Memories of a Dirt Road Town Read online

  Develyn cradled her temples with her fingertips. Please don’t tell me the aliens evaporated your memory.

  “Ever since the aliens evaporated my memory,” he mumbled.

  “Yes, I imagine that can be disheartening. Do I go back out to the blacktop and travel west to get to Mrs. Tagley’s store?”

  “Nope, there isn’t any blacktop in that town.”

  “Yes. Yes, that’s it. It’s a dirt-road town. Mr. Alanville, you have made my day. Maybe my summer!”

  “Say, you aren’t from around here?”

  “Oh, no … I’m from …”

  “Sholokka?” he probed.

  “Where?”

  “Podrihamon?”

  “I’m not familiar with those towns.”

  “Towns? Those are intergalactic mass depository units.”

  “Mr. Alanville, how do I get to Mrs. Tagley’s store?”

  “Turn right at the dry riverbed and stay on that road for twenty-four miles. Ain’t you goin’ to stay for cold tea?”

  “I really need to push on.” I expect to see Tommy Lee Jones and Will Smith show up any minute wearing black sunglasses.

  “That’s what they said.” He pointed to the sky. “Good-bye. Naspha habba ooupe.”

  Develyn was almost at a trot when she reached the Jeep Cherokee. Within seconds, she fogged up dirt as she hurried south.

  * * *

  The odometer read twenty-six miles when she reached the blacktop on Highway 20. She found no store. No town. No house. Not a car or a mailbox for the entire trip. She parked by the side of the road as two empty cattle trucks rumbled down the highway.

  “OK, Ms. Worrell, now what?” she mumbled. I can’t believe that I thought a man convinced of aliens would be able to give me the correct directions. This is empty country, Lord. It’s like I’m on the edge of civilization. Or beyond.

  A white ’58 Ford pickup smoked and blasted its way northwest on the blacktop. On the southern horizon, oil-field rockers, pumped away like a slow saltz with wealth.

  It’s like living in a vacuum. Like someone forced people not to live here. Develyn stood beside the rig, drank a big swig of tepid water, and wiped her mouth on her arm. It tasted dusty.

  Time for plan number two. I will check on every settlement within twenty-five miles of either side of the highway … all the way across Wyoming. It’s got to be here somewhere.

  She pulled her map out of the Jeep. The wild horse sale flyer fluttered to the dirt. She scooped it up and studied the hand-scrawled map.

  This sale can’t be more than a few miles from here.

  Why not, Ms. Worrell? I’m not expected to be anywhere at any time. Let’s just see how great your awesome smile really is.

  The tiny closed service station had a faded sign that read “Waltman.” Following the flyer, she turned north on a gravel road. The road dropped down to a dry creek bed and crossed the rocks to the other side. She shifted into four-wheel drive. The road lost its gravel and turned to dry, yellowish, Wyoming dust. Three miles further, she spotted buildings to the east and a railroad track straight ahead.

  At least it is a town. A tiny town. It isn’t my town, of course, but it is a town.

  As she approached from the southeast, she could see a huge congregation of pickups and horse trailers in a field to the west of the buildings.

  That has to be the wild horse sale. Half the people in Wyoming must be here.

  When she reached the tracks, she turned west to follow the dirt road to the cluster of two dozen houses.

  It’s much too small for the one I’m looking for. I remember a larger place. There were a dozen stores … well, perhaps a half-dozen.

  At the edge of town, a dull green sign slumped at a forty-five-degree angle.

  Develyn slowed down. Argenta? Argenta, Wyoming? No, this isn’t it. I’m sure I would have remembered that.

  A one-pump service station stood in front of a washed-out cedar-sided garage with the big door open. A sign hung from the pump that read “Closed Until After the Horse Auction.” Several old houses hunkered back in the shade of thick-trunked cottonwoods. She crept along at ten miles an hour past a four-railed corral.

  At the sight of a white clapboard house with a sagging front porch, she slammed on the brakes.

  With her hands on her cheeks, Develyn started to cry.

  Over the porch were the words “Sweetwater Grocery, Mrs. Charles F. Tagley, prop.” Under that sign was a newer one: “DVD Rentals and High-Speed Internet Hook-Up.”

