1970
The high-altitude glare off the highway is so bright that Josey and I are mostly blind when we step into the dark bar. She holds my hand tight.
Tired cowboys drink bottled beer. Their necks are bent and the brims of their hats nearly touch the bar. Only the bartender looks up.
“I’m looking for directions. Up to the Lucas place.”
“Why you want to go up there?”
“I’m his son.”
A stool scrapes and I get a real close look at a face. It’s red and getting redder. I watch the cowboy’s hands. Clenching. Clenching.
My own hands move and Josey is behind me.
“Going out for some air.” He stomps into the light. More scraping. The rest follow him out.
Now it’s just Josey and me and the bartender.
He picks up a phone and dials.
----------Tim Kirk---------- 