Joseph's Kidnapping

by Randy Rawls

  I realized my feelings for Wanda were more than sympathy or admiration. I caressed her hair. It was silk under my hand.

  She pulled away and dried her eyes with the back of her hands as I fumbled for a handkerchief. “Thanks, I’m okay,” she said. “Every time I visit, I end up feeling sad for myself. Sorry about acting up.”

  “You didn’t. You showed me a side I hadn’t seen before, a caring, compassionate side that I like.”

  She took my hand and led me from the family plot, then stopped and pointed toward a weatherworn headstone. “That’s my great-great-grand Uncle, or something like that. He rode with Captain Towles during the Wills Point War.”

  “The what, with whom?”

  “The Wills Point War. Haven’t you heard about it?”

  “No, it’s a mystery to me. Isn’t there a town named Wills Point about ten miles up the road?”

  “Yep. You see, Canton was the local business capital and County Seat of Van Zandt County until the railroad came through. It skipped Canton, but the town of Wills Point grew up around it with stockyards and markets. That sucked business away from Canton. It must have been a wild time. At one point, the Canton folks got so irritated at Wills Point, they built a spur line from Edgewood to the railroad. Just so they wouldn’t have to use the facilities at Wills Point.”

  “That’s interesting,” I said, “but what’s that got to do with a war?”

  “The war was a result of the jealousy between the two towns. In 1877, Wills Point called for a county-wide election to decide which town would be the County Seat. The election officials had to throw out several boxes of ballots because of voting irregularities and after much deliberation, declared Wills Point the winner. Folks from Wills Point descended on the courthouse in Canton, loaded up the county records and hauled them off.”

  “Who said, ‘All politics are local?’” I chuckled. “This seems a perfect example. Is that when the war started?”

  “Yep, that’s it. Captain Thomas Jefferson Towles wouldn’t tolerate it. He put together a group of about three hundred men to march on Wills Point.”

  “Three hundred? In 1877? That must have taken every man in the county.” Her numbers didn’t sound logical to me.

  “My daddy told me three hundred, so I say three hundred. Captain Towles led his men to Wills Point, laid siege to the town, recaptured the county records, and brought them back to Canton. It threatened to become a major fight so the Governor sent in troops. The election challenges went to the State Supreme Court. After studying it, the judges voted to throw out the whole thing because it was such a mess. They renamed Canton the County Seat and it’s stayed that way since.” She grinned at me. “That was the Wills Point War and my great, great, whatever, Uncle rode with Captain Towles, and all the Jamisons are proud of him.”

  “Sounds like a John Wayne movie.” I still had trouble with the story. “You’re not pulling my leg, are you?”

  “Trust me or look it up. It happened like I said.”

  “Okay,” I said with a grin. “I believe you. Cisco has some pretty strange history also. Someday, I’ll tell you about the Santa Claus Robbery.” I took her hand and led her from the cemetery.

  Once we were outside the gate, she brought me back to the present. “Okay, what’s the game plan? How are we going to pull this off and capture the bad guy?”

  “You are the most hardheaded woman I’ve ever known. Not we–I. I will be here with the ransom, and I will capture our villainous friend. You can be any place you choose as long as it’s not here. That’s my final word on the subject.” I gave her my mind is made up and cannot be changed look.

  She gave me her oh yeah look and I began searching for a way to keep her out of harm’s way when I delivered my surprise.

  * * * *

  As we left the church grounds, I saw a black pickup truck on the shoulder of the road about a hundred yards north of our position. I turned toward it. “Let’s see how our friend reacts when we check him out.” I could have saved my breath. The truck was empty, so I read the license plate. The last letter was Q, the one I hadn’t been able to see before. That made the whole plate TKZ-Q3Q. It was a black four-door with a ten foot bed, the biggest they make. The tires were huge with raised white lettering, putting the bottom edge of the door about level with the top of mine. I counted the tires. Four, but the truck looked big enough to have more, maybe eighteen. There wasn’t a scratch on it and a plastic bed liner protected the cargo area. It was a SPUT, Sport Pickup Truck, driven for status on city streets.

