Colebreak, Kansas, lay in the southwest corner of the state. The three-story courthouse was the tallest building in town. It provided a core to the tiny hamlet around which clustered half a dozen stores. The only tree to speak of was in the front of the courthouse building and the bench under it provided a meeting place for whittlers to cut and chew and trade lies on Saturdays while their wives did the shopping. The population of the town itself was 250.
Three men sat on the bench Jack Grogan and Dewey Winthrop were playing checkers, the board laid out between them. The third man, Hiram Johnson, was carving a whistle out of a tree branch for his grandson. It was a Thursday. Armistice Day. Uncommonly hot for November, the temperature pushing 85 degrees. The town was almost deserted.
“Must be the holiday,” Grogan said. “Everybody’s at home or gone to a parade som’ere’s.”
“You hear?” Hiram answered. “They canceled the parade over to Lippencott.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Sand blizzard. They say it’s worse’n that winter fog three years ago. Can’t see a foot in front of yuh.”
“Who says that? Harvey Logan, bet.”
“Right, was ol’ Harve.”
“Shit, you can’t believe a word he says,” said Grogan. “He’ll stand in the rain n’tell you the sun’s shinin’.”
“All I know, they canceled the parade. All them vets over there in their overseas caps with their medals pinned on and the high school band and all went in the auditorium over to the school t’wait it out.”
“If it’s like over in Tulsa last summer, it ain’t gonna blow over,” said Dewey. He pursed his lips and a black streak of tobacco juice squirted into the grass.
“1 heard they had a black blizzard so bad it turned day to night in Chicago,” Hiram said.
“Yeah,” Dewey chimed in. “Read in the papers they could see it in Albany, New York. New
“Aw hell, Hiram, you don’t believe that, do you?”
“Papers don’t lie.”
“Sez who?”
“Not about somethin’ like that they don’t.”
“Shit.”
They saw the LaSalle a mile away as it came down the flat highway toward them, churning up dust behind it. It looked yellow from a distance but as it drew closer they could see the car was pale blue, its paint covered by a thick cake of dust. The car pulled into town and stopped at the square. The driver, his tie pulled down from an open collar and his shirtsleeves rolled up, got out and brushed dust off his pants. Sweat stains spread down under his arms almost to his waist.
The driver pulled his shirt away from his sweaty chest and strolled over to the Pepsi machine in the vestibule of the courthouse and dropped a nickel in.
“Sure hot for November,” he offered.
Hiram nodded.
The drummer took a deep swig from the bottle and swished the fizzing cola around in his mouth before swallowing it.
“Whatcha sellin’?” Grogan asked.
“Ladies’ wear,” the tall man said with a smile. “Not doin’ too well, either.”
“Seen any dust?”
“Everywhere. Not like what they had south of here yesterday but I’ll tell you, I had to close up m’windows and I damn near fainted from the heat. Dust just seeped right through around the windows. Hell of a note.”
He shook his head and took another swig.
“Where you from?” Hiram asked.
“St. Louis.”
“Long way from home.”
“Well, it takes a big territory and a lot of travelin’ to make a livin’ these days.”
“I heard you say that, all rightee,” Grogan agreed. “Nice car.”
“Was before I hit that wind yesterday. Look here, like sandpaper. Took the finish off m’hood.”
He wiped his hand across the front of the car, sweeping a small dune of dust into the air. It was just as he said, the blue paint was nearly sanded off.
“Damn, would yuh look at that,” Grogan said.
“Where you headed?”
“Thought I’d make Lippencott and spend the night. I forgot it was a holiday t’day.”
“F’get it,” said Grogan shaking his head.
