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By the fall of 1939, Fort Stockton had three things in endless supply: wind, opinions, and trouble looking for boys. The wind came whistling off the Davis Mountains and carried grit fine enough to season a stew. The opinions stacked higher than cotton bales, shouted across the square until somebody claimed victory or ran out of spit. The trouble waited in barns, alleys, and behind the bleachers at Jim Bowie High, where restless young men thought themselves immortal and smarter than they were.

But for all the noise of town life, there was one place that silenced every conversation: Bridges Funeral Home.

The limestone building faced the square like a courthouse cousin—solid, dignified, and impossible to ignore. Its stained-glass windows cast strange colors across the sidewalks. And above the heavy oak doors, brass letters promised certainty:

BRIDGES FUNERAL HOME
We’ll Take You to the Other Side.

Enoch Bridges, director and proprietor, swore the line had spiritual weight. Others swore it sounded like a Greyhound slogan. Either way, the words stuck. Folks repeated them in whispers, half reverent, half joking, but never after dark.

Behind the building, under a tin-roof carport, rested Enoch’s treasure: a 1938 LaSalle Sayers & Scovill hearse. It gleamed like a coal seam polished for Sunday service. The carved wood side panels looked like stage curtains caught mid-bow. Whitewall tires flashed clean enough to shame a dentist. The LaSalle V8 purred like a choir warming up for a hymn.

When it rolled through town, men tugged hats without thinking, women hushed, and even children felt the gravity of it. Some swore the temperature dropped when the hearse passed. Others claimed it whispered scripture through the exhaust. Whatever the truth, everyone agreed: the LaSalle was more sermon than automobile.

Which made it irresistible to six boys with too much energy and not enough judgment.

The Boys of ’40

They were the Class of 1940’s finest bad ideas:

• Bubba Lynch, tall as a windmill, heavy as one too, known more for momentum than brains.
• Red McAffee, sharp-tongued, wild-eyed, claiming he could rope lightning and nearly proving it.
• Shorty Montoya, half the size of the rest and twice as loud, forever trying to make up for inches with noise.
• Hollis Dean, lockpicker, cardsharp, and self-proclaimed “mechanical genius,” which meant nothing with gears survived his curiosity.
• Cowboy Reeves, named for his hat and determined to justify it daily.
• Elmer Pruitt, the only one with any sense, dragged along like ballast on a runaway wagon.

They huddled behind the bleachers one October evening, dust swirling under the lights of the football field.

“Gentlemen,” Cowboy declared, hands on his belt, “Halloween calls for a prank the town won’t forget.”

Elmer sighed. “What it calls for is peace and quiet.”

Cowboy pressed on. “This year we borrow the LaSalle. One lap around the square. Solemn, respectful, dignified. Then back in the garage. Nobody harmed, nothing broken, lesson learned.”

“That lesson being what?” Elmer asked.

“That we’re responsible citizens,” Cowboy said with a grin.

“That’s called grand theft auto,” Elmer snapped.

“Educational demonstration,” Red countered.

“Tradition,” Bubba added. “Boys our age got to leave a mark.”

Shorty puffed out his chest. “I’m tired of candy corn in outhouses. Let’s do something they’ll remember.”

Elmer groaned, which the others took as consent. And that’s how trouble got scheduled.

Midnight

At 12:14 a.m., the courthouse clock croaked out twelve notes and refused a thirteenth. Hollis went to work on the back door of Bridges Funeral Home. The Yale lock surrendered faster than a deacon at a poker table.

Inside, under one glowing bulb, the LaSalle crouched. Black paint caught the light like still water. Carved panels threw shadows shaped like velvet curtains. The garage smelled of wax, pipe smoke, and inevitability.

“Good evening, Your Majesty,” Cowboy whispered, patting the fender.

Then Shorty peeked in back and froze.

A casket rested on the rollers. A neat card on the lid read: Mrs. Eula May Bradford.

The boys went still. Mrs. Bradford had taught penmanship at Jim Bowie for thirty years. She’d rapped the knuckles of fathers and sons alike. Small, neat, precise, she had died two days earlier in her rocker, copybook open on her lap. Her funeral was scheduled for two o’clock tomorrow.

Elmer ripped his cap off. “We’re finished. Out. That’s a coffin, not a joyride.”

Cowboy frowned. “One lap. Solemn. She deserves to see the square one last time.”

“She corrected my cursive,” Bubba whispered. “Feels right she correct our steering, too.”

“Y’all are insane,” Elmer muttered.

But he climbed aboard anyway.

The Ride

Cowboy slid behind the wheel, Bubba and Red flanking him. Hollis and Shorty perched in back, staring at the casket. Elmer sat nearest the latch, hand steadying it like he could keep eternity closed with his palm.

The V8 turned twice and caught, humming low. Cowboy eased the LaSalle into the street.

