Tracks

By Jim Black

It’s 1968 in Archer City, Texas. Gasoline is thirty-four cents per gallon; a postage stamp costs a nickel; and people still sleep with their doors unlocked at night. Fifteen-year-old Jim and his buddies, Charles and Gary, are charting new territory—high school—and finding the transition challenging to say the least. Meanwhile, on the outskirts of town, a mystery is brewing: Cattle are turning up dead amid reports of strange lights in the night sky and claims of a bizarre “creature” roaming the countryside. Come join the boys as they cope with all that’s going on in this funny and endearing sequel to River Season.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outskirts Press
• Release date: Feb 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9781977272829

Jim Black

A lifelong Texan, Jim Black was born in Center, Texas, and grew up in Archer City. Today he resides in Wichita Falls with his wife, Lorrie. He is the author of several books and plays. For more information visit www.jimblackbooks.com.

Book preview

Chapter 1

"It’s been my experience that all women are crazy—some flat out, and some just a little—but all are nuts to some degree. And once you figure that out, life gets a whole lot simpler." That said, Charles flicked the remainder of his Marlboro over the rail, and the three of us watched it fall, glowing and spinning, like a lightning bug gone mad. It disappeared after about fifty feet, and Gary and I looked up at him.

Experience? I asked. You’re fifteen years old for crying out loud.

So?

So what the heck are you talking about?

Oh, Jenny dumped him yesterday, and he’s flatter than one of Joe’s pancakes. Gary didn’t have a cigarette to toss off the water tower but did have a Bazooka bubble gum wrapper. We watched it silently fall and flutter like a tiny wounded ego.

Jenny didn’t dump anyone. Fact is, I let her off easy.

She was embarrassed to be riding around in his Dodge Dart, Gary informed me.

"Was not! Besides, at least I’ve got a car!"

I’m getting one next summer, Gary shot back.

Oh yeah, I forgot—your uncle’s old, rusted Oldsmobile. Porky, you’ve been saying that for two years now.

It’s not my fault he can’t make up his mind!

Okay, guys. Truce! I intervened. Besides, I think my mom’s getting a new car pretty soon. Maybe I’ll get her old one, and then we’ll all have one.

Charles lit another smoke and offered us one. As usual, I passed, but Gary took one. He occasionally did so, never inhaling, just sucking the smoke into his mouth trying desperately to produce at least one respectable smoke ring.

You know, Bubba, if you’ll spray-paint the grill black and punch a hole in the muffler, that’ll be a pretty cool car, Charles proposed.

He was right. A ‘63 Chevy Impala with a 283 V-8 would be a great first car even if it was a four-door. I wondered if they would be jealous.

Charles is right. Nothing against the Dart, but cruising Kemp in a Chevy would be great. You gonna get a tape player?

Yeah. Probably a Ranger Mini 8-Track with a couple of wedge speakers for the rear deck.

Cool!

That’ll work.

That settled, we leaned back and gazed out over Archer City. It was a view we knew well. In the distance we could see the lights of Wichita Falls and Holliday. The night air was so clear we could even see lights beyond those—somewhere in Oklahoma. Although we’d climbed the old water tower numerous times, I couldn’t remember us doing so this late in the year or when it was as cold. Christmas was only a few days away, and for the first time in years, there was a chance it would be white. It was on all our minds.

You know what I like best about being up here? Charles asked suddenly.

We shook our heads.

He looked away. You guys, he said, staring into the night.

Whoa, where did that come from? I wondered. I was the sentimental one in the bunch. It wasn’t like Charles to say something like that. Gary and I looked at each other.

Dang, she flat shot you through the heart, didn’t she? he said.

Who?

Jenny.

Will you stop with that?! I’m not gonna miss her. She kisses like a forty-year-old woman.

"How do you know how forty-year-old women kiss?"

I don’t. But it can’t be good.

We all laughed, and a familiar feeling swept over me. I knew what Charles meant when he said you guys. It had been only two years since the summer of our lives, and the three of us were fifteen now, freshmen in high school. With our dads gone, we still depended upon each other, and our friendship had grown even stronger. I knew exactly what he meant.

