A Glorious Little Storm

 It was still dark as I pushed my canoe into the current. Time was not a factor and I let it drift at the mercy of the of the current. Slowly it spiraled downstream as I made small adjustments in the placement of gear in the boat. And then as the morning sky lightened, I picked up my paddle, and paused a moment to watch the coming show.

 Slowly the edge of the sun appeared in a sliver of clear horizon and lit from below a torn and ragged bank of far away clouds that lay across the eastern sky.

 The red tint of sunlight increased and spread outward and upward through the jumbled greyness and it highlighted with white, the more pronounced of the forms and shapes of clouds controlled by an unseen breeze.

 Then suddenly it changed without prelude and the picture was complete.

 A raging red and orange calamity of colors emerging through a high wall of thunderheads that ruled the eastern sky. I couldn’t look away as red and yellow rays radiated outward and the scene hypnotized my mind.

I felt the rush of beauty wash over me as a shower might have done and left me drenched with an appreciation of the beauty of the coming day. I felt small and isolated in the presence of such a stunning display of colors.

 And was compelled to offer a small prayer of thanks for this magnificent dawn I had been allowed to witness.

 As I finally dipped the blade into the water and firmly pulled to straighten my vessel with the current, my movement startled a beaver lingering upon the bank. With a quick rush the beast, small and young, splashed into the river and was gone. Leaving a ring of waves, rippling the surface and expanding outward to my boat.

 The sun was now hidden by the cloudbank to the east and an eerie green tint lit the world through which I paddled. The odd light was surprisingly crisp and clear beneath the now overcast sky. And surprisingly beautiful as well, illuminating every detail in the soft clear brilliance that can only be seen before an impending storm.

 With a thought to the futility of my actions, I donned my slicker and pulled my hat down tightly as the first gusts rattled the river and a spurt of sprinkles plastered me and the water around. Now a second and stronger wave of rain rolled past and then the slow steady drum of the shower began to beat on my slicker and my boat and the river’s now shattered surface.

 Small explosions and splashes erupted with each drop, covering the water and dancing past in swirling waves, as the storm increased and I felt the first rivulets of water run down my cheeks and neck and enter my collar. Such a minor inconvenience in the glory of the storm I did not mind.

 The wind increased and battered the bow and I was thankful for the heavy pack stowed forward that helped hold it down. But my strokes increased and became more erratic as I fought to hold my course into the wind.

 The torrent increased by the moment and I guided the boat at a gentle angle away from midstream, seeking the cover of a lee bank and the treeline above. And so passed a spell of wet discomfort and glorious wonder at the intensity of the storm.

 And then in moments it passed. The sun was exposed to reclaim the morning and it bathed me in a warmth that penetrated my damp clothes.

 Its rays shone through the treeline above the bank, wet and bright and glistening, and displayed a myriad of diamond-like sparkles from every limb and fresh spring leaf.

 It traced as well, a brightly shimmering line across the river toward my boat. As though God himself were pointing at me and commanding my notice of this wonderfull world through which I now drifted. And I removed my rain gear and let the sun warm and dry my damp shirt as I planted the paddle and pulled.

 Regaining mid stream, I lost the sparkle off the trees but widened my perception of the glory of the river. It was larger and brighter and cleaner than I had perceived before.

 And it goes on, I thought, for a thousand miles. A small eternity of distance and beauty lay before me. And the paddle strokes were no effort at all as my humble little craft glided 
silently, like a waterborne starship into the coming day.   

Gabe Parker's Last Drink

 For miles around there was nothing really to catch the eye. Nothing but the rails and the tank.

A water tank on stilts for filling the trains, a windmill to fill the tank and a small shack for the use of the maintenance crews. As the engine sat idling beneath the spout the brakeman worked to top it off with water. The three passengers had stepped from the train to stretch their legs and stood in the small shade of a scruby excuse of a tree nearby. They watched as the conductor scaled the ladder to check the level of the tank. The Engineer Bill Andrews, was sweating heavily from the heat radiating from the monster as he oiled the bronze journals on the huge drive wheels and thought of a dinner tonight, at home with his grandchildren.

 Cautiously at first, Seth Baxter emerged from the shack. His clothes were badly worn, his belly was empty and so were his pockets. He was down and out. He was chased and desperate. And he’d been hiding in the shack since his horse had collapsed nearby, about this time yesterday.

