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Whatever Blackie tells you is gospel. Knows every trail man or beast ever made in that hell-hole, from one end to the other. Aint that right, Blackie?
Without answering, Blackie focused an eye on the bottle, picked it up, shook it, watched the beads a moment. Bourbon hell just plain tongue oil.
After the drink my host showed me to one of the cabins a small, boxlike structure. Opening the door he waved me in. One fellow said he couldnt whip a cat in this cabin, but you havent got a cat. He set my suitcase on a sagging bed, brought in a bucket of water, put a clean towel on the roller and wiped the dust from a water glass with two big fingers. When you get settled come down and loaf with us. Just call me Bill. Calico Bill, Im known as. Came up here from the Calico Mountains.
Just one question, I said. Dont you get lonesome in all this desolation?
Lonesome? Mister, theres something going on every minute. Youd be surprised. Like what happened this morning. Did you meet a truck on your way up, with a husky young driver and a girl in a skimpy dress?
Yes, I said. At a gas station a hundred miles back, and the girl was a breath-taker.
You can say that again, Bill grinned. Prettiest gal I ever saw bar none. Shes just turned eighteen. Married to a fellow fifty-five if hes a day. He owns a truck and hauls for a mine near here at so much a load. Jealous sort. Wont let her out of his sight. You cant blame a young fellow for looking at a pretty girl. But this brute is so crazy jealous he took to locking her up in his cabin while he was at work. Fact is, shes a nice clean kid and if Id known about it, Id have chased him off. I reckon she was too ashamed to tell anybody.
Of course the young fellows found it out and just to worry him, two or three of em came over here to play a prank on him and a hell of a prank it was. They made a lot of tracks around his cabin doors and windows. He saw the tracks and figured shed been stepping out on him. So instead of locking her in as usual, he began to take her to work with him so he could keep his eyes on her.
Yesterday it happened. His truck broke down and this morning he left early to get parts, but he was smart enough to take her shoes with him. Then he nailed the doors and windows from the outside. Soon as he was out of hearing, somehow she busted out and came down to my store barefooted and asked me if I knew of any way she could get a ride out. Im leaving, if I have to walk, she says. Then she told me her story. Hed bought her back in Oklahoma for $500. She is one of ten children. Her folks didnt have enough to feed em all. This old guy, who lived in their neighborhood and had money, talked her parents into the deal. I just couldnt see my little sisters go hungry, she said, and like a fool she married him.
I reckon the Lord was with her. We see about three outside trucks a year around here, but Id no sooner fixed her up with a pair of shoes before one pulls up for gas. I asked the driver if hed give her a ride to Barstow. He took just one look. I sure will, he says and off they went.
You see what I mean, Bill said, concluding his story. Things like that. Of course we dont watch no parades but we also dont get pushed around and run over and tromped on.
In the last twelve words Bill expressed what hundreds have failed to explain in pages of flowered phrase the appeal of the desert.
Soon I was back at the store. Bill and Blackie, over a new bottle were swapping memories of noted desert characters who had highlighted the towns and camps from Tonopah to the last hell-roarer. The great, the humble, the odd and eccentric. Through their conversation ran such names as Fireball Fan; Mike Lane; Mother Featherlegs; Shorty Harris; Tiger Lil; Hungry Hattie; Cranky Casey; Johnny-Behind-the-Gun; Dad Fairbanks; Fraction Jack Stewart; the Indian, Hungry Bill; and innumerable Slims and Shortys featured in yarns of the wasteland.
Blackies chief interest in life, Bill told me was books. About all he does is read. Doesnt have to work. Of course, like everybody in this country, hes always going to find $2,000,000,000 this week or next.
Though only incidental, history was brought into their conversation when Bill, giving me free information as his sign announced, told me I would be able to see the place where Manly crossed the Panamint.
Manly never knew where he crossed, Blackie said. He tried to tell about it 40 years afterward and all he did was to start an argument thats going on yet. Thats why I say you can write the known facts about Death Valley history on a postage stamp with the end of your thumb.
The tongue oil loosened Calico Bills story of Indian George and his trained mountain sheep. George had the right idea about gold. Find it, then take it out as needed. One time an artist came to Georges ranch and made a picture of the ram. When he had finished it he stepped behind his easel and was watching George eat a raw gopher snake when the goat came up. Rams are jealous and mistaking the picture for a rival, he charged like a thunderbolt.
It didnt hurt the picture, but knocked the painter and George through both walls of Georges shanty. George picked himself up. Heap good picture. Me want. The fellow gave it to him and for months George would tease that goat with the picture. One day he left it on a boulder while he went for his horse. When he got back, the boulder was split wide open and the picture was on top of a tree 50 feet away.
Somebody told George about a steer in the Chicago packing house which led other steers to the slaughter pen and it gave George an idea. One day I found him and his goat in a Panamint canyon and asked why he brought the goat along. Me broke. Need gold. Since he didnt have pick, shovel, or dynamite, I asked how he expected to get gold.
Pick, shovel heap work, George said. Dynamite maybe kill. Sheep better. Me show you. He told me to move to a safe place and after scattering some grain around for the goat, George scaled the boulder. It was big as a house. A moment later I saw him unroll the picture and with strings attached, let it rest on one corner of the big rock. Then holding the strings, he disappeared into his blind higher up. Suddenly he made a hissing noise. The Big Horn stiffened, saw the picture, lowered his head and never in my life have I seen such a crash. Dust filled the air and fragments fell for 10 minutes. When I went over George was gathering nuggets big as goose eggs. White man heap dam fool, he grunted. Wants too much gold all same time. Maybe lose. Maybe somebody steal. No can steal boulder.
The tongue oil had been disposed of when Blackie suggested that we step over to his place, a short distance around the point of a hill. Plenty more there.
Bill had told me that as a penniless youngster Blackie had walked up Odessa Canyon one afternoon. Within three days he was rated as a millionaire. Within three months he was broke again. Later Blackie told me, Thats somebodys dream. I got about $200,000 and decided I belonged up in the Big Banker group. They welcomed me and skinned me out of my money in no time.
It was Blackie who proved to my satisfaction that money has only a minor relation to happiness. His house was part dobe, part white tufa blocks. On his table was a students lamp, a pipe, and can of tobacco. A book held open by a hand axe. Other books were shelved along the wall. He had an incongruous walnut cabinet with leaded glass doors. Inside, a well-filled decanter and a dozen whiskey glasses and a pleasant aroma of bourbon came from a keg covered with a gunny sack and set on a stool in the corner.