The land climbs as you go down US 67. I wasn’t sorry to get away from Fort Stockton, not even a little bit. I saw more ditchside shanties while we were on the irrigated land around the town. Had any of the peons who lived in them scraped together fifty cents to watch the Panthers play us? Had they yelled their heads off when fireplug José hit that one out of sight? I sure would have, in their shoes … if they had shoes. We got back into ranching country pretty quick. Signs along the side of the road said WATCH OUT FOR CATTLE. Every few miles, though, you’d see a dead cow on the shoulders. Sometimes buzzards flapped up from one when the bus roared by. Sometimes they’d be too busy chowing down, and didn’t bother. I saw a truck and a car that had taken a beating, too. Cows always lose when they get hit on the highway. But they can let your old DeSoto know it’s been in a brawl. Green mountains rose, off in the distance. We got closer and closer to them. Then we got in amongst ’em.
