The Legend of Bucket Smith
Johnny Sylvester took out a pack of Camel cigarettes from his shirt pocket, cut open the top of the pack, banged the packet on his desk, and continued to light up. He threw the rest of the pack on his desk and muttered to himself, “God awful habit.”
He was 68 years old, and smoking was one of those habits he couldn’t break; the other was the whiskey...loved the Jim Beam about as much as the Camels.
It was the end of the day. Sylvester owned a crop-dusting business on the outskirts of Phoenix. A former airline pilot, Sylvester owned enough land east of Goodyear to have a runway big enough to accommodate a couple of his overworked Cessnas and big enough to land and take off his big baby, a nine-passenger Beechcraft Queen Air.
When talking about the old Beechcraft, he’d tell anyone who’d listen, “The darn thing goes through a lot of oil, but on a clear day, I can gas her up and make it to San Diego.”
Sylvester was ready to close up shop when two men entered his office. The crop duster knew he was in trouble. “What can I do for you fellas?”
“Plenty!”
*****
The isolated ranch in the hills behind the small town of Mayer wasn’t much to look at. Santiago had paid an old woman $2,000... no questions asked. He felt good about the woman. She lived in Sedona, and Santiago had a connection who had a connection and put him in touch with her.
With the money safe in her hand, she advised Santiago how to get to the ranch and how he could find the keys to the place, hidden in a box, in a hole, at the base of the big Saguaro — just to the left of the corral. “I’ll have the electricity turned on by the time you get there.”
As for his six cronies, they hated it.
Razor Head Jackson was the most vocal about it. “Is this the best you can do?”
“Deal with it, Jackson,” said a very annoyed Santiago. “Three of you can sleep in the bunkhouse out back, and there are three bedrooms and a den in here. We’ll hit the road early Saturday, and if we’re lucky, this business will all be behind us by high noon.”
“I’m all for that,” said Judd Snyder, the youngest man of the six. “I’ll check out the bunkhouse.”
“Good. There are a couple of coolers in the jeep full of beer. Why don’t the rest of you figure out where you want to bed down? We’ll have a few beers, get some shut-eye, and in the morning, we’ll go over the plan one more time.”
Santiago grabbed his briefcase and set up shop in the den. He opened the suitcase and spread a handful of maps on the table. He took a deep breath, sat down, and began to dream of Costa Rica.
He figured Razor Head would be the toughest one to deal with, and the young one, Judd, wouldn’t be a problem. As for the other four — Jimmy McBride, Chester Owens, Kip Wells, and Billy Bob Sorenson, he hadn’t quite got a handle on them yet.
He figured they’d get the job done. The poor souls knew if they followed through and completed the job, the money would be waiting for them. They each had a key to a locker at a train station in San Diego — their money safely tucked away inside, wrapped in paper bags — their reward for their part in the attack on Cordes Junction.
The day had gone as planned; Santiago had found his way to the ranch. He had the rear of the Jeep loaded with two large golf bags. When Santiago hit the highway, he figured no one would give him a second look. He looked like some old-timer on his way to a golf outing. Little did they know what was hidden beneath the sawed-off clubs.
Surprisingly, the six men showed up on time. The three vans were already hidden in the barn — all loaded and ready for action.
Two hours later, all the beer was gone, and everyone was asleep — except Santiago. He stared out the window and into the night sky. There were those words again, “I’m the only one left.”
The next day was uneventful for Bucket and Stoney Johnson.
Quiet, too quiet. Stoney had sent Alexandra and the girls on their way. They should be halfway to Flagstaff by now, he thought. His cowhands were in place — some on horseback, watching over the area along I-17 and the entrance to the ranch, while others were hidden from sight inside the compound.
Bucket was spending his Friday evening at home with Julia. It was quiet around Cherry Farms, except for the sounds three miles away — just outside the eastern end of his property, where he could hear the dragsters revving up their engines.
The teenagers needed somewhere to go on a Friday night. It was noisy for a couple of hours, and then the kids would pack up and head back to town. The old drag strip was about three-quarters of a mile long, built by Cory Wilkerson in the early 1950s.
