Jack-the-dog was addressed more frequently than Frank-the-human.
Frank fell in with the hermit’s habits, came to be at ease with the muttering thunder, mixed occasionally with invective and scripture. He could choose to respond or not. He found that especially liberating. Social amenities weren’t required. In the mornings, they’d get up and feed the chickens, the goats, and Pancho. Tucker had named the rescued burro after Frank, citing scriptural reference to Balaam’s donkey, who had had a few words to say. “The Lord God spoke to Balaam through the mouth of a donkey. Maybe one day something sensible will come out of your mouth, Ranger Flynn,” Tucker had added, not wanting to give too much ground.
Most days, they’d work the tailings of the old mine at the mouth of the canyon, Frank hauling and shoveling, Tucker picking through the ore, high-grading the good stuff, Frank running the rest through the hand stamp. In the afternoons, when it was hot, they washed the crushed rock in Tucker’s old-fashioned wooden sluice box. Then Frank would clean the black sand from the riffles and rinse the matting in a bucket. Tucker showed Frank how to pan out the color. When the sun dropped behind the Inyos, Frank would hike up to the waterfall, peel off his clothes, and stand in the icy water. Frank and the muttering giant had fallen into an easy rhythm that required no planning other than providing for the moment.
Frank was almost content.
They’d had visitors of late. Jesse Sierra and Greg Wilson, with Eddie in tow, stopped their truck at the wire gate leading to Tucker’s dwelling and honked the horn. They’d roused the sleeping giant from his nap. Tucker mumbled a welcome to the rangers and greeted Eddie like a long-lost brother. They were strange ducks, one crafty, one crazy, both honest as children.
Frank felt his face crease into an unaccustomed smile. He was glad to see them. That night, he made tamale pie for dinner, Eddie’s favorite. Tucker consumed two large bowls of the steaming pie washed down with bottles of Mojave Red, courtesy of the visiting rangers. Eddie tucked away three bowls, scraping the last of it out of the Dutch oven with his spoon. Frank hoped the dinner would temper Tucker’s monologue, but he muttered on, making the two rangers uneasy. Tucker’s size always added an emphasis to his speech.
At first his former colleagues were tentative with Frank, but they were both too young to stay subdued. They told Frank about a new guy at the Joshua Tree Athletic Club. How he put the needle to that “meaner-than-a-snake Shaw” and how much they enjoyed it.
Sierra said, “Eddie popped some guy for giving Cece a bad time at the bar.”
“You shoulda seen it, Frank.” Greg picked the story up. “This big old boy’s coming on to Cece and won’t stop. So Eddie tells him to go sit down at one of the tables and mind his manners. Well, this guy looks at Eddie and starts cracking up. Calls him a rat-toothed runt.”
“I’m not sure I want to hear this next part,” Frank said.
“It turns out okay,” Greg said. “Right, Eddie?”
Eddie grinned and nodded. “Not for him.”
Sierra picked it up where Greg left off. “Eddie steps up to the dude and whacks him in the cojones, faster than anything. Then, as the guy is sagging, Eddie reaches up under the guy’s armpit, grabs him by the back of the belt with his other hand, and frog-walks him to the door. ‘Puke outside,’ he says.” Sierra grinned. His dark good looks and flashing eyes leant a satanic glee to his expression.
Frank pictured Linda tending bar and coming to her rescue. Silly stuff, he thought, but he was suddenly aware of his drifting isolation. Linda lived in a former world down in the valley, there and in his dreams. Sometimes she came to him as a seductress, vivid and erotic. Sometimes as a gentle presence, all mixed up with the warm valley winds and the sounds of Sage Creek singing near his caboose. He pushed the thoughts away. Thinking of Linda made him ache.
“They gave Shaw’s leg a funeral,” Wilson said.
“That’s right. He kept complaining about it hurting and itching. This woman up at Janey’s place told him that if he buried his leg, the pain and itch would go away,” Eddie said.
Wilson shook his head. “What a bunch of bullshit. It was a hell of a party, though.”
“Did it work?” Frank asked.
“He said it did for a while, but then he found out it wasn’t his leg.”
“Whose leg was it?”
“Don’t know. Don’t want to know. He says he wants to go back up to Janey’s and get some more advice. He’s a randy old devil.” Sierra grinned.
