stable. It had cement a paddock and a full veterinary lab in it and everything. That barn turned out to be a whole lot fancier than the old native-rock house that Charles and Ruby used to live in. And he built himself a practice track with startin' gates and exercise poles and ever'thing, In the house, Wyatt put in a chimney and a stone fireplace in the livin' room. Guess he figured he'd miss the smell o' wood smoke in the house that fall and winter.

Wyatt bought him four or five good mares and a stallion that had won a few races in his time. He brought in a friend o' his from California, named Dan Sims, to help him run the place, but ol' Dan didn't last past the middle of August before packin' up and headin' back to California. Dan said livin' was just too slow around Caroline.

Wyatt really didn't fit in too good with the town o' Caroline, this time around. He talked different, for one thing. He didn't drop the 'g' off words endin' with "i-n-g" very much anymore (I alway say that somewhere in the southern plains there's gotta be just a whole mother lode o' "G"s that we've been droppin' off words for the last hundred years or so) and he didn't put no "R" in the word "wash." He told me he took a lot o' kiddin' for the way he talked when he first got in the Navy, so he started talkin' more like a Northerner, after a while.

Wyatt didn't seem to socialize much with his neighbors, either. They all thought he was kinda stand-offish; like he considered himself too good for hillbillies like them. Ever once in while, though, some people would come in to visit Wyatt. His kids come in from California for a couple o' weeks before goin' back home to their mother. Other times, a load o' folks in some car with California license plates would stop off at his place. Now, these folk might sometimes come into Caroline and take a quick look around before goin' off again. Some folks said they was lookin' down their noses the whole time, but it didn't seem that way to me.

I remember one night, not too long after Wyatt came back, some o' these out-of-town folks came to visit 'im. They must o' been havin' themselves a party out there at his farm, too, 'cause long about ten o'clock, Wyatt come into town to get some more beer. It was a rainy night and kinda cool, so Wyatt was wearin' that hat, with all that hair stickin out from underneath, and that blanket poncho, just like he was that first day he come back. He walks on in and tells me he wants two cases o' Budweiser and I went in the back room to get 'em.

But as I was headin' back, I hear one o' the two Beckner boys say somethin' like, "What the hell is that?"

At that, someone else (I figure it was the other Beckner boy) says somethin' smart-alecky like, "Hell, I don't know. I don't even know if it's a guy or a gal."

I was just headin' back into the room with those two cases o' Bud when I seen Wyatt turn around real slow to face them Beckners. There wasn't even one hint o' friendly in the look on his face; it was just as stony and hard as Ruby's was when she was givin' Charles one o' her stares.

Now them Beckner boys weren't really people to be trifled with. The older one, Jason, had done some time in jail on a drug charge, some people say, and the younger one wasn't much better.

But, even though they had a reputation as 'Bad-Asses', them two Beckner boys both just seemed to melt under that stare o' Wyatt's. The younger one, Jeremy, looked down at the table just right away and Jason could only hold Wyatt's gaze for ten seconds or so before he was lookin' somewhere else, too.


Ol' Jake Bodre died the spring Wyatt Henderson came back to Caroline. They found Jake in his bed, just like he'd gone to sleep and never woke up. All his land got put up for sale by the local school board, to who Jake had left everything he had.

Wyatt bought Jake's farm, which was right next to his, and that more than doubled the number of acres he had, even though the land where the Caroline Lead Mine had been (which Jake had owned) wasn't much good for nothin' 'cept scenery. I figure, too, that land purchase also more than doubled the amount o' money Wyatt had to pay the bank ever' month.

Before long, Wyatt was runnin' out o' money. That horse farm wasn't makin' 'im anything; it was only drainin' away what he had. Before long, he was back to work as a photographer. Evidently, Wyatt was pretty well known in his field. I know Ruby used to show me samples of his work all the time in magazines and such. Anyway, Wyatt got to where he was gone from his place on photography assignments quite a bit of the time. He hired young Jeremy and Jason Beckner to look after the place when he was gone, so I guess that little run-in they had at The Beer Joint didn't cause no hard feelin's.