A little while ago his belly had been rumbling with hunger. His nose had burned from the odor of oily rags piled in the corner of the shed. And cramped muscles had screamed when he stood.

 But now he smiled to himself as he made his way toward the engine. His ship had just come in, he was sure. A fire breathing, steam belching ship on wheels. He drew his weapon as he neared the Engineer.

 Baxter wasn’t even really thinking. Driven by desperation, he wanted food and money, and he wanted them now.

 The young brakeman, Joe Turner, was happily thinking about Summerville a town down the line. And a certain pretty girl he knew there.

One of the passengers, a drummer by trade and new to points west of the Mississippi, happened to spot Baxter as he stalked the trainman. He saw the gun in the stranger’s hand and recognized an ambush about to happen. He pulled forth a puny derringer and in a panic fired a useless shot in the the direction of the gunman.

Seth Baxter heard the shot and felt a rush of fear. And he saw the young man atop the train swing to face him.

 As he wrestled with the canvas pipe to fill the boiler, Joe had caught the movement from the corner of his eye. He turned and the scene before him barely registered before the huge revolver bucked and belched smoke in Seth’s hand. Joe felt the heavy slug burn deeply through his chest and push him backward and off the top of the engine. Had the bullet not killed him, the rock that he landed on would have done the job.

 Turning at the sound of the shot, the engineer hesitated hardly at all and then broke for the cab of the train. With practiced step he mounted the ladder and instinctively pushed forward the throttle lever. The huge engine lurched just as the gunman, excited beyond reason, fired again. What should have been an easy shot hit the driver low in the side. A second round fired would prove sufficient but had distracted the gunman for a single devastating instant.

 At the sound of the first shot the conductor had turned. By the time the gunman fired again. Paul Knowles had his own pistol out. From the water tank ladder the conductor’s barrage of shots rang out and knocked thief, and now murderer, Seth Baxter to the ground beside the rails.

 Confusion reigned as Seth lay bleeding and wondering what had gone so wrong. The few passengers watched in confusion as their train left them behind. And Knowles, the conductor, was wondering what the hell had just happened as he descended from the tank.

 With his last effort the engineer, not knowing the danger was past, locked open the throttle and collapsed. Slowly he slipped from the door and tumbled roughly to the ground as the wheels of the tender rumbled slowly past….

 Gabriel Jonas Parker walked toward the train station where he’d been the agent for almost two years now. He was but twenty seven years old and he saw nothing ahead. No hope or happiness nor anything to celebrate. The train was due any time but Gabe didn’t really care. He did his job, put in his time and drew his pay. And spent his off hours in the saloon. That was the problem. He had way too many off hours he thought glumly. Out here in this poor excuse for a town, he thought, there was nothing in abundance but time. It had gotten so that only the whiskey helped it pass.

 These were his depressing thoughts as he entered the station and pulled a bottle from his desk.

 The door on the firebox hung open and swayed evenly to and fro with the gentle rocking of the rumbling, chuffing engine. The glow of the flames dimly lit the interior of the cab, showing the dial on the pressure gage slowly drifting down, but there was no one to see. The iron wheels rolled, eating up the miles, but slowing gradually as the glow of the flames faded away. The pressure continued to fall as the train approached the little whistle stop town. The heart of the beast cooled and the pistons slowed until the power was gone and with a final hiss of steam the behemoth came to a halt.

 Was it luck or simple circumstance, or maybe the cold silent spirit of the now dead engineer, that controlled the beast? That had halted it squarely in front of the little station’s platform?

 It had glided in so gently the agent didn’t realize the engine was empty. But when moments later the conductor had failed to emerge, Gabe stepped onto the platform, hesitated and then walked to the single passenger car.

 As he stepped inside he saw, on on the first seat a lady’s sweater and scarf, but no lady. Just down the aisle a man’s hat hung on a corner of a seatback. And across the car was a table on which was a deck of cards with two hands dealt and a bottle and two glasses untended. But not a soul occupied the coach.

 As the prairie wind blew through the open firebox door a lingering spark was fanned to life. A thick wall of unburned coal along the side of the firebox collapsed and more sparks flew. And a flame took hold.

 The agent nervously stepped from the coach into the express car. It was hitched with the express room to the rear and though cargo was stacked and lashed into place, no person was present. When he knocked and then pounded on the locked express room door no answer was heard.

