“I don’t believe that, either,” Tori insisted, looking at Page. “I had no expectations when I first saw the lights, back when I was ten. All I wanted was for my father to stop the car so I could run to a PortaPotty. When I came out, the lights were the last things I expected to see.”
“Fred Nolan sure didn’t have any expectations when he first saw them back in 1889,” Harriett said.
“Fred Nolan?” Tori asked.
30
April 5, 1889.
Nolan watched as the train’s crew lowered the spigot from the water tower and filled the steam engine’s water compartment. He scanned the few small buildings that provided shelter for the men who hauled wood from the Davis Mountains and stacked it for trains to use as fuel.
Animals bellowed in the cattle cars.
“Slide the hatches open,” Nolan told his men.
Wooden planks rumbled as hooves descended into sunlight and open air.
“Keep ’em together,” Nolan ordered.
The five hundred cattle were scrawny, purchased cheaply in Colorado after a hard winter had piled so much snow on grassland that the animals couldn’t stomp through the drifts to get at it. Many had starved to death. These that survived looked awful.
But they did survive, Nolan thought. They’re strong. They’ll make good breeding stock.
He’d met with railroad executives in Denver, arguing that this water stop in west Texas was a perfect place for the railroad to build a town and sizable cattle pens.
“Sure, the grass is spread out, but there’s more land for the cattle to graze on. They thrive if there’s an acre per animal.”
“An acre per animal?” a cigar-smoking executive scoffed. “In that case, you’d need an awful lot of land to justify the expense you want us to commit to.”
“Well, my ranch is small right now, I admit. All I have is a quarter- million acres, but I’m planning to expand.”
“A quarter-million acres?” The executive sat forward. “Good God, are you telling us you plan to be able to ship a quarter-million cattle through that water stop?”
“For starters. If you build the pens and the town, I’ll supply the cattle.”
Now Nolan looked toward where the pens would be situated, the troughs for water and hay, the permanent ramps that would lead up to the cattle cars. He imagined the town’s wide streets through which the cattle would be herded to the pens. The stores that would make it easy to get supplies for his ranch. The homes for the people who would manage the stores. Perhaps a doctor and a church. Perhaps even a saloon, carefully monitored, for although Nolan was a devout Presbyterian who’d never touched a drop of alcohol in his life, he understood the needs of the men he employed and reasoned that allowing occasional, carefully controlled recreation would make it easier for him to attract and keep ranch hands.
He admitted that his ambition was greater than his capabilities. He had the quarter-million acres, which his grandfather and father had fought against Mexicans and Indians to keep. But what he needed now was the money to buy more cheaply priced, scrawny but amazingly strong cattle. So far he had a herd of fifty thousand, but he’d need a lot more to breed them into the quarter million he’d promised.
Well, it’s a beginning, Nolan thought. Next week, I’ll head for Oklahoma. Their winter was the reverse of Colorado’s, so dry that the spring grass isn’t coming up. Ranchers’ll be culling their herds, willing to sell their worst-looking stock for pennies on the dollar. They’ll think I’m a fool, but I know anything that lived through a winter drought has got to be strong.
“Move ’em out,” he told his men.
The angle of the sun warned him that darkness would fall in five hours, and during that time, his men had to drive the cattle eight miles to the stream they had dammed, creating a pond where the cattle could stay in a group and drink. More than a mile an hour. After the long trip in the cattle cars, there was a risk that some animals might collapse before they got to the water. But after that, they’d be able to rest, to do nothing but eat and drink and grow.
They’re strong, Nolan thought. They’ve been through worse than this. They’ll get to the stream.
As it turned out, two animals died and the others didn’t reach the water until after dark, when it was more difficult to control a moving herd and the yelping of coyotes could easily have spooked them. But finally the cattle circled the dammed-up part of the stream, and Nolan told his foreman, “Keep half the men watching the herd. Tell the other half to set up camp.”
