Frank read the Los
Angeles Times and saw his picture. He retrieved a flashlight, a plastic
canteen, and a Swiss Army knife from the saddlebag. The tourist site yielded a
University of Arizona Jacket that somebody must have removed and forgotten.
Maybe they had been afraid that some mentally challenged hunter would mistake
them for a wildcat. Some visitors had left unfinished drinks in the trash--enough
to fill his plastic canteen. It was not much, but it would do if he kept out of
the sun. He found a good brown paper bag to use to carry things.
He had never doubted
that they were looking for him. He used the Swiss Army knife scissors to cut
his hair, so his golden locks would be less conspicuous. A meal of sausages and
whiskey was followed by another joint and then by sleep.
☼
Although the night
was very cold, Frank settled for a stick of pepperoni for breakfast to get an
early start. He must have regretted leaving the bike behind, but they would be
looking for a biker. Maybe he could retrieve it on the way out. He started hiking
down the mountain before the sun was up. He was freezing. He hungered for the
warmth of the valley.
The steep trail
offered a rough descent with repeated tight switchbacks. He took a bad fall, when he accidentally stepped off the trail onto some steep scree, in the dark.
His left hand was bleeding. Frank was up to it. He wrapped his hand in his
spare bandana. He kept moving. The trail became easier as the promise of
sunlight revealed the lay of the land. He left the steeper terrain behind. By
late morning, he reached the upper reaches of Johnson Valley road. He slowed
now. The valley heat was already sapping his strength.
A long walk down the
road brought him to a wide spot in the canyon. A grove of cottonwood trees grew
here in a triangular recess, against a steep canyon wall. This hideaway was warmed
by the canyon mouth nearby, but Frank was in no mood to take on the midday
heat. He needed to rest-up for the walk that lay ahead that night. He staggered
into the grove and found a clearing, in the corner of the cliff face, where the
soil was relatively level.
Coyote melons
sprawled on the floor of the clearing connected by looping fat vine stalks. Some
of the vines were as long as thirty feet. He knew the coyote melons by their
gourds and by their five lobed palmate leaves. The gourds were about five
inches around and looked to be ripe. Frank had grown up in the Mojave Desert,
in Barstow, and so had a passing knowledge of desert flora and fauna. He knew
that the Indians had used the roots of the coyote melon for soap. The leaves of
a closely related plant, the buffalo gourd, made an effective poultice for
flesh wounds. He dug up some roots and gathered some leaves. Then he mashed
them up. He cleansed his wounded hand with the leaf soap and applied a root poultice.
He held the poultice in place with his bandana.
He cut open a melon
and tried to eat it. It did not taste very good, but had lots of moisture, so
he cut open some more until he had topped off his canteen.
Finally, he rolled
up his leather jacket around the shotgun, and used it for a pillow. He napped
in the shade by the clearing.
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