FIVE DOLLARS AND A ROAD HOME

The Auction Block

Bob Miller rode into Red Creek that morning with five dollars in his pocket and a short list in his mind.

Salt.

Seed.

A new shovel.

Nothing else.

By late August, Texas had become a furnace.

The road into town was white with dust, the grass along the fence lines had turned brown, and the air seemed to tremble above the ground.

Bob pulled his horse, Duke, to a stop outside Miller's General Store.

He climbed down slowly.

At thirty-six, Bob was a broad-shouldered man with weathered hands, brown hair, and a pale scar running from his left eyebrow toward his cheek.

Most people in Red Creek knew him.

Few knew him well.

Bob had lived fifteen miles north of town for almost nine years.

He owned thirty-seven cattle, twelve horses, six chickens, and a house that had been repaired so many times he no longer knew what part of it had originally been built.

He had once owned more.

A wife.

A son.

A future.

His wife, Mary, had died six years earlier.

His son, Daniel, had followed her two years later.

After that, Bob had stopped making plans.

The land had become enough.

The work had become enough.

Silence had become enough.

He entered the store and bought salt.

Then seed.

He counted his remaining money.

Five dollars.

The shovel cost four dollars and seventy-five cents.

He held it up.

The storekeeper smiled.

"That's the last one."

Bob nodded.

"I'll take it."

He paid.

Then he walked outside.

That was when he heard the crowd.

A strange sound.

Laughter mixed with shouting.

Bob looked toward the stockyard.

A crowd had gathered near the old wooden platform.

He almost kept walking.

Almost.

Then he heard a woman's voice.

"Please."

One word.

Quiet.

Broken.

Bob stopped.

He looked toward the auction block.

A woman stood there.

She appeared to be somewhere in her twenties.

Her wrists were tied.

Her dark hair was tangled.

Her dress was faded and torn at the shoulder.

Dust covered her boots.

There was a bruise near her temple.

Bob's grip tightened around the shovel.

The auctioneer was shouting.

"Who'll give me twenty?"

A man laughed.

"Ten!"

Another called out.

"Fifteen!"

The auctioneer shook his head.

"Come on, gentlemen. Look at her. Strong. Young. Healthy."

Bob stared.

The woman looked down.

She did not cry.

That somehow made it worse.

Bob knew what the law said.

He also knew what decent people said.

But the crowd was treating a human being like a horse.

The auctioneer raised his voice.

"Fifteen dollars!"

No one answered.

"Ten!"

A drunk near the front laughed.

Bob stepped forward.

The auctioneer noticed him.

"You bidding, Miller?"

Bob looked at the woman.

She looked at him.

Their eyes met for one second.

There was fear in hers.

But there was something else.

Pride.

She was afraid.

But she was still standing.

Bob heard himself speak.

"Five."

The crowd erupted in laughter.

The auctioneer stared.

"Five dollars?"

Bob nodded.

"I said five."

Someone shouted:

"She's worth more than that!"

Bob looked toward him.

"Then bid more."

Silence.

The man said nothing.

The auctioneer looked around.

"Five dollars. Anyone give me six?"

No one moved.

"Five dollars once."

Bob reached into his pocket.

"Twice."

The auctioneer slammed his hand against the wooden table.

"Sold."

Bob handed over his last five dollars.

The woman was untied.

She stepped down from the platform.

Bob picked up his shovel.

He had come into town for salt, seed, and a new shovel.

Now he had none of his money left.

And a stranger was standing beside him.

She looked at him.

"Why?"

Bob glanced at the crowd.

"Because nobody else did."

Then he walked toward his horse.

She followed.

 The Woman Without a Name

They left Red Creek without speaking.

Bob rode slowly.

The woman walked beside Duke.

After nearly a mile, Bob stopped.

"You can ride."

She looked at the saddle.

"I don't know you."

"You don't have to."

"Then why would you let me ride?"

Bob looked at her.

"Because your feet are bleeding."

She glanced down.