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watering soybeans that had long since gone to seed.  Once clear of the driveway, it was south on County Line Road and another twelve miles to Middle Branch.  
    Shortly after crossing the Hainesville line, as the truck was passing seemingly endless rows of browning cornstalks, something caught the corner of my eye.  It was a scarecrow with a pumpkin for a head, stuffed with rags and mounted on a wooden frame near the road.  It was rare to see a scarecrow in Nebraska, the crows simply laughed at them, but some farmer with a sense of humor had stuck one in the ground for the Halloween season. 
    On a sudden whim I pulled the truck over, grabbed the macramé bag and walked out toward the cornfield for a closer look.  The scarecrow was outfitted in old Levis and a checkered cotton shirt.  Stepfather wore checked cotton shirts, so right away ol’ pumpkin head was on my shit list.  And I didn’t much care for that smarmy look drawn on his stupid face either. 
    Fuckin’ scarecrow.  Clearly he had to die.
    I checked the road both ways.  It was a lightly traveled stretch, and the nearest farmhouse was a good quarter mile distant, so I walked to within twenty paces, pulled the snub nose and the box of ammo from the macramé bag and loaded all six chambers. 
    After snapping the cylinder back into place I assumed a shooter’s stance; feet apart, body balanced and arms extended, with hands on the grip and finger on the trigger.  I centered the two-inch barrel on the pumpkin and calmly ticked off the firing procedure just as Stumpy had taught Angeline; acquire sight picture… steady the aim… easy squeeze.
    BANG!
    The gun jumped slightly and the bullet blew a hole through the pumpkin just above the left eye.  I took two steps closer, lowered the sight and BANG! fired the next round into his chest.  But I wasn’t done yet.  I brought my aim lower still--until that barrel was pointed right at the scarecrow’s crotch--then began walking forward, squeezing off shots. 
    BANG! 
    BANG! 
    BANG! 
    BANG! 
    Friends, I blew the shit out of that raggedy-ass bastard’s Fruit of the Looms. 
    Now it was time for the real deal. 
    Bring on Harland Lee Wade.
     
     
    I was parked in fron t of Pete’s Canteen a good twenty minutes before the pervie arrived just before 5:30.  The hot blood was pumping in my ears as I watched the man climb from his Chevy and disappear into the bar.  My plan was to stay put until he came out again, but curiosity got the better of me and I soon followed him inside.
    The bar was dimly lit and nearly empty, with a faint whiff of mold and stale beer.  The walls were decorated with military paraphernalia, including photos, patches, helmets and various types of weaponry.  Country music was blaring on the juke box and a pool table in the corner looked about as warped as the twisted sonofabitch shooting eight ball on it. 
    Harland Lee Wade was trying to line up a shot as I wiggled and wobbled past him on my high heels before parking my butt at the far end of the bar.  I swung on the stool and crossed my legs, hiking Elvira’s dress so far up my thighs that my coochie almost made a guest appearance. 
    The pervie shot and missed.    
    A somber looking bartender with thick frame glasses and a gunboat grey crew-cut, approached.  I assumed this was Pete.
    “What can I get you?”
    “Bourbon,” I said, exuding worldly confidence.  Truth was I’d never tasted bourbon--nor any alcohol for that matter--but being it was Mother’s favorite beverage, it seemed the mature choice. 
    “How would you like that?” asked the bartender
    “In a glass,” said I.
    Pete arched a brow as he pulled a tumbler from under the bar.  “Can I see some I.D please?” 
    I fumbled through the macramé purse.  There was no ID in there, of course… nothing inside that bag but bullets and iron.  Across the room, Harland Lee was checking me out as he circled the table for another shot. 
    “Whoops.  Looks like I