Cole Dust Cole Page 3

  “Here you are,” Cole said, handing Langhorne the documents.

  “And here’s your map. My bill was paid from the escrow account for Doreen’s upkeep. My part in this is signed, sealed, and dee-livered. I expect you will use your San Fran – Cisco lawyer for any work you need, so thanks for comin’ in and have a nice day.” Langhorne leaned over and hit the switch on the intercom. “Is my three-thirty here yet?”

  “Yes sir,” a voice crackled in reply.

  C. W. Langhorne, Attorney at Law, stood and walked down the small steps at the end of the podium his desk rested upon. To Cole’s astonishment the man was well over six feet tall and towered above him. The shape that seemed so strange seated behind the desk was even more exaggerated standing before him. Cole envisioned a pear standing on two straws, with a grape for a head; the image brought a big smile to his face.

  “You look like a happy man, Mr. Cole,” Langhorne said, extending his hand. “Don’t mean to rush you off, but payin’ customers await my services.”

  “The map,” Cole said.

  “Holy family in the barn, I damn near forgot.” Langhorne turned and leaned over the top of the desk. Cole couldn’t help but wonder where he found a desk chair to fit his huge backside. When Langhorne straightened up and turned to hand Cole the map, his face was a bright red. “Here you are. Have a nice drive.” And with that he walked to the door leaving Cole standing at the desk.

  “This has been an experience I won’t soon forget,” Cole said, with a smile as he slipped past the attorney.

  The woman at the reception desk was chatting with a thin middle-aged man holding a small child. “I know it’s hard,” Cole heard her say, “but sometimes the court sides with the father. You’ll see, Mr. Langhorne can do magic.”

  “He made me disappear,” Cole said to the man, as he opened the front door. “Happy trails.”

  The drive to Orvin was supposed to take three hours. The freeway drive was pleasant enough and the scenery varied as the miles went by. The farther east the road winded the drier it got. The map Langhorne gave him was a swirling maze of lines, arrows, and stars. Cole found that ignoring the notations made for far fewer turn arounds and backtrack side trips. Two hours and thirty-eight minutes into the journey, Cole spotted the sign for County Highway J19. The county “highway” that would take him the rest of the way to Orvin was partly paved, partly gravel and partly rutted dirt. In two spots a dry creek bed eroded the road. Thankfully Cole spotted the crevasse in the road and slowed nearly to a stop before crossing it. The ruts, cattle barriers and dry creek beds made Cole pleased with himself for renting an SUV at the airport. It was a bit of a splurge but as badly as the SUV bucked and jumped along the rutted road, the small subcompact he nearly rented would have surely flipped over.

  About ten miles from town the pastureland started to become irrigated and cattle leisurely grazed in the afternoon sun. In the far distance rolling hills rose and fell against the azure sky. The rough beauty of the landscape and mild climate surprised Cole. He heard so many stories of the blistering heat of the Oklahoma summers from his father that he dreaded the trip in a way. But the weather was not unlike the Central Valley of California; warm but not nearly as hot. The cottonwoods, black jacks and oaks seemed to flex their muscular limbs as Cole rolled past. The land was a patchwork of lush green crops and grass, checkered with barren ground, plowed dirt, or oceans of tumbleweeds. Irrigation was the key to productivity and money, and it was quite apparent who had the water.

  The occasional farmhouses that popped up across the countryside were as varied and diverse in their construction as they were in their upkeep. Broad, modern, ranch style, single story homes, landscaped with trees, flowers and juniper bushes, neighbored two-story boxes straight and austere as the prairie, contrasted with the picture book classic farmhouses; they were all laid out within a two-mile stretch of road. The white picket fences lined with rose bushes of brilliant white houses were sometimes only a cornfield or pasture away from a structure ten degrees off plum, blistered, unpainted and surrounded with rusty cars and dry weeds.

  Cole never thought of a farm as a place he might ever live, or want to for that matter. Now, he was tapping and drumming on the steering wheel with nervous anticipation. Another five miles or so and he would be taking possession of his own farm.

