Killin' Time: A Collection of Short Stories

By Chimp Robertson

KILLIN' TIME is a collection of 38 short stories from various walks of life including stories about the past, current times, the old west, the military, and stories that are both sad and humorous...and, you might even see yourself in one or two of them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 26, 2007
• ISBN: 9781463463250

Chimp Robertson

Robert Lorbeer, Colonel, US Army, Infantry, Airborne/Ranger, retired, 40 years active duty and reserves, commanded a Rifle Company in Vietnam, 1970-1971, C Company, 1st Bn. 506th. Airborne Infantry, 101st Airborne Division (Airmobile). Also served in Berlin in 1969-1970; recalled to Active Duty for Desert Shield/Storm. Robert’s post military career is attorney at law. Robert’s recreation/avocation is equestrian activities; he rode with the Sacramento Sheriff’s Posse for 15 years, and has ridden with the Long Beach Mounted Police for 20 years. Robert judges throughout the US. Robert is married to Western Music’s top female recording artist, Belinda Gail.

Book preview

Killin’ Time

A COLLECTION OF

SHORT STORIES

by

Chimp Robertson

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AuthorHouse™

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

©

2007 Chimp Robertson. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 7/11/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4343-4685-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4634-6325-0 (e)

Contents

Dedication

Preface

Amy’s Gone

It Might Have Been the Horses

Doyle

Pretty Girl Sleeps

Straight Shooter

Little Sister

They’re Just Roses

Buttons and Bows

Pale Peach Roses

Nita

Let’s Get Going

I’ll Meet You in St. Louis

Rodeo Road

Sunburn

The Winner

Big Guns of Little Anchico

An Early Christmas

Can I Believe in You

Homecoming

King of the Hill

Old Man Gladish

Passing the Torch

Rookie of the Year

Proof Enough

A Dollar Flower

Runt Henry and Long John Cloud

Ace in the Hole

So Long, Soldier Boy

The Negotiator

The Runaway Mare

Somebody Help Me!

The Old Prospector

Stranger Things Have Happened

Semper Fi

Toby Weade

The Navy Colt

The Old House by the Tracks

Ninety-Five

Dedication

I dedicate this book to my mother, Ruby Alice (White) Robertson who wrote stories on bits and scraps of paper with an old lead pencil under the dim light of a kerosene lamp, whiling away the days as a young cowboy’s wife in a run-down, one room camp shack without the benefits of running water or electricity, and always managed to keep a radiant smile and a heart filled with kindness.

It seems it was just yesterday I had young children of my own and almost every night I’d make up stories for them. Sometimes because they wanted me to, sometimes to get them to go to sleep, but mostly because it was fun. That’s how this book came about, and I also dedicate it to them.

Preface

What are short stories? Usually, they are stories that have more expressions than any other literary form. They can be humorous, sad, cheerful, outlandish, giddy…and this is what makes them enjoyable. Generally, they are stories you can read in a few minutes and remember for a long time.

When I was in school I thought a little fun went along with a little learning so I sometimes make mistakes, but you can be sure they’re not made on purpose. It’s just the way things come to me and I put them down that way, and if people understand that, then I’m satisfied.

Amy’s Gone

There was dead silence, then Mark had to look away. Amy rested on an elbow, her chin in her hand, smiling slightly. He stared at her thoughtfully. It was pointless to expect her to like him, the new guy in town, a transfer senior from another state, ineligible for sports, wasting away the last two hours of each day in study hall while the other guys were on the football field.

Amy Harmon was head cheerleader and her boyfriend was captain of the team. She was the prettiest and most popular girl in school and had never once spoken to him the entire two months he’d been in town. And, she had gone steady since the sixth grade with the school’s top athletic star, Fleet Johnson, who was not only rich and handsome, but also spoiled. Clearly there was something odd here.

She squirmed lazily, then glanced up and grinned. The emotion was so real he could feel it and what finally got to Mark about Amy, was that she stared back. She had hazel eyes flecked with green, ash blond hair, smooth, light-colored and unblemished skin, and full ripe lips. She was soft-spoken, debonair, and un-objectionably beautiful.

Mark dismissed it completely for half a second then again with gathering concern, quietly wondered why. The overriding question was why? Maybe she wanted to go out with him, he thought. But it still needed explaining. He wasn’t satisfied. There was another side to this. Maybe someone had put her up to it, or maybe she was just plain ornery. That was not entirely preposterous, as she seemed the type.

