Chiricahua County

By m.e. Elzey

Mormon pioneers decided all of Chiricahua County's roads would be set a mile apart going North and South with East and West roads. Making a one mile apart grid. All the roads would be extra wide so a team of horses pulling a loaded wagon could easily turn around. By 1961 several of the roads were paved. San Ramon Road, also called Main Street, i

• Language: English
• Publisher: Little House Press
• Release date: Nov 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781737912927

m.e. Elzey

We are all ultimately defined by the events in our lives, m.e. Elzey is no exception. Being raised in Gilbert, Arizona, during the fifties and sixties. It was an idyllic Southwest community of mid-twentieth century American. His love of reading and writing started by chance, in the seventh grade. He borrowed his older brother Ken's library book, J.D. Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye. He read it cover to cover. What stirred his interest was a conversation he overheard between his brother and mother as they discussed the use of the "F" word in the book. Keep in mind, this conversation took place in 1962. It wasn't a conversation that took place very often between anyone much less a parent and child. Good, bad, or indifferent, it was also the book that sparked his interest in reading and storytelling. He was already an established storyteller, just ask any of his childhood friends and classmates. Because of reading Catcher in the Rye, he read and eventually admired the skill of writers like Wallace Stegner, Norman Maclean, John Steinbeck and Dee Brown. While attending Arizona State University he developed a keen interest in the American politics and the counterculture of the late 1960s. At the request of several like-minded people, he began ghost writing political essays that highlighted the inequities of the times. As with everyone, the realities of life took center stage. In 1972 he went to work for Motorola Semiconductor Products in Phoenix, where he worked for the next thirty-three years. In the early 1990s, his job required that he travel extensively. The traveling rekindled his love of writing, especially fiction.His wife Jeannie 48 years live in Marana, Arizona, a northwestern suburb of Tucson. She's also his best friend, his squeeze, doubles as his editor, his most ardent fan and his most vocal critique.

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The Five & Dime by J.D. McCracken

It was in the middle of downtown  

on the east side of the road.  

Owned by a woman who hired 

her brother to manage the store.

It wasn’t much by today’s standards 

but it sure was handy when we were 

young. It had all kinds of everything  

you wanted. At great prices.

If you were looking for something the 

chances were that the Five & Dime would 

have it. If not in stock, either the brother or the sister 

could get what you needed. Real Customer Service.

They had fabric, lots of thread, lots of buttons. 

They had new and used Singer sewing machines 

sitting on a shelf next to pots and pans. Not fancy 

merchandise just practical stuff that did the job.

They carried penny candy, the real deal penny 

candy! As a nine-year-old that was fantastic.  

When they weren’t looking, my friend and I  

would swipe the candy…until we got busted! 

We had to pay them back!

Used by Permission 

Copyright 2020 J.D. McCracken 

Big Tamale Poetry & Prose, LLC

Minnie’s Mexican Restaurant: The Best Ever Flour Tortillas

Minnie’s Mexican Restaurant 

17 South Main Street 

San Ramon, Arizona 

The Best Mexican Food in Chiricahua, County 

This recipe is compliments of Minnie’s Mexican Restaurant: How to make homemade delicious flour tortillas! Enjoy!

Minnie’s Secret Flour Tortilla Recipe:

Ingredients:

2 cups of all-purpose flour

2 teaspoons of baking powder

1 teaspoon of kosher salt

1/3 cup lard (*Warning: you can use vegetable oil rather than lard but the tortillas will taste bad)

1 cup of very hot water

Instructions:

Mix the flour, baking soda, and the kosher salt

Add room temperature lard (or vegetable oil – yuck!) Make sure you mix the lard (or the other stuff) with your hands ensuring it is mixed in very well.

Add the very hot water. Stir in the water with a big spoon. You might get the urge to add more water but don’t! Make sure you get all the flour. After you have a nice ball of dough, put it in a bowl and cover with a towel for 30 minutes.

This ball of dough will make ten flour tortillas. Pinch off the dough into ten smaller dough balls. Use a rolling pin to roll out ten tortillas.

Preheat a skillet to medium heat. Without adding any oil or butter to the skillet, cook the raw tortilla about 30 seconds on each side. *The first side should puff up and start turning brown. Then turn over the tortilla and cook the other side.

Enjoy

Lilly Ledbetter – Reporter April 7, 1953 Chiricahua County Enterprise

My new column!

