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George pushed the coffee aside since he preferred water or tonic – his
term for soda pop, which did not escape significant razzing. The more
experienced coffee drinkers knew that particular brew could be
dangerous and they limited their consumption.
“So where ya from?” one of George’s tablemates asked.
“Connecticut.”
“Coe-NEC-tee-cut,” a cowboy
said from across the table. “Ain’t that that puny State somewheres in
the north-east?”
“You’re thinking of Rhode
Island. Connecticut is right next door.”
“Hell, there ain’t no place back east big enough worth callin’ a
State.”
“What do ya say ya tell us what it
is we’re goin’ after up on the mountain?” another diner asked.
George answered, “We’re going up to study a cloud that’s decided to
park itself up there.”
“Why do ya wanna do
that?”
“I’m a meteorologist.”
“What’s so special about this cloud?”
“It
seems to go anywhere it wants to.”
“Hell,
all clouds do that!” the cowboy added. “Send over some of them spuds,”
he asked another.
“That’s true, but this
one doesn’t follow all the rules.”
A
bearded man chewing on a gravy-soaked biscuit entered the conversation
for the first time. “How d’ ya mean?”
“It
doesn’t move along with any weather system. You can predict where most
storms will go, but not this one. It’ll move along in a predictable
pattern and then turn suddenly for no reason at all.
“A cloud this big should be dropping all kinds of snow or rain but the
only thing it’s dropped so far is a mercenary named Jack LaRoche and
his horse.” George noticed several heads rise, including that of Stan
Maszewski, who had not been participating in the conversation. “Did
you know Jack LaRoche, Stan?”
“A little.
He was a pretty nasty fellow. Mark’s been after him for a long time.”
Stan quickly ended his participation by stuffing some food into his
mouth.
George continued addressing the
others. “LaRoche was found half-buried in a Tennessee swamp by a
farmer who said he saw him fall from the sky.”
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