The Desert King: A Jack Trexlor Novel

by T. F. Torrey

  “Oh, that. I didn’t.”

  “You didn’t? No one showed you how?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, how many have you grabbed like that?”

  “One.”

  “And that makes two?”

  “No. That makes one.”

  “Well,” I said. I didn’t know if I should believe him. He wasn’t smiling. He didn’t act like he was joking. “How did you know how to do it, then?”

  “I didn’t,” he said. “That just felt like the right thing to do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I just—I just tried to get in tune with the snake. I provided him with a target,” he said, holding up his right hand with his fingers pointed together as he’d done with the snake, “to distract him. Then I grabbed him quick with my other hand.” He swept his left hand across to his right, imitating the move he’d snatched the snake with.

  “So you were just guessing you could grab a rattlesnake with your bare hands?”

  “No,” he said, thinking. “I knew what I could do. And I knew what he could do. I just figured out a way to do it first.” He paused and shrugged. “I was just kind of tuned in, I guess.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. I didn’t know what else to say. I’d been impressed when he grabbed the dog and fought the guys in their backyard, but this was something else.

  “Wow,” Macy said simply.

  Our moment of reflective silence was crudely interrupted. “Are we going fishing or what?” Sharon asked. “’Cause if we’re not I want to go home.” She’d regained her abrasive composure.

  “Hey, hey!” Macy said. “Let’s get back on the road!”

  Before we reboarded the truck, I asked John what RAPE on the billboards meant, and who had put it there.

  “Greenpeace,” Macy said right away.

  John flashed Macy a half-smile. “Yeah,” he said, “or someone like them.” He turned to me. “A lot of people feel that building condos and stuff out here is raping the desert. Painting that on the billboards makes people think.”

  That made sense.

  “Yeah,” Macy said.

  Sharon and Erica and I climbed back into the bed and resumed our riding positions. Macy and John examined the truck’s position in the ditch. “You can just drive right out of this,” John said.

  They climbed into the front. Macy started up the truck, pulled slowly forward out of the ditch, and we were off.

  As our desert trip continued, I tried to imagine the hills and valleys webbed with avenues and houses and shopping plazas.

  Despoliation.

  Maybe I’d get some spray paint myself.

  Chapter 10

  For the next hour or so, we raced over the desert trails as fast as the terrain would allow. In most places, that wasn’t very fast. I don’t know if Macy was trying to catch the guys who’d forced us off the road, but he didn’t. Our trip was, for the most part, uneventful.

  Three times along the road we passed trucks going the other way, heading back to Phoenix or wherever. It felt rather odd heading out when these other people were finishing up and going home. At first I thought they were weird, but then I realized that it was Sunday, and most people had to work Mondays, so actually we were the strange ones. After a while, I thought that was best. I figured I’d rather enjoy the solitude of the desert alone. Come to think of it, I’d really rather have been without John and Erica and Sharon, too.

  Twice we forded the Verde River in places where it was wide and shallow. The first time was soon after John saved Sharon. John walked across the river in front of the truck, pushing the larger rocks out of the way. Other trucks that had crossed before had left their tracks on the banks, so Macy had no trouble navigating. I was apprehensive because the water bubbled up over the tires and within inches of the tailpipe. The truck lurched and rocked in the water. Strangely, I noticed that the other occupants didn’t share my apprehension. Sharon still slept. Erica still pouted at the horizon. Macy, when he stuck his head out the window and peered down at the water with his brow wrinkled in concentration, looked most concerned of the bunch, and he wasn’t too concerned. In reality, we had no problems. Soon the truck climbed out onto the bank and we continued.

  Once we passed a mountain with its name on a barnboard sign: Chalk Mountain. It rose alone from a bit of a plateau just after we forded the river the first time. The trail we were following curved around its expanse, and as we passed I saw the sides of the mountain dotted with black points of what looked to me like abandoned mines. The barnboard sign wasn’t actually on the mountain. More directly, the sign labeled the flat ground beside the trail “Chalk Mountain”, but the point came across all right.