Many of you have known me most my life so I don’t need to introduce myself. However, I’m here to tell you that I have a new column. My job is to report on things of interest the happen around Chiricahua County and the city of San Ramon. I will debunk or confirm rumors that happen. I will do so in a short to-the-point blip. I looking forward to enlightening you about the place we call home!

Lorenzo the Talking Rooster of Chiricahua County

In April 1960 my wife and I drove from Chandler, Arizona to check out the little town of San Ramon in Chiricahua County. We drove south on Casa Grande highway and turned north to San Ramon just east of Picacho. The farms of the San Gabriel Valley were beaming with alfalfa, safflower, cotton, and maize crops. We passed over some railroad tracks to see a sign: Long’s feedlot and slaughter house. We were six miles south of the small Arizona town of San Ramon.

It seemed like the closer we got to San Ramon the more we sensed a peculiar warm and comfortable mood. A few seconds after passing the feed lot we saw a sign that read:

See the 8th Wonder of the World for yourself! 

Lorenzo the Talking Rooster 

Only $0.50 per person 

Three Miles Ahead!

We slowed down to see if we’d read the sign correctly. After learning we had, we had a good laugh, then continued our journey north. Around a minute later we saw another sign that read:

See for yourself! The 8th Wonder of the World 

Visit the Astonishing Lorenzo, the Talking Rooster 

of Chiricahua County – Only $0.50 per person 

Two Miles Ahead!

The sight of this sign gave us a great belly laugh and roused our curiosity. We kept going north and soon saw a third sign that read:

100 yards ahead, turn right – Only $0.50 

See for yourself, the Amazing Lorenzo, 

the Talking Rooster of Chiricahua County 

¡El Gallo Hable Espanol Tambien!

It was too much to resist, we had no choice but to stop and see this rooster that could supposedly talk! We turned on the small dirt driveway that led to a quaint farmhouse with cute outbuildings and a freshly painted red barn. An old lady was walking across the barnyard toward her house.

Is this where Lorenzo lives? I asked.

The old woman turned toward to me with a nasty scowl, Who’s asking? answered the old woman.

Her response was surprising. Excuse me? Why is that important?

The old gal gave me another snarky glare. Because you’re on my property and you’re asking to see my rooster.

I grinned and thought, ‘This must be the Twilight Zone.’ Suffice to say I didn’t make a good first impression.

What’s so funny, asked the old woman.

Thank God my wife took over. We just saw your signs down the road. We thought it would be neat to meet Lorenzo. Here’s a dollar. Is that the correct amount?

She grabbed the dollar bill and clenched it in the palm of her hand. Go just beyond the barn and follow the signs. Don’t stay longer than thirty minutes. If you do, you’ll have to pay. Don’t you dare cheat, I’ll be watching.

We did exactly what the old woman demanded. My wife wasn’t the least bit concerned as we followed the path to the yard where Lorenzo lived. I couldn’t stop thinking we were going to come across a pile of dead bodies. There was no telling what ghoulish things that old woman was capable of doing. I don’t mind saying it: I didn’t have that warm and comfortable feeling any more.

Which one of you is Lorenzo? asked my wife. One of the hens did manage to look up at us then looked back at the other hens. It appeared that none of them spoke a word of English or Spanish.

Sweetheart, I think that old woman screwed us out of a dollar. Let’s cut our losses and get out of here. This place is creeping me out.

Just then a big red rooster jumped on the fence and looked at us. I have to admit the bird was beautiful. He was a surprisingly big bird. He had a bright red thingy on top of his head and another bright red thingy under his peak. The feathers on his neck were light brown to dark red. His tail feathers were a dark umber color with highlights of a tan streak. After a few uncomfortable seconds the rooster spoke. You two look familiar. Have we met before?

My wife was blown away. Did you hear that?

Yeah, I sure did. Sweetheart, you realize that roosters can’t talk. Chickens don’t have the muscle structure to create words, not to mention they have a pea-sized brain. This is some kind of gimmick.

Lorenzo ignored my comment. I trust you met Ola, the old woman. In case you didn’t notice, Ola has a bit of an edge to her personality. Here’s a little advice, don’t trust the spiteful old bat. Be careful. Now what can I do for you?

How are they doing that? I said to my wife as I got closer to the rooster.

Whoever rigged it up so the rooster can talk is very good. It actually looks like he’s talking. My wife was looking for anything that would show how they got this bird to look like it was talking.