I went fishin' with Wyatt a few times that summer, but it was the fall an' huntin' season I was really lookin' forward to. Then, when September finally rolled around, Wyatt was gone on some photo shoot somewhere. It wasn't until about the middle of October that I got a chance to go huntin' with 'im. We went huntin' squirrels down by Charles' old hog lot. Bobo had been dead for several years, now, and I never replaced him, so we just "still hunted," sittin' quiet under a couple o' those big ol' oak trees Wyatt usta climb in, then holler at his Ma. We each got us one squirrel, then moved down to the west end of the farm, sat down and got us two more. By that time, it was startin' to rain a little bit, so Wyatt and me decided to go out to the county road to make our way back to his house, instead o' traipsin' through the wet brush to get there. The place where we crossed the fence to get to the county road was right where the road from Pierce City merged with it.

Wyatt kinda laughed and pointed at the stop sign.

"That's the stop sign I never could get my mom to stop at," he said.

Then, as we walked back to the house, I commenced to tell Wyatt about the time Ruby did stop at that stop sign and what had happened. Wyatt got a real sad look on his face as I told him the story. After it was over, we walked on in silence for a time.

"Did you ever make friends with Charles?" I asked Wyatt.

Wyatt dipped that big, ol' shaggy head o' his, causin' some of the water that had collected in the turned-up brim o' that leather hat to come pourin' out.

"No," he said, lookin' up again. "We're friendly; but we're not friends."

"That's too bad, son," I told him. "Charles is a good man. Good man to be friends with."

"That's what Mom keeps saying." He looked over at me. "But I'd rather be friends with you." He smiled. "Want to go hunting again, tomorrow morning? I hear it'll clear off this afternoon and all this is going to freeze, tonight." He held up the squirrels in his hands. "I'll clean these and we can have 'em for breakfast, tomorrow."

"OK," I said. "Gonna make biscuits and gravy, too?"

"That," he said with a hearty laugh, "is exactly what I intended."


Well, it did freeze that night and before dawn, I was at the door to Wyatt's house. He let me in and started a fire in his new fireplace, then fixed breakfast for the both of us.

It was fried squirrel and fried eggs and biscuits and gravy, just like his Ma used to fix for the two of us. We ate in front of the fireplace. I thought everything turned out just fine, except maybe for the yolk in the eggs bein' fried a bit hard, but Wyatt wasn't satisfied with it.

"Not as good as Mom used to make, is it?" he said.

"Why, I think so," I told 'im.

He kinda snorted, then shook his head. "I guess it takes something away from it when you have to fix it yourself," he said.

"Well, I guess that's why I thought it was just fine," I said. "Because I didn't have to fix it."

He kinda laughed at that.

"Well, Jim," he said, after a while, "where do you want to go hunting today?"

"Well, I'd kinda like to go over on Jake Bodre's old place."

"You would, huh," Wyatt said, lookin' kinda concerned.

"Yeah," I said. "I been waitin' forty years to go huntin' on his place. I use ta ask Jake ever' year if I could hunt on it, but he'd always tell me 'no.' Then I'd thank 'im, politely, and wait till next year, then ask 'im again."

"Yeah, I remember. I was with you, once, when you asked him."

"That's right."

Wyatt fell silent for a spell, just sittin' there, lookin' at the fire.

"Do you mind if I don't go out there with you today?" Wyatt asked me, after a while.

"Why wouldn't you want to go?" I asked him right back.

He reached down and rubbed his right leg. "Well," he said, "This leg that got broken in that helicopter crash.... And the shoulder.... They kind of pain me a little, in weather like this. I'm not sure I could take climbing over those slag hills and everything over on Jake's place."

"Well," I says, "we could always,..." I started out, then got a little more insistant. "But, I really did want to hunt Jake's land."

"Well," Wyatt said. "Just go on without me, then." He looked at me kinda strange.

I was havin' a lot of trouble readin' exactly what it was that he was tryin' to tell me.


