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.
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