•
Frank had arranged with the VA for Parker’s burial, making sure a priest was on hand to give the last rites. Seth Parker had gone into the ground alone. His Silver Star, Bronze Star with two clusters, Combat Infantryman’s Badge, and campaign ribbons were pinned to his uniform. He was thirty-six years old, boyish looking even in death. Frank wondered how he had lasted that long, the kid whose skill with a rifle was unmatched, a particularly cruel gift for one so tenderhearted. What the hammer? What the chain? / In what furnace was thy brain?
Half of the population of the Mojave Desert turned out for Dave Meecham’s memorial service in Johannesburg. His wife had chosen the old Randsburg/Johannesburg Cemetery, where so many people of the desert rested. Dave’s widow sought Frank out to thank him for being such a good friend to her husband. Frank had winced. He felt that he’d had a hand in Meecham’s death. He couldn’t get past it.
•
Zeke limped up the canyon, Eddie and Jack-the-dog in his wake. Eddie had said he wanted to take a shower up at the falls while he was here. Frank and the rangers sat on the porch in aluminum chairs with seats reconstructed of clothesline. The plastic straps had disintegrated in the sun long ago.
Greg wiggled around in his chair looking uncomfortable and then came to the point of the visit, without further preamble. “Brought Eddie up so you could come back for a while. There’s people who wonder why the hell you are living up here with old shoot-your-ass-off Tucker and not even bothering to send out a word.”
“He’s a good conversationalist, Greg,” Frank remarked, without cracking a smile.
The two rangers waited for Frank to continue, to see if he would agree to their proposal. They had made promises to bring him back.
“I guess it looks as though I don’t give a damn about my friends,” Frank said. He stared out into the Saline Valley. “The fact of the matter is I’m not sure what I’m coming back to or what’s in store.”
“We need you back in Ridgecrest,” Greg said. “Carl Becker’s filling in for Dave, and he’s a piece of work.”
Sierra grinned. “Becker’s been chewing on Greg just for drill. He hardly has enough ass left to sit on.”
Greg frowned at Sierra. “Yeah, and there’s some people at a bar in Red Mountain waiting to see you, too,” he added.
Frank knew hiding with a hermit wasn’t going to be a lifetime occupation, but he didn’t know what the hell he was going to do, either. Dave Meecham had taken his resignation with him. The first phase of investigation into the deaths of Parker and Gilman and the events at Sand Canyon was nearing completion, but there was more coming, lawyers and lawsuits, for sure. He knew he’d have to go back.
“Okay, I’ll get my stuff.”
Tucker and Eddie came out to the truck, Eddie pushing a wheelbarrow, laboring with the weight.
“This’s gotta go to the Ophir mill in Randsburg. Get it to Pete Arnoldson. Okay?” Tucker hefted a burlap sack into the pickup, where it landed with a thud, and lifted another one from the arms of the struggling Eddie, who was trying to raise it over the side of the pickup.
“I think we can do that,” Greg said, surreptitiously winking at Frank.
They climbed into the rangers’ truck, said their good-byes, and started on the long haul back to pavement.
“How’s Shaw doing?”
“One leg, one crutch, and one mean mouth. He’s just fine.”
As they lurched up the washboard portion of the Saline Valley Road, fast enough to make Frank cranky, Je
sse Sierra said, “We found your truck.”
“What?” Frank wasn’t sure he heard right.
“It was below the fish hatchery, along Oak Creek. It must have been where Parker left it after he took it from Eddie. Started right up.”
•
As they turned south onto Highway 395 toward Red Mountain, Frank felt uneasy. He didn’t want a welcome home party. He didn’t think he could deal with all the questions and noise.
“There’s not a party, is there?”
“Who for?” Greg said. He turned and grinned at Frank. “Nope, but Mr. Collins and his pals are there. Cece’s bettin’ living with Tucker’s turned your hair white.”
Frank let out a deep breath. “What about Linda?”
“Who?”
“Come on, Greg. Will Linda be there?”
“Well, she’s been pretty busy, in and out of town a lot, but I imagine so.” Greg stared straight ahead.
Frank wanted to tell him to turn around, but he couldn’t wait to see her. It was great having such a firm sense of purpose.
