William E. Lopez
Approx 927 words
©2002 by W. E. Lopez
“Perhaps it was just a glimpse…”
Just a Glimpse
By
W. E. Lopez
“Come
on, Pilate, pickup up your danged feet,” Paul Bookman said to the tired old burro
carrying a hundred and forty pounds of provisions and supplies. “If we get out of this desert without
Geronimo lifting my scalp and making steak dinner out of you, it will be quite
some miracle, my friend.”
It
was an early morning in August of 1880 when Paul urged his burro to greater
haste. Yesterday, just before sundown,
Paul had spotted a dust cloud not more than six miles from where he was camped
at the edge of a dry wash. Shading his
eyes from the oppressive sun to study the dust cloud, he decided that it wasn’t
the result of vagaries of the wind, but certainly indicated the presence of a
group of riders moving slowly.
Knowing the always
elusive Geronimo had again escaped from Army confinement in 1876, Paul was not
going to take any chances and decided to rise even earlier than usual the next
morning to put some distance between him self and the unknown riders.
Though the sun had
been up less than four hours, the day promised to be a real scorcher. All ready Paul’s throat was parched from the
searing desert air. He would have to
lead Pilate to water before long because he had been able to spare no more than
a mouthful of his precious water for the burro this morning, and his sturdy
little friend could not go much further without it. The burro stolidly accepted the tasks before
him each day, and when the day was over and his burden removed, he figuratively
dismissed the day and consumed his feed, much like the
Biblical Pilate had washed his hands when his duty was done.
Pilate
side-stepped a nearby cholla and kicked up a stone. “There will be no more of that unless you
want to be a barbecue over an Indian fire tonight, Pilate. Them Indians can spot a smidgen of dust
farther than an eagle can and I don’t think you would enjoy being the guest of
honor at someone’s dinner.” He tugged gently
on the burro’s lead.
“I know you’re
thirsty, friend, and I’m doing my best to find water. I think we’re about twenty miles northwest of
Without slackening
his pace, Paul removed his hat and wiped his brow with a shirt sleeve. Damn!
It was hot and not even mid-day yet!
“Let’s move, Pilate. There’ll be food and water soon. Just another mile over that rise ahead and I
know we’ll find friends.” Paul was as
certain of that as he was certain that he’d strike gold and get rich when he
left
The sunburned
prospector continued to put one scruffy, dusty boot in front of the other as he
led the burro to the next rise. There
would be a town, it had to be there! Or
he would perish. Seventy paces would
make a hundred yards. 1,232 paces would
get them to the rise, with water and safety just beyond. Another twenty minutes and Paul could imagine
him self looking down at one of the dusty towns below. Twenty minutes of searing heat as the sun
rose ever higher in the sky.
Pilate seemed to
sense the nearness of civilization also.
The burro picked up his step and the two companions made short work of
the trail in front of them. Risking only
a brief backward glance, Paul urged his burro over the rise and far enough down
the slope to insure they would not be sky lined on the horizon, easy targets
for the Indians to spot.
Then he stopped
dead in his tracks. Half a mile in front
of him, the desert had been beaten flat and charred black, as though from the white
hot blows of a giant hammer wielded by an equally giant blacksmith. Twin ribbons of black desolation stretched
left and right before him, from horizon to horizon. Paul couldn’t believe his eyes, it was a
terrifying sight.
Upon those twin
ribbons of evil blackness, moving at unthinkable speeds, unfamiliar carriages
raced in both directions. He saw small
carriages darting swiftly and huge, lumbering, double carriages bellowing smoke
in their wake, wheezing and snorting as they tried to keep up. All this, and not a horse or a mule to be
seen!
Paul feared for
his life and sanity and could no longer force himself to move forward in the
direction of those demon-spawned apparitions.
Perhaps it was just a glimpse into some hell created in a nightmare, but
Paul wanted no part of it. What had his
mother said to him when he mentioned his plans to seek his fortune in the
west? “Better the devil you know than
the one you don’t.” And of course she
was right, ma was always right.
Water or no water,
burning sands or not, even if it meant risking death at the hands of savages,
Paul tugged Pilate’s lead around and strode back into the desert from which
he’d come. He was going back to the
devil he knew.