EIGHTTHE OLDER FARMFOLK around Milquevais still follow the custom of holding wakes. They have the casket set up on sawhorses in the parlor, candlelight flickering on the departed’s face. The neighbors sit with the bereaved family, and there isn’t much weeping—mostly small talk about crops and drinking coffee or maybe hard cider until it’s time to morning-milk the cows.
In a sense, a wake for Bob Crossway was held at Chaparral House that night. But I doubt if such a fancy entered H. H. Crossway’s thinking.
He came in the back way, nothing out there but vacant footage which the Texan probably intended to develop when the next gusher spouted.
Mr. Crossway did not act like a person sneaking in by the vacant lot and backdoor route, however. He created the appearance of the chairman of the bo