 In the engine the flames grew and devoured the fallen coal. The heat built and the water warmed, and the pressure gage began to rise. Slowly the pistons filled with steam.

 As the agent stepped from the train a groan issued from the engine and with a jolt the iron monster inched forward. Confused and disturbed, Gabe ran to the end of the platform just as the empty engine lumbered past. He clearly saw the throttle lever thrust forward and the open flaming firebox. As confusion turned to alarm he watched the empty train chuff and then lurch and then slowly gain speed as it now left the station behind.

 As the train rolled slowly yet steadily away, Gabe hesitated then turned and made his way back inside the station.

 By force of habit he took from the drawer his bottle of whiskey. Then he hesitated and held it up, thoughtfully examining the contents. He pulled the cork, but then as he watched the receding train out of the station house window, his hand slowly turned and let the whiskey flow into a spreading puddle on the station room floor.

    

Angel with an Attitude

 I filled my coffee cup and headed for the couch to watch the morning news. It’s a depressing habit I have fallen into to start my day. But its a routine that allows me to start slowly and by the time I’ve heard a little of that stuff I’m ready to do something, anything that will take my mind off whatever I’ve just heard. It gets me started moving and as a system it works pretty well most mornings.

 But this morning as I walked past the living room window I noticed something odd outside. I passed up the couch and went straight to the front door. Opening it and stepping out I found a total stranger in one of the lawn chairs on the porch.

 “And just who are you?” I demanded.  The guy’s eyes popped open and he had a stricken look on his face. It seemed as though I’d just woken him.

 “You aren’t supposed to see me” he stammered. He looked nervously left and right as though he was planning an escape.   

 “You haven’t told me who you are.” I repeated my demand.

 “Oh Hell”, he cursed, then looking me straight in the eye he stated, “I sir, am Oscar. I am your Guardian Angel. And I’m sorry but right now I’m just a little bit tired.”

  I looked him over again and decided even if he was a nut case I could take him.

 “A Guardian Angel”, I harumphed. “I think sir, you are a trespasser and it might be you should leave my porch while I step inside and get my shotgun.  Or would you prefer to discuss it with the Sheriff.”

 He looked at me with disdain and spoke again,”Calm down Walt. You really shouldn’t have seen me but I am right where I should be.”

 “How is it you know my name?” I puzzled. And with exasperation he answered. “I’ve known you for sixty years now, ever since I was given this assignment.”  

 That set me back. How did this kook know my name and my age, I wondered. Then he spoke again. “Look.” he said, “You’ve finally seen me. Its done. I shouldn’t have let it happen but you’ve worn me down boy.” he paused and then “Like I said, I’m tired and that whole invisibility cloak thing draws a lot of wattage.”  

 By now I’m more curious than indignant. “You don’t look like an Angel. Where are your wings and where is your halo?” I asked.

 With a tired sigh he said, “Ok listen, those wings were necessary when you were younger but, truth be told Walt, you just ain’t all that quick anymore and those things get heavy after a while. I haven’t needed them to keep up lately so I quit wearing them.”

I thought that one over and I hated to admit it but it kind of made sense. “And the halo?” I asked.

 “Oh, its there” he said, “but like the cloak it draws a lot of wattage too, so it’s a bit dim just now and doesn’t show up too well in this bright morning sunshine.” He looked at me, “You aren’t convinced, I can tell.” he said.

 “Ok, Oscar? You said your name was? Angels wear long white robes. You’re sitting here on my porch in a tee shirt and gym shorts and sneakers. And they’re all kind of cruddy at that.” I said. Then continued, “Those sneakers especially look horrible.”

 “Angels are nothing if not practical” he stated smugly. “And following you in a robe hasn’t worked since you were just a tike. “As for my sneakers they only show the dirt and wear from the path you’ve chosen.” he said accusingly. “I am required to just follow along. And a hard damn path it’s been at times, you know.”

 “Angels can’t curse.” I stated.

 “Why not?” he demanded. “You don’t make the rules and I didn’t take his name in vain.” That one set me back a moment and I sat open mouthed, staring at him without a comeback.

 “You could have offered me a coffee you know.” he demanded.

 Totally off guard now I answered, “Would you like some coffee?”

