Three Cans of Soup by Don Childers Page B

three worked finishing packing up the trailer with Paul and Lynn’s furniture. They left a little after noon. That evening, they spent the night with Lynn’s parents in Billings. Bill learned where Lynn had gotten her cooking skills from as her mother treated the family to a feast of baked chicken, roasted potatoes, green beans, salad, and cherry pie for desert.
    The morning dawned cloudy. They dined on eggs, sausage, biscuits, and coffee. Lynn’s mother made sure that they would not go hungry on the trip. She had prepared sandwiches, chips, several slices of cherry pie, and included a gift of a cooler stocked with soda pop and a few beers for good measure. It was late when the small caravan started their journey for Texas. They planned to camp out along the way.
    The first stop was at the Little Bighorn Battlefield Memorial where General Custer had made his infamous last stand. The sun was making its way down behind the horizon when Paul, Lynn, and Bill arrived. The visitor’s center was closed, but the three began walking the battlefield. As the sun set and the lingering shadows grew, the three stared out at the monument where Custer had made his last stand. It was a surreal moment for Bill.
    That night they stopped at a Texaco station for gas and the owner invited them to pull their vehicles into the vacant lot next door and camp out. Bill could not remember sleeping so well.
    The next day they loaded up and continued the journey. They traveled through the vast lands of Wyoming, through Denver, and on to Kansas where one of Paul’s relatives lived. There they showered, were treated to great Midwestern hospitality and after a good rest, continued on. They skirted the handle of Oklahoma and finally entered Texas. For the three it was as though they had entered another world. Although Paul had lived briefly in Oklahoma when he was very young he had spent most of his life in the West. It seemed that they were indeed strangers in a strange land. That evening the little caravan drove into a West Texas town; the sign read: “Wheeler”. They stopped at a local restaurant. They expected some stares but found none. Men wore western hats and boots, women listened and giggled, and the waitress spoke with a definite Texas drawl.
    “What is an enchilada?” Bill inquired.
    Paul gave him a quick definition as the waitress approached.
    “Can I hep you?” she said with that definite drawl. She was slightly overweight and had blondish hair that was tied in the back with a colorful bow.
    Paul ordered for all three. “I think we will each have the three-enchilada dinner. And a beer.”
    “Sorry, this is a dry area. We don’t have a liquor license.”
    “Oh, then three Cokes!”
    The dinner started with a basket of corn tortilla chips and a reddish sauce. The chips and sauce were amazing. So too was the dinner. Paul and Bill had remarked that three enchiladas did not seem like much and maybe they should have ordered more. Their eyes widened as the waitress brought three huge enchiladas, a bowl of refried beans, rice, and more chips.
    “We can never eat all this!” Lynn said as she looked around the rustic room.
    “We can sure try!” Bill and Paul said together. They all launched into the feast as if they had not eaten for days.
    “I wonder where we can stay tonight,” Paul mused.
    “I don’t know if these folks will take to a bunch of strangers camping out. We could get a room, but my money is pretty tight.”
    “Let’s ask that nice-looking sheriff or marshal over there,” Lynn said, pointing to a tall man who was dressed in a white western shirt, western hat, and bright badge, with a six-shooter strapped around his waist.
    “I don’t think so,” Bill said, turning his gaze away from the officer. Too late , he thought. The officer had gotten up from his stool and was sauntering over to them.
    “You three from out of town?”
    “Yes sir,” Paul answered, quietly.
    Lynn smiled and added, “We’re from Montana,”