Texas Outlaw(19)

“Sure,” I say. “Let me just go get my guitar.”

I pick up my hat, careful to keep the gun concealed, and walk into my room. When I come out with my guitar, Dale is sitting down, trying to tune his instrument, and Walt is walking from the truck with a banjo in one hand, a small snare drum in the other, a fiddle case wedged under one arm, and a harmonica tucked into the breast pocket of his shirt.

I bring a chair over from the porch of the neighboring unit, and the three of us sit down in a triangle. I ask why they want to play with me. Rio Lobo might be small, but there have to be other people here who can pick a guitar.

“We ain’t never jammed with a Texas Ranger before,” Dale says.

“Or someone who has a hit country song written about them,” Walt adds.

I chuckle. “So you know all about me, I guess.”

“Not everything,” Dale says, grinning. “We don’t know if you can sing worth a damn, but we aim to find out.”





Chapter 24



DALE STARTS PLAYING the recognizable opening chords of Johnny Cash’s “I Walk the Line.” Walt plays the snare drum with a wire brush to keep the same scratchy background beat you hear on Cash’s version. I join in on guitar. Dale sings the first verse. He was right—he’s not much of a vocalist. When it comes time for the second verse, he nods to me, and I sing it. He defers to me and lets me sing the rest. In the original recording, Cash changes the key of his vocals, and the last verse is almost a full octave lower than the first. I don’t sound anything like Johnny Cash, but I do my best to lower my voice as the song progresses.

Dale and Walt both notice and appreciate the effort.

“Hot damn, boy,” Dale says. “You ain’t half bad.”

I sing the rest of the night. We play George Strait, Tim McGraw, Blake Shelton, and Eric Church. We don’t just stick to guys’ songs, either—we play a couple of Dixie Chicks tunes and have a good laugh rolling through Dolly Parton’s “9 to 5.”

Dale is a heck of a guitar player, much more than just the rhythm guy he made himself out to be. And Walt, as Dale said, can play pretty much anything. Through the two hours we spend playing together, he rotates among guitar, banjo, fiddle, and drum. He even breaks out the harmonica when we play Willie Nelson’s “On the Road Again.”

As personalities go, Dale is gregarious and fun to be around, with a comfortable air and an infectious laugh. Walt is much more demure, letting his instruments do the talking for him.

They’re both talented musicians, but I hold my own with them. I sing and play and feel like a kid again practicing in my buddy Daryl’s basement after school. I’m surprised by how much fun I have and forget that I wanted to ask them some questions until they’re putting their instruments back in their cases.

“So what did you guys hear about me?” I ask them, trying to make it sound like small talk. “Why I’m here?”

Dale says he works with Skip Barnes, and Walt works with Alex Hartley, the football coach. Both have heard what I’ve been investigating.

“You’re a lucky man,” Dale says to me.

“Why’s that?”

“’Cause you get to work with Ariana Delgado,” he says and whistles through his teeth. “Man, I’ve had a crush on her since high school.”

“He’s dating Willow Dawes,” Walt chimes in. “Have you seen a picture of her?”

“You’re doubly lucky,” Dale says to me.

“Did either of you know Susan Snyder?” I ask.

“Sure.” Dale shrugs. “Hell, everybody knows everybody in this town. But I didn’t know her well.”

“I voted for her,” Walt says, “but I never actually talked to her.”

“What do you think of the guys who were dating her?” I say. “Skip and Alex.”

“I don’t know if I’d use the word dating,” Dale says.

There it is, I think. Confirmation that people knew she was sleeping around.

“She and Alex was just friends is all,” Dale says. “And I don’t know what she was doing hanging around with Skip. He’s a buddy of mine, but she was way out of his league.”

I’m not sure how far to push this, but I say, “He claims they were sleeping together. Friends with benefits, I guess you’d call it.”

Dale laughs. “I doubt Skip Barnes has been with any woman outside a Juárez brothel.”

“What about Alex?” I say. “He made the same claim.”

Dale and Walt exchange a look that I can’t read.

“Like I said, I always thought they was just friends. What they did on their own time ain’t none of my business.”

With that, the two pack up and climb into Dale’s truck.

“That was fun,” Dale says out the window. “Let’s do it again sometime.”

I give them a wave as they pull out of the lot and then I stand on my porch, thinking.

Earlier today, I thought Skip Barnes was hiding something. Now I think Alex Hartley might have been as well.

And when I think of the look they gave each other, I think my new friends, Dale Peters and Walt Mitchell, are hiding something, too.

Does everyone in this town have secrets?