Wilkerson owned the local auto parts store and had visions of making the property into a Speedway — complete with enough bleachers to accommodate all the racing fans of Cordes Junction.
Wilkerson got the strip completed but passed away a month later from a heart attack. His son, Cody, took over the auto parts store, but apart from ramrodding the Friday Night Run — as he called it, there were no plans to continue his father’s dream. Times were tough, and Cody could barely keep his business afloat.
“The dragsters are quiet tonight. Must not be a lot of races,” Bucket said.
Julia didn’t mind the noise. It was too quiet...too calm for her.
Bucket and Julia were more concerned about what was happening to the west of them, west of Cherry Farms Road.
“Have you seen Freddie today?”
“Saw him early this morning, but he’s out there with his men.
We’re well covered.”
Bucket turned up his radio to clear the static on his emergency channel. “This all may be a false alarm; maybe Freddie has it all wrong, and Santiago is gone...out of the country for good. He certainly has enough backing in the crime world to make that happen.”
“I wish he were gone for good!”
“So do I,” Bucket said, knowing his confrontation with Santiago Malfonso was inevitable. “I’m going to leave you this old radio. It’s going to be a hectic weekend, and if you see or hear anything unusual, you call me right away.”
“You’re making me nervous, Bucket.”
*****
Friday dragged on for Santiago and his men. They spent the morning reviewing the plans, and in the afternoon, they cleaned their rifles and sidearms and checked their ammunition. They had an arsenal and, in the bed of each van, enough explosives to set the main street of Cordes Junction on fire.
The day of the attack couldn’t come soon enough for Santiago.
He was ready to unleash his new gang on the town of Cordes Junction. Jackson was the worst of the bunch, all right, no doubt about it, but the others weren’t too far behind.
Jimmy McBride was Tennessee-born, bald, and had tattoos covering most of his body. When he spoke, he had a southern drawl, and Santiago was constantly having him repeat his sentences. Lucky for Santiago, McBride didn’t say a lot. Instead, he sat in a chair and cracked his knuckles, smiling constantly as if he were the only one in the world who could perform such a feat.
Chester Owens and Kip Wells were cousins, and Santiago couldn’t tell whether they liked each other or not. The two men grew up in Portland, Oregon, and spent the better part of their lives in and out of the slammer. They certainly didn’t look alike. Owens was tall and lanky, while Wells was short and stocky. They both had the same eyes, though - dark blue, yet creepy. Santiago figured those two could just as easily slit your throat. Giving them a couple of sawed-off shotguns seemed a bit of an overkill.
Santiago took a liking to Judd and Billy Bob. Judd was a young man who was born on the wrong side of the tracks, jumped a train one day, and never looked back. The boy had potential. Judd had been told what to do for so long, beaten to a pulp by so many, and thrown to the wolves so many times, and now it was time for payback, and he didn’t care who was in front of him...they’d better move. As for Billy Bob, he was just a big old country boy. Put a baseball bat in his hands, and he’d turn it into sawdust.
A group of misfits, all of them with nothing to lose...but their lives.
*****
Johnny Sylvester sat crumpled up in a chair in the corner of his office. He had been beaten. The left side of his face was covered in blood. He couldn’t take much more, but he was still thinking clearly. What they were asking him to do was possible, but it was also dangerous. He figured if he’d agree with their plan, there’d be a chance...a slight chance he might come out of this alive.
He was an old man...too old to go up against these goons. They were both dressed in a suit and tie, and they both went to great lengths to keep Johnny’s blood off their clothing. The two men returned to the room and propped the crop duster up in his chair.
“Okay, I’ll do it.”
The man with the brass knuckles on his right hand turned to his partner and said, “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
*****
Bucket had tried his best to console Julia. He tried his best to make the evening as normal as possible. He’d be leaving before sunup. He’d meet up with Wanda, the Simpson brothers, and Freddie Greathouse at his office, one final preparation for the weekend. He had a skeleton crew. He knew that Santiago was predictable, just like his brothers; they’d attack out in the open.
Greathouse’s men were focusing on the area near Stoney’s ranch, and it would be up to Freddie and the Simpson brothers to guard the entrance to town and a 10-mile stretch on I-17, north and south of the Cordes Junction off-ramp.