  We looked in the woods that bordered the road, but saw nothing moving. That was where he must be. I decided to let him play his game. As long as I knew his whereabouts, I controlled what he saw.

  I accelerated away, putting distance between the pickup and me. When I reached 4106, I turned left onto it, then turned around and waited. A few minutes later, the black pickup went roaring by headed north, and I pulled onto 1653, headed south.

  “What say we take a circular route into Canton and see a bit of First Monday?” I said to Wanda. “It’ll take our friend a few minutes to figure out we’re no longer in front of him. Who knows, he might come looking for us.”

  “Okay,” Wanda said, chuckling. “If I’d known PI’s live such interesting lives, I’d have found one earlier.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t. If you had, I’d have to fight him, and you know I’m the peaceable type.”

  Wanda gave me directions, and I drove several farm roads so we came into Canton from the northwest. I figured the SPUT driver would watch for us to come up 64 from the southeast.

  It was late morning and my breakfast had worn thin so I suggested we hit one of the restaurants.

  “You don’t want to do that,” Wanda replied, laughing. “It’s First Monday. Every place is packed, long lines and standing room only.” As she said that, I stopped at the intersection with Route 64. Cars, trucks, vans, motor homes, and every other conceivable type of vehicle were heading toward Canton. The two lanes of Route 64 were bumper-to-bumper. I waited until I ran out of patience, then pulled out and squeezed my way in front of a new MMV, Mom-to-Market-Van.

  I waved to thank the other driver for letting me in, and he returned it. It was funny though. When I waved, I extended all my fingers. When he waved, he extended one.

  The closer we got to Canton, the heavier and slower the traffic became. I understood what Wanda meant about First Monday. Out of nowhere, vendor stands had appeared alongside the road, selling tomatoes, cabbages, watermelons, cantaloupes, peaches, apples, and other types of fruits and vegetables. One stand even featured onions. There were also beanie babies and birdhouses. The vendors became more numerous as we neared Canton.

  Lending to the traffic problems were the people who pulled off to shop the stands. They couldn’t get all the way off the road because the shoulders along Route 64 are narrow. So there they sat, encroaching on the lane as others attempted to edge around them. When the shoppers merged onto the road, new and expansive hand gestures were exchanged. Not pretty.

  We passed a road sign that read Canton City Limits and another sight caught my eye. A youngster about ten to twelve years old stood in a yard holding a sign, Parking - $2.00. As we drove on, I saw another, then another. People were renting out their front yards, and the yards were filling.

  After several stops and starts, we made it through the traffic light at Edgewood Road then faced the four-way stop at the Van Zandt County Courthouse. That had traffic backed up two blocks, and the traffic light at Trade Days Boulevard backed things up to the four-way stop. I was shocked. The sleepy little town of Canton was in gridlock. It had grown from a small East Texas town of about 3,000 to more than 100,000 overnight.

  Wanda laid her hand on my arm. “Turn left at the light. We can park across from the East Gate. Did I exaggerate?”

  “No, ma’am, you didn’t stretch at all. Since today’s Friday, I assume it’ll be worse tomorrow, right?”

  She chuckled. “Yeah, lot
s more visitors. Have you been noticing the different license plates? Like I said, people come from all over.”

  I made it to the light and turned left. The shelters along the left of Trade Days Boulevard which had been empty were filled with merchandise and people vying for position. Every empty lot on the right had someone at the edge of the road hawking parking spaces. The going rate was three dollars. I pulled into one about a block from the traffic light.

  The dust swirled from the vehicles in the parking area, so I put the top up and locked the car. We walked hand-in-hand to the road where we joined a crowd waiting for a policewoman to halt traffic so we could cross. Once on the other side, we scooted through the gate and were engulfed in First Monday Trade Days.

  “Welcome to the First Monday Grounds,” Wanda said. “This is one section. There’s also Old Mill Marketplace further down 64 and Dog Town on the other side of 64. We’ll have to hit Dog Town. You’ll be surprised at the variety of animals that can be bought. From hares to horses, cats to cattle, and about everything in between.”