“No! But you could have offered” he answered petulantly. “You don’t make a habit of showing concern for me and my job”, he whined, “You haven’t been easy to handle, you know.”    

 By this time I was very confused. Here I sat on my own front porch, talking to a real live Angel, he says, and I’m getting chewed out. What’s up with all that, I’m wondering.

 “For an Angel you sure seem to have an attitude.” I accused.

 “And you don’t?” he demanded. “I’ve been watching over you for sixty years, remember? Its only natural I would pick up a few of your bad habits. I’m only one Angel and you are…..well, we both know what you are don’t we.” Again I was taken aback but that one made me uneasy as well.

 “And for your information”, he said, “I am definitely looking forward to a spell of R&R when this assignment is over. I’ve certainly earned it.”

 That one kind of scared me. “How soon will that be?” I asked more timidly now.

 “Not soon enough for my part” he said. “But I don’t make the rules, I just follow the fools!” And then he chuckled at what he obviously considered a joke.

 Then he stood up. His face didn’t look as tired now. His clothes seemed cleaner, except for the sneakers maybe. And as I looked at him I swore I saw the faintest outline of a dim halo above his head.

“I’d best be going now, your wife will be here in a moment and its bad enough that I dozed off and let you see me.”

 “Wait”. I said, “I have questions.”

 “You’ll always have questions” he said. “But don’t worry. The big guy assigned me to you on a full time basis you know. Not everybody gets that kind of treatment, ‘course most folks don’t require it either” he continued. “He’s takin’ care of things, don’t worry” he repeated. “But for my part, I would appreciate a little consideration when you make your plans, any plans, please. I do have to go now its going to be another long day, you know,”

 I heard the front door open behind me and as I looked over my shoulder my wife stepped onto the porch.

 “Who are you talking to dear?” she asked.
Looking around I saw we were alone.

 “I was talking to my Guardian Angel” I said slightly awed.

  “That’s nice” Kathy said. “I like to start the day with a prayer too. I’ve been doing that ever since I married you, you know” she said with a twinkle.

The Efficient Paddler

 Traveling down our natural waterways, paddle in hand, we all know is one of life’s great joys. The connection with the natural world, wholesome mini-adventures, scenic surroundings and freedom from daily issues, is a tonic that is hard to beat.

 But traveling without hassle takes just a bit of planning. No one wants to deal with annoyances and issues that can easily be avoided so at least a modicum of pre-planning is time well spent. That is where I usually hit my first snag. Planning ahead has never been one of my strong points.

 Its not that I’m not organized or too lazy to plan. I just don’t think of myself as the average canoedler.

I have decades of float trips under my belt and several have gone off without a hitch. For that I thank my wife for just elbowing me out of the way and taking charge. When I stand back and take orders and act as the pack mule things generally work out well.

 And then there are those times when I paddle solo. These trips aren’t always total chaos but they seldom seem to work out as flawlessly as I’d wish. I mean I’ve never forgotten my boat or anything like that. Though I did have to reload one out of a road ditch one time (broken strap). And I seldom need the extra paddle I always pack along. Unless I drop my first paddle in the river (dozed off).

 My dry bags usually have packed, just what I need. Unless its dry clothes. I often find those in the bilge water in the bottom of the boat where I left them when rooting around for the gummy bears in the dry bag (gummy bears must be kept dry).

 Good preparation has kept me from ever going hungry while on the water, though the menu has often had an unusual twist. I’ve enjoyed breakfasts like fried beef jerky and taco chips (the bacon turned green when I forgot to ice down the cooler). Dinners like fresh wilted salad with A1 sauce (the french dressing was back on the tailgate with the ice bag). And suppers like GBS (gooey brown stuff from the bottom of the cooler). But as I say, I’ve never gone hungry.

 Ok, so as a camp cook maybe I don’t excell, but no one can be good at everything. Right?

 But I do have my strong points. I’ve never lost my lifejacket (Kathy ties it on before I leave with some kind of tricky knot that only she can undo), And I’ve learned to sleep quite well in it on those multi-day trips. I’ve never gotten lost (after I launch my boat}. Getting to a remote access did take me an extra day one time but it was an innocent mistake. I suppose I could have asked directions but by the third time I passed that roadside vegetable stand they had closed up and gone home.