Wanda would stay put in the office, and Bucket would patrol the streets of Cordes Junction. Chances are, Santiago was counting on the element of surprise — but Bucket had planned his defense. Bucket had met with the town leaders earlier in the week. The businesses along Main Street were closed for the next forty-eight hours, and most of them were closed anyway until Monday.
Bucket would worry about Monday on Monday.
Sure, there was a lot of squabbling among the business owners — especially the few who usually would have an “open for business” sign in their front window, but it didn’t take much talking to convince them that their lives were at stake. Bucket was ready for another all-out battle.
*****
Santiago had done his homework. He had acquired the most recent maps for central Arizona. He had found an old mining trail. The location: just five hundred yards north of the rental — the rental he now shared with six men. The trail led east to a dry wash that curved north under an underpass and then continued south to the New River Mountains.
Santiago and five of his men wouldn’t be going that far. They would make a detour just four miles south of Cordes Junction and stop by a transformer substation along the way. Santiago would detonate the first of his explosives. The power outage that followed in Cordes Junction would undoubtedly get the attention of Sheriff Bucket Smith. Before this, Bucket Smith had a chance to react, Main Street would be in flames.
Santiago would attack all right — right down the center of Main Street...his final destination: the Sheriff’s office.
The young Snyder would be taking a different route. A little bit of paint and his artistic talents left both sides of his van with the words Cottonwood Cable Company. By the time the authorities along the highway discovered the company didn’t exist, the young killer, who hated the world and everybody in it, would crash through the gate at the Johnson ranch — looking for one man and one man alone, the man with an S.J. on his belt buckle.
All along, Santiago’s main target wasn’t Johnson, but it was Bucket Smith — the son of Herman Smith, the man who had caused the Malfonso family grief for more than half a century.
If Santiago survived the battle and if any of his men made it out alive, they’d roll out of town and head down Clay Road, turn on Cherry Farms Road, and high tail it down a seldom-used country road that led to a drag strip out in the middle of nowhere.
There, a plane would be waiting for them — they’d board and soar to freedom — leaving behind a smoldering town below.
Bucket had done all he could to prepare for what was coming next. It was four o’clock when he arrived at his office. Julia was safe. She had her orders. “Stay put. Keep the radio turned to my frequency.”
The businesses had been warned. Main Street was in lockdown. Freddie had half of his men patrolling the interstate and the remaining men focusing on the Johnson ranch. The Simpson brothers had the entrance to town covered, and Bucket was third on the pecking order — protecting the streets of downtown Cordes Junction.
Maybe it would all be for nothing. Maybe, just maybe, he’d get a report this morning that Santiago had been found — captured, handcuffed, and taken into custody as he tried to make his escape through the easy-to-get-to border towns — like Nogales...maybe El Paso to the east, or perhaps he fled to southern California and vanished among the millions of people in Los Angeles or San Diego. There was a report last week that he’d been spotted in Kingman, and another report came in that he’d been seen at a gas station on the west side of Yuma — all false alarms.
Santiago was coming to town, seeking nothing more than revenge — payback for what Bucket’s father and his mother had done to the Malfonso family. Bucket just wasn’t sure when, but he was prepared nonetheless. An inconvenience for the people of Cordes Junction, for sure, but the alternative — the loss of human lives — made it a no-brainer.
The clock was ticking, and Bucket’s intuition was telling him Santiago was close.
It wasn’t too long ago when Sergeant Theodore “Bucket” Smith sat in a foxhole in Vietnam, preparing for an attack, an attack on his platoon — an attack that would take the lives of many of his men. Bucket never fired another shot in Vietnam — never fought another battle.
Bucket returned from the war wounded and a mess mentally, but confident in the fact that he’d raised his weapon for the last time. He was sadly mistaken.
*****
Snyder was a loner.
The fewer people around him, the better. The last few days with his new bunkmates had driven him up a wall. Santiago, on the other hand, had been good to him. Snyder was elated when his boss offered him the side job — take out Johnson and then escape by whatever means possible.
He’d have to improvise.