  As he drove Cole tried to imagine what his farm would look like. He envisioned a white farmhouse with a big porch, pillars and a swing. He saw green pastureland behind wide board fences whitewashed to a blinding white. He pictured the front door a deep green and the barn a mighty cordovan red. Thank you George, he thought as he drove and daydreamed of his little house on the prairie.

  As if by some universally accepted design, billboards began to appear: McCutchan Feed & Seed, Red Wing Boots, and Kittie’s Cooper Kettle Kafe, “Home of the Four Cherry High Pie”. Then there it was, the faded green, bullet pocked, metal sign: ORVIN, population 6,585, elevation 2188 feet. One road in, one road out, town was a quarter mile ahead. People were suddenly everywhere. Cars and trucks lined the side of the road. Families, couples, long, lean Wrangler cowboys, and what could have only been the town beauties all streamed toward the center of town.

  Cole slowed to less than thirty miles per hour, then twenty, and then crawled along at about ten. A big-bellied man wearing a gold star, palm out signaled for Cole to stop.

  “Howdy,” he said with a smile. “Street’s closed for the big day. Got to either turn around or I think there is still parking down 3rd Street.”

  “What’s the occasion?” Cole asked, also with a smile.

  “Founders Day and Rodeo. You oughta have a look. Got some great grub.”

  “Now you’re talkin’,” Cole replied brightly. “On 3rd you say?”

  “Yeah, just hang a left. Should be a few spots left behind the VFW hall.”

  “Thanks.” Cole gave a quick salute and moved on.

  The streets were lined with canvas-shaded booths. Jerky signs, barn wood bird houses, three foot tall rabbit dolls that slipped over vacuum cleaners, rusty plow discs and old saws blades painted with pictures of barns and daisies, jellies, jams, and jars of honey. Smoke drifted and hovered all over town from the BBQ stands.

  Cole pulled into the Veterans of Foreign Wars lot and drove up one row and down another before he found a spot and squeezed in between two dusty pickup trucks. As he made his way back to the festivities he was nodded to, “howdy’ed” and smiled at by nearly every person who passed him on the sidewalk. He rounded the corner on to Taft Street where a rail thin woman in a frontier bonnet and long skirt backed into him. Her arms were full of baseball-style caps with ORVIN FOUNDERS DAY RODEO stitched in gold thread against the deep blue of the caps. The load of hats flooded over her arms like a waterfall and spread around her feet.

  “I am so sorry,” Cole said over the noisy bustle of the street.

  ““I should have been watchin’ where I was goin’. My fault.” The woman bent and was quickly trying to gather the caps.

  “Here let me help,” Cole said, stooping down to assist her.

  “I’m Sarah Connors.”

  “Cole Sage.”

  “I don’t think we’ve met.”

  “No, just got here five minutes ago.” Cole wondered how much he should say.

  “You came out here to our little Founders Day celebration?” Sarah beamed thinking that somebody other than the locals knew about all the hard work she put into the festival.

  “Not exactly. I’ve inherited a pie of property and ...”

  “Those Sages! Welcome home! My aunt Ruth was married to a Sage way back. He died. She ended up with a Butler but that’s a different story.”

  “We’re nearly cousins.” Cole smiled.

  They stood, arms full of caps. Cole began turning and stacking the caps inside each other. Soon there were two neat stacks about two feet tall and far more manageable.

  “Thank you, sir!” Sarah said. “It was nice to meet you. Here,” she ploppe
d a hat on top of Cole’s head, “it’s the least I can do.”

  Cole straightened the cap and pulled it down snug. “Good fit. Thanks.”

  “I’m at First National on Pawnee, can’t miss it. If you need any banking help let me know.”

  “I will and I will.” Cole smiled.

  With that, Sarah the Hat Lady was off down the street again and within a few feet bumped into at least three people, luckily without the disastrous results of her meeting with Cole.

  The smells and sights of the busy street were a tonic to Cole and the sluggish feeling of the three-hour drive was soon gone and replaced with a raging appetite. A teenage boy with a gigantic hamburger approached Cole. The kid had mayonnaise, mustard and ketchup smeared across his cheeks on both sides.

  “Hey, where did you get that great looking hamburger?” Cole inquired.

