Her Forbidden Brother

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The town of Billford, Texas might be small but it sure could throw one hell of a Saturday night dance. That's what everyone said from the other small towns nearby in the prairie belt where nothing, absolutely nothing, was done but cattle raising. Some people bragged that this area was the last remnant of the “wild west,” others claimed there was no “wild west” left, and this controversy never failed to start at least one fight at the Saturday night Billford Dance. It attracted all the cattle-workers, feeders, pen keepers, railroad herders, truck drivers, slaughterers and packers-and they all proudly referred to themselves as “cowboys.” Old men, young men still in high school, wives, daughters, children and grandmas made the Saturday night at Billford a tradition where they danced to the whining strains of blue-grass “stomping” music and drank from the long bar until the few coy-white under-thigh to gaze at. “Seen little David?” the leering creep asked. Dorothy shook her head and said nothing. But Vic giggled again and added, “Shit, he's not here, is he?

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