Wonderful Room Read Free

said.
    Mr. Scobee‧s files were full of the lore I needed: Fort Davis had been the seat of a huge county called Presidio, but when the railroad was built through Marfa, the larger town stole the courthouse. Then the Fort Davis people seceded from Presidio County and formed Jeff Davis County. There were tales of ranchers and cowboys, Texas Rangers, sheriffs and outlaws, soldiers, Indians, a famous jailbreak. Mr. Scobee even had good photographs of the present courthouse, built in 1910, and the adobe structure it had replaced, built in 1880.
    I ran to the drugstore every Sunday to search the
Times
for my story. Week after week, Mr. Raynor was celebrating some other county: Lea, Dona Ana,Lincoln, Culberson, Hudspeth, Brewster. Where O where was Jef Davis?
    Then on Sunday Oct. 17, 1954, I opened the
Times,
and there was, spread across the top of almost an entire inside page, this headline: “Ft. Davis Has Been County Seat Of Two Counties.” And below it, the most beautiful words I have, even to this day, ever seen in print: “By Bryan Woolley.”
    Mr. Scobee was as proud of my first byline as I. He carried a clipping in his pocket and showed it to anyone who would look.
    I ransacked his mind and files for subjects for more features. He and I roamed the old fort and old cemeteries together. I drove, of course. He climbed Dolores Mountain with me, an amazing feat for a man of his age. We sat in his office and talked for hours.
    I wrote about a still-living old soldier who had served at the fort in the 1880s. I wrote about Uncle Billy Kingston, who as a child had met George Scarborough, the man who shot John Selman, who shot John Wesley Hardin. My story about the 60 th wedding anniversary of Mr. and Mrs. Jessie Merrill, pioneer ranchers, made Page One, with picture, another proud Sunday for Mr. Scobee and me.
    In his capacity as coroner, Mr. Scobee also introduced me to death.
    One morning I rode in the backseat of the county‧s only police car, bouncing over a narrow, rocky road. In the front seat, Sheriff Tom Gray and Mr. Scobee were talking as though it was a normal day, but I was speechless. I had never seen a corpse.We were headed toward a ranch headquarters where a cowboy had shot and killed an illegal Mexican national who had broken into the house.
    I remember the dead man‧s black hair, full of dust and moving slightly in the breeze.
    The
Times
ran a few paragraphs, but no byline. In those days, a reporter‧s name didn‧t appear on every story he wrote. A byline was a gift from the editor for a job he considered well done. During my time as a stringer, my byline appeared only on a few feature stories.
    In the spring of 1955, two years after my conversation with Mr. Moore, I was to graduate from Fort Davis High. As the eldest child of five, supported by two women on small salaries, I would thenceforth be on my own, loose in the world.
    I wanted to go to college, but would have to find a job to do it. I drove to El Paso and introduced myself to Mr. Raynor, who introduced me to Bill Latham, the managing editor. I urged Mr. Latham to hire me. I would be a copyboy, anything. He said he had no job to offer. I drove home, deeply sad for all the 200 miles, fearful for my future.
    A week later, a letter arrived from Ed Engledow, the
Times
city editor. I hadn‧t met him. I had never heard his name.
    His letter read: “Mr. Latham has gone into the hospital for a hernia operation. In his absence, I‧m acting managing editor. If you can get back here before he returns, I‧ll give you a job.”
    I packed my suitcase.

SECTION   B
THE WONDERFUL ROOM
     

    T he room into which I stepped on that June afternoon in 1955, a couple of months shy of my 18 th birthday, was everything my imagination wanted it to be. There were six rows of reporters‧ desks with typewriters on them, arranged two to a row. At several desks, reporters already were writing, their neckties loosened, one even wearing a fedora, cigarettes dangling from