 I have an uncanny ability to build great camp fires. But the guys from the forest service have remarked about the unusual size a time or two. I don’t know why they were concerned, they had everything on their truck any good firefighter could want (both times).

 After years of practice I know how to avoid carrying unnecessary items. Like bug spray, I never carry bug spray. Green leaves on the campfire put out a cloud of smoke that bugs just can’t take. You just have to remember to step outside the cloud before you pass out. And smoked watermelon slices are a very underrated bedtime snack (though if you don’t do it right it’s kind of hard to tell the bugs from the seeds). And the dried juice in your beard does seem to attract small critters on an overnighter.

 And coffee pots, I never carry coffee pots. You can easily just throw a handful or two of coffee into a small pan and boil away. A clean sock works fine as a strainer to get the used grounds out of your drink. But in a pinch any sock will do. And after a couple of days all you have to do is boil your sock to make your coffee (the coffee stains only take a week or so to wear off your feet).

 So you see, I am a very accomplished outdoorsman and quite capable of pulling off a great float trip.

But I do have to admit I enjoy it a lot more when my wife is in charge,    

A Time to Worry

 The rock was the first thing he saw as he opened his eyes. It was a tall slender spire and the rising sun sat square atop it like a great blazing lighthouse still surrounded by the darkness lower down. That was when Arney knew he had been here before and that was when the weight in his stomach seemed to turn to stone.

 He stretched sore muscles and rubbed the sand from his face and wanted to wash the grit from his eyes and his teeth. But that took water. He felt the grains imbedded in his skin like a thousand needles and now he worried.

 It had been most of a week ago, give or take, he remembered, when he had awoke beneath this same pillar of stone. He had been traveling with other two miners headed for the Nevada silver country, the Comstock they were beginning to call it.

 He and his companions had stopped here beneath the lighthouse rock, taking a break and getting their bearings. It was a wild, rough, dry country and dangerous. It seemed to Arney that the only things that thrived around here were out to get you.

 The “Sand Eating Savages”, that’s what the old man had called them, they topped the list. How else the old man had said, could they live out here? Anyway they were leaving tracks and sign all around. Even the rattlesnakes seemed more cantankerous than normal. And they were as thick as the old man’s hair used to be. That’s how he’d put it anyway, Arney remembered with a wry smile. Damn, he thought, he’d liked that old man.

 That day the three had ridden out to look for the small spring, by a large butte where they planned to lay up for a real rest. As it turned out it was the final rest for his companions. As they camped at the spring, Arney had ridden out for a simple look-see at the surrounding country. And what he’d seen of it convinced him that just maybe the rattlesnakes were the best part of it.

 At least, in a pinch, you could eat them if they didn’t set their teeth into you first. Away from the spring it was all just rocks and sand and more of the same.

 Then he’d returned and found his companions, minus their hair and shot full of arrows.

 That was a hard thing to look on. They hadn’t been together long, but when you’re riding this kind of trail, any companion counts. And these two had stood the test well. To look on them like this, killed and cut so bad they were hardly worth burying, that left a hole in a man’s heart like it was him that was shot.

 Their packs were scattered and their horses were gone and the small spring was tinged red with blood. Even this small oasis had become an evil place in a hot and hellish land.

 He had set out then hoping he was headed in the right direction. He’d had a full canteen and a rested horse. But the only one who really knew the trail was buried back by the spring.

 So he had ridden alone for a day, carefully watching his back trail. He’d avoided the rocks and ridges, wary of ambush. He gave a wide berth to anything large enough to hide an Indian.

 It wasn’t fear, he told himself but caution that guided him now. Yes a man in these straits needed a healthy dose of caution. But deep down he knew, fear rode with him now.

 Arney thought about how he had arrived in these straits. A wish for wealth in the silver fields was his excuse. But that really wasn’t it, he knew. It was more a simple wish for change. An excuse to travel a new trail, to see things he hadn’t had goaded him on. The silver fields and then on to San Francisco had been his plan a week ago. Now to just see another day was what he hoped for.  

 So he made poor time and covered less distance than he had planned. But that night he was still alive. He still had his horse and his canteen was still three quarters full. All in all he figured he couldn’t complain.

 The next day the wind had picked up and the sand began to blow. He had holed up among some rocks to dodge the storm but it had blown for two days before it stopped.

