The Adventures of Gopher Piddington

by David Michaelson

  Without someone to drive the second wagon back, there was going to hell to pay, no matter what. From what Friedman had implied, his only daughter wasn’t going anywhere. Dealing with womenfolk had always confused Gopher. Even his own mother acted different than his father. It was all so complicated.

  Then an idea came to Gopher; a thought that just might save the day for all concerned. His plan was to take Olson’s freight wagon back and leave the rental behind for now. On the way back he planned to stop at the location of the broken Friedman wagon, near where Heidi was buried and pack up all the wheel pieces. He thought maybe someone could rebuild it. If so, he would return with the repaired wheel, some heavy logs and a helper. Together they could raise the axle and slip the wheel back on. After that, it would be a cinch to deliver the Friedman wagon to the homestead and take the rental back to Santa Fe.

  It was a wonderful plan, but for one exception. Old man Olson might not agree; or worse, Gopher may be fired on the spot for leaving the rental behind. It seemed no matter what he did he was going to catch hell for it.

  With nothing else coming to mind. Gopher Piddington announced he was returning to Santa Fe with Olson’s wagon and would make arrangements to return and get the rental wagon as soon as possible.

  “Suit yerself. But Grenda ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

  Gopher mounted the seat, picked up the reins and tipped his hat in Grenda’s direction. He then turned the rig around and headed back down the southbound trail.

  When he reached the grassy spot near where Heidi had confronted the snake, Gopher stopped for a moment to reconsider his options. He could still go off trail and recover the broken wheel or he could forget that plan altogether and go straight to Santa Fe to take his punishment.

  He followed the tracks to where Heidi was buried. The Friedman wagon and its shattered wheel had not been disturbed.

  While he collected all the wagon wheel parts he could find, including the busted iron rim, he kept staring at the makeshift grave marker Friedman had fashioned for his daughter. He resolved to fashion a better one.

  That night, the lone ten year-old traveler made himself a small fire and ate a meager supper. He put his bedroll under the belly of the wagon and kept the scattergun at his side.

  Off in the distance he could hear the soulful cries of song dogs and the muted rumblings of distant thunderheads clashing. If he was lucky, he just might make Santa Fe without getting wet.

  While he stared into the flickering fire he thought about all he had seen and done in the past few days. He had seen a little girl die a horrible but quick death. He had seen how strangely some parents react to the loss of an innocent loved one. He had dispatched a monster of a rattlesnake with his bare hands and a lot of rocks. And he had seen parts of a woman none of his friends could claim.

  The sky rotated slowly around the lone traveler and he marveled at the sheer number of stars in the black sky. “I wonder if somewhere up there, little Heidi is looking down on all of this.”

  OLSON’S WRATH

  Gopher followed Olson’s instructions and did not urge the animals to hurry. He knew if he arrived with sweaty animals he would endure the wrath of his employer, so he allowed them to continue south at their own pace. Twice he dozed off and was mildly surprised to find the animals had not strayed from the established trail. They knew the way back.

  When he pulled the wagon into the lot in front of the mill, Hans Olson came running out with his arms flailing. Gopher already knew what he was upset about. Without waiting for the tirade, Gopher told his employer that Friedman refused to let his daughter drive the second wagon back.

  “What am I going to tell Jason? He will want his wagon back. Now what am I to do? I will look the fool.”

  Gopher let him finish without interruption. When his boss was done, Gopher re-told a brief rendition of the events leading up to the accident and outlined his plan to get the wagon wheel repaired, installed and returned to the Friedmans. “Sir, I really didn’t have much choice in the matter. Golly, they had to bury their little girl and all. What was I to do?”

  Old man Olson calmed down once he understood the gravity of the situation.

  “It is a good plan that you have. Here, let me have a look at the broken wheel. Perhaps there are spokes I can use as a pattern to make new ones. Give me a hand with the unloading. Then put the wagon away and tend to the horses. After that, I want you to go talk with Ivan to see if he could make a new iron rim. I don’t trust the regular smithy but I would trust Ivan to make a good rim, one that will stay firmly attached. Now go and come back when all is done. I have chores aplenty for you.”