He still hadn’t made the connection, but he refused to budge, staring back at her as hard as he could. They were in the last class of the day, taking a test, then Amy would hurry to the gym with the other cheerleaders and get ready for the game. Through open windows he could hear the band loading in buses for the big home-coming game later that night.

It was unbelievable. Mark could not contain himself. He knew Fleet Johnson came from a wealthy family, was the captain of the football team and also the most handsome and most popular boy in school, but other than that he felt they were pretty even. He also felt he had the edge on Johnson because he knew he could whip him. And where he came from that’s what mattered most. He got up and walked across the room and stood in front of her.

Unconsciously, he placed a hand over his heart. Hi, Amy, I’m Mark…uh, Brady, he said to her.

I know, she said, still smiling.

Huh?

Amy’s head bobbed. I know who you are.

Mark also nodded. How did you know? he said, once more having to look away.

Amy shook a finger at Mark. I may just be a sophomore, she said, softly. But, I do know who all the guys are.

He dreaded the answer he might get, but there was no use in beating around the bush. Well…would you like to go to the drive-in with me Saturday night?

Amy held her smile. Sure, she said.

Mark’s blue eyes narrowed. You would?

Sure, she said, again. I would. I live at 276 Redbud La….

I know, he whispered.

Amy leaned forward over her desk. How did you know?

He gazed down into her upturned face. I may just be a new guy in town, he said, with a shy grin. But, I do know where all the girls live.

Then, without saying a word, Mark walked back to his chair and sat down. He closed his eyes and smiled, tapping his fingers on the desk nervously. A glance at his wristwatch showed it was almost three-thirty.

They were together every single day and night from that moment to the end of school. Mark graduated in May and worked in the oil fields in the Texas panhandle, on a large cattle ranch in New Mexico, and for the Railroad in Kansas

Amy finished high school, never going out with another boy except Mark, even though he was out of town most of the time during her junior and senior year. After she graduated she enrolled in college as she had promised her folks she would and Mark promised to wait, and did, for one year. Then, Amy quit school and they were happily married the following summer.

Where has time gone? Amy said, stepping out of the shower, reaching for a towel.

I don’t know, he said. But, I can’t believe we’re going to a high school reunion.

Why can’t you believe it?

Heck of it is, Amy, he said. I really don’t want to go.

She was confused. Honey, she said, lovingly. I don’t think it would hurt us to attend our fiftieth class reunion. We’ve never been to a single one, and I haven’t seen any of those kids in all those years. I really want to see them.

Mark frowned. Fleet Johnson, probably, he said, then smiled.

She returned his smile. Yes, I want to see Fleet Johnson, but I want to see all the other kids, too. Come on, honey, she said. We’ll have a good time. I promise.

Mark addressed her over his shoulder. Well, let’s go then, he said, taking out his hearing aid and placing it on a table in the hallway.

Honey, you can’t take that out. You won’t be able to hear a thing.

That’s my plan, he said. "I’ll just stand around and look dumb like everyone else.

Oh, don’t be a stick-in-the-mud. You need that hearing aid.

Huh? he said, smiling.

Amy looked placidly up at him and frowned, shaking her head.

He took off his glasses and dropped them on the table beside his hearing aid, rubbing his sore nose. I’m not wearing these, either.

How will you see all your old friends?

They’re not my old friends, he said. They’re you’re old friends. Remember, I only went to school here for two months. I hardly knew anyone.

Well, that was your fault.

Yeah, I know, he said. But, what I don’t know is, after I met you why would I need to know anyone else?

Amy turned and looked in the hallway mirror. Does this dress look alright?

You look as beautiful as the first day I met you, he said, slipping his arms around her small waist, smelling the sweet fragrance of her soft hair, more than glad that she was his wife and not Fleet Johnson’s. .

Amy’s eyebrows lifted. Where’s your cane?

I’m not taking it.

You use it every day.

Well, I won’t need it tonight.

They started out the door and Mark reached for his hat.

No, honey, she said. Don’t wear your hat…not with a tux.

Mark looked in the mirror. His blood was aroused by his thinning hair. I’ll just take it to wear when the reunion is over in case we go out to eat…or something, he promised, faithfully.

Please don’t take the hat, she pleaded.

I’ll leave it in the car."