Well, you might say that I really didn't hunt Jake Bodre's land as much as I just explored it, lookin' for places where coveys of quail might be hidin'. I did get one squirrel, though, when he hid on the far side of a tree in a place where two branches forked. He didn't get his head down quite far enough and I could see his ears and the crown of his skull stickin' up through the fork, so that's where I popped 'im.

A little later, I was makin' my way back toward the back of Jake's land; toward the field that Jake always called the "West Pasture." It was some acreage where Jake had put in corn that spring, just a few days before he died. It was a kinda out-of-the-way type field that you couldn't even see from any of the roads that ran past his place and I didn't figure anybody had been takin' care o' that corn. I figured it'd be pretty overgrown by now, makin' it good browse for deer and probably a hidin' place for a covey or two o' quail.

I was just headin' up the slope o' the last hill, though, when I thought I heard a gunshot, comin' from back over the hill off to my left, toward Wyatt's place. I stopped, then, and listened but didn't hear anything else. I had just started on up the slope again, though, when I heard another gunshot, and this one was followed, almost immediately, by the ricochet of a bullet off a rock about ten feet in front of me.

I looked over at the hill where I thought the gunshot came from. I didn't see nothin', but I turned around and walked on back down the hill.


About a week or so later, two men dressed in business suits come into The Beer Joint. They identified themselves as Bill Oakley and Irvin Dodge.

"We're special investigators with the DEA," the one who said his name was Dodge told me. He flashed a kinda official-lookin' badge at me, and Oakley did the same.

I guess I must have looked kinda puzzled at what it was "DEA" stood for.

"It's the 'Drug Enforcement Administration,'" Dodge said. "Part of the Justice Department."

"OK," I said. "And what is it I can do for you fellas?"

"We were told," Dodge said, "that you know the country around here pretty well."

"Well,... tol'able," I told 'im. "I've hunted and fished most ever' place there is to hunt and fish round about these parts. I reckon I know the lay o' the land pretty good."

"That's what we were hoping," Oakley said. "We're having a little bit of trouble indentifying a plot of ground." At that, he reached into the briefcase he was holdin' and pulled out a couple o' folded-up pieces of paper.

Well, Oakley spread out these folded papers out on the top o' the bar and I seen what looked like a kinda quilt; except this quilt was made outta aerial photographs. I'd seen things like that when I was in the Army back durin' World War II, but these were taken from a lower altitude than I was used to seein'.

"This is the plot of ground we're trying to find," Oakley goes on, circlin' a section of the aerial map with his pen. "Now, as a crow flies, it's about a mile and a half west of Caroline," he indicated the location of the town on the map, "but we're having trouble finding it."

I looked at the photograph where Oakley indicated Caroline was. I could make out Main Street, plain as day.

"Hey, there we are," I said, pointin' at a buildin' on the map. "There's The Beer Joint, right there."

"We know, Mr. Johansson," Dodge says, kinda curtly.

"Uh, what we're really interested in is over here," Oakley says, like he was talkin' down to me a little bit; as if I was some feeble-minded old geezer or somethin'. " He indicated the area he had circled with his pen, earlier.

"Oh," I says. "OK."

"What we have here," he said, "is a field of marijuana."

"Marijuana?" I says, really taken aback.

"Yes, sir," Oakley says. "As you can see from the photograph," he goes on, indicatin' his map, "this Marijuana is planted between the rows of corn or sorghum or whatever it is planted here." He tapped on the map for emphasis. "Now, what we're having trouble with is trying to find this access back into this field." He indicated an area on the map where you could see two faint lines crossin' from the main road into a place that looked like a pasture close to the field they was talkin' about; it was a farmer's access, over a culvert in the bar ditch along the road.

It hit me, right away, what their problem was. They were lookin' at a two-dimensional, overhead map of the area. But the area they were lookin' at wasn't level, like the top of the bar where they had their map laid out. Two objects on that map that looked like they was an inch apart (which was supposed to represent about a quarter-mile or so) might really be a half mile apart if you figure in the topography of the area and the distance uphill and down that you'd have to travel between those two points.

