'Put the money back in the bag; you don't need to keep counting it.'�
'Sorry, man, but I still can't believe how much these yokels keep on hand. You were right; this is wa-a-ay better than knocking off convenience stores in St. Louis.'�
Adam Lake was starting to lose patience with his brother but he couldn't think of anyone else he would have as a partner. He turned from watching the road for a moment to peer at Jake over the top of his sunglasses. 'Do me a favor,'� he said, 'and quit being amazed. Put the bag under the seat and get ready, 'cause we only have a couple more miles to go until we get to the next town I want to hit today. We'll do one more tomorrow and then head into Oklahoma.'�
'Cool, bro. No prob'.'� Jake obliged his brother then ejected the clip from his pistol, checking the ammo level. He'd had to use a couple rounds at the last place ' the owner hadn't been very cooperative. 'This is gonna be another cakewalk,'� he said as he slid the clip back into place.
Adam smiled as he pushed the gas pedal of the vintage '72 Chevy just a little harder, dropping his hand to the seat to check the position of his gun. It was getting late and he knew these little towns rolled up the sidewalks about eight o'clock. He wanted to be in, out, and gone before that.



* * *



Herb Watson put down his whittling and pulled his six-foot-six-inch frame up from the old wooden rocking chair on the porch of the general store. Hands in the pockets of his dirty, sweat-stained overalls, the old man ambled down to the gas pumps in front of the building, passing the sun-glassed youth that had gotten out of the passenger side of the shiny black Chevy Malibu. He wasn't worried about Vern; he knew Vern could handle anything that would happen. He slowly slid up to the driver's door, hands still in his pockets, sharp eyes sizing up the young man behind the wheel.
'Can ah-h-h he'p you, son?'�
'Yeah, I need the tank topped off.'�
'Uh-huh. An' y'all wouldn' have any plans for usin' that pea-shooter on the seat next to ya, wouldja?'�
Adam's jaw dropped ' he thought he had the pistol close enough to his leg that the old man wouldn't notice.
'Uh, uh, no, sir. I just have this for . . .'�
BOOM! BOOM!
Herb brought his left fist out of his overalls pocket and slammed it into the side of the punk's face, knocking him unconscious before he could bring the gun into play.
'Uh-huh. Kinda what I figger'd.'�
Vern Joplin came out of the store carrying his still-smoking shotgun. 'Ev'rthin okay, out here, Herb?'�
'Yep.'�
'What're we gonna do now?'�
'Take these yahoos out to my place. I got a backhoe, y' know. Head over to the café and get Jimmy an' Claude. They can give us a hand.'�



* * *




Herb Watson was sitting in his rocking chair, contentedly whittling when Sheriff Colter stopped at the general store.
'Heard there was a bit of a ruckus here yesterday, Herb. Care to tell me about it?'�
'Nothin' much to tell, Sheriff. Couple o' city kids come by an' tried to bust up the place, but they didn't get far. Headed west outta town when they left.'�
The Sheriff raised an eyebrow. 'Uh-huh. They wasn't drivin' a black Chevy, was they?'�
Herb stopped his whittling, tilted his face toward the sky, and thought for a minute. 'Ya know, Sheriff, I jus' don't recall what kinda rig they was drivin'.'�
'Uh-huh. Well, if you see two boys in a black Chevy, you'll let me know, right? They're wanted for robbery and murder over in Franklin.'�
'Yep. You'll be the first to know, Sheriff,'� and with that Herb Watson resumed his whittling, whistling a little tune.


Copyright 2006 L.D.Porter All rights reserved.

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