Are you people going to ask me something or just stare at me? asked Lorenzo. Having people stare at me is a little unnerving.

How are you able to talk? asked my wife.

Do you want the long version or the short one? responded Lorenzo.

Please, we’re in no hurry, the long version would be great.

I was hatched just a little east of Bum’s Jungle. Do you know where Bum’s Jungle is?

No, never heard of it, answered my wife who then looked at me. Have you ever heard of Bum’s Jungle?

Nope, how are they making it look like you can talk?

If you let me finish, I’ll tell you. I didn’t realize I was going to be interrogated. It’s starting to remind me of Beirut. Like I said, I was hatched just east of Bum’s Jungle near a grove of sassafras trees. Before you tell me, I know, sassafras trees don’t grow in the desert but the fact is, they do and that’s where I learned to talk.

Who taught you? asked my wife.

A cat named Yolanda and a pig named Eduardo. They not only taught me how to speak in English they insisted I learn Spanish as well. Someone started a rumor that I speak Russian—don’t believe it!

Wow, I’m glad you cleared that up. Hey, ah it was nice meeting you but we’re in kind of a hurry. Again, it was a pleasure, I said pulling the car keys out of my pocket.

Hold on a second, said my wife. What did you mean when you brought up Beirut? Are you talking about Beirut, Lebanon?

It’s nothing, answered the rooster.

Are you saying you were in Beirut, Lebanon? asked my wife.

I was only there for a week when I worked for the CIA.

I could barely contain my laughter, What? Are you telling us that you worked for the Central Intelligence Agency of the United States government?

Yeah, but the Beirut thing was a fluke. A bit of bad luck on my part. I was on special assignment working directly for that damned idiot, Joe McCarthy, just before he went completely off the rails. Not to brag, but I’m the one who told President Eisenhower what he needed to know about McCarthy. In fact, it was my idea that Eisenhower not invite him to the dinner he hosted for the Senate at the White House. He was the only Senator who wasn’t invited.

By this time, I was starting to think this bird could actually talk. It’s hard to believe that you have the ability to speak English, I said.

And Spanish. Remember, Yolanda and Eduardo taught me Spanish, but definitely not Russian.

Oh yeah, I’m sorry. Would you mind if I felt your neck while you talk?

You can feel my neck but don’t get the idea you can do the twisty thing then have me for dinner.

No, no, I promise. I just want to understand how you can produce a voice. I reached over and softly felt his throat. Say something.

My name is Lorenzo.

I turned to my wife, Oh my God, this rooster is actually talking. We were dumbfounded to say the least. We stayed another two hours listening to him talk about his adventures with Fidel Castro and Che Guevara in Cuba and South America. When Lorenzo stopped talking, we decided to talk to the old woman about the possibility of buying Lorenzo.

We parked in the barnyard next to the white picket fence, went through the gate, and knocked on her back door.

I’m over here, she yelled from the side yard.

We found her sitting on a rusted metal patio chair.

Hello, my wife said.

You owe me four bucks, the old woman demanded.

I pulled a five-dollar bill out of my wallet and told her to keep the change.

She once again clenched the money in the palm of her hand.

Why are you still here?

We were super impressed with Lorenzo.

Okay.

We were wondering if you’d be willing to sell him.

Lorenzo? Don’t you realize you’ve been hoodwinked?

What do you mean? asked my wife.

"Did he tell you about being in the CIA and doing all these things around the world?’

Yeah, he did! answered my wife, His stories were so authentic and so real. We were mesmerized.

That’s just it, that bird has never been out of San Ramon. He’s a damn liar! To answer your question, no he’s not for sale! Now get off my property before I get my shotgun.

Lilly Ledbetter – Reporter June 13, 1954 Chiricahua County Enterprise

Methodist preacher is killed on SR-B732 by an out-of-control truck full of chickens. 

Reverend Ira Beck, a seventy-two-year-old Methodist preacher was killed on SR-B732 between San Ramon and Marana. Reports said that a semi-tractor trailer full of about 1,500 chickens was on its way to the chicken processing plant in Marana. According to Sheriff Diego Parker the preacher was driving on the wrong side of the road. Delbert Thornberry, the driver of the rig, saw the preacher coming directly toward him in the wrong lane. Mr. Thornberry swerved to the left causing the entire chicken hauler trailer to fall over on top of Reverend Beck. According to Sheriff Parker the preacher appeared to be going at least 75 miles per hour.