I explained all this to those two men and they agreed that I was probably right.

"Could you lead us to where this is, Mr. Johansson?" Dodge asked me.

"Oh, I recon so," I said.

"You can study the aerial map some more if you'd like," he told me.

I looked at the map some more, tracin' out where Caroline was, and the state highway, and the dirttop county road, and all. Then, it hit me. It was Jake Bodre's old farm that we was lookin' at. I hadn't recognized it, before, because they had that aerial photograph turned to where north was off to the left, instead of at the top, like it is on a normal map. The place, they was lookin' at belonged to Wyatt Henderson, now.


Well, I was committed, by this time, and there wasn't no way to get outta leadin' those boys back to that area. Of course, I knew, now, why it was I got those warnin' shots in front of me a few days before.

After I put the "Out to Lunch" sign in The Beer Joint window, we all piled into those DEA Agents' car. They was another car followin' us as we drove; it was fulla men who I figure was DEA agents, too. I tried to lead those DEA men somewhere else a couple of times, but they wouldn't have none o' that. They kept questionin' me when I told 'em to take this road or that to lead 'em astray, and they got me back on track toward Jake's old place. It made me think they weren't quite as dumb as they pretended to be when they first spread that map out in front of me and asked me if I knew where that field was. Then I realized what it was they were doin'. They were settin' me up as a stooge or somethin'. They were tryin' to drive a wedge between Wyatt and me, who they figured was probably Wyatt's only friend in Caroline.


We finally got to the field those boys was lookin' for and pulled into that pasture, then ever'body started pilin' outta those two cars. They got out shovels, rakes, hoes and all kinds o' other garden tools from outta the trunks o' their cars. Then I seen Oakley and Dodge and one or two of the others pull out bulletproof vests and put 'em on. And those same agents also pulled M-16 rifles outta the cars, too. They was the first M-16s I'd seen; other than on TV, that is.

"Why all the hardware, boys?" I asked 'em.

"These dopers play rough," Oakley told me. "They'd just as soon shoot a DEA agent as not." He looked up at me and said, dead earnest, "This isn't a gentleman's game. It's serious business."

We started walkin' up the same slope I had walked up just a few days before; the day I got warned not to go no farther. But they wasn't no warnin' shots, this time. When we crested the hill, we saw the cornfield these guys was lookin' for.

"Damn," I heard Dodge say as we started gettin' close to the fence around the field, "they've harvested." He stopped and took off the little Pork-Pie had he was wearin', then took the hat and slapped his leg with it. "Son of a bitch," he said. "We're too late."

"Maybe we can still find something, though," Oakley said, pushin' on toward the field.

Well, them DEA agents looked all through that cornfield and other than a pile o' burnt brush and about a half-dozen seeds that didn't look like nothin' to me, they couldn't find what it was they were lookin' for.

You could see where somethin' got pulled up outta the ground, though, between the rows of corn. It almost looked like someone had run a cultivator through there, real recent, and that was odd. You usually don't cultivate ripe corn, which this corn was.

"Well," Oakley says to Dodge after they'd done searched through the cornfield, "I guess we oughtta search the barns and houses. There's gotta be at least a half ton of the stuff. They can't have gotten far with it. And they have to dry it somewhere. Does the warrant cover the barns and stuff?"

"Barns and outbuildings, yes," Dodge said. "And it covers Henderson's house, but not the Bodre house."

Dodge pronounced Jake's last name as "Bo-der," but I was quick to correct him that it was pronounced "Bo-dree." That kinda brought those agents around to realizing I was still with 'em. They'd been kinda ignorin' me since we got outta the cars.

"You're welcome to come along with us while we search, if you'd like, Mr. Johansson." Oakley told me.

"And if I don't like?"

He looked at me, hard and mean. "Then you can walk back to town," he said. He as right; this drug stuff ain't no gentleman's game.

