The Farmer's Son

Chapter 1 Once More onto the Breech

An expanse of cloudy sky stretched from horizon to horizon, the grey dome curving down to meet lands now waking from its winter sleep. After the last frost and before the first blushes of spring, changing winds swept across the heartland, signaling the start of the planting season.

Ray Steele blew into town on that wind. Actually, he arrived by bus around one-thirty in the afternoon on a Tuesday, on the thin road of dusty grey asphalt that snaked through the fields. A faded brown cowboy hat pulled low over his eyes, he watched through the grimy windows at the great swaths of brown land, farmers on tractors, plows digging the thawed earth, fields freshly turned, all in preparation for the first seeding. It was a landscape of grueling labor, the beginning of the food supply, the country's backbone.

The bus finally left the fields behind and entered paved streets with weathered street signs and even more weathered buildings. Ray took a deep breath and let it out his nose. "Once more unto the breech," he said to himself.

When the bus rumbled to a stop in front of a row of squat buildings, Ray was the only one who got off, his old, worn, olive colored duffle bag in hand. Some trucks and cars lined the street, and the few people out stared openly at him. He tipped his hat to them, but they did not return the politeness. Unfazed by their unfriendliness, he glanced up and down the pavement, which at this time of day, was almost empty.

A cold wind blew up the street, sending dust and the smell of fertilizer into his face. He turned his back to it, holding his hat down with one hand, his open denim jacket fluttering around him. As he looked up, his gaze landed on an auto repair shop across the street, between a feed store and a hardware store, with a faded red and white sign that said SAL'S. He needed information—and money—and what better place to get it. Glancing left and right, he crossed the barren street towards the open doors of a garage.

Out from the sudden brightness of the day, Ray's eyes took a moment to adjust to the gloom inside. Once it did, he could see two bays, one with a bright red pickup truck, and the other with a station wagon hoisted up to the ceiling. The strong smell of oil and gasoline hit his nose.

"Help you, son?" came a gruff voice, as an older man in grease-stained blue overalls ducked under the station wagon towards him. He wore a faded blue baseball cap and had an unlit cigar between his lips. Underneath the bill of his cap, bushy grey brows furrowed above small, squinting eyes. This was Sal.

"Morning, sir," Ray said, his voice deep and respectful. He held out a hand. "My name is Ray Steele. I was wondering if you needed an extra hand. I'm real good with any kind of engine."

The man took his hand silently, his face giving nothing away as Ray spoke. When he withdrew his hand, he tucked it into the top of his overalls. "You sound northern," the man said. "You a drifter?"

"I'm an explorer," Ray said, smiling and revealing dimples in both cheeks.

That didn't seem to impress the man. "You a cowboy?" he asked, his brows furrowing even more as he looked pointedly at the hat on Ray's head.

"I go where the work is, sir."

The man grunted, and Ray didn't know if that was a good thing or not. The small, squinting eyes scrutinized him for a long time, then the man turned away. "I don't have need of you," he said, not unpleasantly. "Try next door."

Once again unfazed by the brush off, Ray tipped his hat to the man. "Thank you for your time, sir. Oh," he added, as if he just thought about it. "You wouldn't, by any chance, know of a man by the name of Joel Wicker?"

"Never heard of him," Sal said, his eyes, if possible, squinting even more.

Ray took a breath, then with another smile and a tip of his hat, he turned to leave. But next door, and the door after that, and all the other doors, shut in his face. At the height of planting season, it seemed no one was hiring.