If he made it out alive, Snyder would head north to Flagstaff. He’d make his way downtown to the train station. Santiago had given him a different key — a key to a locker that contained his cut and his ticket to somewhere. He would be free with enough green stuff to last him a while...and he’d be alone, just the way he liked it.
Snyder had been on the road for a couple of hours. He had backtracked west to Prescott Valley, turned north on Highway 69, took the cutoff onto Highway 169, and curled his way back to the interstate and within a mile of the entrance to the Johnson Ranch. He pulled over, checked his two handguns, and reached for the rifle and sawed-off shotgun in the back of the van.
He was ready. He prepared himself mentally. Images of the faces of all of those so-called human beings who had done him wrong flashed in front of him. His anger turned to rage.
He floored the gas pedal.
Snyder hit the on-ramp to I-17, and five minutes later, he reached the ranch gate. He didn’t bother to knock as he blasted through the entrance, heading directly for the Johnson compound.
A bullet shattered the back window of the van. Snyder glanced back and saw a Palomino, the rider atop the saddle with a rifle in his hand, preparing for another shot.
Snyder made a quick adjustment. He turned the steering wheel to the right, and the next shot blasted through the front windshield. Snyder regained control of the van and sped away, now within one-half a mile of the ranch.
Foreman Dusty Rhodes reached for his radio, “They’re attacking, Stoney...they’re attacking. It’s just one van. Can’t see how many are inside, but they’ve broken through the gate. They’re just minutes from you.”
Snyder looked back through his shattered back window. He saw the lights of three cars bearing down on him. “My God. They’ve been waiting for me.”
With blood running down the side of his face and the tip of a six-inch piece of glass lodged in his neck, he knew he had been had. He screamed as he realized he was no more than a decoy for Santiago. His fiery entrance to the Johnson ranch was anything but a surprise.
Up ahead, he could see the figure of a tall man with a rifle in his hand. There were two men — one on each side of him, armed with shotguns. Snyder pulled the piece of glass from his neck, grabbed the gun, and locked it into the steering wheel. With both hands free, he grabbed both pistols and fired through the space in the windshield.
Stoney and his cowhands returned fire. The last thing Snyder saw was Stoney’s belt buckle.
Bullets riddled the front of the van. The vehicle rolled to the right, turned over on its side, and crashed into a wagon loaded with bales of hay. The hay caught fire, and Snyder’s van exploded.
Three late-model sedans pulled into the compound. Three men jumped out of the vehicles and ran toward Johnson. “That was easy enough,” surmised one of the FBI men. They all looked to the south and saw the smoke coming from the power plant in Cordes Junction.
“We’re not the target,” Stoney said with genuine concern on his face. Somebody get a call into Bucket...he’s about to have company.”
The route Santiago and his men took to the transformer substation was a rough one — potholes everywhere — cactus, rocks, everything you’d find on the desert floor; the wash was sandy with plenty of soft spots to slow them down, the embankment out of the wash was no picnic either, but somehow, someway they reached the power plant and planted the first device.
Santiago set the alarm, and by the time the two vans were within a mile of the southern end of Cordes Junction, the homemade bomb had exploded, sending trails of fire and black smoke into the air.
Bucket, Wanda, and Freddie Greenhouse stood on the courthouse steps. Freddie was in contact with the man who had been in charge of the surveillance out at the Johnson ranch. “The ranch was hit. One bad guy down...he was alone...everyone is in one piece here, but it looks like Cordes Junction is the main target. We’re heading your way, but we’re pretty far out.”
Freddie lowered his phone. “Santiago is here!”
Bucket radioed the Simpson boys. “Matt and Mark, I need your cruisers here, pronto!”
“We’re on our way!”
“Wanda, get your vehicle. I’ll grab mine. We’ll set up a wall of vehicles at the corner of First Avenue and Main. The plant access road turns into First Avenue. They have to come right at us.”
“I’m with you, buddy,” Freddie said.
“Wanda, help us get all the remaining rifles and ammo out of the office, and then I want you to get your butt off the street. Do you hear me, Wanda?”
“Yes, Bucket. I hear you.”
