Walking goes in two-four time, but riding either on horse or in an
automobile makes a rhythm like a waltz. For half an hour Blake had been
thinking up waltzes and trying to hum them against the waltz that his
mind seemed to prefer. Whenever he relaxed for the shortest space of
time he would hear again, like a stubborn gramophone far back between
his ears,
It’s three o’clock in the morning:
We’ve danced—th’ whole night through....
and the tick of the left rear wheel of the car kept it up.
Talking was useless; it was impossible to talk except at certain times
of the day. Just after breakfast, when they started out, everyone was
talkative for an hour. Then they fell silent until lunch, wherever that
might happen to be. Afterwards the four people were dead quiet until
they had stopped for the night, except for little interludes when
Gwendolyn Saville-Sanders would say,
“Do look at that hill over there. Marvelous.”
Or Mary would call, “Blake, dear. Not quite so fast. You can never tell
who’s coming around the curve.” When Teddy was driving she didn’t worry.
Only relatives are unsafe as chauffeurs.
The left rear wheel ticked and Blake hummed waltzes and all the time the
road was leading them farther and farther from any place that he had
ever been. He felt great. He paid no attention to gas and oil and air.
Teddy took care of all that, with the jealous love of a childless woman
who has borrowed a nephew for the week. For Blake, stopping for gas and
oil was a rude interruption. He would be far off somewhere and suddenly
the car would stop in front of a dusty little red pump sitting in the
middle of the landscape, with a man in overalls shambling out of the
dusty little house behind it. Then Gwendolyn would order soda pop all
around, and mop her face. Or she would ask for the ladies’ room in a
husky whisper that made Blake ashamed to go to his side of the little
house.
In between the road was a broad highway, not good enough to let you
forget the driving. One pass through the mountains kept Mrs.
Saville-Sanders twittering for a long time, but most of the way was on
flat ground with the mountains on either side and a long way ahead. He
liked it better that way. They were not like California mountains. They
were flat on top, and not so blue. Some of them were red and the other
colour was a dull yellow. Once they met a man on horseback who was
dressed like a Mexican but looked darker. A Navajo? Probably. Later they
saw a flock of sheep, and Gwendolyn’s ecstatic cry called their eyes to
the distant figure, herding them. Yes, it was a Navajo woman in full
skirt. They passed a collection of brown buildings with huts like
bee-hives scattered around them, and flaunting signs announcing that
this was a Navajo trading-post where one could buy real genuine Navajo
blankets and silver rings made right there on the premises. At this
place they all sniffed, and Teddy stepped on the gas.
Towards Shiprock, the road turned bad. An hour of bumping and floating
in the air above the back seat brought from Mary a flat decision that
they would stay at Shiprock, if they ever got there.
“The Navajo may be very picturesque,” she said, “but we’ll do something
dreadful to the car if we treat it like this. Don’t the springs give way
sometimes? Oh, Teddy, didn’t you see that bump? No, Blake, we’ll stay at
Shiprock. Goodness knows what we’d find beyond it, anyway.” She broke
off and clutched at her hat, bouncing miserably.
Blake was in despair. He knew that it was no use to remonstrate:
especially as even Teddy seemed to agree. Teddy was never any good in a
free-for-all; he always took Mary’s side. Blake didn’t think of
criticizing him for it. Teddy was simply sometimes a baffling adult and
sometimes a companion. It was all in the way you caught him. He himself,
still dependent on adult decisions, accepted his bad luck without
question.
They found Shiprock at evening, and left Mary and Gwendolyn in their
rooms while they strolled around the town, staring. It was thus they
came across the truck-driver who was willing to take passengers into the
country with him. He was chatting with the owner of one of the
trading-posts, and he asked them about the roads.
“They were fine until we got here,” Blake said, aggrieved. “Now the
trip’s over. He”—with a nod at Teddy—“backed out.”
The truck-driver pushed his hat back. “He’s got sense,” he said. “You
don’t want to go driving these roads if you don’t know ’em. Where were
you aiming to go?”
“Oh, around,” said Teddy. “To see the country. We’ve got a couple of
women who want to stop, that’s the trouble. They think it’s just as good
right here.”
“They think they’ve had their trip,” said Blake. “They want to rest here
a few days.”