Please…

Okay, he said, turning back to the table, taking out his bridge, leaving three gaping holes in his upper row of teeth.

That’s it! Amy blurted out. We just won’t go.

Mark opened his eyes wide and smiled a gapped- tooth smile, Huh? he said, limping toward the door, feeling for the knob.

She laughed and sat down on a kitchen chair. You’re no good, Mark…but I love you.

Really, he said, I need to leave the bridge here in case I get in a fight with Fleet Johnson. Remember, I stole you away from him and he might be holding a grudge.

He probably is, but if he didn’t do anything about it back then what makes you think he’d try something now?

That’s just the way guy’s are, Mark said.

Put your bridge back in and let’s go.

Mark glanced about the room. He grimaced and tried to look disconsolate, but couldn’t help smiling. Okay, he said, finally. But if he tries to dance with you it’ll be a short night.

Amy had the best time of her life, laughing, dancing, and visiting with old friends she hadn’t seen in fifty years. Mark stood at the bar with several other outsiders. Mis-fits who had married local girls and didn’t know anyone. On the way home, they stopped at a small restaurant and had coffee, holding hands, and smiling across the table at each other.

Thanks for going with me, Amy said. I had a great time.

I’m glad, he assured her. I did, too.

Really? I worried about you not having fun. I’m sorry.

Don’t be sorry, he said. I’d do anything for you. You know that.

Yes, I know that, Amy said, with a smile. Thank you for loving me.

I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you.

Are you finished? she said.

Mark sat there, tapping his fingers nervously on the table, not answering.

She leaned closer. Did you hear me? Are you finished?

Mark just sat there, tapping his fingers.

She yelled again, this time louder. I said, are you finished?

He came awake with a start. Finished? Huh? What?

Mrs. Patterson, the high school English teacher stood over him, her chubby hands planted firmly on her wide hips, frowning. I said, are you finished with your test? Everyone else is gone and you’re the only one left in the room.

Mark’s face turned white. He looked up at Mrs. Patterson through narrowed eyes. Those last words stung. He shot a glance across the room where Amy had been sitting, then looked at the twenty question test paper. He hadn’t even started.

You’ve got ten minutes! she said, flatly.

He jumped up from his desk and strode across the room toward the window. He saw Amy climb in Fleet Johnson’s car, the old, black hot-rod tearing up the street, laying rubber for half a block, loud mufflers rattling the windows.

God! uttered Mark, holding his hand to his mouth in repulsion. So, that’s it. He moved with slow reluctance back to his desk, the corner of his mouth trembling. On the line where he was to put his name he scribbled AMY’S GONE, then left the room. Mark started toward the football stadium where a crowd had already began to gather. He didn’t have a car.

It Might Have Been the Horses

Uncle Al said to tell you he’d be out in a few minutes, said Joel, a handsome young man of about seventeen. He was suntanned, with long brown hair hanging out from under a weather beaten hat, his pants were tucked in the tops of his boots, and silver spur rowels scrapped across the hard wood floor with every step. He had been raised by his uncle on the Stirrup Ranch and had been a cowboy almost from the day he was old enough to ride. He said for me to keep you company until he gets here, he added."

Ana Cardova tried to act nonchalant to satisfy the nephew of the man she wanted to hire out to, as cook and housekeeper. Inside, she doubted she’d ever get a job from someone as wealthy as Al Culbersen, a man who was said to have owned over 6,000 head of cattle and horses, as bad as her aunt wanted her to find work.

I know Mr. Culbersen well, her aunt told her while she was getting dressed to come out to the vast 300,000 acre eastern New Mexico ranch. My sister worked for him several years ago and other than him acting a little strange sometimes, he paid well. I’ll send a note of introduction. I think he’s a fair man.

Ana couldn’t get the words, acting a little strange sometimes, out of her head, even if Al Culbersen did pay well and supposedly was a fair man. And to top it off, her aunt’s old green, forty-nine Chevrolet she had borrowed to come out here had backfired twice as soon as she crossed the cattle guard leading into the yard, scattering cow dogs and chickens ever which way. The rambling Spanish style ranch house had two stories with a large, tree studded lawn, and a wrap-around porch.

Are you from around here? Joel asked, noticing how edgy she seemed to be.

No, she said. "I’m from Corona. I just came to Arabela to live with my aunt Dolores

who wants me to get a job to help pay for my keep."

