At least that’s the way the scene looked to Deputy Chavez, who admired Gary Larson’s Far Side cartoons. “All this one needs,” Bernardo Chavez said, “is a palm tree and a duck.” A dust devil swirled across the baseline and chalk powdered the deputy’s Nocona boots. The Toro motored toward home plate, coughing like an aged DH. Then the rampaging mower suddenly changed course, and the trio of flashlights duct-taped to its chassis illuminated Dennis Wichita. “C’mon, Nardo!” Wichita’s expression melted from simple concern to full-bore hysteria. “Jesus H. Christ, c’mon!” The deputy’s fingers danced over the grip of his .357. The Toro had red fenders and a blue body, a custom paint-job that left little doubt in Nardo’s mind as to the identity of the mower’s owner. But reason reared its ugly head, and his gun remained in its holster. Nardo didn’t want to piss off Letty, though a dead mower would serve Bill right for putting a relative through this kind of grief on the third watch.
