Mose Dickerson has some deservin'
He drove up beside me while I was out walking my pooch and handed me a fistful of mail.
"You got yer bank overdraft notice there," he said through the open window of his 1936 Chevy coupe, the black paint sun bleached, "a sales circular from Farm & Fleet you oughtta read—some real good deals there—an' a note from yer granddaughter in California."
I stared at the driver. "Mose?" I asked.
"You were expectin' maybe somebody else?"
"Yeah, my regular mailman."
"She's out sick. I asked for her route because we gotta talk."
"Why?"
Mose Dickerson horsed himself out of his car. With an effort, he parked his butt against the front fender and folded his arms across his chest.
"You left me outta yer next James Early book. Why'd you do that?"
I studied the second envelope. "How'd you know this was from Maggie? She didn't put her name on this."
"I read the letter."
"Oh, come on, Mose."
"How else you expect me to keep up on what's going on with yer family? The girl says she's havin' a good time working for that Craig Ferguson fella, she's got herself a new apartment, an' she's coming home next month for a visit."
"I guess I don't have to open the envelope then."
"I saved you time. Now to you leavin' me outta yer next book."
I sized up the hurt look in the old man's eyes. "I'm sorry," I said. "In that book Early's off chasing cattle rustlers."
"I know, an' I should be there helping him. I got me a badge."
"Of course, you do. I gave it to you in the first book, when I made you the constable of Leonardville. But, Mose, with your bum leg, you can't ride a horse."
"I could drive one of them semis for the rustlers."
"I didn't know you could drive a big rig."
"Well, how-de-do. If you'da writ up all my backstory, you woulda. I drove 'em in the war."
"You did?"
"What kinda writer are you anyways? You don't know very much about me, do ya?"
"Well, none of this ever came up."
"Now it has. I want you to write me in that book. I wanna help Jimmy, and you know he's gonna need help. The bad guys have got the drop on him."
"How do you know that? I just wrote that scene this morning."
"See? I told you it's not too late. You kin write me in there, an' I can save my friend. I come in on them boys with my shotgun, an' it's all over for 'em."
"I'll consider it."
Anger flashed in Mose Dickerson's eyes. "Consider it? What do I gotta do to you, boy, whup you?"
© Jerry Peterson.
