Shultz Bros. had leased the Coleman pasture, about twelve miles north of Weatherford, and I was going out there to check around on the cattle and come back that night or the next morning. I had tied my horse to the telephone pole on the east side of Huddleston’s Drugstore, which was next door to the old Texas Café. The old Texas Café was a landmark in Weatherford that they had lost the key to. It had stood open day and night to all comers for more than thirty years. It was operated by Mr. Patrick and his son, Byron Patrick, and twenty-four hours of the day one or the other of them was there on duty. This was the meeting place for everybody, whether they were leaving early or coming in late, and I had stopped by for an early breakfast. Little Pat had turned in my order for ham and eggs and hot biscuits. Nobody could ever have rightfully complained about the hospitality, the grub, or the atmosphere of the Texas Café. They had big stoves in the back corner and the front corner in the wintertime for their paying and nonpaying customers alike, and in the summertime there were big fans blowing outside from the kitchen and big fans blowing up in the front and ceiling fans swinging in the door and from the ceiling.