Dead chickens and an avalanche of white feathers created dangerous driving conditions causing Sheriff Parker to close SR-B732 for two days.

Saturday Night at the Sundown Ranch

ALittle History 

The only structure in the San Gabriel Valley besides Acosta’s Trading Post was the foundation of an old abandoned mission. In 1867, Patricio and Quintina Acosta built their trading post on a bluff overlooking the confluence of the Gila and San Gabriel rivers. It was the first business in what would become the city of San Ramon, Arizona.

In time, the small place would adopt the name of San Ramon after the old abandoned Catholic mission. According to local history, in 1714, the Catholic Bishop in Mexico City sent a young priest, Father Josef Kohler, to the San Gabriel Valley to save the souls of the Xalychidom Piipaash and the Tohono O’odham peoples by converting them to Roman Catholicism. They lived along the Gila and San Gabriel rivers for centuries, completely unaware that their souls needed saving. Twenty-two years later, in 1736, nothing remained of the Piipaash or the Tohono people in the San Gabriel Valley. All that remained was the foundation of the mission. The priest and all the people who lived in the northern part of Chiricahua County had vanished under mysterious conditions.

When the Acostas started their business, it was a livery stable, a small general store, and a saloon. By 1873, the U.S. cavalry established Camp Thompson on the south bank of the Gila, eight miles as the crow flies west of Acosta’s Trading Post. Camp Thompson was midway between Fort McDowell and Fort Huachuca. To the Acostas, this translated into a never-ending supply of young soldiers in need of a companion. There were plenty of Civil War widows willing to supply whatever the young soldiers needed. It wasn’t long before the Acostas’ business was more than dry goods and horses. They had gambling, a pool hall, a saloon, a small hotel, and a collection of young women from states out east and northern Mexico. When the soldiers needed a break from pursuing Apaches around southern Arizona, they went to Acosta’s.

Other than the activity at Acosta’s whorehouse and bar, nothing much happened in the San Gabriel Valley. Starting at the turn of the twentieth century, Mormon settlers escaping the Mexican Revolution settled the valley. My parents, my siblings, and I were one of those Mormon families. These Mormon pioneers designed and developed the small town of San Ramon. One of the first buildings the Mormons erected was a new church on the northwest corner of San Ramon and Chula Vista roads. 

The Law Comes to Chiricahua County, Arizona 

My English name is James Oliver Parker, but my mother always called me Diego. I was born and partially raised in the San Antonio Valley in the Mexican state of Chihuahua. I was born in 1895, the fourth oldest of twelve children of Hiram and Nellie Parker. In 1906, to escape the inevitable Mexican Revolution, my parents moved us to the little known and uninhabited San Gabriel Valley in Chiricahua County, Arizona.

For as far back as I can remember and for reasons I can’t explain, the Mormon beliefs just didn’t quite stick with me. Rosa Gonzales, who became my wife, tried hard to get me to become a Catholic. I told her I didn’t buy into the religion I was raised in, what made her think I’d believe all the baloney in her religion? To make a long story short, after fifty-eight years of marriage, neither one of us are particularly religious.

Rosa and I got married in the summer of 1919. A year later, Rosa was with child, and I didn’t have a job. I desperately needed to make a living when my mother suggested that I run for the new position of Chiricahua County Sheriff. I ran unopposed, and I’ve been the county sheriff ever since. I became the first full-time countywide law officer. I knew nothing about police work. After almost forty-five years as the county sheriff, I plan to retire at the end of the year. My plan is to start a garden and mind my own business.

I hadn’t completed my first day on the job before a select group of citizens with high moral standards came to visit. Half of the men were my cousins, uncles, and other men of good moral standing. They demanded I shut down that abomination of a whorehouse immediately. My first duty was to tell Eudora Thurgood, the owner of Acosta’s whorehouse, to shut down by order of me—after all I was the law. When I took office in 1920, Acosta’s had been a thriving brothel for almost fifty years. At the time, I thought I’d better tell Eudora. I went out to tell, not ask, the owner they had to shut down—or else. At the time, I had no idea what or else meant. 

The House of Ill Repute 

When I arrived, Miss Eudora congratulated me on my new job. She told me she knew I would be fantastic at it. She listened and didn’t appear to be the least bit upset when I told her she had no choice but to close the whorehouse part of her business. She asked if I would be kind enough to give her a day to get things in order. Because she paid me a compliment, I gave her what she requested. What was the harm? When I left Acosta’s, I felt like things had gone so well. I was God’s gift to law and order in Chiricahua County a natural-born officer of the law. The next morning, every man withdrew their name from the complaint, suggesting they may have overreacted. They claimed they hadn’t thought things through since there’s no state law against brothels. I learned the first of many hard lessons about human nature that day.