“Well, say,” said the driver. “Come on with me. I’ll drop you off at
Clearwater, if you like, and you can catch the mail truck back on
Wednesday. There’s plenty room in the car.”
“Where’s Clearwater?” Blake asked eagerly.
“Oh, it’s fifty mile out. You’ll get a sight of the country going up
there. I start at ten tomorrow morning soon as I get loaded. Take it or
leave it.”
They took it immediately, and hurried home to argue with the ladies.
It was raining when they started, and McLean swore in a cheerful
mechanical manner. “We won’t make any time worth bragging about,” he
said.
For a long time they drove down a mere path across flat country, but
when the road started to climb they entered a pine wood. It was lovely
in the rain; clear spaces were bright green and under the trees the
ground was brown and clean-looking. McLean said it was bear country.
They saw no bear, but sometimes a rabbit ran ahead of them, scurrying
from side to side of the road and just missing death when he achieved
the idea of diving into the underbrush. Now and then they slowed up to
let the tail end of a flock of sheep and goats go by, scrambling and
crowding and making silly noises and poisoning the air with their
stench. Sometimes a Navajo cantered past on horseback, raising his hand
in salute and for a moment skipping the steady beat of his whip on the
horses’ flanks.
The truck panted louder, hesitated, ploughed ahead on a momentary level
and groaned in a humming falsetto above the grind of the engine.
“She’s a bitch of a hill,” said McLean.
There was a view. Hills rolled out from the cliff below them, and
dropped away to a streaked valley that showed far off where it was not
raining; where a dry butte sat placidly in the golden light. The roof of
the truck dripped dismally. Down again with dragging brakes and slow
turns; Blake caught his breath at every blind corner, forgetting that
they would not meet any other cars. The other side of the mountains sent
them spinning off into a red country lined with severe rocky hills, and
for a long time they rode through the valley, following roads with what
seemed to him an utter disregard of direction. All the roads looked
alike: two parallel strips of bare soil through the rabbit-brush. But
Mac said that any wrong turning would take them, after painful windings,
to the door of an Indian house (hogan, he called it) and then they would
have to find the way back and start over. Crossing a narrow bit of clay
land that bordered a stream, the heavy truck slipped and slid down and
churned away helplessly. Mac swore and climbed out, pulling a shovel
after him. He beckoned to the boys and they all worked furiously,
carrying stones to pack down under the wheels. After an hour they backed
out and started on.
Panting, his hands and knees covered with drying mud, his stomach
growling in hunger, Blake nevertheless felt glad of the accident. He had
met with disaster and overcome the elements. It was his country, as it
was the country of the dark men and the garrulous cheerful truck-driver.
This was the place he had come out West for. In these quiet wild valleys
he forgot even the search. Now, riding at dusk in a muddy truck, he
forgot the boy in Santa Fé ceaselessly looking for something.
Clearwater was three buildings square and neat in the middle of a
clearing; built partly of trimmed stone and partly of logs. The
storehouse looked like a barracks; the trader’s house was the same
except that there were lights in the windows and a big dog tied to the
door and a red-haired boy standing by him. He ran towards the truck,
crying,
“Mac, Mac! Dad killed a rattlesnake in the henhouse. It almost bit Ma.
Who’s with you?” When he saw strangers he grew quiet and stood
motionless. Mac threw him a bag.
“Catch, Buddy. Where’s your Dad?”
They pushed open the screen door, passed the growling dog, and entered a
bare ugly room with sacks piled in the corners. Beyond this was a
living-room with stiff blue plush furniture, and a woman hurrying
through the other door to meet them.
“Evening, Mac.” She rubbed her hands down her flat hips and looked shyly
at the boys.
“Evening, Mrs. Bush. Can you put the boys up for a couple of days? I
figured Warren would stop by Wednesday, so I brought ’em along.”
“That’s right. Come in and eat; Jim’ll be here in a minute. He’s looking
up the store. Come on in; I was just dishing supper.”
They followed her to the next room, where an oil lamp burned on a spread
table. The rest of the room was shadowy, but Blake saw a radio against
one wall. Mac sat down and they joined him. The boy lurked in the
corner, studying them. When his father came in he darted behind him.