  A lake shimmered blue behind Chalk Mountain. I could see no label, but I figured it was probably Horseshoe Lake. Looking at the lake shrunken in its bed of cracked mud, I guessed that the area was experiencing a drought. The wide flanks of dried mud cast a sense of gloom to the area, a sort of malicious odor of decay. The lake rapidly became more distant as we continued east and north around Chalk Mountain. We met up with the water again at the northernmost point of the lake, where the Verde River poured into it. For a bit we seemed to follow the course of the river upstream. Then the trail arced eastward and I lost sight of the river.

  Our path twisted through the hills and mountains in the desert and brought us back to the water some time and many miles later, where the river passed beneath Sheep Bridge. Of course, since it was my first time there, I didn’t know at first that this was the fabled bridge. What clued me in was Macy slowing down as we approached it, leaning over in the seat and hollering “Sheep Bridge!” at me through the rear window.

  Sheep Bridge impressed me. It spanned the Verde River not from riverbank to riverbank, but from hill to hill. Across the river the land rose sharply into a large hill, which was part of a string of hills and ridges. About midway up this hill, where a ridge cut across its face, giant blocks of concrete anchored the steel cables and girders of the bridge into the hill. On our side, similar blocks held the bridge onto the top of a much smaller hill, suspending the bridge about seventy-five feet or so over the water. It must have taken quite a crew to assemble this sleek and modern bridge so high over the water, so long between the hills, so far out into the desert.

  Back in Phoenix, Macy had told me that John had delivered his youngest son here. In the air-conditioned comfort of Gridlock, before I’d met John, I couldn’t believe it. Now, after the dog and the rattlesnake, with the sun overhead and John in the passenger seat and Sheep Bridge stretched out bigger than life up ahead, I could. On our side, the hill anchoring the bridge was set back a ways from the edge of the water, so that the riverbank and a short piece of land lay under the bridge in the shade. I could imagine John there in that shade, with his wife in labor and in agony, coolly delivering his son. With his outback hat slung low, he’d have that air of calm control. He could do it.

  Right now in that shade under the bridge two other trucks found shelter. Macy slowed quickly as soon as he saw them, but neither was the one that had forced us off the road. I didn’t see anyone delivering a baby. A couple of people stood on the bank with fishing rods in their hands and a couple more lay on blankets in the sun. As we passed, one of the fishermen nodded and the other waved hello.

  Past Sheep Bridge, Macy stayed on the riverbank, driving more slowly. By this time it was approaching noon. The sun beat ferociously on those of us in the back of the truck. I could feel the sweat on the backs of my knees, and I could feel the strain in my eyes and forehead from constantly squinting.

  I envied Erica, peacefully keeping the sun off her face with the brim of her hat, which she’d put on again when Macy had slowed down to a speed where it would stay on. I envied her for the jumpsuit that kept her legs protected from the intense sun.

  In fact, I envied her jumpsuit for the way it clung to her thighs—no. I forcibly diverted my eyes from her, back to the terrain.

  Up the river a bit from Shee
p Bridge we forded again, moving back to the side of the river that we’d been on originally. Again John walked out in front of the truck, guiding Macy and moving larger boulders out of the way. Here the river was wider, but shallower. Macy had no trouble crossing. Again, I was apprehensive anyway. Without the truck we’d really be stuck.

  On the other side of the river, Macy stopped the truck and he and John got out.

  I got out, too, stretching my back and legs. I could feel a stupid question forming in my mind, and I fought the urge to ask it, but finally I lost. I asked, “Why didn’t we just cross on the bridge?”

  Macy and John frowned at me. “What?” Macy asked.

  “Why did we drive through the water? Why didn’t we just drive over Sheep Bridge?” I asked again.

  This was hilarious. They laughed and laughed. Even Erica snickered. I felt stupid. Finally John got around to explaining it to me. “It’s for livestock,” he said. “They use it to take herds of cattle and sheep across the river. You can’t drive on it. It isn’t wide enough for a vehicle.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  Macy was still laughing. “Why do you think they call it Sheep Bridge?” he asked.