  The walk to the jail wasn’t a long one but it was a lonely one. The boy had managed to escape serious harm from mister Olson but the old man failed to take into account that Gopher had not slept well and needed a little time off. The past few days had been hard on him, as well.

  Ivan promised he would go to Olson and have a look at the wheel. “I will see what I can do, but you must go to your parents. Let them know you are back. They worry about you.”

  The restaurant was busy but not so busy that Gopher’s father couldn’t listen to a brief account of his latest adventures.

  “It is good you are back but you must fulfill your duties to your employer. Go tend to your chores. We will get together tonight at supper and discuss everything.”

  By the time the sun set on another day, Gopher Piddington was physically and mentally exhausted. He wanted nothing more than to lie down in his own feather bed and sleep for a week.

  Old man Olson was not happy that the rental wagon had not been returned but said he understood a thing or two about grief and losing a loved one. “I too, have known what it feels like to bury a child. I once had a son not unlike you but a few years younger. He contracted the fever and died in his sleep. If he was still alive, he would be doing your work and he would be doing if for nothing.

  “But tell me more about this grand plan of yours to fix the Friedman wagon and all the other things you intend on doing. That seems like a lot to chew on for such a young lad.”

  “Ivan said he can forge a new iron rim once the wheel is rebuilt. I thought we could load it into the freight wagon and haul it back to where the Friedman wagon is located. Then we could use some sturdy logs to lift the axle and slide the wheel back on. Then we could deliver their old wagon to the homestead and return with the rental wagon. Simple, see?”

  “And exactly who is we?”

  Gopher hadn’t thought much about who would go with him to fix the wagon and drive the rental back. He assumed mister Olson would go.

  “And what makes you think I’m willing to let you take my only freight wagon on such an adventure? I’ve got my profits to consider. And who’s going to pay for these spokes? They don’t grow on trees.

  “And if you think I’m going all the way to Chimayo, you’ve got another think coming. No, you got yourself into this mess and it’s up to you to make it right. Now get to work and quit bothering me. I’ve got some spokes to shave.”

  By the end of the following day, old man Olson, with the expert assistance of Ivan Petronoff, a former master blacksmith, had the wagon wheel rebuilt as good as new and the hot iron rim tightened perfectly to the wood as it cooled. But the problem still remained as to who was going to go along to complete the proposed plan. Several things were crystal clear: Olson wanted the rental returned; so did Jason at the livery stable. Neither man was willing to make the trip to Chimayo. And every day either of the wagons remained in the hands of the Friedmans, it was an additional cost to Olson.

  “It is enough I waste my time making new spokes and fitting them into the hub with no guarantee of being paid. I have no business doing any of that. But the Friedmans may yet have need for more lumber some day. Therefore I do what I can to help them. As for my wagon, it goes against everything I believe in, but you have my permission to use it as you have proposed. I will make other arrangements with my customers. But I warn you; you br
eak anything and you will work it off even if it takes the rest of your life. Now go and find some fool willing to go all the way to God knows where to fix a wagon and leave me alone.”

  “There’s one more thing, Mister Olson. I would like to carve that little girl’s name on a plank of wood for her marker. Do you mind if I take a piece of soft pine?”

  Hans Olson said he didn’t care about one little stick of wood.

  Gopher found a willing fool in the person of Reginald. The boy only operated with the mind of child but he had the body and the strength of a man—and he loved horses. As for payment, Reginald had no use for money, so Gopher promised he could have all the colorful bottles that were strewn about the Friedman property. That was enough for Reginald. He was more than willing to go.

  Between the two of them, the heavy wagon wheel was easily hoisted onto the bed of the freight wagon and tied securely. The same was for the stout logs Gopher planned to use to lift the axle off the dirt.