Bush was a tall blond man with a brown face, inflexible and
expressionless. He shook hands mutely with each of the boys when they
were introduced by Mac, and they each stood up. Mrs. Bush came in with a
tray of beef stew and canned peaches and mashed potatoes and they all
started to cat, silently.
With the food and warmth, Blake began to overcome his first feeling of
strangeness. The little-boy fear of sleeping away from home was ebbing
and he thought that perhaps he was growing up at last. He even managed
to ask for a second helping of stew, but to join in the slowly
increasing conversation was an effort too much for him. Bush asked Mac
about the trip and was regaled with detailed saga of the accident in the
mud. Buddy ate fast and kept his round green eyes fixed on the
strangers. When the meal was over they stood up without ceremony and
went their various ways. Mrs. Bush began to clear the table, scolding
Buddy steadily in a low tone. The two men went outside to the other
building, and Teddy and Blake followed at a distance, trying to think of
something to do that would take them out of the way. It was almost dark
by this time: the shadows, that in the daytime looked like pools of ink
under the brush, had been diluted and spread and run together over the
sand, melting all the brush and the rocks in one dark blanket. They
turned together down the valley, walking swiftly on the rough road.
Tramp, tramp, tramp, with a little skipping noise when one of them
kicked a pebble. The air was cool and dry and sweet. It grew darker.
They passed a tiny fire where two Indians sat on their heels and watched
a coffee pot. A long, happy, swinging cry sounded over across the
valley, down the mountain. It was dark.
Out of the swelling joy in his breast, Blake cried, “We’re out of the
States! We’re in another world.”
Teddy answered with silence. Tramp, tramp, tramp. He loved Teddy and the
Navajos and the stars, the heavy yellow stars. For one pure moment
things stood still, just like that, and then he knew that it would be
one of those moments that would come back some day when there would be
least reason to remember. Some instant of time that was waiting for him
to catch him some day, perhaps in the middle of a city street in the
summer when the asphalt oozed and rose around his heels; out of nowhere,
a reasonless ecstasy that wrapped a valley at night, with the Navajos
singing, and Teddy.
It hurt. If he could only cry, and spoil it.
Then Teddy caught his breath and said, “Let’s not go back to Santa Fé.”
He felt it too, then. Of course; he had to feel it too. He repeated,
“Let’s not go back. You mustn’t go back to school and I mustn’t go on
shaking cocktails for hostesses. We’ll go to Mexico and get away from
everything. How about it?”
Walking swiftly, Blake said, “All right. Yes.” It was a perfect thought.
He felt no impulse to make plans. Leave it at that; then going will be
simple.
“We can drive it easily,” Teddy said. “We’ll get a car that we can
depend on and it’ll be simple. I don’t care if we never come back,
either.” He slowed up in his walk, wheeled, and started back to the
trading post as though their errand had been finished. Skipping to catch
up, Blake followed in step. Tramp, tramp, tramp.
Mexico City, with broad white streets and narrow little slums. There
would be fights. He and Teddy would frequent the little cafes ... knives
flashing ... the room full of glowering peons allied against them.... He
leaped at the swarthy man with the knife who was striking Teddy in the
back. The knife felt sharp but not very painful as it reached his heart.
Madden was shaking his shoulder and saying, “Blake! My God, he’s dying.”
He stirred, smiled.... Blinking the wetness from his eyes, he blushed in
the darkness and shoved his hands into his pockets. Tramp, tramp.
Another flash; sitting in the cheapest seats in the Mexican theatre,
surrounded by grimy sweaty people, mustachioed men and mustachioed
women. They shouted as the dancer whirled out on the stage, stamping her
little red heals. But she looked straight at Teddy, and her eyes were
like Gin’s, fixed on Teddy in the same mocking, hurt way. And Teddy
folded his arms and looked at her with his high little smile, the smile
that always made Blake hate him and love him too. The music played; her
little heels tapped the stage imperiously. She took the rose from her
bosom and tossed it....
But someone was singing; someone really was singing out there in the
dark, miles off across the rabbit-brush. Chanting, rising to a
hysterical falsetto and swooping down again to a minor note under the
one that began the song.... From the shadows back of the store-room
another man answered him, for all the world like a coyote.