  That was pretty obvious now. I moved on to the less obvious. “Is this it?” I asked, waving around at where we were parked. “Are we there yet?”

  “No,” Macy said. He regained his composure and began digging through some of the gear in front of where Erica sat. “We’re just going to get some bait here.”

  Macy found what he was looking for and pulled it out: two poles wrapped in some thin netting. He handed it to John and again hunted through the gear, this time pulling out some thong sandals and a bucket. As Macy took off his tennis shoes and put on the sandals, John unrolled the net. Then Macy rinsed out the bucket and he and John splashed downriver a ways. They each held one of the poles, which were attached to the sides of the net. Holding the leading edge of the net down into the water between them and the rear of the net up out of the water, they walked back to us.

  As they got back to our position, they lifted the net out of the water. “Wow, check this out!” Macy said excitedly. He reached into the net and pulled out a squirming animal. “Crayfish,” he said. “Loads of them.” Macy and John picked the minnows and crayfish out of the net and tossed them into the bucket. Macy shouted to Sharon until she woke up and told her about the crayfish. She told him to fuck off and went back to sleep.

  Macy and John made a few more passes up the river, stopping after each pass to deposit their catch into the bucket. Then they stashed the net, put a lid on the bait bucket, asked me to safeguard the bucket in the back of the truck, and we were off.

  ***

  The road—if you could call it that—was much rockier on this leg of the trip. We in the back were continually shaken and jarred, even though Macy took it slowly. We were getting into no-man’s-land. Even I could tell. Past Sheep Bridge I saw no rings of rocks indicating anyone had built a campfire. No more trucks passed us on their way out of the desert. Everywhere the desert lay wild and untamed. I got a certain sense of awe just riding through that area. It looked as though no person had disturbed this land in a thousand years, like it had been forever left to the cacti, the birds, and the sky.

  We left the river behind after getting the bait, but because the object of our voyage had been fishing I guessed that we would come back to it again. And I was right.

  About forty-five minutes after we left the river, we met it again. Here the river looked different—younger. It snaked through the desert up against a cliff it had either cut or run into. The water was clear and brisk and bubbled like a pot of noodles.

  Macy stopped some distance away from the river and John got out again. As Macy backed the truck down to the edge of the water, John guided him left and right and finally halted him about fifteen feet from the edge of the water.

  As if on cue, Sharon woke up and declared it was lunchtime. No one had any argument there. It was past noon, and I don’t think any of us had eaten breakfast. We munched on potato chips and cold cut sandwiches and washed it all down with cold soft drinks. There had been a spot inside me that was really starving, and the sandwiches and stuff hit it right on.

  After lunch, the four of them broke out the rods and got down to business. Macy had been pacing and throwing stones into the water throughout lunch. Now he rummaged through the cab of the truck and pulled out a rifle and some cartridges. While he loaded the gun, he explained to John that he was still pissed off about being forced off the road and he was going to vent some frustration by shooting. John, smiling slightly, put some of the minnows and crayfish from the bucket into a coffee can as Macy loaded the rifle. John didn’t seem tense or stressed at all. He told Macy good luck and be careful, then they split up.

  Macy and Sharon took their rods and the rifle and the bait bucket and trudged off upstream, to my left. John and Erica, with their rods and the coffee can, headed downstream. That left me alone at the truck.

  I felt nothing like fishing, not at all like shooting, and just a little like drawing. So drawing it was. I looked around for something good to draw.

  We had parked in a bend in the river. To our left and right the river curved back toward us, heavily covered with undergrowth. Where we had parked the truck, however, was mostly bare rocks, with only a few weeds. In the back of my mind I supposed that usually the river ran right where we were standing, but the same drought that had shrunken Horseshoe Lake had reduced the river. Maybe I was just paranoid, but it seemed to me that a flash flood could wipe Macy’s truck all the way down to Horseshoe Lake. Maybe us, too. But I figured Macy—or at least John—knew what he was doing.

