In the late 1970s, Redwater, Texas had a favorite stop on Highway 19. Martha Pump’s station sold the cheapest gas around—“$10 a gallon,” she’d grin—and called it a special blend. Truckers swore their tanks lasted longer. Martha poured coffee, wiped windshields, never rushed a soul. As they pulled away, she asked every time: “Heading far tonight?” It sounded friendly until people noticed who didn’t come back through town. By 1978, locals began to wonder why the pumps never ran dry even though no one ever saw a delivery truck. A neighbor who dropped by unannounced said the garage air felt heavy—bleach and gasoline layered together. Martha told him the smell gave the room a deep clean. When police returned for a full inspection, the garage looked untouched. But the floor drain reeked of iron, and along the back wall stood rows of old motor-oil cans. When an officer moved one, something thick sloshed inside. “What is it?” they asked. Martha smiled. “Fuel.” This is the Redwater legend as people still tell it: a highway bargain, a ritual question, and a station whose pumps never seemed to sleep.