Bucket glanced at his watch. It was seven o’clock, and the sun was making its first appearance of the day, rising...slowly over the buildings just east of town. The smoke from the power plant curled its way into town. The traffic lights were out. Cordes Junction was without power.
The vehicles were in place. What guns and ammo they had left were handed out. The Simpson brothers, Freddie Greathouse, and Wanda, prepared for battle.
“Wanda, I thought I told you...”
“There’s no time,” Wanda shouted as she pointed up First Avenue.
The two vans roared into town. Four armed men jumped out of the back of the vans as the two drivers headed directly for Bucket’s wall of vehicles. Bucket, Freddie, and the Simpson brothers opened fire.
The two drivers, Wells and Owens, were hit instantly and lost control of their vans.
The Wells van rolled four times and slid through the front entrance of the Johnson hardware store...exploding and setting off two more explosions — causing the two businesses to the west of the hardware store, Alice’s Cafe and the Cordes Auto Parts, to go up in flames.
The Owens’ van plowed into the roadblock and was sent airborne, sliding on its side down Main Street.
Owens, still alive, tried his best to get out of the vehicle. He screamed as the flames overtook the cab, and the van exploded.
Sorenson and McBride found a haven on the east wall of the Valley National Bank, while Jackson made a run for it and hid in the alley next to the Randall Drug Store.
Freddie’s men had arrived, and they scattered in all directions in hopes of surrounding the attackers. Bucket caught a glimpse of Sorenson as he made a move to cross over to Main Street and fired one shot, hitting the big man just above his right knee.
McBride followed, and Freddie put two shots in the chest of the second man. The two men yelled and charged toward what was left of the barricade as Bucket and Freddie unleashed another ray of bullets their way.
The two men fell to their knees, looked toward the morning sun, and collapsed in the center of Main Street.
Shots rang out behind the drugstore, and Razor Head Jackson found himself in a gun battle with two FBI agents — he wounded one, but his rifle jammed, and he was hit by another ray of bullets. He fell against a wall, his head dropped, and a broken necklace with a key attached fell to the ground — a key, which a few hours ago had been his key to freedom.
Bucket turned around. He looked up Main Street and up First Avenue. He surveyed the damage. He turned around and yelled, “Where’s Santiago?”
“I’m right here, Sheriff Bucket Smith. I’m right here.”
Malfonso had control of Wanda. His left forearm squeezed against her neck. “Now, I want you to slowly drop your gun to the ground, and I want you to make sure your men and whoever these dudes in their black suits and ties are to drop their weapons, too.”
“Move them all out of here. Then I want you to get your cruiser, and the three of us are going for a ride. Anybody follows us, and this little deputy of yours gets it first. Do you understand?”
Bucket slowly dropped his gun and his rifle to the ground and slid both of them toward Santiago.
“I understand.”
Bucket reached his cruiser, turned on the engine, and backed the vehicle slowly toward Santiago and Wanda.
“Matt and Mark get everybody back. Give us some room, and no one is to follow us.”
The cruiser sped away. Bucket looked through the rearview mirror. Santiago sat in the backseat with the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun pointed right at Wanda’s head.
Bucket turned the cruiser around and headed down Clay Road.
“Oh, and Mr. Smith, make a turn at Cherry Farms Road.”
The Simpson brothers and Freddie Greathouse had survived the battle. Luckily, the only injury was to one FBI agent, who took a bullet to his right shoulder on a shotgun blast from Razor Head Jackson.
They all stood, with their weapons at their side, and watched Bucket’s cruiser head down Clay Road. The Simpson Brothers knew full well there was no way out for Malfonso — the only way out of Cordes Junction was to the west, and he would need to double back and take one of the side streets and hook up with I-17 unless he had another plan in place.
The men heard the sound of a vehicle entering Main Street from the west. Suddenly, a Willys Jeep rolled to a stop, and Stoney Johnson exited the vehicle and ran over to the edge of the barricade.
“What’s going on?” yelled Stoney.
“Malfonso escaped, and he’s taken Bucket and Wanda hostage,” answered Freddie. “They sped off in Bucket’s cruiser. Bucket said to stay back, or Santiago would kill them both.”