So, you haven’t heard about my uncle Al? asked, the eager young man.

Only the name my aunt told me, confessed Ana. She had wondered if Culbersen

was married, divorced, widowed, or what. But, there was something about the huge ranch house that had a sense of woman in it.

It all happened about twenty years ago, Joel said. Probably even your aunt doesn’t know about it.

Doesn’t know about what? Ana asked.

Well, Joel said, nodding toward the wide, sliding glass door leading out to the side porch. You may have wondered why that door was open on such a blustery November day.

I noticed it was open because the curtains were blowing out when I arrived, she answered. But, what’s that got to do with anything?

You see, he said, pointing with the leather gloves he had rolled up in his hand. Right through that open door about twenty years ago, his wife and little daughter went out for a horseback ride and never returned.

Ana’s eyes widened. What happened?

There came up a sudden storm and flash flood, he said. It must have spooked their horses and they were thrown into the raging waters, as their straw hats were found packed into a muddy bend in the river about ten miles downstream a few days later.

Oh, how awful, she said.

It had been an extra dry summer and they had a habit of riding in the sandy river bottom, Joel said. They never found the bodies and that was the hardest part of all for Uncle Al. He still believes they’ll come back someday, with that little spotted colt following along as they come riding through the apple orchard just like they used to.

I’m so sorry, Ana said. Why, I…"

So, that’s why the door is always left open, day and night, unless it’s raining or blowing snow, Joel said. "It nearly killed Uncle Al. If he told me once, he told me a thousand times how they rode off through the apple orchard, their wide brimmed straw

hats pushed back on their heads and Clara, their only daughter, yelling, Come on, little spotted colt, just as she always did whey they went for a ride. Uncle Al said he still gets the feeling they’ll ride right up to that porch any minute and…"

Ana was relieved when Al Culbersen strode into the den, apologizing for making her wait. Joel hasn’t bored you, I hope, he said.

No, not at all, she said, with a shake of her head. He’s been very entertaining.

Sorry about the side door being open, Culbersen said, with a smile. My dear wife and little daughter should be returning from their horseback ride any minute now. They always come through the apple orchard and ride right up to the porch so they won’t have so far to walk, and I take the horses on down to the corral for them. They usually go for a ride every day and that little spotted colt always stays so close to its mother’s side.

To Ana it was scary. She tried to change the subject several times, seeing that Culbersen wasn’t paying much attention to her and that his eyes kept shooting off to the side toward the open door and the apple orchard. She secretly wished she hadn’t come out here at all.

I really need to work, she said, finally, wondering if this was even the job she wanted. I have no one except my Aunt Dolores.

I’m sorry to hear it, Culbersen said, with a frown.

She answered with a nod.

Suddenly, Culbersen’s face lit up with excitement, but Ana knew it wasn’t because of something she said. They’re here! he yelled at Joel. And right on time, too. Look how happy they seem coming through the orchard!

Wide-eyed, Ana shot a sideways glance at Joel, who was staring out the window with a look of complete disbelief on his face. Slowly, she turned her head toward the sliding glass door.

In the late afternoon haze two figures rode through the apple orchard and across the yard, their wide-brimmed straw hats pushed back on their heads, their horses eagerly coming through the tall grass toward the house and a weary little colt trotting along at its mother’s side.

With hardly a sound they approached the porch, and there, a soft, shrill, voice, whispered, Come on, little spotted colt.

Ana jumped to her feet and bolted out the front door, almost crashing into the lone pine tree standing near the pathway. Jamming the old green car into gear, she tooled off down the hard dirt road at breakneck speed, a high rooster tail of dust boiling up behind.

We’re back, Mrs. Culbersen said, with a smile. And, what a wonderful ride we had, didn’t we, Clara?

Yes, Mother, Clara said, happily, handing the reins to her father.

I’m glad, Culbersen said, giving them both a hug.

Who ran out the front door as we rode up? Mrs. Culbersen asked.

It was a young lady answering the help wanted ad, Al Culbersen said. But, she never spoke ten words the whole time she was here and then she just rushed right out with no explanation of any kind.

It might have been the horses, Joel said.

Doyle

The tall, wet grass on both sides of the highway was beaded with silver, dripping with a profound brilliance as if each falling drop were a drop of liquid diamonds. Through the mists of the early morning fog the car barreled forward, straining at ninety-five miles per hour up the narrow two-lane highway that ran between the longest and straightest stretch of cedar post fence Sarah had ever seen.