  “Muh buh glug lelk a poof,” the boy mumbled through his bulging mouthful of burger.

  “Where?”

  The boy swallowed hard. “Elk’s Club booth, just up the street. In front of Kindle’s.”

  “Great!” Cole replied but the boy was on his way. A block later Cole found himself standing in front of Kindle’s Pharmacy. In the street was a tent with a banner that read ORVIN ELKS. Smoke billowed from a ten-foot long barbeque made in the shape of an old locomotive. Inside the tent two dozen middle-aged men in aprons scurried about calling out orders and bumping into each other as they tried to navigate the cramped quarters. Cole glanced around for a menu or price list but none was to be found.

  “Next!” called out a gruff looking man of about sixty.

  “Hamburger and a coke.”

  “Everything on it?”

  “You bet.” Cole nodded.

  The man whirled around and shouted, “Pile ‘er up!” He made his way across the tent to the soda dispenser and filled a tall cup with ice and Coca-Cola.

  “Where’s home?” the man asked Cole, returning with his drink.

  “California.”

  “What? You one of those Dust Bowl Okie’s come home to find their roots?” The man scowled at Cole.

  “Nope, I own a place here.”

  “The hell you say. And where might that be?”

  Cole felt his face redden as he realized he couldn’t remember the name of the road the farm was on. “Uh...”

  “Chris’ sake boy how you ever find your way home?” The man laughed loud and hardy.

  “Tell you the truth I just inherited it. I’m here to do my thirty days.”

  “Damn tax laws. I’m Ernie Kappas. Ernie the Greek to the folks around here.” He thrust out his hand to Cole.

  “Cole Sage,” Cole said, grasping the hard, strong hand offered him.

  “The hell you say. You ain’t George’s boy? Thought he had a girl,” Ernie said, with a puzzled look.

  “No, no cousin. Just cousin.”

  “Well sir. We’re neighbors. Your place is next to mine. Just so you’ll be able to find it, it’s on Myrtle Creek Road.” Ernie laughed again.

  Ernie Kappas was a thick barrel-chested man with wiry grey hair that circled a round shiny bald head. His muscular arms were covered with thick salt and pepper hair. He was shorter than Cole but the hard mass of muscles that made up his upper body made him seem much larger. His face was dark and well weathered. Deep creases ran from the sides of his nose to his jaw line. He wore a moustache that was buzzed the same length as his remaining hair and sparkled with a thousand white hairs.

  “Pile ‘er!” a voice cried from the back of the tent.

  Ernie spun about without a word and retrieved a large paper plate with a huge hamburger centered on it. “Potato salad?” he said, returning to the counter.

  “Sounds good,” Cole replied.

  “Pickle?” Ernie did not wait for a reply and grabbed a pickle the size of a water bottle from a white plastic barrel behind the counter. “There you go.”

  “How much?” Cole asked

  “Chris’ sake you really are from California. It’s free. Courtesy of the Orvin Elks!” Ernie turned and yelled to the back of the tent, “I’m takin’ five.” And with the speed and agility of someone a fourth his age, Ernie sat on the counter, spun his legs around and landed standing next to Cole in the street. “Come on, show ya where to sit.” And with that he took off.

  Next to a tent with a Rotary Club banner were several picnic tables. Ernie sat at the end of one next to a family eating corn on the cob and signaled Cole to do the same.

  “So what’s your connection to George?”

  “My grandfather and George’s father were brothers.”

  “Now, wasn’t there a girl? Crippled or retarded or...”

  “Doreen. She was severely disabled. Birth defect kind of thing. She died two months ago. That leaves me. Last of the Mohicans you might say.”

  “You’re the only Sage left?”

  “I have a daughter, but as far as we know we’re it. I have a granddaughter too, but no male members of the family anywhere.”

  “I knew George sort of as a kid. He was older in school, you know. My dad owned the grocery store here for years. The Sage family used to come in on Saturdays. Then the big chain from O. C. came in and we bought the farm. Pop died nearly twenty years ago now; I stayed on.”

  “Married?”

  “Nope.”

  Cole took a big bite of the burger. He loved hamburgers and probably eaten enough of them to have a number on a sign somewhere. But without a doubt, this was the best one he ever tasted.