 Somewhere in the blinding blowing hell of fly sand, sometime during the forty eight hours he had spent sweating and choking beneath his slicker, trying to breath air instead of dust, his horse had wandered away. And when the wind had gone so had any tracks. Now he was afoot, lost and down to a few good swallows of water. Complaints he’d guessed were justified. But there was no one to hear.

 So yesterday he had walked, not sure of the way and when night had fallen he’d just kept walking. Hell, he’d thought, when you’re already lost what’s left to lose?

 He’d walked and then stumbled as the weariness overtook him. He’d swallowed his water and forced himself on until even the rattlers didn’t matter much anymore. Sometime during the night he’d just stopped and slept. Weariness was a good pain killer.

 So now here he lay. Dawn breaking over the rock that looked like a lighthouse. No friends left. No horse, no water, no help.

 A pair of quail flushed from somewhere nearby and he heard the soft scuffling sounds of moccasins on rock. Many pairs from all around.

 Yes he thought grimly, now might just be the time to worry.

 

Voodoo, Witchcraft and winning a Race

In a week or so the time to sign up for the 2015 running of the MR340 will have arrived. As a past competitor it’s time for me to again contemplate the race and what it means.

 When I think of this 10th running of the world’s longest non-stop canoe race I tend to think of the past nine years more than the coming tenth.

 I think mostly of the friends I have made because of this race. Some are one time entrants, some have competed since the beginning. But all are special people that have made my life richer by their presence.

 I’ve been there and done that. I know what all must endure to achieve success (Ok the success part is a stretch for me). I’m proud to stand shoulder to shoulder with this group and look around and realize I am one of them, I have competed and I belong here.

 My problem is while many have accomplished greatness in this circle and even though I have tried, I have achieved only the greatest degree of mediocrity. What, I wonder has separated me from the level of competition my friends have succeeded in reaching? I know it isn’t simple strength. I’ve been beaten by smaller and weaker paddlers (I’ve been whupped by girls too).

 I know many have better technique but that can’t make all the difference. I’m not that uncoordinated.

Many are younger but I’ve been whipped soundly by some real geezers as well. It can’t be time on the water, I’ve played on and in this greatest of rivers nearly all my life. I don’t fall for bad advice because I seldom listen anyway. So what I ask, have I done so wrong.

 I’ve heard the Texans talk about only eating when they encounter a competitor. But I didn’t really believe them. I’ve heard guys nonchalantly discuss how they stayed awake for 40 hours straight. But I can’t say that’s the truth because while they were supposedly doing this I was napping on a sand bar somewhere.

 I don’t have as nice a boat or fancy a paddle as some but I don’t paddle junk either. So I think somehow I’m missing something. Like maybe a secret meeting where witchcraft and spells are involved.

 Or maybe the one where a voodoo priest puts a hex on those not buying a magic charm.

I’ve wondered how all the winners do it and I realize its mostly by getting there first. But their secrets continue to elude me So I tried narrowing it to the things I don’t know about.

 Like space aliens. I don’t know a lot about space aliens so maybe that’s my problem.

 Is it possible I ask myself, do Chuck and Di really live in the Ozarks as they claim, or are they from “Out there?” Is Wally really from Illinois? Is Illinois the name of his mother ship? Are those pesky Texans from south of Oklahoma or north of the moon? And the list goes on and on. Are there really two Anderson brothers or is one a clone? Does Carter really have a time machine hidden below his deck? I didn’t even know one of those would fit in there.

 The list of paddlers who achieve near legendary status on my river is growing by the year and here I sit near the back of the pack not losing much ground but never winning, just whining.

 Katie and Robyn both have the ability make me look like one of those geezers (but not the fast ones).

 Am I surrounded by more advanced life forms? That is an unsettling thought.

 Sure I know these guys and ladies aren’t really supermen/women. I saw West fail to finish once but

suspiciously it was a year when I didn’t compete. And I’ve always thought that for that to happen either gunfire or a freeze beam had to be involved. But I wasn’t there! I didn’t see it. Scotty might have just beamed him up by accident. I just don’t know.

 I have a suspicion Shane would still beat me if he had a rocking chair on that paddleboard.  Bryan and Joe teamed up to beat me but even so I’m pretty sure the guy in the stern napped a lot.

 So many great paddlers compete, so many good paddlers have become great. So I’m breaking my own tradition and asking for advice. Does anyone know a reputable voodooer?