  Develyn Gail Upton Worrell pulled up in front of the store.

  She wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and studied her face in the rearview mirror. “You did it, Devy-girl. You found it. I knew you could.”

  Each board on the porch creaked as she hiked up to the font door. She stepped over to the worn wooden bench made from a covered wagon seat, covered with initials carved in various sizes. When she found DGU, she rubbed the letters with her fingertips.

  Dear brother, there you are. Dewayne Gary Upton. I was too scared of being caught to let you carve mine. I can’t believe this bench is still here.

  Develyn pushed into the house. The living room was stacked with packages and canned goods. The west wall was shelved with videos. At the back a sign pointed to the side room— “Medicines and Sundry Items.”

  Behind a wooden counter were several cold boxes and a chest-style freezer.

  Develyn folded her arms and hugged herself.

  “I can’t believe I’m actually here.”

  “I’ll be right there,” a soft voice called from the back room. “I wasn’t expecting anyone until after the auction.” A white-haired lady with slumped shoulders dressed in a long faded cotton dress shuffled out to the counter. “I was just watching my soap opera and …” She hesitated when she saw Develyn.

  “Mrs. Tagley?” Develyn gasped. She was old thirty-five years ago.

  The lady scooted closer, then leaned so close Develyn could smell peppermints. After a moment she stepped back.

  “Hi, honey … how’s your brother?”

  “What?”

  “I suppose you want the usual.”

  “But … you can’t …”

  The lady reached into the big chest-style freezer and pulled out an orange Popsicle. “Some kids grow up with the very same face. Yours hasn’t changed a bit. This one is on me, but you can’t stay away so long next time.”

  “Mrs. Tagley, this is incredible. You can’t possibly remember me.”

  “I haven’t had another Devy-girl in this store for thirty-five years.”

  Develyn unwrapped the Popsicle. “Dewayne has a career in the Navy. He’s out somewhere in the Persian Gulf right now.”

  “So is Lydia’s husband.”

  “Who?”

  “Lydia … in my soap opera. And if he doesn’t get that furlough soon, Lorenzo will run off with Lydia.” She motioned to the front door. “I reckon you’ll sit on the porch as usual. I’ll be in the back room if you need anything. I knew you’d be back.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Because you promised me. I knew you were the type to keep your promise.” The old lady padded into the back room.

  The air was dry.

  The sky clear.

  The Popsicle sweet.

  And the wagon seat hard.

  You made it, Dev Worrell. You said you were coming back, and you did it.

  A red Dodge truck rambled down the road in front of the store. The cowboy-hat-wearing driver slammed on his brakes and jumped out.

  “Hey, purdy yella-haired lady! You can’t see the world famous Renny Slater ride them wild bucking horses from the store bench.”

  “Who’s Renny Slater?”

  He tipped his black cowboy hat. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am. Come on, I’ll give you a lift.”

  She stood up.

  This is not the kind of thing you do, Ms. Worrell.

  You are not going for a ride with this unknown man.

  Or any
unknown man.

  With dimples pock-marking his smile, he opened the door for her and waited for her to scoot in.

  The leather pickup seat felt warm.

  4

  Thinning blond hair curled out from under the battered, black beaver felt cowboy hat. Several stitches over his left eye made his dimpled smile seem more like a leer. Brooks and Dunn sang “My Maria” until he jabbed the off knob and slammed his door.

  “Ma’am, I’m surprised you got in the truck with me.” He peered over the top of his deep orange-lensed sunglasses.

  Develyn held her brown leather purse in her lap and stared straight out the bug-blasted windshield as she licked on the orange Popsicle. “So am I.”

  He rolled down the sleeves of his faded yellow shirt and snapped the cuffs. “I mean, how do you know I ain’t some bad man who will drive up toward Hole-in-the-Wall and kidnap you?”

  She chewed on the Popsicle stick, clutched her purse with both hands, and refused to glance at him. “How do you know I’m not a bad woman with a .357 Magnum in my purse who’s planning on shooting you, stealing your truck, and leaving your carcass for the buzzards?” I can’t believe I said that!

  “Whoa!” he hooted and slapped the steering wheel. “I love it! You’ve got spunk, and I don’t even know your name! You know mine.”

