I took one look at Dan and knew he was a Fields. I also sensed he had something to hide, but most of the Fields clan do. It’s strange how sharp your senses get when you’re close to death. My body was riddled with cancer and I had little time left. As it turned out, Dan was a very distant relative. He told wonderful stories about marching with Stonewall Jackson in 1862. Floating on morphine, I believed every word he said.
He kept glancing out my apartment window and when I mentioned I’d seen a tall yellow-haired guy hanging around, Dan looked alarmed. When he showed me the Yankee gold and told me his cousin was after it, I understood. One Fields boy was stalking another over gold. So the apples hadn’t fallen far from the tree.
The Fields have always been a shifty disreputable bunch. My daddy was killed in a bar fight and my older brother died in jail. Although the cancer has mellowed me, most of the women I’ve known in my life have called me a compulsive bastard.
Dan seemed different. He fired my shiftless caregiver and promised I wouldn’t die alone. He agreed to observe my wish to be buried quietly at the home place, surrounded by the scoundrels who’d given me life. At the end, I gave Dan my Social Security card and birth certificate, a small gift to validate my sad life. (Rebel Traveler – Pages 58-60, 67-69, 84-85, 106-107)
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