Promises, Promises

 Long thin streamers of clouds hung, draped across the sky as the gentle breeze pulled lightly at their tails and drew them ever so slowly toward the horizon. Slim white lines in a sky so blue that it fairly glowed. And beneath the great blue dome lay the spring prairie, bright green, and flecked with brown stalks of last year’s grass still showing through.

 She turned slowly and realized there was nothing else to see and a fear began to rise. She’d walked only a hundred yards from her doorway, but even this near, the low dugout cabin with the tamped dirt floor and the hard mud walls and the grass covered sod roof was invisible.

 How could she ever survive here, she wondered. But how could she ever leave? Her husband had ridden off to the south ten days ago. And he was three days over due now and that was long enough to mean trouble. He’d be back he had promised her and he had always kept his promises. But she worried about him and prayed for him, and now she was worrying and praying for herself too.

 Raised in the Missouri hill country, this flat Kansas land was as foreign to her as would be the streets of Chicago or New York and the lost feeling in her breast was growing, the hollowness was turning to fear.

 She retraced her steps over the gentle rise and stopped. There was the door to the dugout with the shallow hand dug well nearby. A few paces away lay the plow. their most prized possession as yet unused. Three hens and a rooster scratched in the dirt near the door, these were her only companions, and she hated them for their insolence.

 You can’t talk to a chicken any easier than a door post she thought. But between them they at least had something. Maybe just companionship or a miniature society of their own. She didn’t know what the chickens had but at least they weren’t alone, they had each other. No, only she was alone. Her world had become such a small place in a universe of grass and sky.  

 Finally on the eleventh day the fear crystallized and the thoughts couldn’t be suppressed any longer. And her imagination began to work. There were indians on these plains, and gunmen in the town. There were prairie dog holes that could snap a horse’s leg and rattlers.

There was always fever and disease and there was the law. Any of them could spell doom for her husband. Any of them could sentence her to death by proxy. But he’d be back, he had promised her a new life and he had always kept his promises.

 Coming out here had seemed like a fine idea at the time. The war was over and former Confederates were being hunted like outlaws back in Missouri. Here on the plains, here her husband said, they could start fresh. They would rebuild what they had lost. They would have a home, safe and insulated by time and distance from the past, It would be a whole new world, he had promised her.

But now as she stood on the rise behind the dugout, hopefully scanning the horizon, that insulating blanket of time and space began to suffocate her.

 She looked at the marks scratched on the door post and counted them for what must have been the tenth time that day. Thirteen days since her husband had left. Thirteen days since she had heard any sound except the wind and the chickens. And she looked into the yard before the door. There were two hens now and a rooster scratching and clucking and rooting out the bugs on which they survived. One of the hens hadn’t come in last night to the lean-to coop on the side of the dugout. She didn’t know what had gotten it. It could have been a hawk or a fox, maybe a coyote or a snake. But she knew her world had shrunk again, smaller by a hen than it had been before.

 On the eighteenth day she realized that for sometime now she hadn’t seen even a cloud. She now lived in a world without the color white. She surveyed the plains and saw that the grass had grown and last years dead stems were no longer visible. The loss of the tan streaks on the prairie made the land seem even wider and more featureless than before. She sat down on the doorsill on a bright, clear, warm afternoon and cried until dark.

 Three weeks after her husband had left, two days after the last chicken had disappeared, she tried to remember which direction he had gone, but now her world was shrinking one memory at a time. She tried to picture his face but it wasn’t clear. To remember his voice and realized how foreign even her own sounded now and she sat down to cry again. Only this time there were no tears and the only sound in her world was the wind.

 Six weeks after her husband had left, the two Cheyenne warriors sat their mounts and stared in wonder at the white woman lying in the grass before them. She looked hungry, dirty and lost. Her clothes were stained and torn, ragged and revealing. She slept a troubled sleep, that they could see, but how had she gotten here? Cradled by the tall grass as she was, they had nearly ridden over her before they had seen her.

 There was no trail here that they could see. There were no riders or ranches in this area. No road ran through these hills, no town was within days of this place.

 She woke but didn’t resist when they placed her on a mount behind the smaller warrior. She said nothing when they turned toward their camp.

 Her husband had promised her hadn’t he? A new start, in a different world, and he nearly always kept his promises.