Picket Line by Elmore Leonard

Author:Elmore Leonard [Leonard, Elmore]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2025-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

10.

HAROLD RITCHIE HAD BRAKED ALMOST TO A STOP AND was letting the patrol car roll slowly on its own momentum, bumping along in the road ruts past the line of pickets holding their signs and red bandanas. Every one of them turned from the field to watch him and nobody said a word or moved, though the car passed within a couple of yards of most of them. Beyond the line he accelerated a little, giving the car just enough speed to swing into the side road, and came to a stop in the shade of some bushes close to a cement irrigation tank.

Getting out, he took his Stetson from the front seat and put it on carefully, setting the brim an inch above his eyes. On duty a trooper was always supposed to be covered. It made sense, it was part of the uniform; except Ritchie didn’t particularly like wearing it. The hat itself was all right—­he’d owned a few tan Stetsons in his life—­but Captain McKellan made them all wear the hats the same way, the brim curled just a little and pointing straight over their eyes. He’d have curled his more and creased both sides of the crown instead of having just the one groove on top, but it wasn’t regulation. After four years in the Marines he’d sworn he was through with regulations. But here he was in a tan uniform again, not as formfitting as a Marine shirt, but with short sleeves, which he liked. It showed the tattoo on his left forearm: the snake curled around the dagger and “Death Before Dishonor” in dark blue. The gold-frame trooper sunglasses were regulation.

This was his first close look at the strike. On highway patrol they were told to keep an eye on the union hall and he’d seen the strike signs and the people hanging around outside; but this was the first day he’d been assigned to watch the pickets and keep order. A one-man job it looked like. Nobody would be out to relieve him till after noon. Harold Ritchie took off his hat and reached through the car window to drop it on the seat.

As he walked up the road toward the pickets someone in the line said, “Hey, come on over here. We need a cop on our side.” Somebody else said, “Give him a sign to hold.” They watched him approach in that casual cop stride, looking like a cop or a soldier even without his hat: short-haired, good solid five-ten build that showed only a trace of a belly.

Harold Ritchie had lived in Trinity all his life except for the twelve months in Vietnam. Faces in the picket line were familiar. He knew some of them by name. A couple of them he’d even arrested: drunk and disorderly, in a Mexican café throwing beer bottles at each other, laughing and swearing and having a hell of a time. He’d gone to school with some of them, or their kids. He’d probably picked crops with some of them too, before he went in the Marines.

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