  It was time to head north to the gravesite and address the task of putting the new wheel back on the Friedman wagon.

  This time, Gopher included a heavy canvas tarp, just in case they got caught in a downpour. In a few minutes it could easily be tied to the sideboards of the wagon and secured to the ground with stakes or rocks. Under such a cover they might stay dry for days if necessary.

  Reginald wasn’t very good company. There was little the slow-thinking boy had to offer during idle conversation. So, Gopher kept his thoughts and opinions to himself, as the wagon slowly negotiated the miles to where little Heidi was buried.

  They reached the site near noon and immediately set about positioning the logs in such a manner as to raise the right rear axle high enough to slide the new wheel onto the spindle.

  Getting the axle high enough was easy enough for the two of them, but when one had to let go to wrestle the wheel around, the heavy axle slumped back down onto the ground. It was an impossible situation and one Gopher dearly wished he had planned out a little better.

  After an hour of earnest effort, Gopher announced it was impossible and told Reginald they were going on to the Friedman place. The retarded boy was thrilled at the thought of finding new bottles.

  Before Gopher mounted the freight wagon he took a few moments to affix the wooden cross piece he had made with Heidi’s name carved into it. He would have also added her last name but he didn’t know how it was spelled and the stick wasn’t long enough for that many letters anyway, so it read simply, HEIDI.

  When the boys pulled up to the Friedman place, they were welcomed with nothing more than the sour comment; “I guess you’re here to take the rental back to Santa Fe.”

  “Well, yes sir, that much is true. But you might want to know that I had your busted wagon wheel repaired and it’s at your wagon right now. Me and Reginald tried to put in on but it will take a third hand to move that wheel onto the spindle once the axle is up.”

  “You mean to tell me you’ve taken my old wheel and got it fixed without asking me?”

  Suddenly Gopher entertained a fleeting thought of hatred for Friedman. But what was done was done and that was that.

  “Yes sir, that’s exactly what I done.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned. Didn’t expect that, not from a pup like you—still wet behind the ears and all.”

  Gopher blushed at the unexpected compliment.

  “Come mornin’ we’ll go to the wagon and see what can be done to bring ‘er home. The missus and Grenda will stay here and keep up with the chores around the place.”

  Gopher and Reginald made their bedrolls near the fire pit. They were not invited inside the lean-to shelter where the Friedman family was out of the wind.

  Gopher made sure he was on the side of Reginald that allowed a clear view into the lean-to, should Grenda display a bit more of her white skin.

  She didn’t, and the morning came with the sun peeking through gathering clouds. The storm was getting closer and larger.

  Friedman was in a hurry to get to the task of fitting the wheel back onto his wagon. He did not allow for breakfast, much to Gopher’s chagrin. He had hoped for warm mush at the very least. But the wagon held priority and the three headed off to the gravesite complete with Friedman’s team of horses.

  With the three of them working together, it didn’t take long for the wheel to be wiggled back into place and the nut tightened. But as Friedman walked his team around to the tongue he noticed the new addition to Heidi’s grave marker. “Is that your doing, young man?”

  “Yes sir. I thought she needed to have a name.”

  “That’s awfully nice of you but it wasn’t necessary. We will always know where our little one is buried.”

  Gopher considered adding that others traveling this way might like to know who is buried there, but he kept his tongue.

  The repaired wheel worked perfectly but squeaked something awful when the terrain put a load on that side. “Needs grease.” Gopher told Reginald, who was putting his hands over his ears at the high-pitched sound.

  When the two wagons arrived back at the Friedman place, it started to rain. At first, most of the smaller drops evaporated on the way down. But the larger drops came down in loud plops, turning the low spots to mud and filling the nostrils with the pungent smell of Mother Earth being moistened by the first rain in months.

  “Got no place for you boys. Best get you two into town for the night. This one’s gonna get bad. I feel it in my bones.”

  But Mister Friedman, we have no money for a room. I brought a tarp. We can stretch it out and get by.”

