A Dust Bowl Tale of Bonnie and Clyde by James Lee Burke Page B

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