There wasn’t a tree in sight, only dark-green, irrigated wheat fields, stretching as far as the eye could see, and tumbleweeds and sand, blown and packed under the bottom wire of the fences.

Doyle, driving the lumbering four-door Lincoln with wild abandonment whispered to her, What are we going to tell your dad? You know he’ll be waiting up ahead somewhere before we get back to town.

Just tell the truth, please, said Sarah, who was young and shy and scared out of her wits.

Doyle laughed abruptly. The truth won’t matter now.

The truth matters, Doyle, Sarah pleaded.

I just wish we could have ditched those cops last night, he came back. If we had, then none of this would be happening.

Sarah’s blood chilled. There he is! she said, pointing to a tiny speck on the horizon a few miles up ahead.

Doyle nodded and brought the car so smartly to a stop that the other two couples in the back seat, Gene and Marilyn, and Bob and Rebecca, almost slid out of their seats.

I’ll drive, said Sarah, switching places with him as Rebecca climbed over the front seat and plopped down by the door next to Doyle. Marilyn, in between Gene and Bob in the back seat pulled a blanket up under her chin and slid down as far as she could go.

Sarah crammed the engine in gear and in the silence she stomped down on the gas pedal, her hands on the wheel, her eyes glued on the tiny speck on the horizon getting larger by the second. There was no sound, only the engine whining and the tires pounding the pavement. This was the end of the world, this crazy moment, lost for words, time running out, the end of the line for Sarah and her friends. Still, there was no getting out of it now.

Marilyn and Rebecca were her school friends, having been together since the first grade. Sarah and Marilyn were supposed to have spent the night with Rebecca who lived in the country and Sarah’s dad had given her permission to drive the family car, if she drove it straight out to Rebecca’s house and straight back. She had promised.

It was Sarah’s idea of a perfect night out. A gorgeous summer night, an exquisite dinner in the restaurant of the famous hotel, a big band playing, an elegantly clad assemblage of waiters and waitresses and the boy she loved holding her close, dancing slow. After checking into separate rooms, one for the girls and one for the boys, that’s what they had done.

Sarah had called her mother after school to tell her that Rebecca’s mother was out of town and that they had decided to sleep out under the stars, and that she wouldn’t be home until late the next morning.

Where is Rebecca’s mom? her mother’s concerned voice had asked, doubtfully. And, why didn’t you mention this to your dad when you asked if you could go out there and spend the night?

I didn’t know about it until just now, Sarah lied.

Well, don’t be too late, okay? And call me when you get ready to leave, will you?

Okay, mother, Sarah had said. See you tomorrow.

And, don’t drive fast on that long stretch of road, her mother added. You know how your dad worries. He didn’t want you to take the car in the first place.

Okay, mother. Sarah re-emphasized more strongly this time. Okay! What good would making promises do, she’d already lied enough and she didn’t want to go on and on with her mother.

She politely placed the receiver back on its hook and tip-toed up to kiss Doyle, who was standing behind her in the phone booth. They weren’t going to Rebecca’s house in the country at all. In fact, they hadn’t even left town yet.

It had all been planned days before when Doyle learned Rebecca’s mother would be out of town for the weekend and had persuaded Sarah and her two best friends, Marilyn and Rebecca, and their boyfriends, Bob and Gene, into sneaking off to the city for a night on the town.

It was six o’clock in the afternoon, the city was eighty miles away, and as soon as Gene and Marilyn showed up they were heading out. Doyle slid under the wheel of the high-powered Lincoln, adjusted the mirror, then patted the seat beside him and winked. Sarah slid in beside him and snuggled under his right arm. Everybody’s in, let’s go, she said happily, rubbing her palms in enthusiasm.

They dined at the most elegant restaurant any of them had ever seen. Cultural, diverse, distinctive, dynamic, aesthetic, exciting, and of course, historic. Silver’s, the city’s most unforgettable setting for dinner, featuring brilliant chandeliers, live music, award-winning wines, creative appetizers, and specializing in lobster and char-broiled steaks, all trimmed with incredible skyline view.

The dance was over at two o’clock in the morning and they almost started for home, which Sarah wished now they had done, but being young and foolish and in love desperately with Doyle, the star and captain of the football team, they stayed.