  Across the river from us, a sheer cliff rose maybe forty feet high, running along the other side of the river as far as I could see both ways. The red-brown rock looked somehow ominous and foreboding, and I wondered why. Several jagged washes filled with gravel and thorny bushes cut down the face of the cliff to the river. Past the rim of the cliff, a small cactus-covered hilltop rose softly, as if peeking meekly over the bluff at us.

  None of this was the kind of focal point I wanted for my drawing.

  This left me in a bit of a drawing dilemma. I didn’t want to be too close to either Sharon or Erica, not right now.

  A rifle shot cracked through the hot desert air. It was Macy, of course, off to my left, venting frustrations. Wondering if his shooting the rifle might be the subject I was looking for, I made my way upstream to find Macy and Sharon.

  They hadn’t gone far. Right away I spotted Sharon’s rod poking out from the shade of a cottonwood tree by the river, her line sloping lazily out to the middle of the stream. Macy stood close by with the rifle butt tucked into his shoulder and the barrel leveled at some target farther upstream. As I watched and waited, nothing happened.

  Suddenly Macy lowered the rifle from his shoulder and shook it. Explaining to Sharon that it had jammed, he worked the bolt a few times and slapped the mechanism with the heel of his hand. Finally he raised the rifle to his shoulder again, and this time the rifle cracked off a shot, spitting smoke. He snapped the bolt back, locked it forward again, and popped off another shot.

  Excellent. This kind of action was the centerpiece I’d been looking for. They still hadn’t noticed that I’d followed them, so I didn’t have to worry about them hamming it up or shying away. The gun sounded more like a toy than a cannon, but that wouldn’t show up in the drawing. I’d just draw the rifle a bit bigger than it really was. Another thing I wanted different was the background, which now was just the face of the bluff. Thinking quickly, I decided to draw the scene here, then fake in a different background later.

  Checking for snakes first, I sat down on the rocks to draw. I sketched quickly, blocking in the major foreground lines so that I could get to Macy.

  As I began sketching Macy, his rifle jammed again. Perfect. That gave me the chance to sketch him in before the rifle. As I drew, he took the rifle off his shoulder and worked t
he bolt.

  Apparently that didn’t help, because he knelt down and lay the rifle across his knee so that he could work on it better.

  This worried me. Not because he was having trouble with his gun, but because he had it across his knee with the barrel pointed almost directly at me. I could practically see the bullet lodged in the other end of the barrel, could practically read my name on it.

  Then he began to beat on the mechanism again with his hand.

  And the little gun that looked almost like a toy crack-powwed. I heard the bullet thwack through the leaves over my head, and although Macy was at least forty feet from me, I swear I could feel the heat of the discharge on my face.

  Macy looked up, noticing for the first time that I’d joined them. His mouth fell open, and his face ran the gamut of expressions: startled, surprised, concerned, apologetic. He finished with his mouth in an O, but no words came out.

  Sharon didn’t notice.

  “Jack!” Macy said, hurrying over to me. “Are you all right?”

  I almost said yes, but then I remembered hearing stories about people who got shot and didn’t even notice until later. I’d always considered myself a fairly alert kind of guy, but all the same I stood up and checked.

  I was fine, and said so.

  “Jack,” Macy said, “I didn’t even know you were there.”

  “I would hope not,” I said.

  “What happened?” Sharon asked without getting up.

  “Jack surprised me,” Macy explained. “I almost shot him.”

  “I came over to draw you guys,” I said.

  “Jesus, Jack,” Sharon said. “You should watch where you’re going.”

  We went on like this for a bit, with Macy swearing he didn’t know I was there and didn’t mean it, and with Sharon alternately blaming Macy and me, then deciding it was funny and laughing.

  I realized that I didn’t want to draw them anymore and left. Macy tried to convince me to stay, but it was no use. I wanted to draw. I wanted to get away from Macy and Sharon for a while. So I went off to find John and Erica.