Page 24 of After 5
The horse slowed to a walk and tried to nibble at the grass alongside the road. Clenching my teeth, I did my best to keep him on the asphalt. Between the two of them, I wasn’t sure which one was more belligerent, Ace or the horse. Ace might be right. This job could definitely cause wrinkles.
A few miles up the road, I spied the Buick parked in the rutted dirt driveway of an old farmhouse. The small frame farmhouse sat a good distance from the road and had an orchard of wise pecan trees posing across the front pasture.
The Texas dogtrot style house had two identical sides with a breezeway that split it up the middle, the kitchen and main living area on one side and bedrooms on the other. My aint Ozona had one similar. The breezeway allowed a cross current of air to keep the bedrooms cooler and away from the heat of the kitchen. A wooden swing hung across the right end of the porch and swayed in the occasional breeze as if a ghost relaxed in the lazy summer evening.
We dismounted, and I tied the horse’s reins to a tree. I couldn’t have him running out into traffic. Checking up and down the road, there wasn’t another soul to be seen. The road stretched for a few miles in either direction.
When I was positive the horse was safely secured, we walked toward the house, keeping cover behind the rows of mature corn planted in the field adjacent to the house.
Caiyan’s car was parked at the far end of the driveway in front of the barn. He struggled with a bulky machine he lifted from the back seat of the Buick. I’d never seen one the size he carried, but I was positive it was some type of recording device.
He paused and cocked his head in my direction. We froze and waited while he scanned the area. When he decided we were mere cornstalks shushing in the breeze, he walked toward the house.
We hung back a bit and gave him time to put some distance between us. He approached the house from the rear.
The barn provided cover for us from the eyes of the old man sitting on the back porch, his rocking chair centered in the breezeway. When Caiyan focused on the man, we moved closer, allowing us to hear the conversation without being seen.
The man had a long white beard and held a pipe in his hand. Although it was ninety degrees, he wore a red sweater and cap. White hair stuck out from under the cap, reminding me of a wiry Santa Clause.
Caiyan approached the man. “You Samuel Raney?” he asked.
I gasped. It was the man from the newspaper clipping Jake had shown me at headquarters.
“Who’re you?” the man asked Caiyan.
Caiyan explained he was a reporter for the Dallas Morning News.
“I haven’t been to Dallas in sixty years,” the man said. “Last time I was there, I helped pave the streets with bois d’arc blocks. I suppose it’s growed some.”
“Yes sir,” Caiyan said.
“Nothin’ but a bunch of carpetbaggers in Dallas. Hear it still is.”
Caiyan gave the man an appreciative smile.
“You seem mighty familiar, have we met before?” the man asked.
“No sir. I never forget a face.”
Oh boy!
Movement caught my eye off to the right of the house. A man leapt over the fence separating the yard from the pasture. His height and athletic build disguised his age. As he approached, his weathered features placed him not as old as the man on the porch, but late sixties, possibly early seventies. The man on the porch introduced him as his youngest son, George.
“This here’s some feller from Dallas.” He pointed to Caiyan. “What’d you say your name was?”
“I didn’t, but my name’s John Smith.” Caiyan balanced the machine on his knee and extended a hand to George.
I snorted. Could he pick a more common name?
Ace shushed me. Caiyan explained he was doing a story on the Civil War. He was told Mr. Raney could still perform the rebel yell and owned an actual sword from the Civil War.
“Papa can, but it’s probably best if he don’t. The last time he done it, I believe, was seven years ago,” George said, scratching his chin. “It’s best if he don’t. He went to a coughing fit afterward, and he best not.”
Mr. Raney waved a hand at his son, and George grew silent. He offered Caiyan a chair. Caiyan set the recording machine down on the porch and joined the men.
Sweat trickled down from my temples as I strained to hear the conversation.
“We need to move closer,” I said.