  “Tell me about this place I’ve inherited,” Cole said, shortly before taking another bite.

  “Hell no. That would spoil the surprise.” Ernie gave Cole a quick grin.

  Cole chewed slowly, pondering the response. As he took a forkful of potato salad Ernie spoke.

  “How’s the burger?”

  “Incredible!” Cole mumbled.

  “Sage.”

  “What?” Here it comes, Cole thought.

  “No, it’s sage that gives it its flavor.” Ernie grinned. “I better get back. Welcome to the neighborhood. I’ll check in on you tomorrow, see how things are goin’. If you need anything give me a holler, I’m just to the south of you.” Ernie slapped Cole on the back as he passed by.

  “I’ll see you later.”

  Cole walked around the downtown area for about twenty minutes when he finished his hamburger and Coke. He walked, crunched ice and got the lay of the land. The people were friendly and made conversation easy. He bought a bag of Elk jerky from a very dark, very fat man who said he was Osage Indian, a small bag of fudge from a group of kids from the Jr. High School and a bag of peanut brittle from the ladies of the First Pentecostal Church. Everyone was eager and ready with questions of the stranger in their midst.

  On the way back to the car, Cole stopped in the Bi-Rite Market and picked up a gallon of water, a flashlight and batteries, and a package of toilet paper. When the clerk remarked on Cole’s strange assortment of items, he just smiled. Time for talk and exploring was over; it was time to see the farm.

  THREE

  Between Langhorne’s map and directions and Ernie Kappas’s added instructions Cole had an easy time finding his way. As he turned on to Myrtle Creek Road he burst out into a chorus of “Old MacDonald Had a Farm.”

  “With a quack-quack here and a moo-moo there...”

  Cole slowed and began looking for mailboxes. He read the numbers aloud to himself. Then saw KAPPAS in thick black letters on the box just ahead.

  “Here we go,” Cole said aloud, as he rolled past Ernie’s place. The clean white of Ernie’s fence stopped and the bare wood of what Cole knew was his began. The fence ended at a round top mailbox. Its door was open and red flag was up, it sat atop a four by four post that was leaning at a forty-five degree angle toward the driveway. Cole turned and stopped the car just clear of the road. He turned the motor off and got out of the car. There sat the house about a hundred yards off the road.

  The fence on either side of
the drive was strong and well-built but badly in need of paint. As Cole took in the view from the road he was astonished at the volume and density of the dry grass and tumbleweeds on the property. Except for a twelve foot firebreak around the fence someone plowed, the land was covered waist high in weeds. Tumbleweeds formed a wall twelve feet high or higher along the fence. Long stretches of the fence were completely obscured by the huge prickly balls. The side sections of fence were barbed wire. Along the bottom ran three foot high hog wire. The fence bordering Ernie Kappas’ place was taut and straight. The other side was noticeably looser and leaned in places.

  Cole strained to see the back of the property, but was sure he saw something green. He climbed up on the bumper of the SUV and could see that near the rear fence was a wide patch of healthy grass and what appeared to be a pond. Cole jumped down and surveyed the house.

  The east side of the house was nearly submerged in tumbleweeds that reached the rafters. The whole yard was waist deep in weeds. Although badly in need of paint the house was a handsome design. Cole figured it to have been built just after World War I. On either side of the stone steps leading to the wide front porch were Grecian style columns badly in need of a good scraping and a coat of paint. Four by eight sheets of plywood covered all the windows on the ground floor. Most of the plywood showed the signs of small caliber target practice. The windows on the second story were covered too. One sheet of plywood lay on the roof exposing the window on the right side of the house and its ripped screen. The attic window was broken and shards of glass formed a jagged semi-circle around the bottom. The roof looked tight and the asphalt shingles looked hard, as if the whole roof would blow away before it gave up one of its members. High atop the tallest gable a lone tumbleweed clung to the television antenna.

  “Looks like you’ve braved quite a storm!” Cole said with an approving smile, as he got back in the car. He parked at an angle along the fence and sat for a long moment before he turned off the engine. “Gonna take some work.” He sighed as he opened the car door.