The Adventures of Gopher Piddington

by David Michaelson

  Able thought of a good answer. “Your mother will be crushed from a broken heart. We only have one son. Think about her when you make the decision to go.”

  “Didn’t she leave her parents against their will to ride on south with you?”

  ‘Yes, but that was different.”

  “Why was it different?”

  “Maybe you should forget about being a cook, a millman or even a railroad engineer. Maybe you should consider becoming a lawyer. You make some pretty good arguments.”

  “Does that mean I have your blessing?”

  “No, but it does mean I won’t try to stop you. But promise me you won’t hurt your mother. She’s the sweetest creature God ever created.”

  Gopher promised.

  What would be a good time to confront his mother with his plans eluded him. There seemed never a good time when the two of them could be alone.

  Finally, in desperation, Gopher asked his mother to go with him to the cottonwood area for a picnic and a few shooting lessons. He knew she still liked rifles and pistols.

  Kirsten balked, saying she had way too much work to do to go off having fun, even at the invitation of her own son.

  Gopher went to his father and relayed what his mother had said.

  “I’ll have a talk with her. I think it’s a grand idea and I’ll tell her so. Maybe Guadalupe can be coerced into whipping up a first-class lunch for you two.”

  Kirsten could hardly refuse when confronted with offers from all sides. “Besides,” she said, “Maybe an afternoon of target shooting will be good for me. I haven’t handled a firearm for some time.”

  Gopher was thrilled and made the buggy ready for the day trip. He loaded the grub box and made sure there was plenty of ammunition for the rifles and pistols. Guadalupe even sent along a bucket of dried out corncobs to use for targets.

  “You know your father and I picnicked under these same trees when we were young, long before you were born. We went swimming in that big hole over there and up on that hill to your right is where your father first tried to teach me how to shoot a repeating rifle. He wasn’t very good at shooting or instructing. His shotgun was his best friend on that day.”

  As the day waned, mother and son truly enjoyed each other’s company. “Why on Earth did we wait to long for such a picnic with just the two of us?”

  When there was no answer, Kirsten continued. “We should do this more often. Your father really has plenty of people to help at the restaurant. And when he’s no longer the Mayor, he will have no need for me to be there at all.”

  “Mother, I’m enjoying our time together, as well. But how about showing me some of those legendary Keen-eye Kirsten shooting tricks I’ve heard about all these years?”

  “Back in our day, we set up sticks for targets. I see you have a bucket of cobs. Do you want to see the rifle shots first or the pistol shots?”

  Gopher really didn’t care about either; he just wanted to find a way of dumping his decision to leave on her without getting her upset. “I think the pistol holds more interest for me than does a rifle.”

  “Well then, I’ll show you a few ways of making the same targets a bit harder to hit.” Kirsten took the bucket and walked up the hillside. “Normally, one would stick the smaller end into the ground with the cob sticking straight up. But they can also be laid down flat facing across the line of fire or aligned with the line of fire. Each configuration tests a shooter’s ability in a different way.”

  After setting a dozen cobs in three different positions, she handed the powerful Colt .44 to her son. “Remember, never point a gun at anyone unless you intend to shoot them.”

  Gopher had shot her pistol only a few times before. When he was little, he had a pretty good eye with her .22 rifle. But the more powerful handgun was quite a different story.

  He raised the pistol and took aim at the farthest cob on his left. It was standing straight up with about four inches sticking out of the ground.

  He missed badly.

  “Here’s a tip: squeeze the trigger slowly. If you jerk it back you will always miss. Let the noise of the bullet leaving the barrel frighten you. For by then, it is already heading downrange and your flinching had no effect on the trajectory.”

  Gopher’s second shot was much closer but still a bit off.

  “Next, try breathing. If you inhale or exhale as you squeeze the trigger, you will always miss. That was your father’s problem and that’s why he made friends with a shotgun. Try holding your breath or letting it all out while you squeeze the trigger. You will find your body is stationary at those moments and if your aim is any good, you will prevail.”

  The third shot was centered on the target but a bit low.

  “Even at forty or fifty paces, the bullet will begin to slow. That’s why it missed low. As the distance increases, so you must allow for that drop by estimating how high you set your sights. It isn’t an easy thing to do but if you practice you will find your range and be able to hit a target each and every time.”

  The fourth shot was a fraction high.

  The fifth exploded the dry cob into pieces.

  The last bullet slammed into the upright cob next to the one he had just annihilated, sending it spinning wildly up the bank.

  Three more times he loaded the cylinder with fresh bullets. By the time he was finished he had managed to hit all but one cob—one of the two that were laid endwise facing him.

  “Would you like me to give it a try?”

  Gopher went out and set new targets in exactly the same manner as before.

  His mother said, “The reason you missed that last end-on shot was because you failed to allow for that breeze that came down the canyon. The winds can do crazy things to speeding bullets. Sometimes a little patience and a little understanding of your surroundings can make the difference between a hit and a near miss. Of course, the larger the target the easier it will be to hit it.”