The whorehouse changed hands several times over the years. Everyone knew it as Acosta’s until Prohibition started, then they started calling it the Sundown Ranch. I saw myself as a peace officer that used common sense rather than just the law of the land. It troubled me when Prohibition started. I thought then, and still believe, it was an unenforceable law that would stir up a lot of hard feelings. Besides, Mexico not that far away could supply all the liquor a person could want. I made a deal with all three of the bar owners in Chiricahua County. They could open up only after sundown, provided there was no trouble. I threatened all of them that the first time I heard of a fight or any other ruckus it would be over for all of them. There was the Top Rail Saloon that catered to those folks that wanted a drink without the whole damn county knowing. Sotomayor’s Cantina in Sonorita that catered to mostly Mexicans, and the Sundown Ranch that catered to anyone with a pulse and money in their pocket.

The Sundown Ranch was not only the oldest it was the only one that offered liquor, a pool hall, gambling, and a whorehouse. It was a full-service establishment, a one-stop shopping kind of place. All three bars hired the biggest, meanest, no-nonsense peacekeepers and part-time outlaws. Prohibition came and went without a single incident in Chiricahua County. As long as these folks were running a fair business where nobody got hurt, I let them be. There wasn’t a year that went by in which someone, usually a bible thumper, demanded I shut down the Sundown Ranch. Every year, after I talked to the ranch about the complaint, for some mysterious reason, the complainer reconsidered.  

The Beginning of the End 

Sunday morning in late spring of 1964 was the beginning of the end for the Sundown Ranch. Rosa and I were getting ready to have breakfast with all five of our grandkids.

My grandsons Luke and Brenden were in the living room playing chess while our three granddaughters were hanging out with Rosa and me in the kitchen.

Papa, said our youngest granddaughter Caroline, Issy and Ava told me to tell you I’m sorry for what I said last night.

They did? Well, apology accepted, kiddo. I still love you this much. I stretched my arms out as wide as I could.

I love you a lot, Papa, but I just like Nana a lot better than you.

Her older sister, Issy and her cousin Ava gasped on hearing what she had said. Caroline, you’re not being nice to Papa.

Rosa faced the stove as if she were still cooking breakfast. The old woman was having a hard time hiding the fact that she was laughing at me.

Well, young lady, you’re not the first person to tell me that. Why don’t you like me?

You’re okay, Papa. It’s just that Nana’s nicer than you and she’s softer.

Well, kid, I’ll just have to keep trying to win you over.

Rosa was ready to feed the grandkids a pile of pancakes, crispy bacon, and orange juice when the phone rang.

It’s for you, whispered my wife as she handed me the phone. It’s Spinny.

Hey, Spinny, I said as I put my finger in my left ear to muffle the grandkids. What’s going on? A note: Spinny is a nickname for Esperanzo.

Diego, it looks like we have a murder on our hands.

Oh yeah? Who is it?

All I know for sure at this point is he’s definitely, no doubt about it, dead. He looks to be in his twenties. The corpse is lying face down in the mud on the south bank of the Gila River up in Bum’s Jungle under some brush.

I’ll be there in ten minutes. How did you find it?

Two young kids fishing in the Gila found him. They’re with me in case you want to talk to them. I’m sorry, Diego, but I’d better get back out to Bum’s Jungle before those coyotes come back and finish their breakfast.

Okay, I’m on my way.

I’ll be in Bum’s Jungle. You’ll see my patrol car.

Okay. 

A Dead Body in Bum’s Jungle 

I parked next to Spinny’s patrol car, then followed a dirt path through the creosote bushes toward the river.

Diego, is that you?

Yup, where are you?

Straight ahead.

When I arrived, Spinny was putting crime scene tape up, and two upset young boys were standing off several feet away.

What’s going on? I asked.

The body is under the brush over there. Spinny pointed toward the river. Those kids flagged me down in town to tell me about their discovery.

Spinny brought the two kids back to Bum’s Jungle to see for himself. Sure enough, when he arrived, he saw the body of a dead man face down in the muddy south bank of the Gila River on the north side of Bum’s Jungle. He immediately called me and kept the area as clear as possible to avoid destroying evidence.

