The Apostate by J.B. Hogan

Author:J.B. Hogan [Hogan, J.B.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Roan & Weatherford

Part Two

Panhandle

OUT ON THE ROAD

A GUSTING WIND swirled erratically across the empty West Texas fields, lifting and scattering little clouds of dust that rose up behind the heels of Buddy Harris’ worn and dirty boots with each step he took over the crumbling, dry land. Wisps of sand hit against the side of his face, and he turned away from time to time to protect his eyes from the fine but sharp-edged topsoil.

Sometimes when the wind kicked up harder, it swept over the thin, barbed wire fences surrounding the dead fields, rattling the twisted metal and slapping scraps of paper and pieces of plastic sacks against rocks and posts in its way. Other times when it blew straight and hard, it whistled—whistled a long, high lonesome sound that reminded Buddy of old Hank Williams songs he’d heard his daddy play years ago.

That wind sound recalled to the boy memories of farther back up in the Panhandle around Amarillo where he’d gone many times with old Luke Miller to sell cattle and horses. The wind blew hard and cold there in the heart of the Panhandle, and it made a man feel as alone as if he were the only person alive in the whole territory—how it must’ve felt when there were only Indians in the land and trail herders were passing through.

While he walked along, another sound began to work its way into his consciousness. It was a whooshing sound, like a ground level wind or shallow water being forded by an old car with slick, bald tires. Looking to his left, out to the two-lane highway beside which he walked, he realized that a car—or truck—was approaching. As the vehicle came toward him from behind, he drew his mind fully back from that distant, silent place it had been and began again to tune into the real world around him.

It was barely gray light, another twenty minutes or so before sunrise, and he was walking by the highway outside of town, barely aware of real time or place. He stopped for a moment to get his bearings, the roar of the vehicle—he could definitely tell it was a truck now—growing louder as it neared him from behind.

He looked up as the pickup shot by him, a clanking dark beast chewing up the stillness of the morning air. There were two young men inside that he recognized, but he was sure that the occupants had not done the same of him as they blew past in the early light of day. Pausing by a fence post, he watched until they rounded a distant corner by a sparse stand of cottonwood trees and disappeared.

“Headin’ for the Black Toast,” he declared quietly to the empty road and fields.

The thought of the Black Gold Café, its name an anachronism of Seco’s faded oil past and rechristened the Black Toast or Caje’s by locals accustomed to the commonly burnt breakfast toast, which was about a mile or so on up the road, made Buddy hungry.

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