“My God! There’s nothing out there but a 10-mile stretch down Cherry Farms Road. Where are they going? Where’s the rest of Malfonso’s men?”
“We got ‘em all, Stoney...they’re all dead,” Matt said.
“You can add one more to the list. There’s a dead man back at the ranch.”
“Mark said, “We can’t just stand here. We gotta do something!”
Greathouse made a decision. “Let’s get two of my men up here. Let’s take two of our cars, and we’ll follow them and stay out of sight. Looks like the fire department has things under control here.”
Stoney turned and, for the first time, realized his hardware store was gone, and the buildings along the entire block were smoldering. “We can always rebuild, but it’s the lives of Bucket and Wanda I’m concerned about…and Julia! My God, she’s out at the house at the end of Cherry Farms Road.”
Bucket tried his best to keep his cruiser in a straight line. He looked through the rearview mirror and watched Malfonso continue to push the barrel of the shotgun deeper into Wanda’s neck. She continued to call out, “Please don’t hurt me.”
“Hurt you. I need to keep you alive. You’re my ticket out of here, along with the other filly at the end of this road.”
Bucket’s worst fear. Malfonso knew everything. Bucket turned onto Cherry Farms Road. He floored the gas pedal.
“There’s no way I’m handing over Julia to you!”
“We’ll see about that,” yelled Malfonso as he eased up his hold on Wanda, and with his right hand, he grabbed a hold of Bucket’s shirt collar. Wanda, realizing this was her chance, raised her right leg and, with all the force she could muster, kicked the shotgun away.
“Damn you!” Santiago said as he reached down to regain his weapon. Bucket quickly turned the wheel sharply to the right.
The cruiser rolled over once, twice — the back window shattered, and Wanda was ejected as the vehicle began to spin upside down, with Bucket and Malfonso battling for the shotgun.
Bucket broke free and pounded his right fist into the side of Malfonso’s head...once...twice...three times. Bucket grabbed the shotgun and threw it out the side window. The engine caught fire, and Bucket had just seconds to pull his body through the rear window, broken glass tearing into his skin as he eased his way out of the vehicle.
The heat was unbearable as Bucket got to his feet, ran ten yards, and vaulted into the air. The cruiser exploded for the second time, and flames shot out in all directions.
The last of the Malfonso brothers was trapped — unable to escape the burning wreckage.
“Bucket, are you alright?”
“I’m okay. I’m okay, are you alright, Wanda?”
“I’m alive, Bucket...I’m alive. How did we survive?”
“I don’t know, Wanda. It just wasn’t our time.”
Bucket looked past the burning squad car, desperately trying to get his bearings. He was just one hundred yards from the entrance to his farmhouse. He could see a figure running toward him. His eyes blurry, he began to focus as Julia bolted into his arms.
“Bucket, you’re alive!”
Two vehicles rolled to a stop. Stoney Johnson, Freddie Greathouse, and four FBI agents emerged from the vehicles. Freddie reached the wreckage first, turned to Bucket, and said, “Old buddy, the stuff you get yourself into!”
Bucket looked to the south. “Quiet. Listen!”
A plane, the engines sputtering, suddenly appeared and headed directly for the giant oak tree in front of the Cherry Farms homestead. The left wing of the aircraft clipped the top of the tree, and a trail of smoke followed as the Beechcraft Queen Air crashed into the open field.
“Jesus!” What’s next? Bucket said as he motioned to the men, “Let’s roll!”
Bucket, Freddie, and his men reached the wreckage site in minutes. The plane was still smoldering, oil and gas everywhere. They quickly pulled three bodies from the aircraft and dragged them away from the plane.
“They’re gone. Looks like a pilot and two well-dressed men.”
“This was supposed to be Malfonso’s way out of here. They were heading for the drag strip,” Bucket surmised.
The plane exploded.
“They didn’t make it. Case closed,” said Freddie Greathouse.
Epilogue
A week later…
Bucket said goodbye to Julia.
He kissed her and promised to be home early for dinner. He drove west on Cherry Farms Road. He passed the spot where Santiago Malfonso had met his maker — no remnants of what had happened there existed, no evidence on the ground, leaving a clue as to what had occurred there.