In the light of the stars and a rising quarter moon, Nolan dismounted, unsaddled his horse, put a rope around the mare’s neck, and led her to the water, where he took care that she didn’t drink too much. His legs stiffening, he guided the horse to a stretch of grass, hobbled her, and allowed her to graze. The grass was sparse enough that she wouldn’t glut herself and get sick after the water she’d consumed.
On the way to the railroad, Nolan’s men had brought firewood from the ranch house and left it near the pond. Now, in the darkness, they arranged it in three piles to build campfires.
“Mr. Nolan, what do you suppose that is?” his foreman asked, sounding troubled.
“Where?”
“Over there, to the southeast.”
Nolan stepped away from the cattle and looked at the murky horizon.
“I don’t see anything. What am I supposed to be looking for?”
“There, Mr. Nolan. Those lights.”
“Lights?” Nolan stared toward the darkness. “What lights? I don’t see… Wait a second.”
At first Nolan had thought he was looking at stars that glistened on the horizon. But suddenly he realized that whatever he saw was below the horizon. On the grassland. Twinkling. At least a dozen lights.
“Tell the men not to build the fires,” he ordered with a muted, urgent voice. “Make sure they don’t make any noise, either.”
As the foreman ran to obey, Nolan hurried to a man on horseback who was watching the herd.
“Get down. Stay low. Don’t show your silhouette. Tell the other men to do the same.”
“Trouble, Mr. Nolan?”
“Just do what you’re told.”
Feeling fire in his stomach, Nolan ran to another horseman and gave him the same orders. Stooping, he rushed to his saddle and pulled his Winchester from its scabbard. He always kept a round in the firing chamber, so there wasn’t any need to work the lever. All he had to do was pull back the hammer.
He crouched and studied the lights. They seemed to be five or six miles away. Some floated while others shifted from side to side. They were various colors-blue, green, yellow, red-merging, then drifting apart.
Nolan’s men gathered nearby while the foreman stooped next to him and murmured, “You figure they’re campfires, Mr. Nolan?”
“I never heard of campfires that keep changing their location.” Nolan’s voice was tense and low.
“Maybe whoever’s out there has torches, and they’re moving around, doing something.”
“Like what?”
“Like a war dance,” the foreman said. “You think those are Indians?”
“Those lights are close enough that we’d hear a war dance,” Nolan murmured, conscious of the weight of the Winchester in his hands. “Besides, all the Indians around here are mostly peaceful.”
“As you say, Mr. Nolan, ‘mostly.’”
“Sure, they could be renegades. But those lights are in the direction of Mexico. What I’m thinking is Mexican raiders. If they start shooting, they could stampede the cattle toward Mexico before there’s daylight enough for us to chase them.”
Nolan couldn’t take his eyes off the lights. As much as he felt threatened by them, he also felt hypnotized, drawn. Spellbound.
Inexplicably, he tasted lemonade.
A shiver prickled his skin.
Behind him, the cattle made lowing sounds as they settled for the night.
We caused plenty of noise getting here, Nolan thought. Whoever’s with
those lights is bound to know where we are.
“Tell the men to get their rifles. Put them in groups of two so they’ll keep each other awake. Anybody I catch sleeping will be out of a job in the morning.”
“Somehow, Mr. Nolan, I don’t think losing their jobs is what they’re worried about right now.”
“Then tell the men they’ll get a bonus if they keep the herd together.”
“You bet, Mr. Nolan,” the foreman said. Staying low, he rushed to give orders to the men.
Meanwhile, Nolan stared harder toward the shimmering lights. They sank and drifted. They hovered and rippled. Their colors kept changing.
He remembered a couple of years earlier when he’d been in El Paso during a Fourth of July celebration. Chinese vendors had sold firecrackers and skyrockets, but they’d also sold quiet fireworks called sparklers: thick wires that had been dipped in chemicals capable of being ignited with a match. With a hiss that was virtually silent, the wires had erupted in sparks of various colors. At night Nolan had seen children use the sparklers to write their names in the darkness.
