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This is the third in a three-part series.
David Mosley spent 50 years on his family ranch on the Brazos River. In 2014 he sold it after developing several physical problems, including age. In 2012 he married his editor-in-chief, Terri Jo Mosley. They have lived many ranch stories, some related in the Heartbreak series. Like the Bible, some parts are true; some are parables to express the truth. Some parts of Heartbreak, though, are just dang ol’ lies.
His email is david_mosley1951@yahoo.com.
Years ago, I moved to Heartbreak — 50 or 500 miles west of Houston’s depraved sushi bars — with the belief that I could find some place quieter and better. Instead, I found more humans.
Yesterday was just plain awful, and today looked to be even worse.
I woke up mad, really angry, and distressed as I ever get.
It wasn’t all bad. I found Sally Rae, love of my life, and we sort of inherited Li’l’ Billy. He was a classic throwaway child from sorry parents that should never have been given effective genitalia … but I digress. Li’l’ Billy was a bit odd, but he was funny and loveable, and … and … our son!
Not long after we married, Sally Rae sort of inherited The Waterin’ Hole Café. She started as a waitress, but when the owner had to leave town suddenly, she took a chance (and a loan) and became the owner. Ever since, The Waterin’ Hole had become the main place for socializing in Heartbreak.
Yesterday I sent Li’l’ Billy to a local dog food plant near the edge of town to get supplies for Squirt, his pooch. On the way home, some idgit knocked him off his bicycle, hurting him badly.
I watched him as he lay in a hospital bed in Culver City. Nothing was broken, but Lordy! He had pavement rash from head to toe, and a concussion to boot!
When he awoke, I tried to talk to him about the accident. Hit-and-run drivers are really rare in Heartbreak. We love our children like we love our beef — except we don’t barbecue our kids. Texas summers do that part for us.
As with most head injuries, he remembered little of the events just before the accident. I envied him. I could not get the events of the last few days out of my own head.
On July 4th, Karin, a newer resident of Heartbreak, was murdered during our annual fireworks event. She was standing next to Montauk Rockport, a visiting ATF agent. Both were struck by a single .243 bullet fired from across Heartbreak Lake.
The kill shot made a high-pitched “crack” that came between the big, deep booms of John Briarsworth’s special fireworks. John, a lanky veteran of the Vietnam War, homeless by choice so he can remain on permanent patrol around these parts, specializes in blowing things up. Generally, we thought of him as harmless.
I rushed toward the sound of the shot, and I stumbled over my own .243 deer rifle. Just as I picked it up, Arney Shaw, our local law enforcement officer, saw me and cracked his pistol over my head. Darn, I wished Arney would lose that habit! This is the fourth time that he had put my lights out in the pursuit of justice. While I still considered him a friend, my lumps were definitely putting a strain on our relationship.
I was cleared of wrongdoing before I even regained consciousness; I had been standing in a crowd of friends when the fatal shot was fired.
For several days an unwelcome horde of ATF agents poured into Heartbreak. All of us were treated with grave suspicion; me most of all.
Arney Shaw did try to investigate the double murder; but, to be fair, his skills were mostly devoted to breaking up bar fights and suppressing teenaged dope smoking behind Heartbreak High. Lately he had been complaining about a new scourge of meth.
I sent Li’l’ Billy out to the edge of town to purchase pooch vittles. Karin owned a “gourmet” dog food factory located in some dilapidated World War II quonset huts, along with a few other small businesses. On his way home, a car smashed into his bicycle. Poor Li’l’ Billy flew off the road, his fall only softened by a mesquite bush. Well, that’s Texas for you: he was spared broken bones, but he had several deep punctures from poisonous thorns.
As I lay beside my son, a world of troubled thoughts spun through my head. I could not help but believe these events were related.
Lacking anything better to do, I scooped up Li’l’ Billy’s clothes, folding them in my lap. Like any pubescent lad, his clothing carried a powerful funk. I didn’t blame him; but wait … there was also a faint but unmistakable odor of rotten eggs. That part vexed me.
Just before the fireworks and the shooting, I remember Karin flatly denying that she used any eggs — rotten or otherwise — in her dog food formula.
Squirt, Li’l’ Billy’s dog, had a peculiar reaction to this odor. He peed on Karin’s leg. Later, Squirt peed on Hundley Walker as he knelt, fixing the main refrigerator in our restaurant. Squirt had a fireman’s approach to expressing his skepticism.