Bucket smiled. Julia was safe, and she had her day all planned out. She would plant another row of rose bushes before the sun found its way over the top of the Green River Mountains. She would ride into town, have her hair done, and then ride out to the Cordes Junction Cemetery to place a single rose in front of the gravestone of her beloved Maggie. She would put another rose near the gravesite of Maggie’s partner in crime, sweet Mildred.
Wanda, with her right arm and left leg in a cast, stood by the bus stop with her three children. It was the first day of school, and the yellow school bus would be arriving soon. She looked down at her children. They had their lunch buckets and their light jackets. It was a cool, crisp morning...and everything was back to normal.
The Simpson brothers were out on patrol. Tilly was up a tree again, and a family of four had blown an engine in their van two miles west of the Prescott turnoff.
With his left arm in a sling and his midsection heavily wrapped, Bucket was still able to maneuver his new but slightly used cruiser — on loan from the Prescott Valley Police Department — through the downtown area of Cordes. Bucket drove by what was to be Stoney Johnson’s brand new hardware store — the foundation was in, and according to the construction boss, “Stoney would be back in business by late October.”
Bucket slowed down his cruiser and peeked out the window. Sure enough, Alice had her new sign-up, advertising the best pies in the county.
Alice would be serving her pies in less than two weeks, and the rest of the office buildings on the north side of Main Street received very little damage and would be open for business by the end of the week.
Workers from Arizona Public Service had been working day and night since the explosion at the substation. Electricity was restored less than twenty-four hours after Santiago, and his men had done their dirty work.
Bucket had reached his office. He parked in his assigned spot and walked a dozen steps to his office. There was a note on his desk from Freddie Greathouse. “Please stay out of trouble. Keep in touch. I’ll see you at the 10-year reunion.”
Bucket chuckled and poured himself a cup of coffee. He looked out the window. A semi-truck had just arrived with a load of wood. Bucket figured Stoney’s insurance company would be writing out plenty of checks. Bucket looked next door. Alice had just pulled up, got out of her well-kept Plymouth, and began to issue orders to a painter on just how she wanted the lettering to flow in the front window of her establishment.
As for Stoney Johnson. He was going to take it easy. He surprised Alexandra and the entire Johnson family by handing them round-trip tickets to Italy — including a two-week stay with his wife’s family in Bali. Mary Hamilton would be around to monitor the progress of rebuilding the hardware store, and Stoney handed over the responsibility at the ranch to his foreman, Dusty Rhodes.
Bucket would stay put, keep his boots on the ground, and enjoy some quiet, peaceful days in Cordes Junction. Was there such a thing? He muttered.
Bucket eyed the front pages of the five newspapers on his desk.
The headline of the Arizona Republic read: Crop Duster Dies in Plane Crash.
Bucket discovered through police reports that two of Santiago’s hired guns had forced a man named Johnny Sylvester, an aging crop duster, to fly his plane from Goodyear to the isolated drag strip — the getaway plane for Santiago and his men.
According to information retrieved from the flight recorder and autopsy records, Sylvester died of a heart attack, and the two men on board the aircraft died of trauma; more than likely, they died at impact. The last human voice echoed over the airways was likely one of the gunmen: “We’re going down!”
The headline in the Phoenix Gazette read: Son of Crime Boss Dies in Car Crash.
Bucket tossed the Gazette on his desk. It was painful to watch a man die. Santiago Malfonso was a killer, but he was a human being, and he died a horrible death. Bucket had read the Greathouse file on Santiago — it wasn’t pretty. From childhood to manhood — the man was caught in a trap — a trap which eventually led to his death.
The Prescott Courier headline read, Terror in Cordes Junction, while the Camp Verde Times reported, Sheriff Saves Arizona Town, and up in Las Vegas, the daily paper read, Last of the Malfonso brothers dies in Arizona Gun Battle.
Bucket Smith shook his head and focused on the pile of paperwork on his desk. He looked at the clock. He could almost smell the aroma of Julia’s pork chops.
Thank you, Amelia, for all your beautiful photos!
