Frank stirred and
groaned from his sore ribs. He rolled over as the eastern horizon paled to
Prussian blue. After sleeping in his refuge, the odor of mildew and mold, the
dust, and the pungent rat droppings soured his good feelings of the previous
night. His cartridges rolled all over the floor in the dark when he reached for
the bag of cartridges.
“God damn Rats!” he
muttered.
The large rodents
skittered as he began stirring. They scurried like cockroaches when a light
suddenly shone on them.
He crawled on his
hands and knees all over the floor to retrieve the cartridges. Rat dung and
mold smeared his hands. He placed the cartridges one by one in the pockets of
his leather jacket. The water spigot still worked in the kitchen so he was able
to wash up.
Anyone who has lived
in the country at all knows that it’s pretty damn hard to get up and out before
the first cock crows. Those sons-of-bitches start croaking their throats about
3:00 am. Nevertheless, Frank was out early. The sun was not yet on the dew when
he started down the road, but the sky had become a pale cerulean blue.
☼
Fifteen minutes
later, he was in Red Mountain. Red mountain was a small town. It sat smack dab
on the major Eastern Sierra north–south Highway 395, about halfway between San
Bernardino and Lone Pine. Most travelers wanting to stop would opt for the more
populated Ridgecrest, near China Lake, before or after crossing Cajon Pass.
However, a few history freaks, interested in local color and semi-ghost towns,
dropped in. Enough stopped so that the merchants could pay their electric
bills. Most people with smarts did not stay long, because of all the cyanide in
the well water. Miners had made heavy use of cyanide to process ore in the
surrounding mines. Cyanide, or no cyanide, a few locals kept the town alive.
They met in the café early every morning, except Sunday, to gab the local
gossip.
☼
Frank parked his
Kawi around the corner, behind a rusty yellow dump truck, and went into the Red
Mountain Café and Cantina. He noticed a bunch of locals in back, where they had
shoved some tables together. Some were relishing their breakfasts, some were
talking, some were eagerly awaiting delivery of the morning paper, and some
were smoking and drinking coffee. Nobody cared if you smoked in Red Mountain: If
the smoke did not kill you, the cyanide would. There were also a few loners at
the bar.
Frank sat in a stall, close enough to the back door so he could slip out if he had to, but far enough
from the chatty group so as not to draw their attention. He finally had a good
meal: sunny side up eggs, hash browns, bacon, pancakes, orange juice, and some
Irish coffee. He was not worried about the townsfolk. There was very little
radio reception out here, so they probably would not know what was on the news--not
until the Los Angeles Times was delivered.
Frank sipped his
Irish coffee and waited for his tab. He became alert when a young couple
entered. She was cute and Mexican. Her partner looked Nordic. They both were
dressed for a desert exploration holiday.
“Boy he must have
given her a good bang last night--she can’t even walk! I’ll bet she gave it to
him good too--judging from his grin,” thought Frank in passing. They sat near
the front window so that she would not have to walk too far. From their vantage
point, they could watch the town, such as it was, wake up. They did not even
seem to notice Frank.
Frank saw the tied
bundle of newspapers, thrown on the curb across the street. A man from the
general store came out, picked up the bundle, and went back inside, locking the
door.
When the general
store opened, Frank paid his tab, crossed the street, and entered the store. He
bought some food, a small camp stove, and some whiskey.
☼
Back out on the
road, Frank headed towards the northeast towards the Panamint Valley and bad
memories. He appeared anxious to get out of the sun before it rose too high.
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