After the boys had kissed their sweethearts goodnight and left them tucked safely in their own room with the door securely locked, Doyle thought it would be fun to sneak away and go back up town. They slipped the big Lincoln into neutral and pushed it out of the motel parking lot, the tires crunching gravel and the boys fighting back laughter, then swiftly sped away.

They drove to an all night cafe and walked in, joking, shoving and laughing. Doyle hid his hamburger patty, then started an argument with the waitress about not having one in the first place. However, the waitress simply called the cook who threatened to toss them out. Doyle told the cook wasn’t man enough to toss him out, suggesting they go out back and settle it, but two city policemen who had been sitting in a corner booth called them down.

After they paid their tab and walked outside, one of the policemen leaned toward the window to get a closer look as the boys walked by. Doyle pressed his face against the window, nose to nose with the policeman, then bolted for the car. He crammed the big car in gear and blasted out of the parking lot and if they hadn’t run a stop light, might have made their getaway.

Another patrol car happened by at that moment and gave chase. Doyle looked in his rear view mirror and saw red lights flashing and pulled onto a side street, shutting off the engine.

May I see your driver license? the officer said, firmly.

Yes, sir, Doyle said, more serious now.

May I see your registration?

Doyle pulled down the sun visor and politely presented the registration to the officer.

Is this your car, Mr. Cameron?

Doyle swallowed hard. No, sir.

Well, whose car is it?

It belongs to John Lawrence, Doyle said nervously.

The officer shined his light on the three young men, all sitting quietly, staring straight ahead. Do you have permission to drive it? he asked.

Doyle’s mouth was cotton dry. No, but my girlfriend does.

And, where’s your girlfriend? the officer asked.

At the motel.

The officer pondered, then nodded. Okay, he ordered. Step out of the car. All three of you.

The officers who had been chasing the Lincoln arrived and assisted in the pat down, reporting the incident at the cafe. The boys were taken to the police station and locked in the city jail and being almost daylight, some of the drunks who had been sleeping it off weren’t too happy about the intrusion causing the three young men to back into a corner and face a pretty rough looking crowd.

Officer Goforth sent a squad car to pick up the girls and bring them to the police station and in the meantime, put in a call to Sarah’s dad. Day breaks with a gray haze and it was seven o’clock Sunday morning. Mr. Lawrence, this is Officer Carl Goforth, with the Amarillo police department. Does your daughter have permission to drive your car?

Yes, she does, Lawrence said. She spent the night with a friend who lives out in the country.

Sir, your daughter and five others were picked up in Amarillo about an hour ago, the officer said. What do you want to do about it?

Where are they now? Lawrence asked.

The three boys are in jail, the officer said. The three girls are here in my office.

John Lawrence said, without delay, Tell them to start home immediately and if they are not here by eight-thirty, I’ll call you back and you can have them arrested.

There was no conversation on the way back home and Sarah silently wished she had more time before she had to face her father. Bob chain-smoked all the way back and Doyle had to open the windows, turning up the radio to counter the roar of the wind.

Sarah’s lips twitched. Well, there he is, she mumbled, seeing her dad’s electrical service pickup sitting at the side of the highway a few miles from their hometown. I knew he’d come and meet us.

Gene spoke up. Yeah, he probably wants to kill us and doesn’t want Mrs. Lawrence as a witness.

Doyle broke out in loud laughter, but it stopped as fast as it started when he saw John Lawrence get out of his pickup, walk to the center stripe, and put his hands on his hips. Sarah pulled to the side of the road and rolled her window down, looking at her father in anguish.

John Lawrence’s patience was tested by Doyle who spoke up first, nervously getting his words tangled up, Mr. Lawrence, I know how I’d feel if I had your shoes on…

Both Gene and Bob snickered in the back seat, pulling the blanket up over their heads.

John Lawrence was, all in all, a fairly passive person. He was mad, but overall, he was glad they were safe and he believed his daughter was telling the truth. Sarah had what it takes, courage to admit when she was wrong and accept the blame. He told Sarah to follow him to the police station and upon arriving, ordered them to stay in the car. You come with me, Doyle, he said firmly.

He had the dispatcher contact the Amarillo Police Department, asking for Officer Goforth. This is John Lawrence and I wanted to let you know they made it, but I need to know something. How were they picked up?

Officer Goforth assured