  “Mr. Slater, I believe.” She relaxed her grip on her purse and glanced over at his narrow chin and thick eyebrows. “I’m Dev Worrell.”

  He tipped his hat. When he smiled, deep tanned creases formed at his eyes. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Worrell. Say, you don’t really have a .357 in that purse do you?”

  She pushed the straw hat back. I feel like I’m in a doctor’s office for my yearly exam. I should at least check my mascara and lipstick. “Are you planning on kidnapping me?”

  He slipped the truck in gear, and they crept west. “Eh, no ma’am. That ain’t my style.”

  “Then, no, I don’t have a gun in my purse. But I do have a cell phone.”

  “Shoot, so do I, but I can’t always get reception out here.”

  They had barely rolled back to where the main road turned south. “Mr. Slater, do you always drive this slow?”

  He tapped his crooked fingers on top of the black steering wheel. “Only when I want to be late.”

  “Why do you want to be late?”

  “They are always happier to see you when they get worried that you ain’t goin’ to show.”

  “So you stage being late?”

  “Yeah, do you figure that’s wrong?”

  A blue Dodge pickup honked and sped around them.

  “I suppose he doesn’t care if everyone’s happy to see him show up.”

  “He’s not a mustang breaker. I think he has the spread south of the Big Horn Mountains.”

  Develyn pulled off the black-framed sunglasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Is Hole-in-the-Wall really north of here?”

  “Yep, Devy-girl. It’s a nice drive. You and me should go see it some time.”

  She wrapped her arms across her chest. “Why did you call me that?”

  He looked startled. “What?”

  “Devy-girl.”

  He surveyed the field of haphazardly parked pickups. “No offense, Miss Worrell. I reckon I call all young ladies ‘girl.’ Just a habit. I used to call them all darlin’ till Prissy McMahon cured me of that.”

  “How did she do that?”

  He rubbed his right shoulder and shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about it. Well, here we are.”

  A couple of hundred pickups, horse trailers, and a few semi trucks surrounded a large arena with cedar-slatted fencing. He parked between a battered orange Dodge truck and a new white Dodge dually.

  Develyn opened the door and slid to the dusty, dry prairie that served as a temporary parking lot. A roar went up from the crowd that hovered around the arena fencing. She smiled. “I’m surprised they started without the famous Renny Slater.”

  “Well, Devy-girl, I let the boys ride the easy ones, and they save the rank and snuffy ones for ol’ Renny.” He draped a saddle blanket over his shoulder, then yanked a saddle from the back of his truck. With it balanced on his shoulder, he swaggered around to her.

  He was about her height. She saw him glance down at her ringless finger. Mr. Slater, exactly what is on your mind?

  He stopped strolling and spun around and faced her. “Say, your ol’ man ain’t goin’ to be fumed about me givin’ you a lift is he?”

  Her neck stiffened. She whipped off her dark sunglasses and waved them at him. “Why do you assume I have a boyfriend?”

  He shifted the saddle further back on his shoulder. “Now, Devy-girl, no offense. I didn’t mean your boyfriend, I meant your father.”

  Develyn burst out laughing. “Cowboy, that’s about the lamest line I’ve ever heard. How old do you think I am?”

  He pulled his dark glasses off and leaned toward her face. “Eh… . well, I reckon when I saw you on the porch with a Popsicle, I figured … eh … but I can see when I look close at … I mean … not that you are long at the tooth, but … you’ve got … whoa, I’m diggin’ myself a hole, now, ain’t I?”

  Develyn slipped her dark glasses back on. “Yes, you are.”

  “It’s just, back there with the Popsicle, I figured you for one of them barrel racin’ angels who’s talked her daddy into buyin’ her a new horse.”

  “I take it you are used to hitting on barrel racin’ angels?” she prodded.

  “Not since Gracie St. John.”

  “What happened with Gracie?”

  He rubbed his left side. “I don’t want to talk about it. But you still look like a barrel racer … except …” His voice trailed off.

  “Except I’m too old?” Develyn pressed and wandered through the trucks toward the arena.

  “No, Devy-girl. Barrel racers come in all ages. I reckon Martha Josey is older than my mama.”

  “Thanks, Renny … now that you can see me, you know different. How old do I look?”