  “Don’t argue with me, boy. You’ll do as I say. Get your things gathered up and follow me into Chimayo. Your room for tonight’s on me.”

  THE NIGHT OLD GUNNAR CAME TO TOWN

  The tiny first floor hotel room wasn’t much larger than a broom closet and nothing to brag about but at least it was dry. By the time Mister Friedman made arrangements to put Gopher and his team up for the night, the rains came hard. The big storm had finally come. It had built up against the mountains to the north but the wind direction shifted and the full fury of the deluge was now heading south. Raindrops as big as marbles pummeled everything into submission. Neither man nor beast could endure the constant and painful pounding of the mighty thundershower.

  Gopher hoped Mister Friedman would be able to make his way back to his shelter. Not only was the hour late but darkness came, not from the sun dropping behind the mountains, but by the towering, dense black clouds.

  Lightning danced across the high ridges and licked at anything taller than a blade of grass. An hour after the storm began, a Chimayo resident complained that one of his horses had been hit by lightning and the poor animal was running amuck, completely out of his mind.

  Unable to sleep due to the din of the downpour hitting the building and pelting everything outdoors, Gopher and his dim-witted traveling companion decided to sit under the boardwalk awning and watch the town of Chimayo weather the storm.

  Far upstream, a tragedy was unfolding. Unbeknownst to anyone, Miller’s Pond was filling to overflowing. Once, that body of water powered an undershot water wheel that operated the milling machinery. But the cogs and wheels and most of the building itself had been scavenged and moved to other locations for other purposes.

  Some say it was just about nine in the evening when the earthen and wood dam broke. But no one could say for sure because Miller’s Pond was some miles away and no one was there to witness the collapse.

  The sound of all that water rushing down the valley could be felt long before it could be seen. Windows rattled and lamps shook from the vibrations of tons and tons of water racing towards town. But at the time no one knew what was happening. A few old-timers reckoned it sounded somewhat like when there were buffalo on the run—back in the days.

  Now, Miller’s Pond wasn’t even on any map. Yet, everyone in Chimayo knew about it—not for any particular reason other than for a monstrous catfish that had been seen and hooked man
y times but never landed. The legend of Old Gunnar was passed down from father to son, but no one had come close to catching that big, ugly fish.

  Some claimed Old Gunnar was big enough to swallow babies whole and that’s why the church didn’t baptize them in the pond.

  Gopher laughed at such a ridiculous story. He supposed they baptized children elsewhere because the pond water stunk. He had tried to swim in ponds like that and came down with a severe case of the itchy-scratchies. That’s why the kids in Santa Fe only went skinny-dipping in the slower parts of the river.

  When the wall of water first became visible, Gopher still didn’t think it would amount to much. After all, the depth in the street couldn’t have been more than two feet deep. But it was pushing a lot of rocks and mud along with it. Still, he did not fear the onrushing torrent, for he and Reginald were high and dry on the elevated boardwalk.

  Just then a scream for help could be heard. Upstream a man could be seen running wildly down the boardwalk and yelling for his dog. The scruffy little mutt was trying hard to reach the safety of the boardwalk but the current was much too powerful for dog paddling.

  The water was moving faster than the dog’s owner could run. It was clear that the little dog wasn’t going to be rescued any time soon.

  It was Reginald that spotted a much bigger problem. A giant, gape-mouthed catfish was chasing the helpless animal and in a few flicks of that massive tail, would surely be dining on puppy.

  Reginald didn’t hesitate. He dove headfirst into the raging water and tackled, not the dog, but the charging fish.

  Over and over the two of them wrestled. The giant catfish, it seemed, had met its match in the strong arms of a boy trapped inside a man’s body.

  At the far edge of town, where the water slowed and spread out over the flatter land, there stood Reginald with a four foot catfish in his right arm and a soaking wet puppy in the other. He had his typical, goofy grin plastered all over his dirty face.