Fort Stockton at midnight looked like it was waiting for a secret. The Depot Lunch sat dark, its big glass window reflecting the hearse like a phantom. The Scuttlebutt’s neon pulsed faintly, red letters gasping. The courthouse clock loomed above, counting sins. Even the wind held its breath.

“Funeral plus two,” Cowboy muttered, guiding the hearse at a crawl.

“I swear she slid,” Shorty whispered.

“Gravity still works,” Elmer hissed.

Then the LaSalle hiccuped. A cough, then a shudder. Cowboy feathered the gas.

“Haunted,” Red said.

“Out of fuel,” Elmer shot back.

The engine coughed twice more and died stone silent right in front of the courthouse. They rolled to the curb. Six sets of eyes fixed on the gauge. It sagged below empty.

“Enoch keeps her lean,” Elmer muttered. “Less to siphon.”

“Push,” Cowboy ordered.

They piled out, set shoulders to the fenders, and began rolling the hearse back toward Bridges. Elmer stayed inside, bracing Mrs. Bradford’s casket like a man steadying a queen.

The Sheriff

Half a block down, a voice cut through the night.

“Evening, gentlemen.”

Sheriff Arlen Vickers stepped into lamplight, hat brim low, eyes steady as a rifle sight. He studied the boys, studied the LaSalle.

“With Mrs. Bradford?” he asked mildly.

“She… appreciates fresh air,” Shorty blurted, instantly regretting it.

Arlen sighed. “Son, the woman’s been correcting angels’ loops for two days. She don’t need a tour.”

Cowboy swallowed. “We meant no disrespect.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Arlen said dryly. “That’s why I find six fools pushing a hearse past the courthouse.” He let silence stretch until Bubba squirmed. “Here’s how this goes. You push her back. You pour in the spare can Enoch keeps on the shelf. And tomorrow at two o’clock, you six carry Mrs. Bradford to her rest. You’ll walk like pallbearers, not pranksters. Or I book you all for grand theft LaSalle. Deal?”

“Yes, sir,” Elmer said quickly. Bubba nodded so hard his hat nearly flew.

They leaned again. The hearse rolled. And then came the cat.

The Cat

From a trash can launched a gray streak yowling like Armageddon. It shot under the hearse. Cowboy stomped the brake. The LaSalle rocked. Mrs. Bradford’s casket slid two inches and thudded back into place.

Everyone froze.

Elmer pressed the latch with trembling hand. “Forgive us, ma’am. We’ll set you right.”

The cat vanished into the night, leaving terror in its wake. Bubba crossed himself, surprising everyone including himself.

They shoved the LaSalle the last yards, filled her tank from the spare can, and locked the garage tight. Sheriff Vickers tipped his hat.

“Best suits tomorrow,” he said. “And pray Mrs. Bradford don’t grade your posture.”

The Funeral

The church overflowed with lilies and whispers. Mrs. Bradford lay at the front, hands folded like she still held a red pen. Fans stirred hot air. The congregation fidgeted with memory—everyone had a story about her sharp corrections.

The six boys stood in pressed shirts, pale as chalk. Red had no jokes. Shorty stared at his shoes. Bubba looked smaller than he’d ever looked on a football field.

When the pastor finished, Enoch nodded. They stepped forward, lifted the casket, and carried it slow. Bubba whispered “step” on the left foot. Outside, they slid her onto the rollers, latched the tray.

“Thank you,” Enoch said. “You made a foolish choice with surprising care. Mrs. Bradford believed in second drafts. Consider this one.”

The procession rolled out, LaSalle gleaming in the sun. At the cemetery, they lowered her into the earth, gentle as glass. Dirt thudded soft. Flowers leaned. The town exhaled.

The Aftermath

The following Sunday, six red-faced boys stood before First Methodist and apologized. The pastor announced Community Conduct Detail: sweeping the Legion hall, stacking hymnals, hauling chairs. Coach Runnels added a drill called The Pallbearer Stride—six boys carrying a heavy beam down the field in perfect step. By Thanksgiving, the Fightin’ Knives line marched like Marines.

And the story spread.

At the Depot Lunch, folks swore the LaSalle drove itself back to Bridges. At the Scuttlebutt, the tale grew into a floating coffin and Mrs. Bradford’s ghostly scolding. At Manny’s pump, it shrank closer to the truth: six seniors caught between mischief and mercy.

The boys grew into men. Cowboy ran a feed store. Hollis fixed locks. Red went into the oil patch. Shorty became a barber. Bubba married a woman who cured him of mischief. Elmer became a teacher and, once a year, told his students about six pallbearers who learned weight and dignity on Halloween night.

Whenever the LaSalle rolled out of Bridges Funeral Home, those men tipped their hats without thinking.

And in Enoch’s office, tucked behind the ledger, sat a framed card in Mrs. Bradford’s immaculate script:

Loops to the line.
Names clear.
Hearts steady.

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