I smiled and nodded at what I hoped was a lie, but I didn't pursue it. Without touching the cigar with his hands, he flicked his tongue somehow and cocked his head, and it slid to the right side of his mouth.

"You ever eat goat?" he asked.

"Say what?"

"Goat?"

"No. I didn't know it was edible."

"We're roastin' one this afternoon. The first Friday of each month I throw a goat party at my cabin in the woods. Some music, cold beer, fun and games, about fifty folks, all carefully selected by me, the cream of society. No doctors, no bankers, no country club assholes. A classy bunch. Why don't you stop by? I got a firin' range out behind the pond. I'll take the pistol and we'll figure out how to use the damned thing."

Harry Rex's ten-minute drive into the country took almost half an hour, and that was on the paved county road. When I crossed the "third creek past Heck's old Union 76 station," I left the asphalt and turned onto gravel. For a while it was a nice gravel road with mailboxes indicating some hope of civilization, but after three miles the mail route stopped and so did the gravel. When I saw a "rusted-out Massey Ferguson tractor with no tires," I turned left onto a dirt road. His crude map referred to it as a pig trail, though I had never seen one of those. After the pig trail disappeared into a dense forest, I gave serious thought to turning back@.

My Spitfire wasn't designed for the terrain. By the time I saw the roof of his cabin, I'd been driving for forty-five minutes.

There was a barbed-wire fence with an open metal gate, and I stopped there because the young man with the shotgun wanted me to. He kept it on his shoulder as he looked scornfully at my car. "What kind is it?" he grunted.

"Triumph Spitfire. It's British." I was smiling, trying not to offend him. Why did a goat party need armed security? He had the rustic look of someone who'd never seen a car made in another country.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Willie Traynor."

I think the "Willie" made him feel better, so he nodded at the gate. "Nice car," he said as I drove through.

The pickup trucks outnumbered the cars. Parking was haphazard in a field in front of the cabin. Merle Haggard was wailing from two speakers placed in the windows. One group of guests huddled over a pit where smoke was rising and the goat was roasting. Another group was tossing horseshoes beside the cabin. Three well-dressed ladies were on the porch, sipping something that was certainly not beer. Harry Rex appeared and greeted me warmly.

"Who's the boy with the shotgun?" I asked.

"Oh him. That's Duffy, my first wife's nephew."

"Why is he out there?" If the goat party included something illegal, I at least wanted some notice.

"Don't worry. Duffy ain't all there, and the gun ain't loaded. He's been guardin' nothin' for years."

I smiled as if this made perfect sense. He guided me to the pit where I saw my first goat, dead or alive. With the exception of head and hide, it appeared to be intact. I was introduced to the many chefs. With each name I got an occupation—a lawyer, a bail bondsman, a car dealer, a farmer. As I watched the goat spin slowly on a spit, I soon learned that there were many competing theories on how to properly barbecue one. Harry Rex handed me a beer and we moved on to the cabin, speaking to anyone we bumped into. A secretary, a "crooked real estate agent," the current wife of Harry Rex. Each seemed pleased to meet the new owner of the Times.

The cabin sat on the edge of a muddy pond, the kind snakes find attractive. A deck protruded over the water, and there we worked the crowd. Harry Rex took great delight in introducing me to his friends. "He's a good boy, not your typical Ivy League asshole," he said more than once. I didn't like to be referred to as a "boy," but then I was getting used to it.

I settled into a small group that included two ladies who looked as though they'd spent years in the local honky-tonks. Heavy eye makeup, teased hair, tight clothing, and they immediately took an interest in me. The conversation began with the bomb and the assault on Wiley Meek and the prevailing cloud of fear the Padgitts had spread over the county. I acted as if it was just another routine episode in my long and colorful career in journalism. They drilled me with questions and I did more talking than I wanted to.

Harry Rex rejoined us and handed me a suspicious-looking jar of clear liquid. "Sip it slowly," he said, much like a father.

"What is it?" I asked. I noticed that others were watching.

"Peach brandy."

"Why is it in a fruit jar?" I asked.

"That's the way they make it," he said.

"It's moonshine," one of the painted ladies said. The voice of experience.

Not often would these rural folks see an "Ivy Leaguer" take his first drink of moonshine, so the crowd drew closer. I was certain I had consumed more alcohol in the prior five years at Syracuse than anyone else present, so I threw caution to the wind. I lifted the jar, said, "Cheers," and took a very small sip. I smacked my lips, said, "Not bad." And tried to smile like a freshman at a fraternity party.

The burning began at the lips, the point of initial contact, and spread rapidly across the tongue and gums and by the time it hit the back of my throat I thought I was on fire. Everyone was watching. Harry Rex took a sip from his jar.

"Where does it come from?" I asked, as nonchalantly as possible, flames escaping through my teeth.

"Not far from here," someone said.

Scorched and numb, I took another sip, quite anxious for the crowd to ignore me for a while. Oddly enough, the third sip revealed a hint of peach flavoring, as if the taste buds had to be shocked before they could work. When it was apparent that I was not going to breathe fire, vomit, or scream, the conversation resumed. Harry Rex, ever anxious to speed along my education, thrust forward a plate of fried something. "Have one of these," he said.

"What is it?" I asked, suspicious.

Both of my painted ladies curled up their noses and turned away, as if the smell might make them ill. "Chitlins," one of them said.

"What's that?"

Harry Rex popped one in his mouth to prove they weren't poison, then shoved the plate closer to me. "Go ahead," he said, chomping away at this delicacy.

Folks were watching again, so I picked out the smallest piece and put it in my mouth. The texture was rubbery, the taste was acrid and foul. The smell had a barnyard essence. I chewed as hard as possible, choked it down, then followed with a gulp of moonshine. And for a few seconds I thought I might faint.

"Hog guts, boy," Harry Rex said, slapping me on the back. He threw another one in his large mouth and offered me the plate. "Where's the goat?" I managed to ask. Anything would be an improvement.

Whatever happened to beer and pizza? Why would these people eat and drink such disagreeable things?

Harry Rex walked away, the putrid smell of the chitlins following him like smoke. I placed the fruit jar on the railing, hoping it would tumble and disappear. I watched others pass around their moonshine, one jar usually good for an entire group. There was absolutely no concern over germs and such. No bacteria could've survived within three feet of the vile brew.

I excused myself from the deck, said I needed to find a restroom. Harry Rex emerged from the back door of the cabin holding two pistols and a box of ammo. "We'd better take a few shots before it gets dark," he said. "Follow me."

We stopped at the goat spit where a cowboy named Rafe joined us. "Rafe's my runner," Harry Rex said as the three of us headed for the woods.

"What's a runner?" I asked.

"Runs cases."