  I looked at the crowd. It reminded me of feeding time at a shark tank as people rushed to and fro. The male wardrobes were boring—jeans, boots, plaid shirts, and western hats adorned most of the bodies. The few city-slickers stood out in their shorts, T-shirts, and athletic shoes. The women’s attire was more interesting. Everything from short shorts and halter tops to billowing dresses sweeping the ground. The women looked better than the guys. I pointed that out to Wanda and received a severe pinch on the arm for my trouble.

  I rubbed my arm. “I’m still hungry. Where are the food booths?”

  “Everywhere. Let’s head down this way.”

  We threaded our way through the crowd along one of the rows, walking parallel to Trade Days Boulevard. Sure enough, we passed several food stands, each with a crowd in front vying for the attention of the attendants. Some of the food operations had tables.

  “Look over there,” Wanda said, pointing.

  I followed instructions and saw a small trailer alongside a concrete pad surrounded by a plastic curtain. Picnic tables with benches sat on the pad and food was being sold out of a window on the end of the trailer. Best of all, the concrete pad had a canvas awning over it, providing shade. True to its reputation, the Texas sun pounded down. “Looks perfect,” I said. “Let’s test the food.”

  I wasn’t surprised to see Texas barbecue as the featured item, along with soft drinks of various kinds. Dry county, remember? As I stood in line, I wondered how rich a person could get with a beer concession in the midst of this tribute to gluttonous shopping. I answered my own question, “Very, very rich.”

  “What’d you say?”

  I told Wanda what I’d been thinking, and she laughed. “Don’t think you’re the first to come up with that idea. I remember Chip having the same thought about twenty years ago. So far though, the churches have the upper hand.”

  I pointed toward the menu on a plywood sign beside the window. “What’s a tornado potato?”

  “Order one and find out.”

  When I reached the window, I followed Wanda’s suggestion, ordering two. In addition, I asked for two barbecue sandwiches and two diet colas.

  The young lady taking orders gave me a weird look and said, “That’s two barbecues, two Diet Cokes and two tornado potatoes?”

  “Right,” I replied, wondering if she’d put extra emphasis on the word two before tornado potatoes.

  “Spin two,” she called to her left front.

  I turned in that direction and saw a young man standing beside a modified workbench. A hand drill was mounted on the bench opposite a blade from a slicer. You know, one of those all-purpose slicers you see advertised on TV that will slice anything and last forever—or all day the day it’s delivered.

  The young man acknowledged the request, reached into a bucket of water and selected a huge potato. He pulled the drill backward along a slide and rammed the end of the potato onto a short bit. He pressed the trigger, causing the potato to spin. He inched the drill toward the blade until the potato made contact. As I watched, the blade sliced it into thin connected slices reminding me of a Slinky toy from my childhood. By the time he reached the end of the potato, he had a monster-sized pile of potato slices that would fill a peck basket.

  With no ceremony whatsoever, he picked the pile up and threw it into a pot of boiling oil, then took another potato and repeated his performance. As he twirled the second one, the first bubbled in the oil. The second potato went into a second pot and he checked the first. The slices were so thin, they cooked as soon as they were immersed. He dipped with a strainer and plopped them onto paper plates covered with paper towels. “I’ll take these to the table for you, sir,” he said. “They’re real hot.”

  I thanked him, paid the bill, picked up the rest of my order and followed. When Wanda sat across the table from me, she disappeared behind the mound of tornado potato. It looked like a mountain of hot, wet potato chips somehow connected together from one end to the other. I looked around the pile at Wanda, who grinned at me.

  “Never seen anyone order two of these before,” she said, the grin growing.

  “I get the point. Remind me not to be so curious next time. What’s the etiquette for eating this thing?”

  She reached in and tore a section loose, dropped it and blew on her finger tips. “Ouch, the first step is to let them cool. It’s hot.”

  “Sounds like good advice.” I picked up my sandwich and attacked it. A few minutes later, I tore out sections of the tornado potato and commented on how good it tasted. It was a novel way to fix a potato, and I approved. Watching Wanda assault hers, I assumed she agreed with me. It took another round of colas before we gave up. The leavings were evidence one potato would have been enough, and explained the strange look I’d gotten from the lady at the window.

