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Unformatted text preview: s the mail route stopped and so did the gravel. When I saw a "rusted-out Massey Ferguson tractor with no tires," I turned left onto a dirt road. His crude map referred to it as a pig trail, though I had never seen one of those. After the pig trail disappeared into a dense forest, I gave serious thought to turning back@. My Spitfire wasn't designed for the terrain. By the time I saw the roof of his cabin, I'd been driving for forty-five minutes. There was a barbed-wire fence with an open metal gate, and I stopped there because the young man with the shotgun wanted me to. He kept it on his shoulder as he looked scornfully at my car. "What kind is it?" he grunted. "Triumph Spitfire. It's British." I was smiling, trying not to offend him. Why did a goat party need armed security? He had the rustic look of someone who'd never seen a car made in another country. "What's your name?" he asked. "Willie Traynor." I think the "Willie" made him feel better, so he nodded at the gate. "Nice car," he said as I drove through. The pickup trucks outnumbered the cars. Parking was haphazard in a field in front of the cabin. Merle Haggard was wailing from two speakers placed in the windows. One group of guests huddled over a pit where smoke was rising and the goat was roasting. Another group was tossing horseshoes beside the cabin. Three well-dressed ladies were on the porch, sipping something that was certainly not beer. Harry Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html Rex appeared and greeted me warmly. "Who's the boy with the shotgun?" I asked. "Oh him. That's Duffy, my first wife's nephew." "Why is he out there?" If the goat party included something illegal, I at least wanted some notice. "Don't worry. Duffy ain't all there, and the gun ain't loaded. He's been guardin' nothin' for years." I smiled as if this made perfect sense. He guided me to the p...
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- Spring '10