Is that what they’ve got over there? Sparklers? But if they’re raiders, why would they let us know they’re nearby?
The answer wasn’t hard to imagine.
To scare us.
Well, they’ll find out I don’t scare easily.
Even so, as the lights drifted and changed colors and beckoned during the longest night of his life, Nolan admitted that his fortitude was being tested.
Troubled, he heard faint music, but its melody and instruments were unfamiliar. Under other circumstances, he might have thought that it came from a town across the border, the Mexicans having some kind of celebration. Possibly a tune from a mariachi band had managed to drift this far but was distorted by the distance.
Nolan didn’t believe that. As he concentrated on the hard-to-hear notes, the lights seemed to brighten, their colors strengthening. The two were somehow connected.
The cattle became restive, their hooves scraping the dirt. Their lowing sounds had a nervous edge. Praying that they wouldn’t stampede, Nolan thought of the land that his grandfather and father had fought so hard to keep, and of the land he was determined to add to it. He thought of the quarter-million head of cattle he’d promised if the railroad built the town and the cattle pens.
He lay on the hard ground with his rifle propped on his saddle. He stared along it toward the lights and silently recited scripture. From the gospel of St. John: “And the light shineth in darkness, and the darkness comprehendeth it not.”
That was the first relevant quotation that popped into his mind, but it didn’t provide the affirmation he was looking for, so he recalled another, this one from Isaiah: “The people that walketh in darkness have seen a great light. They that dwelleth in the land of the shadow of death, upon them hath the light shone.”
The shadow of death.
That quotation didn’t provide the affirmation Nolan was looking for, either. Besides, if raiders came for his cattle, the shadow of death would be on them. If the lights and the music were indeed made by raiders.
If the cattle didn’t stampede.
Nolan went on like that all through the long, cold night, trying to calm himself with the word of God. His eyes aching, he kept aiming at the lights until, as dawn approached, they faded and shrank. With the sun finally rising, he stood stiffly and lowered the hammer on his Winchester.
His ears ached.
He told his foreman, “Take the herd all the way to the house.”
“You bet, Mr. Nolan. Just as soon as the men cook something to eat.”
“No. Do it now. The men can eat cold biscuits as they ride. I want to make sure the cattle are safe.”
“You’re the boss, Mr. Nolan.” The foreman looked troubled. “What do you figure those lights were? If they weren’t Mexican raiders…”
“Give me three riders, and I’ll find out.”
Nolan saddled his horse and rode southeast with the men. During the night, he’d estimated that the lights were five or six miles away, but when he traveled that distance, he didn’t find any sign of cooking fires or horse tracks or crushed vegetation that would indicate where a camp had been made.
He was sure that the lights had been in this direction, but darkness could play tricks, so he told his men, “Spread out.” Spacing them fifty yards apart, he rode three miles farther but still didn’t see any sign of campfires or horse tracks.
He was forced to ride around a section of black, ugly, twisted boulders that looked like huge dead cinders. A minister with whom he’d once traveled on a train through Arizona had told him that sections like this were left over from the pyrotechnics of when God had created the universe. But if this area was supposed to represent God’s power, Nolan didn’t understand why the Mexicans called them malpais.
Badlands.
He rode another five miles but still didn’t see any horse tracks.
I was sure the lights were southeast of the herd, he thought. How could I have misjudged their direction?
“Mr. Nolan?” one of his men called behind him.
Belatedly Nolan realized that the rider had been shouting his name for some time.
He looked back.
“Sir, if we keep going like this, we’ll end up in Mexico.”
Nolan suddenly became aware of how high the sun was and how far they’d ridden. Feeling as if he came out of a trance, he stared ahead toward the sparse grassland that seemed to stretch forever. Something wavered on the horizon. Maybe a dust devil. Maybe air rippling as the sun heated it.
I could follow that movement forever and never reach it, Nolan thought.
