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BY ED HARRIS
THEY BURIED Allie Payne last week in the beautiful Flint Hill Methodist Church Cemetery. Allie Payne was in his eighties and he left behind a wondrous progeny of married daughters and sons, of granddaughters and grandsons and even great great grandchildren. But he left more.
He left enduring memories of a weathered, staunch little man who was far more concerned with the condition of the fencing on the Graves Brothers cattle farm, where he lived and worked for nearly half a century, than the latest maneuvers of White House lawyers. He left visions of a brave and conscientious man astride his old dependable white horse checking the cattle in a drenching thunderstorm, sometimes visible only in lightning flashes while we neighbors huddled in the safety of our homes.
Sometimes he would ride his faithful white horse to church on Sundays, and sometimes he would walk. When we would offer him a lift on spotting him along the
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