Well, them agents didn't find nothin' at Jake Bodre's old barn, so we rode on over to Wyatt's place.

Wyatt wasn't home. I knew he wouldn't be; he had a photo assignment up in Kansas City. But there was someone at the house or, rather, at the barn. It was Dan Sims; Wyatt's friend from California who'd worked for him that summer.

"Hi, Dan," I said when I seen 'im. "You workin' for Wyatt, again?"

"I never stopped," Dan said, then turned toward them DEA guys. "Can I help you with something?" he asked 'em.

Those DEA guys told Dan what they was after and Dan just shrugged his shoulders and let 'em search. They didn't find nothin' in the barn and nothin' in the house, either, except a woman who said she was Dan's wife.

After they was done searchin', those DEA guys got to questionin' Dan. Dan told 'em he was just the ranch foreman for Mr. Henderson; meanin' Wyatt, o' course.

"Do you know anything about the cornfield over on the west side of the Bo-der... I mean, 'Bodre', farm?" Dodge asked 'im.

"Only that it's planted in corn," Dan said. "We're planning to harvest it next week. We need it as a cash crop." With the word "cash crop," I thought I seen Dan's eyes kinda flick over in my direction.

"What can you tell me about,..." Dodge pulled a piece o' paper out of his pocket. "...about Jason and Jeremy Beckner?"

Dan shrugged again. "Only that they worked for Wyatt while I was back in L.A. getting married," he said. "Other than that, I don't know too much about 'em."

Finally, frustrated, the DEA guys gave it up and piled back into their cars; me with 'em.

The ride back to Caroline was real quiet.

When we was just got to the end o' Main Street, I turned to Oakley and asked, "Just how much would a half ton o' marijuana be worth, anyway?"

Oakley just grunted. "Hard to say," he said. "Depends on the quality. But if it's grown from good seed,... Columbian or Far East,... Oh, maybe half a million dollars. Four or five times that, street value."


Them DEA guys hung around town for a couple o' days after that. They talked to a lotta folks about the West Field on Jake Bodre's old farm. Nobody, it seemed, knew anything about it. Now, the two folks those agents wanted to talk to the most was the two Beckner boys, but those two didn't seem to be anywhere around.

Finally, when Wyatt come back, they questioned him (takin' a couple o' hours to do it, too.)

Them agents done the questionin' in Ruby Gutterman's old beauty shop, which they borrowed from me as a temporary office. When it was over, Dodge brought me back the key. He also give me his business card.

"We'd appreciate it if you'd give our office a call if you hear anything, Mr. Johansson," Dodge told me. "Anything at all."

"Hear anything about what?" I asked 'im.

"About that field of grass," he says, kinda ticked off at me, again. "Or if you have any word about the Beckner boys and where they are... just give us a call."

"OK," I said. "If I hear anything."

He walked on out the door and I could see his lips movin', like he was sayin' somethin' under his breath, but I couldn't hear what it was. After the door closed, I took the card and flipped it into the trash can.

Through the window, I could see Wyatt standin' there, talkin' to Oakley. Finally, Oakley turned and got into the same car Dodge had climbed in. The car pulled away from the curb, turned around in the street and headed out toward the state highway. Wyatt walked over and came on into The Beer Joint.

"What'd those guys say to you, Wyatt?" I asked after I got him his Budweiser. "You in any kind of trouble?"

Wyatt shook his head. "They don't have anything," he said. "Just a couple of aerial photographs. No physical evidence at all."

"They figure it was them Beckner boys that planted that marijuana out there in that corn field, don't they," I said. "I mean, you didn't have anything to do with it, did ya, Wyatt?"

Wyatt raised up that shaggy-maned head o' his, real slow, and he looked at me from underneath his bushy eyebrows with them cold-steel, flinty blue eyes o' his. I could see the hard set of his jaw and his mouth that was just a thin, straight line across his face.

I looked down at the top o' the bar, then picked up the bar towel and give the countertop a wipe, even though it didn't really need it.

"Never mind, son," I said. "Just forget I mentioned it."