“We’re heading back!” he yelled to the men. “Pick a different section! Keep looking and shout if you find where somebody camped!”
31
“Did Nolan ever find an answer?” Page asked.
“A few Indians worked on his ranch. He figured it was safer to keep them close than have them fight him,” Harriett said. “He’d never been in that area after dark, but it was a good bet the Indians would know if any strange lights had ever been seen over there. To his surprise, they told him there’d always been lights in that direction. Their fathers and grandfathers had talked about them. The lights were the spirits of their ancestors, they believed.”
“Superstition’s even less convincing than temperature inversions,” Tori said. “Anyway, I don’t want to have the lights explained. I don’t want somebody to take away how special they are by telling me they’re just ball lightning or ghosts.”
“That’s the way most everyone here in town feels about them, too,” Harriett replied. “When my late husband and I first came here in 1970, we were hippies in an old station wagon that was basically our home. We happened to hear about the lights, so we drove out to where the viewing area is now. We opened the back hatch, sat on our sleeping bags, smoked dope, and ate dry cornflakes. I still don’t know if we actually saw the lights or if the dope made us believe we did.
“But the next night, we watched them without being stoned, and the night after that, too, and, well, we never left. Rostov wasn’t much back then, but we managed to find jobs, and we didn’t need a lot of money to live. Basically, being able to see the lights whenever we wanted seemed reward enough. After a while, we didn’t even need to go out there. Somehow we managed to feel that the lights were out there without actually seeing them.
“Every couple of months, though, we’d want to see them again, the way people feel the need to go to church. A lot of people in Rostov are like my husband and me. They intended to pass through, but the lights kept them here.”
“Or called them back,” Tori said with a hushed tone.
“Most people don’t see the lights at all, of course, let alone react the way I described,” Harriett said. “But many of the people who live here were fortunate enough to have the same experience, and we long ago stopped trying to explain it. The only thing that matters is, the lights make us fe
el… I guess the word is ‘blessed.’”
“Things weren’t so blessed last night,” Page replied.
32
The press conference was finished by the time they left the antiques store and glanced up toward the courthouse. The sun was lower, casting the deserted street in a deeper orange.
Page looked at Tori.
“I need to get my rental car from up there,” he said. “Do you want to follow me back to the motel?”
Tori didn’t answer right away. “Sure.”
But as Page drove to the motel, he glanced in his rearview mirror and there wasn’t any sign of Tori’s blue Saturn among the traffic that was heading out of town toward the observation platform. He parked in front of unit 11, got out, and waited. Glancing up, he noticed that there were clouds gathering for the first time since he’d been in Rostov.
Fifteen minutes passed and he still didn’t see any sign of her, so he finally took his suitcase from the trunk and moved toward the door.
The gangly motel clerk came from the office and hurried toward him. Page remembered his name.
“Something wrong, Jake?”
“There’ve been reporters looking for you.”
“I hope you didn’t tell them we’re staying here.”
“Captain Medrano said not to. But somehow the reporters found out the woman at the shooting has red hair, and your wife is the only redhead at the motel. I thought I’d better warn you.”
“Thanks.”
“It was weird.”
“Lately everything’s been weird,” Page said. “Did you have anything specific in mind?”
“The reporter who’s most determined to find you is the television guy from El Paso. You saw him on the TV in the lobby the last time we talked.”
Page thought a moment. “Movie-star jaw. Rumpled suit. Looks like he hasn’t slept in a couple of days.”
“That’s the guy. He was the first reporter to come to town. He’s figured out a lot of angles on the story-so many that the other re- porters have just been following his lead. I was in the office, watching him on TV. Then the door opened, and I looked over, and by God, there he was, walking toward me. I guess some of what I figured is ‘live’ must be on tape. Seeing him in two places at the same time felt unreal. Be careful of him. You want your privacy, but the look in his eyes told me he’d do anything to put your wife in front of a camera and make her describe how she shot that guy.”
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