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Back Come Again No More Save as PDF
Chapters (55)
  1. Cover
  2. Back Cover
  3. Title Page
  4. Contents
  5. PART I 
  6. 1.
  7. 2.
  8. 3.
  9. 4.
  10. 5.
  11. 6.
  12. 7.
  13. 8.
  14. 9.
  15. 10.
  16. 11.
  17. 12.
  18. PART II 
  19. 13.
  20. 14.
  21. 15.
  22. 16.
  23. 17.
  24. 18.
  25. 19.
  26. 20.
  27. 21.
  28. 22.
  29. 23.
  30. 24.
  31. 25.
  32. 26.
  33. 27.
  34. 28.
  35. 29.
  36. 30.
  37. PART III 
  38. 31.
  39. 32.
  40. 33.
  41. 34.
  42. 35.
  43. 36.
  44. 37.
  45. 38.
  46. 39.
  47. PART IV 
  48. 40.
  49. 41.
  50. 42.
  51. 43.
  52. 44.
  53. 45.
  54. AUTHOR’S NOTE
  55. Touchstone Reading Group Guide

By the time he had his automobile in high gear, the Caddy was already a mile to the west. The driver had to be doing seventy miles an hour on this narrow blacktop, straight into the setting sun. As it topped the rise, it looked as though the big car was about to take flight. Dexter knew his cars, especially those he couldn’t afford. This one was a 1925 V8 Custom Suburban, whitewall spares strapped to either side of the hood and spare gas cans fastened to the trunk. His patrol car was vibrating like a threshing machine. The Cadillac was way too much automobile for a Model A to run down.

Dexter eased back on the throttle and glanced at his wristwatch. His shift was almost over. It was around the time in the afternoon when Estelle started to get restless. It was his perpetual worry that if he wasn’t there to satisfy her powerful needs she would be on the phone, offering her sugary little body to someone like his fellow deputy, Syl Whiting.

By the time he found a wide spot in the road where he could turn around and speed home to Estelle, the Caddy had vanished over a distant hill. Dexter flipped his middle finger at the rearview. Rich sons of bitches.

Eli didn’t see the deputy. Once on the highway, he let the long spool of the unwinding road take him. U.S. Route 26 ran due west into Wyoming and beyond—follow it long enough and you’d sail through Idaho and end up in Oregon, on the shores of the Pacific Ocean. He understood why Ezra was so restless. Once you were rolling, the road pulled you along, offered movement and change, the chance to make of yourself something that you would not become if you lived your life like a big old cottonwood tree, rooted to one spot. One of his aunts from Mississippi had said the Paints were perpetually journey-bound, the way they kept moving from Wales to the New World and then from Boston through Pennsylvania and Tennessee, south as far as Mississippi, then west to South Dakota, Nebraska, Wyoming. Eli had put down permanent roots on the 8T8. He couldn’t imagine moving on, but Ezra was still journey-bound. Now he was talking about Argentina, of the great estancias on the Pampas and the gauchos, the Argentine cowpokes. Ezra wanted to pull up stakes in Wyoming, take some breeding stock, raise Appaloosas in Argentina.