The Blood Mesa

PROLOGUE

1965

It was a mom-and-pop grocery store, too small to be air-conditioned, but the shade was still a welcome relief from the blazing heat of the Texas summer afternoon outside. The man stopped just inside the screen doors, pushed back his hat, and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to mop away the sweat from his forehead. His tie hung loose around his throat, his coat was slung over one arm, and the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up. He looked around. A square formed by waist-high wooden counters filled the center of the big room. The cash register, an old-fashioned model with a pull handle on the side, stood behind the counter facing the doors. In front of that same counter was a red metal box shaped like a coffin, with COCA-COLA written on it in white letters. A metal spinner rack stood at the right end of the soda pop box, and a sign on top of it read HEY KIDS! COMICS! Two little boys were turning the rack slowly, studying intently the array of colorful comic books displayed on it. The fat one wore glasses that constantly slipped down on his nose and had to be pushed back up.

Shelves full of canned goods, bread, bags of flour and sugar, cans of motor oil and dog food, and bags of potato chips ran to the right and left, forming precise aisles. Shovels and fishing poles hung on hooks on the right half of the store's rear wall. To the left, with room to walk behind it, sat a refrigerated, glass-fronted butcher case full of hamburger meat, steaks, ribs, and chickens. The door that led to storage rooms was in the center of the rear wall. Somewhere back there, a swamp cooler banged and rattled.

"Howdy," said the man who sat on a stool behind the cash register. "Come on in out of the heat, mister. What can I do for you?"

The stranger moved deeper into the almost cavern like interior of the store. He was slender, dark, intense, a vivid contrast to the burly, genial man behind the counter. The storekeeper's hair had been brown once, but nearly all of that hue had faded away with the years, leaving the thinning strands silver. The stranger figured the storekeeper was at least seventy.

"Mighty hot outside," the stranger said.

"Got popsicles in the box back here," the storekeeper said, turning on the stool to gesture at another metal box next to the rear counter. "They'll cool you right off. Got Cokes in the front box if you'd rather have that."

"Thanks." The stranger hung his coat on the back of a wicker chair at the left end of the Coke box and dropped his hat on the seat. He lifted the lid of the box, reached in, pulled a six-ounce bottle from the bed of crushed ice. An opener was attached to the front of the box. He used it to pry the cap off, then lifted the bottle quickly to his mouth as the drink inside began to well out of the neck. The stranger sucked greedily on it, then sighed in appreciation as he lowered the bottle a moment later. "Half-frozen. Can't beat that."

"Not even with a stick," the storekeeper agreed. He grinned, then glanced over at the spinner rack. "You boys figured out which o' them funny books you want yet?"

"Just about, Mr. Matthews," the fat kid replied.

The stranger took another swig of the melting Coke and said to the storekeeper, "You must be Drew Matthews."

"That's right. We haven't met, have we?"

"No, sir."

"But I know who you are. You're one o' them newspaper fellas, ain't you?"

The stranger smiled. "Does that bother you?"

"Nope. One o' you boys shows up about every ten years or so, when they figure everybody's forgotten again about the Tacker Gang."

"Are you willing to talk about it?" asked the reporter. "Especially the part about the war? I understand it's quite a story."

Short, silvery bristles stood out on Drew Matthews's jaw and chin. He lifted his hand and rubbed it over the stubble, making a faint rasping sound. "I suppose I could reminisce a little," he said. "If you're really interested, that is."

The reporter nodded. "I am. And I think my readers will be too."

"Well, since business ain't very brisk this afternoon— and ain't likely to be until after it starts to cool off a little— why don't you pull up that chair and sit down while we talk?"

The reporter picked up the wicker chair and carried it over by the side counter. As he did so, the two little boys brought a stack of comic books to the counter on the other side. "Can we get these and a couple of root beer popsicles, Mr. Matthews?" one of them asked.

"How many funny books you got there? One, two, three, four, five of 'em, at twelve cents apiece, that's sixty cents, and them popsicles are twenty-five cents each . . .."

"I got a dollar," the fat kid said.

Matthews nodded. "Close enough for gover'ment work. Get your popsicles and go on out on the sidewalk while you eat 'em, so you won't be drippin' on the floor in here."

The boys got their popsicles from the freezer and hurried out, arguing over which one of them would get to read the new issue of Spider-Man first.

When the screen doors had slammed behind the boys, Matthews leaned back a little on his stool and said, "Thought it might be a good idea if them little fellas left before I started tellin' you about what happened back in the old days. Some of it wasn't very pretty, you know."

"Whatever you want to tell me," the reporter said, "I want to hear it."

"You understand, I wasn't there for everything that happened. Most of it, but not everything. Course, I heard all about it later from the other fellas. I'll just tell it the best way I know how. I reckon the whole thing started in Nevada, in a little place called Flat Rock . . .."