Two years ago, the doctor who looked after my eight kids formed a group to lunch each Tuesday in San Angelo. Being one of the big novelties in all parts of the Wool Capital, it was no surprise he chose a slate of unusual characters. In a previous report, I profiled the membership. For now, just take my word they are an odd assortment of humanity, ranging from a mixture of herders and auction owners to a retired state senator, on to a builder and an insurance man, to a fertilizer expert of wide travels.

All were chosen by Doc in the initial organization. I came in later to lend stability to the club that the doctor had chosen to name by then, "The Miscreants" - a most puzzling choice of titles. His diction is deft and correct, however. The third meaning in the first definition of "miscreant" is "base," like base behavior. Most likely, his choice of miscreant developed from one of the members eating a hot dog as a main course. A gustatory offense, I must add, only equaled by live goldfish eaters and rutabaga fanatics.

Tuesdays became very important. I rushed through errands and postponed appointments to reach the meetings. Folks staring at us in the dining room caused discomfort at first. Other diners eavesdropping on our conversations 10 tables away violated my sense of privacy. Also, the waiters disappearing for periods long enough to make jury duty at fall court was trying.

Nevertheless, caught up in the conversation, I began to be as slow at eating as the waiters were at serving the food. Often I founf myself alone finishing a cup of coffee, staring at the chairs vacated minutes before by my brothers, stricken by thoughts of the strong bonds of my fellow Miscreants, and touched to near tears over these new and loyal friends.

Two weeks ago on a trip out to the Davis Mountains, I missed a meeting. Driving over the desert expanses of greasewoods and alkali flats allows plenty of time to think. Other trips, I thought, had made me miss luncheons before, yet not once had voice mail or e-mail recorded an inquiry of my whereabouts from the Miscreant circle. For all they knew, I could have been lying out on this cursed piece of dry ground from a horse accident for Tuesdays on end.

The Chihuahua Desert going west toward the mountains fosters an emptying of soul and being. Coyotes do howl out there. Not only howl, but devour with an insatiable appetite the flocks of man. Discouraging words are uttered out there, too. Boots and saddles are hung in empty corrals. And the deer and the antelope play; but they'd better keep their playgrounds off the ranges of the mountain lions, or the recesses will have sad endings.

At Fort Davis, I stopped at the pioneer cemetery. A one-pedestrian concrete walkway leads to the plot. Hostile householders all but block the walk by backing wheelbarrows against the fence and poking shovel handles through the wires.

Talk about potter's field, or any literary depreciation of man's burying grounds, here it was in a mesquite-infested layout of four or five acres of vandalized tombstones, some marked only by native stones piled at the head of sunken graves. Two desperadoes killed in a gunfight and seven children buried in a common grave lost from diphtheria rated a call on a sign. Most of the faded dates on the few upright stones looked like the late 1800s. The most disturbing sight was a pile of shattered and broken bits of monuments that caused me to bolt and tear back to the car.

On the drive to a mountain lodge, the impact of the graveyard struck harder. I thought: "Gosh-a-mighty, 'Boothill' in Tombstone, Arizona isn't that lonely, and never was." Next, I remembered how my maternal grandfather always warned about ending up in an unmarked grave. Then I remembered seeing all those nameless mounds over in China, scattered helter-skelter, handy to where the person expired.

Checked intp the lodge, and stunned by the grim afternoon, I decided to test to see how loyal Doc and his Miscreants were before I really needed them. From a bedside table, I wrote each member the same message on a postcard, expressing a subtle need for cash: "Dear Brother, In case you want to reach me, I am checking out of Indian Lodge to move to an upstairs room downtown above 'The Javelina and Jalapeno Gift Shop.' The telephone number is under the gift shop's name. My room number will be scratched on the wall by the pay phone upstairs in case of trouble."

Days have passed at this writing, and no one has replied. True, I had the name of the store wrong. It's "The Javelina and Hollyhock." Jalapeno is the pepper every joint in Fort Davis puts on the plate to season everything from apricot jam to watermelon preserves.

June 10, 1999