Are you positive he is dead? I asked.

Trust me, Diego, that guy is as stiff as a board and as cold as the river water.

Any ideas who it is?

Beats me, boss. After I figured he was dead, I left everything alone.

Would you get the camera out of your car and take some pictures? I asked as I walked over to talk to the kids. Did you kids tell Spinny everything you know?

Yes, sir, Sheriff Parker.

Are you Raymond and Lucy Grant’s son?

Yes, sir, I’m Gordy Grant.

What’s your name? I asked the other kid.

I’m Burkie Wilson. Are we in trouble?

Not that I’m aware of. How did you boys find the body?

We were fishing, answered Gordy. We heard some coyotes yelping on the south bank. They kept running in and out of the brush, so we went to see what all the fuss was about. We waded across the river, but about halfway across I could see it was a dead man, so I drove into San Ramon to tell Spinny.

Something the boys said wasn’t right. It’s two miles between Bum’s Jungle and San Ramon—two miles of a narrow, bumpy WPA cement road. Something was wrong with this picture; I knew it and they knew it. I took a long hard look at those boys, which made them nervous. How did you get from here to downtown so fast?

The two kids looked at each other; Burkie began crying.

I drove my brother’s pickup truck to tell Spinny, answered Gordy. Sheriff Parker, I swear to God that all we used it for was to go fishing. When we saw the dead man, I decided I’d better drive into town and let Spinny know.

By this time, both boys were in tears.

All right, guys, just settle down. I don’t think it’s quite that serious. Besides, you did the right thing by telling Spinny. Driving underage is not the crime of the century. Where’s the truck now?

We parked it at Jake’s Café before we went looking for Spinny, answered Gordy. I hope it’s still there.

You boys did the right thing, don’t worry. When you found the body, you didn’t inspect or take anything, did you?

No, sir, Sheriff Parker, answered Gordy. We didn’t touch a thing. I watch Dragnet every week and knew exactly what to do.

You’ve been helpful, thank you, I told the boys. Hey guys, here’s the deal—you can either sit here for the next four or five hours or go to the Sundown Ranch and ask Lola for a ride into town. Tell her I sent you. What do you want to do?

Okay, answered Gordy. If you promise not to tell my mom and dad we were at the whorehouse.

Young man, you can consider it a cross my heart and hope to die secret, I assured them. As much as you’ll want to tell folks what you saw out here, keep it to yourself until I tell you it’s okay. Deal?

Yes, sir, we understand, Gordy answered.

After sending the boys on their way, I walked down to the bank of the river to get a first-hand look at the corpse. It was hard to tell but it looked like had been shot with a shotgun. While Spinny took photographs, I checked the surrounding area. I wondered if the murder happened along the river or if someone dumped the body out here in Bum’s Jungle? There were fresh tire tracks, like someone had driven within a few feet from the corpse. If it was a shotgun blast to the chest it would have created a spray of blood, but I didn’t see any signs like that in the area. I found a large rear-view mirror lying close to the tire tracks in the brush, not too far from the body. After we had done a complete search of the area, it was time to pull the body out from under the brush to identify this man, if we could.

Diego, how do you want to do this? asked Spinny as he swatted flies buzzing around the corpse.

You grab one foot, and I’ll grab the other. We’ll pull him out from under the brush, I said, trying my best to ignore the awful smell and sight of decomposing human remains partially eaten by the coyotes.

We bent down, got a hold of each boot, and dragged the body into the clearing, then turned him over. It was Danny Green, an eighteen-year-old kid from the west side of the valley, the son of a prominent ranching family. Spinny took photos of the corpse while I took notes, and examined the kid’s body. As I suspected he had been killed by a high gage shotgun at point blank range. In addition to hundreds of entry wounds from the buckshot, it looked like Danny had been in a fight beforehand. His face was black and blue, his left eye swollen. It looked as though he had a tooth knocked out. The buckshot made all kinds of tiny holes in his face and neck. There was so much damage from the buckshot that his chest was mush and filled with maggots. Whoever killed Danny had a score to settle.

Besides the flies and the maggots, the coyotes had eaten a good part of his buttocks and the upper part of his legs. Then I noticed something odd. His clothes had cotton fibers all over. This cotton was straight from the gin; it was raw cotton that still had part of the bowl and some remnants of the plant. 

The Search Begins 

Spinny called the