  “I’m not about to go down that trail. Good men have lost their lives answering that one. It don’t seem possible, but I’ll turn forty-two come July.”

  “Well, Renny Slater, I was a senior in high school when you were a freshman.”

  He stared at her from boot to hat. “I don’t believe that for a New York minute.”

  She felt a grin break over her face. “You’re good, Renny Slater. You must have been practicing those lines for years. But no matter what you think, I didn’t just fall off an Indiana hay wagon.”

  “Oooooh-wee,” he howled as he strutted toward the crowd at the east end of the arena. “I hope them mustangs is easier to break than Ms. Develyn Worrell.”

  Renny grabbed her arm and pushed his way through the cluster of cowboys of various ages, sizes, and odors. Most tipped their hats her way and stepped aside.

  Dirty boots, felt hats, long sleeve shirts, Wranglers with a telltale circle on the back pocket … it’s like a uniform. Or a different culture. It’s like the time I got lost in New York’s Chinatown. Lord, I’m not sure what I’m doing here. I just want to hide in the crowd and watch. For the rest of my life. This is a long way from Crawfordsville.

  “You just step up on that bottom rail, Devy-girl, and you can see the whole show. Ain’t no bleachers here. I’ll keep an eye on you, so you don’t have to fret.”

  She jammed the bare Popsicle stick into her back pocket. Her small brown leather purse hung at her side as she climbed up the rail. The afternoon sun peeked under her straw hat, and she pulled it down over her forehead and studied the arena.

  Do I look like someone you have to keep an eye on? I’ve done fifth and sixth grade yard duty during summer school. Two hundred cowboys is a piece of cake.

  She guessed the oval arena to be about two hundred feet long and one hundred feet wide. At the east end were dual roping boxes and an empty squeeze chute. On the south side were two faded white-boarded bucking chutes, with gates sagging
and open. The entire arena was encircled with dusty men and cowboy hats. Develyn spotted several women, all of whom wore cowboy hats and ponytails or a long braid, no matter what their age.

  There was no activity in the arena. Most of the people seemed caught up in animated conversations with those around them, like the rumble at a Friday night high school football game at halftime after the marching band cleared the field.

  A draped rope fenced off the west end of the arena. Orange survey-tape flags flapped every few feet. Several dozen haltered but unsaddled horses milled around behind the rope like anxious first-graders waiting for the bell on the first day of school.

  The sky was light blue and cloudless. A mild breeze came from the northwest. Sweat, dirt, and cigar smoke drifted across the arena. From somewhere, Develyn smelled the aroma of fried meat. Her stomach growled, and she pulled out the Popsicle stick and chewed on it.

  She studied the fence she clutched. The rough-cut cedar rail was mostly worn slick by being polished for years, she supposed, by the backsides of Wranglers. There were several bite-size defects that were rough and splinter-filled. Develyn avoided those with her hands and studied the faces that lined the rail.

  I wonder what it would be like to go to a horse sale and buy a horse or two? Is it like buying a new car? “I’d like one that is gentle, pretty, easy maintenance … and has cup holders.” Or is it like buying blouses? “I want one of those, one of those, and oh, yes … one of those brown and white ones.”

  Parked inside the arena near the bucking chutes, a green Dodge pickup marked “Bureau of Land Management” provided a platform. A gray-haired man in a flat-crowned, wide-brimmed cowboy hat, with jeans tucked inside tall black boots with underslung heels, stood on the pickup bed. Perched next to him was a card table. He hollered into a hand-held loud speaker.

  “OK, folks, that’s the first fifty. I told you, those are the gentle ones. These others have lots of, eh … spunk and potential. We’ll run the mares first. Then bring in the stallions. I see Renny Slater finally made it, thank the good Lord for that. ’Course, he was trailerin’ some purdy yella-haired barrel-racer, no doubt. We’ll take a thirty-minute break and then run the mares. Get out your pocketbook, ’cause there are some beauties in this lot. Don’t forget Margaret’s portable Cantina parked in the shade of Dyton’s cattle truck. She’s got green chili burritos, Indian fry bread, and all the fixin’s. Those of you that bought this first lot come help us get them out of the arena. You can trailer them up now. That is, you can give it a try.”