Gary gave up on the smoke ring and attempted to flick what remained of his cigarette over the side as Charles had, but it hit the rail and bounded back into his lap. All heck broke loose for a moment before Charles calmly reached over, retrieved it, and flicked it away on Gary’s behalf.

Will you settle down? he asked.

Gary was standing now, swatting at his britches. Oh my Gosh, I almost burned my dill!

"Your what?"

You heard me.

Well, it’s not like you ever use the darn thing.

How do you know?

Oh, just a lucky guess.

You guys are missing this, I said.

They turned and saw. It had begun to snow. And hard, too. With just a tiny breeze, the flakes, quite large, danced all around us. From our vantage point, our small town looked like a Christmas card coming to life. We stood silently watching for several minutes. Finally, we decided to climb down before the ladder became too slick. Once safely on the ground, we raced to Charles’s Dart and headed to Joe’s Drive-In where hot coffee, cocoa, and fried pies awaited.

Our winter had arrived.

Chapter 2

In no time we were settled in our booth, jackets removed, rubbing our hands together trying to get them warm. Joe walked over. I noticed his wavy, sandy hair was beginning to show some gray. There were fresh grease stains on his apron.

Howdy, fellas. Is it snowin’ yet?

Just started, Gary answered.

It doesn’t snow like it used to, he said wistfully. Wonder why that is?

Maybe you just don’t remember, Alvin Holcomb called out from the counter. Same way you forgot how long to cook these fries.

What’s wrong with ‘em?

Burnt black, that’s what.

Well, you best be grateful for what you have. I ran out of taters earlier today but saved the last one just for you ‘cause I knew you’d be coming in.

Maybe. But did you have to cook it all evenin’?

Just put some more ketchup on ‘em. Joe looked at us. What’ll it be, boys? The usual?

We nodded. Any fried pies? Gary asked anxiously.

Just finished a batch. Got you fellas’ names all over ‘em.

What kind tonight?

Fresh apricot. With lots of melted butter on top, he said, smiling.

Bring ‘em on!

He soon returned with three, along with Charles’s black coffee, my yellow coffee (heavy on the cream and sugar), and Gary’s hot chocolate. We dug in.

A few minutes later Joe was cleaning up the kitchen and listening to Christmas music on a new Philco radio that was sitting on the countertop by the register. Our late-night snacks were really hitting the spot. It was at that instant I realized just how quickly it’s possible to go from cloud nine to complete and utter demoralization.

Three seconds.

The door opened and closed, and I turned and searched the diner, hoping beyond hope that maybe it was her. It wasn’t. Rather, it was Alvin leaving. The girl, who two years earlier had dumped me for a cowboy with cow stink on his boots, was nowhere to be seen.

You still thinking about that chick from Windthorst?

I nodded.

Bubba, I know she broke your heart, but dadgum, that was two years ago. Besides, I still don’t know what you saw in that skinny girl in the first place.

I think it was her big brown eyes, I told him.

Heck, Porky here’s got big brown eyes.

He and Gary laughed. I managed a smile.

I know. You’re right. It’s time to move on.

"That’s what I’d do," he said.

And so I made up my mind right then and there. Lorrie was a memory. Just that. Nothing more. After all, there would be plenty of other girls. Wouldn’t there?

Chapter 3

The next morning I awoke to find it snowing hard again. It was Sunday. Mom opened all the curtains in the house and made Malt-O-Meal and toast for breakfast. Afterwards, I announced I was headed to see Mama and Papa.

You’re not going to church?

I guess not this morning.

Well, you’ll have to walk because I won’t have time to take you.

I thought I’d take my Husky.

I don’t know, she said, looking out the window.

It’s safe. Especially with those fat tires. And I’ll go slow.

Okay, but you be careful.

I threw a jacket on over my T-shirt, grabbed a cap, and headed out the door. Don’t fix lunch, I called out as I went.