56
•
Frank was pleased to see his truck parked out in front of the Joshua Tree Athletic Club. Someone had washed it and given it a shine. The interior was clean as a whistle, and the blanket/seat cover had been washed. He opened the glovebox and rummaged around looking for his dad’s brass switch keys, but he came up empty.
Right next to his Chevy was Jack’s old International, bright, shiny, and dentless. That was an even bigger surprise. When they brought Jack’s truck up from the mine shaft, the front part of the body had looked like an accordion, ready for the wrecking yard. Now it gleamed with the original two-tone paint job, fenders black, body blue.
Someone had poured a lot of money into bringing it back. He thought about how pleased he was to see his ’53 Chevy five-window and realized he’d have done the same thing, providing he’d had the cash to spare. He just wished he had his dad’s keys; one was to the caboose, damn it.
So far his return to civilization had been okay. People had greeted him warmly, Cece with a hug, the boys with crushing handshakes. They restrained their curiosity to the point that Frank had to ask questions to find out what had taken place in his absence. He sat at the bar, catching up on the news with Jack Collins and watching the endless game of snooker.
Jack told him the boys were having difficulty with Shaw. He didn’t want to go to the VA hospital over in Fresno to get fitted with a prosthesis. It turned out Jack was serious about getting a wooden leg. Worse yet, Eddie knew a one-legged guy up in Reno who could make him one.
Frank wondered if Eddie knew a guy with a glass eye.
Jack said he was afraid to speculate on Eddie’s acquaintances and Shaw’s proclivities. “If Ben thought he could have a wooden leg and an eye patch, he’d probably put out his own eye.” They laughed. Frank was feeling the couple of beers he’d had swim over him. He’d been abstemious while he’d been with Tucker, and he was out of practice.
“Your truck looks really good, Jack. Must’ve cost you a bundle.”
“Not really.”
“Oh. How’s that?” Frank said, not being able to help himself.
Collins pushed a rag around on the surface of the spotless bar. “Well, Eddie borrowed it, so he felt obliged to fix it up. Paid for the whole thing.”
Frank was taken aback. “Wow! Who did the work?” Where did Eddie get the money? he wondered.
“He took it to a shop down in Pearsonville that specializes in restoration. Looks like new.” He shook his head. “Now I’m tender about pounding it on the back roads. Ben’s been riding me about being a candy-ass with a yuppie truck. Something else for him to bitch about.”
“Where did Eddie come up with the money for something like that? If you don’t mind me asking.” Frank raised his eyebrows.
“Once a cop . . .” Jack let it hang; his eyes wandered around the room. “Well, it’s like this. Eddie agreed to help out this man with a gold mine, up in the Saline Valley, who was temporarily crippled up. Then this other good fellow heard about the miner’s plight, through Eddie, I might mention. So this Good Samaritan went out there and helped this man in his hour of need.” Jack nodded at the wonder of it. “This good man worked like a dog, until the miner was almost healed from his injury.”
Jack looked up, his face filled with innocence “Maybe you don’t know about this part. When the miner’s foot was injured, his toe was knocked right off. So he was brought right into the Lone Pine clinic. When Doc Robertson wanted to know where the severed toe was so he could reattach it, the miner cursed and swore and told the doc that his dog ate the toe before they thought to pick it up. Now the man was in a terrible plight. Temporarily estranged from his only friend, Jack-the-toe-eating-dog—I wish the dog had another name—and barely able to get around, much less take care of his place.”
He raised his round face to Frank’s. “That’s when this Good Samaritan appeared.” He interrupted his narrative. “I think you remember it was Eddie suggested you could stay with Tucker for a while and give him a hand.” Jack continued speaking to Frank as if he were an audience far removed from the events. “This doubly afflicted man was so grateful to our Eddie for bringing his plight to the attention of this Samaritan that he agreed to bear the cost for restoring my truck to its original beauty before its visitation to the underworld. Oh, and he’s paying for Eddie’s new teeth in the bargain.” He grinned at Frank. “Thanks, podner.”
“You mean all that digging, hauling, and pounding I did was for Eddie?”