Things began to flow together. Most people will tell you that I think slow, but I think good. A blurry picture slowly gained focus in my mind.
Something DID stink to high heaven in Heartbreak, but it was on the edge of town, in some run-down old quonset huts.
Later that day, Sally Rae and I checked our boy out of Culver City Hospital. We began the 30-mile ride home. Of course, my air conditioner didn’t work worth a hoot. Poor Li’l’ Billy bit his lip every time I hit one of the many chugholes on the road home.
“How are you feeling, son?”
“I feel like a sinner in the hands of an angry God. And it isn’t just the temperature, Daddy Dave.”
I reflected that Li’l’ Billy was getting into the Cotton Mather part of my library. While I had theological reservations about Mather, at least Li’l’ Billy was no longer sneaking books out of the Anonymous section.
Sally Rae made appropriate clucking sounds. My Sally Rae was a good cook, a good mate and a good mother. A little gassy at times, but I had also learned to keep my mouth shut.
The bright August day and the hay fields shimmered in their heat waves.
When we arrived, I helped Li’l’ Billy up stairs and I turned all the AC in his direction. Soon as he was comfortable, I said, “I need to leave for an errand but I’ll be back before dinner.”
I walked around the front door of Karin’s Doggy Delicacies. It was locked. The compound had perhaps 20 or so of the rusty huts in various stages of disrepair. Their only attraction was that they rented cheaply. Their layout was arcane, even by Army standards. In the years since World War II, a forest had grown around them.
I followed one little path after another through the maze of rusted iron.
The place was interesting. Some of the buildings were open on either end. Some were partially closed off. Many held chunks of rusting machinery. I wondered at the acts of man. How many of these old tools were bought by farmers, men who wagered their lives between drought and bank loans.
“There is a futility that is done on the earth: There are righteous men who get what the actions of the wicked deserve, and there are wicked men who get what the actions of the righteous deserve. I say that this too is futile.”
I will admit that the combination of the heat, my fascination with old machinery, and biblical ruminations all set me to being less, well, situationally aware, than I ought to have been.
I opened up a battered old door when the smell of rotten eggs assaulted my senses.
I was about to strike my cigarette lighter for a torch when a gruff voice spoke out of the darkness.
“Hold it right there, Dave! I always picked you for a damn fool, but if you light that thing, you’ll blow us all to kingdom come!”
“Hundley Walker, is that you?” I asked.
“Yes, it is. Now what am I gonna do with you?”
About then he stepped into the light. He was holding a big old pistol, pointed right at me.
I raised my hands high, still grasping my lighter. Nothing focuses one’s attention like looking down the wrong end of a gun barrel.
“Why do anything with me?” I asked. “I didn’t mean to trespass; I was just about to leave anyway ….”
“Like you aren’t going to tell anyone about this little speed factory? I hunted a long time to find such a sweet spot.”
He laughed, his decayed yellowed teeth bared like a wolf’s fangs.
“I got all set up in the one place where the stink of dog food would cover the smell of my operation. Then Karin showed up, and I had to protect myself. Then your half-witted boy, then you. Whatever happened to a man’s right to privacy?”
I don’t know much about meth and speed and such, but the rotten egg smell suddenly made sense. Hundley didn’t make much sense, but I figured that was because he was using his own product.
And YES, I was scared, but I was thinking.
“Hundley, if you shoot me in here, either your muzzle flash will blow us sky high, or I’ll live long enough to strike this lighter. Let’s take our bidness outside, OK?”
As I was blabbing, I was also backing up to the door.
The moment my heels touched the door frame, I dove away.
Hundley fired, and the whole place blew up.
It was some hours later that Arney Shaw finished taking my statement. Then he reached over and put his finger through a little round hole on my collar.
“Cutting it a little close, aren’t you, Dave?”
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David Mosley spent 50 years on his family ranch on the Brazos River. In 2014 he sold it after developing several physical problems, including age. In 2012 he married his editor-in-chief, Terri Jo Mosley. They have lived many ranch stories, some related in the Heartbreak series. Like the Bible, some parts are true; some are parables to express the truth. Some parts of Heartbreak, though, are just dang ol’ lies.
His email is david_mosley1951@yahoo.com.
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