Follow the Setting Sun

Prodigal Son The sudden noise resembled a clap of thunder or the explosive concussion of cannon fire. Under normal circumstances it would have aroused someone from a deep slumber, even in the dead of night. But the young man on the cot had spent most of the evening drinking and gambling and was slow to respond. Maybe it wasn’t just the alcohol that had produced such a contented sleep; he had finally won a big hand at the poker table following work in the oil field and later collapsed onto the cot with a silly smile on his face. Neither the west Texas heat, the flies hovering over halfeaten food, or the scampering mice enjoying a late Friday night snack in his cramped one-room apartment had made much of an impact on him. The sound had come from the violent thrust of a sizefourteen work boot against his front door, made necessary because he had somehow managed to lock the door despite his impaired state. The smile faded when he was unceremoniously dumped on the floor and kicked in his side by the same enormous boot. First his face kissed the floor, then he felt a heavy blow to his lower back. Within seconds, a painful reality was beginning to return. He rolled over, opened his eyes, and tried to focus on the imposing sight hovering over him. The light of a full moon breaking in from a lone window sufficed to illuminate the specter of a giant staring down at him. The face was partly hidden behind a bandana, but the eyes were chilling, menacing – not an ounce of kindness behind them. Before the victim could ask his first question, the giant bent down, put a heavy knee on his chest and growled, “Where is it, Ted? Where’s the money?” “What are you talkin’ ’bout?” Ted gasped. “What money?” “Don’t play me for a fool, Ted. You know exactly what money I’m talkin’ ’bout. From last night’s poker game. Close to ’bout $250, rumor has it.” Ted was now fully awake with a churning stomach and a foul taste in his mouth. Despite the trauma he was experiencing, however, he felt a strange, momentary surge of bravado. Even a giant could be defeated; all you needed was leverage and strength. The latter he possessed in abundance, because four months of strenuous manual labor on the new Midland oil derricks had added fifteen to twenty pounds to his frame, most of it pure upper body muscle. Leverage would come by grabbing the intruder’s vest and yanking it to the side. “Wait!” Ted called out weakly, feigning alarm. “I’ll tell ya where it is,” he whined as he inched out a hand pretending to ward off any blows heading his way. The hand was almost to the vest when he froze; the assailant had a partner. And the smaller second man was holding a pistol close to his right leg. That changed everything. Despite his on-going struggle with “demon rum,” he knew his life was worth more than $250, much more. Further encouragement to cooperate arrived in the form of a vicious backhand slap. Ted realized he was out of options. With the taste of blood in his mouth he pointed back over his head and said, “It’s on the shelf above the sink, buried in the coffee can. It’s all there.” “Good answer, Mr. Townley. You just spared yourself further pain and suffering.” The giant ordered the second man to seize the can and find the money. It took only a few seconds to pour out the contents and retrieve the bills and silver dollars. Adding insult to injury, the second man then swept his hand across the counter, pushing all the liberated coffee grounds onto the dirty floor. Ted sighed and closed his eyes, remembering how tasty that imported Mexican coffee had been. “You’re a dead man if you report this to the sheriff or the Rangers, Ted,” hissed the man-in-charge as he rose from Ted’s chest. “Besides,” he laughed, “we can make better use of this money than you.” Then they both laughed as they turned to depart through the new hole in the wall. On their way out, the leader used his boot one more time, upending Ted’s small kitchen table and all its contents: plates, utensils, a couple newspapers, and his letters from home. He watched the envelopes and handwritten notes on pretty stationary floating down, joining coffee grounds and nasty splinters from the former wooden door. Of all the debris, though, his main concern was the letters; his mom and sister had been writing all summer with exciting, troubling, and encouraging news from Los Indios. All of them had been read – but rarely answered – at least twice. Suddenly, he was determined to do it again. So, he went to the stove to reheat yesterday’s coffee, sat down on his only chair – letters in his lap – and waited for the dawn of the new day. He wouldn’t wait that long to mull over his response to the events which had just transpired in his humble abode. He dozed off several times, jerking awake periodically, each time his anger and embarrassment increasing, as he began to plot revenge against the robbers. When his head snapped back for the last time, he jumped right out of the chair, shouting, “You bastards! I know who you are! Of course, that’s how you knew my name.”