“No! No! It was to make an old truck new, to heal an old man’s heart, and to keep our Shoshone brother on the path of righteousness. It was a good deed, Frank. A good deed is its own reward.” Jack was grinning hugely.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Frank said, shaking his head. “With the amount of high-grade ore out in the truck, he could have a whole new set of gold teeth.”
“I suppose so, but be careful what you say, brother Flynn. There are ears everywhere, and to tell you the truth, the idea of Eddie with gold choppers is unsettling.”
“Well, here’s one for you, Jack. That piece of threaded quartz you gave me probably fell out of Tucker’s van.”
Jack nodded knowingly.
“Tucker was carrying sacks of high-grade to the mill in Randsburg in his old van. The latch on the rear doors was faulty, so pieces of ore spilled out onto the road. Tucker remembers stopping and picking a lot of it up, but he must have missed some. That’s probably what Linda picked up and tossed into Kevin’s Jeep.”
Jack looked thoughtful. “Follow the Yellow Brick Road. Hope no more of that stuff is lying around.” He caught Frank’s eye. “By the way, we think there’s an original letter, maybe a map, too. So there might be another mine. We’re thinking about the Lost Goler Mine, near Garlock. As a matter of fact, we’re taking our old comrade Jefferson Lebeau for a looksee in a couple of days.”
“The fellow that Shaw refers to as ‘the man who died and went to Seattle’?”
“That’s the one. He fancies himself a treasure hunter, among his many skills. He took one look at Cece’s map and the reverend’s letter, read some stuff on the Internet about prospecting, and declared that he was in possession of the mine’s location, or at least in close approximation. Then he went into Ridgecrest and bought a GPS and announced that he is ready to show us the very spot—give or take a mile or two—of the New Hope Mine.”
“That should keep you boys occupied for a while,” Frank said, an easy smile creasing his face. Linda had yet to make an appearance, and Frank felt awkward about asking Jack where she was.
Shaw and his old nemesis of the green cloth Jefferson Lebeau were putting on a snooker show. Everyone’s attention was captured by the hush of conversation that was preamble to a difficult shot. Lebeau had called the six-ball into the side pocket on a difficult cross-bank. He chalked his cue, bent down to sight, and then stood back up and gave the six an imperious stare. Shaw found this
delay particularly annoying, and he gnawed around the edges of Lebeau’s confidence without result. Lebeau sent the cue ball down the table for an impossibly thin slice into the cushion, driving the six into the right bank, where it rebounded so slowly that it crept across the table, balanced on the pocket’s lip, and gently dropped in, giving Lebeau the game and Shaw the fits.
When the hell was someone going to mention Linda? His back was turned to the bar, so he didn’t notice that she had taken her station behind it. When he turned, there she was, dark curls framing hazel eyes and generous mouth. She gave him a smile as she reached under the bar for a glass and drew a Sierra Nevada. “Hi, sailor, can I buy you a beer?”
“You bet you can.” He grinned with relief and pleasure.
“We have a lot to talk about, Flynnman.”
“Yes, we do.” He wanted to ask her about the job but held back, knowing it wasn’t the way to begin things.
“I’m so sorry about Dave. I know how much you’ll miss him.”
“Thanks. Sometimes I hear him. You know, in my head. He’s joined the chorus of the departed.”
“I thought you were a skeptic, a hard-nosed fact chaser.”
“I am, but dreams are real. They’re there in our minds, and Dad and Mom and others come and visit. And I’m glad to see them. Sometimes I don’t even need to be asleep. I wanted Dave to come and forgive me for getting him killed, but he didn’t. He wondered why I was letting life pass me by, letting you pass me by. I’m not going to do that if you give me half a chance.”
“A whole one, Flynnman.” She raised dark eyebrows. “I took the job with the Times.”
“I thought you probably would. Uh, then, why are you here?
“To take care of Hobbes and 395, Ben’s cat.”
“Oh.”
“The Times doesn’t require my presence more than once a week, by the way, so I can still live in Red Mountain and give Dad a hand until Ben’s stronger and they’ve worked out a schedule that doesn’t include me every weekend.” She frowned. “I guess I’ll still have some time for the Courier, too. I’ll be doing a column, but not the daily stuff. So it looks like there’ll even be time for courtship. If I remember correctly, you like the idea of courting. So you better be thinking about it.”
Shadows of Death Page 27