  “Okay, I’m ready to shop,” I said. “Where do we start?”

  “Anyplace you say. There’re thirty or so different types of concessions here. But they repeat endlessly. Let’s start working our way up the hill.”

  I stepped aside to let her lead the way. For the next two hours, she led me all over the hillside, stopping now and then to finger the merchandise. I discovered, if anything, her description of the items available for sale had been understated.

  One of the more interesting displays was antique English furniture watched over by a jovial fellow with a fierce beard. I wondered out loud if it was truly English, and he assured me he imported everything from the old country. As we walked away, I shook my head wondering why someone would go to so much trouble, then display it in an aluminum shelter in the middle of a giant flea market.

  When I voiced my musings to Wanda, she replied, “Why not? It’s First Monday.”

  I let it ride.

  As we passed a booth filled with rusty horseshoes, broken pieces of chain, frayed rope, and other decrepit pieces of western hardware, I said, “Hey, I need something to commemorate the occasion.”

  The vendor was a rustic old geezer who looked about a hundred-fifty years old with a long dirty-white beard. He wore patched jeans, a ragged flannel shirt and a cowboy hat oozing character, meaning it was beat-up, dog-eared, and oily. “Yessir, young man. I hear’d thet and yore at the right place. I got stuff here what goes back to the beginning of Texas. Why, looky here.” He reached into a bin and brought out a rusty horseshoe. “This here’s jist whut you need to hang over yer door–plenny a luck left in this here one.”

  “Oh? What’s so special about it?” I asked. “And how much is it?”

  He leaned toward me in a conspiratorial manner and said, “Special. Humph, it’s sebenty-five dollars and that’s a special price. ’Cause this here shoe’s over a hundert years old, and that makes it very special.”

  “I see,” I said. “Looks pretty worn when I flake off the rust. Anything special except its age?”

  Either he had a tic, or he winked at me. He rocked onto his heels, wrinkled his brow, and app
eared to mull my question. His head turned and he spat a stream of tobacco juice into a spittoon that looked older than the horseshoe. “Son, you jist gonna have to trust me on this, cause it’ll be hard for a youngster like you to unnerstand. This here very shoe wuz cast in 1868 and worn by the war horse of one of our most famous Texas Rangers. Why, if’n this shoe could talk, it’d tell us of battles agin the Comanch, rustlers, and outlaws of every kind. Yissir, this here shoe’s got lots of history.”

  His words impressed me. “Who was the Texas Ranger? When I mount the shoe in my bar, I’ll want to tell my friends about it.”

  He hesitated, and I could imagine gears meshing in his gray matter as he searched for a name. A moment later, he answered, “Captain Augustus McCrae, best friend of Captain Woodrow Call, two of the toughest Rangers in the history of the great Lone Star State.”

  “I want it. Here’s twenty-five dollars. Take it or leave it.” I laid the money on the counter.

  He grabbed it.

  As we walked away, Wanda nudged me. “If I’d known you had twenty-five bucks to spend, I would have sold you one from the ranch for twenty-four.”

  “I’ll have you know, Miss, that I have in my hand a seventy-five dollar horseshoe worn by a fictitious horse carrying one of Larry McMurtry’s greatest fictional characters from his Lonesome Dove series, Texas Ranger Gus McCrae. I wish I could have gotten one from Captain Call’s horse, too. Then, I’d—” Her elbow in my ribs cut me off.

  “You nut.” Wanda laughed, as we passed a concession featuring antique doors. I stopped and looked at the selection. I don’t know how old they were, but they had the look of antique—worm-eaten, termite-nibbled, dry-rotted, wet-rotted, and splintered. In other words, they looked like they’d been through the wars. As we walked on down the corridor, I said, “Who would buy one of those?”

  “Oh, no one,” Wanda replied as she pointed to a young couple walking toward us carrying an antique door in worse shape than the ones I examined. “I doubt anyone buys a rusty horseshoe, either.”