I’d had my red Cushman Husky scooter for two years now. Charles had sold his white Cushman Eagle to help pay for the Dart, but before he did so, we robbed the padded passenger seat from it and installed it on mine. It wasn’t as soft as the pillow from his mom’s couch that Gary usually carried, but it sure helped his image. And mine. He still rode with me quite often, and I must admit that parking in front of Joe’s with that flowery pillow on the passenger rail was always a little embarrassing. Today, the scooter was leaning against the side of the house under the carport, half covered with blowing snow. I pulled it out and managed to get it started without breaking my foot on the kick starter. Then I slapped it in gear and was off.

I had only gone half a mile up Ash Street when I realized there was a problem. My hands, face, and ears were already frozen, and it was three miles to Mama and Papa’s house. I drove at a creep not because of the slick street, but to reduce the wind chill. After an eternity I reached the Seymour highway and turned west. Up ahead I could see the Wildcatter Drive-In. It was a pretty good place to eat, but mostly we just went there for their ten-cent Brown Derbys (a cup of vanilla ice cream with some really good chocolate syrup on top). I reached it, turned right, then left for a ways and was there. I jumped off and hurried in.

It was like walking into a blast furnace. Papa, now in his eighties, kept their huge fireplace going almost year round. No kidding. That’s why I’d worn only a T-shirt under my jacket, which I quickly shed.

How ‘bout this snow? I asked.

Mama, also in her eighties, came out of the kitchen wiping her hands on her apron. She stared out the window. Looks just like Shasta daisies falling from Heaven, she said softly. Must be springtime there. Then, turning my direction, Why aren’t you in Sunday School?

Time just got away from me this morning.

Well, there’s a Bible on the couch there. You can study it for a while.

She wasn’t kidding. She was the most religious person I knew.

I was hoping we could play some Parcheesi.

We can do that. Soon as I finish cleaning up the kitchen, and you read up on some Deuteronomy.

I winced and watched her return to her chores. The smell of fried bacon and lard biscuits hung heavy in the air.

Hey, Papa. What’s up?

He was drinking steaming, black coffee from a saucer. You know I don’t allow playing in the fire, but you can throw another log on if you want.

This was one of the reasons I came. My mom had six brothers and sisters—all living in or near Archer City—so I had lots of cousins, and we all loved playing in the fire. I’m not sure what it is about adding logs, getting them situated just right, and stirring the coals; but it’s just great fun. I did so until Papa said, That’ll do, and quickly retreated to the couch away from the intense heat. I set the heavy Bible in my lap.

The living room was little bitty as was the house. As I often did, I tried to picture the two of them raising seven children here. There were three little bedrooms and one tiny bathroom. It must have been something, all right. Mom always talked about how they had to walk three miles to school in the snow, and I wondered which was worse—walking or riding a Cushman. I decided I’d have to opt for the Cushman even with the increased wind chill. Yes, walking would have been tough.

I watched my grandad sit and stare at the fire. It was rare these days to see him out of that recliner. Perched just within arm’s reach was a small AM radio, which was always on. I never heard any music come out of it—just some guy talking about cattle and wheat prices and the such. I found this odd because Papa had never been a rancher or a farmer. He was a blacksmith by trade, and his shop—or what remained of it—was out back behind the house. My cousins and I loved playing in it when no one was looking even though we’d been instructed to keep out because it might collapse at any time. You had to be careful, though, because like most dilapidated, old buildings with dirt floors, it was full of spiders, wasps, scorpions, and centipedes.

I never told anyone, but on more than one occasion, I found my grandad in there, standing alone looking around. Blacksmith work was hard work, and while I’m not sure he actually missed it, I’m pretty sure he missed being able to do it. I think my grandad would have slapped old age around a little if he could have gotten his hands on it.

And so he sat in that chair, listening to the man on the radio, staring at the fire, and wanting to be acknowledged and spoken to. Just not too much.

Chapter 4

I didn’t make much headway with Deuteronomy. Mostly I just sat and watched it snow and tended the fire whenever Papa let me. Finally, Mama appeared with the homemade Parcheesi board and game pieces and sat them on the couch between us. I loved playing with her. Besides being a good sport, she didn’t say much when we played, and I liked that. I didn’t like to answer a bunch of questions about school and church when playing. She won the first game handily (There isn’t much skill involved in Parcheesi.) As we regrouped our tokens she asked, "Would you