It was the era of the Great Depression, the dustbowl years, the years of prohibition, and a time when a new generation of ruthless outlaws emerged and ran rampant in our country. It was a time in our history when the "ends" justified the "means" in the minds of many Americans. It was a time of harshness. In the summer of 1926, Rufus Jackson Coleman loaded his wife, two boys, and all his worldly possessions into a worn-out covered wagon and left the rundown farmhouse near Rhome, Texas. The long drought had left him no choice but to leave, and the unsettled feeling in his gut was born from the knowledge that he really didn't know where they were going. He just had to get his family away from this God-forsaken area before they all starved to death. Nobody looked back as they pulled away from the barren waste of the front yard. There were no fond memories to savor, and the desolation would not be missed. It was barely sunup but the wind had already begun to stir the choking dust. The distant cawing of a half-starved crow brought an end to the sights and sounds of a once-hopeful expectation gone bad. Rufus turned his wagon to the northeast, toward the Oklahoma border.
博客來