  “Like when you shot old Palo in the butt back on the Baskin Ranch?”

  “I know your father told you that story, but I would prefer to remember better days, if you don’t mind.

  “Now be quiet and watch your old mother make a fool of herself.”

  Six equally timed shots rang out. Six corncobs disappeared in exploding shards.

  “It’s much like riding a bicycle. Once mastered, the techniques really never leave you.”

  Gopher was duly impressed. His mother never even took a single practice shot.

  When the two of them went back to sit upon the blanket, Gopher decided to tell her of his plans to go to Colorado. But how best to do that eluded him, so he just blurted it out.

  “Mother, what would you think if I told you I wanted to go to Colorado to become a railroad man?”

  “Oh Gopher, you’ve been dreaming about that for years. . .”

  “No, I mean now.”

  “But we haven’t finished our picnic.”

  “Mother, I’m serious. I’ve already talked with Father and he suggested I discuss my decision with you. So that’s what I’m doing.”

  Kirsten was silent for many minutes while she studied the face of her only child. Finally she inhaled and spoke. “You are only thirteen years old. What makes you think you can survive in an environment dominated by grown men?”

  “Well, I’m as big or bigger than most of them. You’d have to agree to that, wouldn’t you?”

  “I’m not talking about your stature, Gopher. I’m talking about your maturity. There will be men out there willing to cut your throat for the clothes on your back—vicious, mean men who won’t give a hoot about leaving your bloody, dying body in a muddy ditch. The world out there is no place for a boy. It’s a man’s world out there.”

  “But you managed to do quite well and you’re not a man.”

  “Women have to be careful, that’s for sure. But we also carry a stigma that many men will honor: not to harm women and children. For the most part, men respect that premise and leave us alone. Oh there will b
e those that don’t respect women and will slap them around; strong drink can change a man. But for the most part men tend to adore the ladies and will usually treat them fairly.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Well, females are built differently than males. You may have noticed that difference. It’s those differences that allow most females to escape the violence and wrath men are quick to inflict on each other.”

  “What differences?”

  “There, you see; you aren’t quite ready to be on your own. You don’t even understand the power we women have over men.”

  “Now I get it. And I do understand. Why, the Friedman girl, Grenda. I’ve seen more of her than any kid I know.”

  “Gilbert Piddington! What exactly are you telling me?”

  Now the boy was stepping into hot water and he knew he couldn’t find the words to explain how Grenda showed off her curves when he was with her.

  “Aw, I’m just saying I do know about the differences between us and girls but I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

  “Your difficulty in explaining about what your precious Grenda did to you tells me you really aren’t ready to be on your own. How do you feel about that?”

  “What happened between me and her was nothin’. I just peeked one morning as she was squattin’ down behind a bush and I saw her. That’s all.”

  “You know better than to spy on a woman while she’s relieving herself. Shame on you for doing that.”

  As far as Gopher was concerned, the picnic was over. Somehow he had engaged in a battle with his mother and had clearly lost.

  That night, Kirsten called for a family meeting.

  Able had already promised he would not try to stop his son from leaving for Colorado, but when the boy’s mother called for a meeting, he knew she had not been so forgiving.

  Much of the same talk bounced back and forth between the three of them. In the end, Gopher was still determined to go, even though his parents maintained different views. At least the business of Grenda showing portions of her anatomy had not been brought up at the table.

  Gopher considered what he had seen to be private. Why, he hadn’t even bragged to his guttersnipe friends about seeing the softness of her flesh on two occasions. And he certainly told no one of her soft, wet kiss just a couple of years before.

  THE SECOND FINAL DECISION

  Just when Gopher made up his mind to leave after agonizing over the logic of his parent’s arguments, the Friedmans came to town. Well, actually it was Mister Friedman and Grenda. The two had come to purchase more lumber for their cabin. Missus Friedman wasn’t with them.

  It just so happened that Gopher was assigned to work at the mill that afternoon or he would have missed their arrival altogether.

  While Mister Friedman negotiated with old man Olson, Grenda remained seated in the wagon. She had seen Gopher puttering around the mill but was waiting for him to notice her and come over to greet her.

  When he offered to help her down from the wagon, he couldn’t help but notice she was no longer that skinny little girl. She had filled out. He could feel here softness and fullness as he lowered her slowly to the ground. “Hello, Grenda. Long time; no see. How’s your place doing these days?”

  “My goodness Gopher Piddington, but you’ve grown. I don’t recall you being so tall.”

  Gopher took a moment to look her over. “Looks like we’ve both had a growth spurt.”

  She inhaled deeply, which showed off her ample chestal assets. “Why thank you.”

  “What have you been up to lately”?

  She told him she was attending school in Chimayo and would be moving on to the last McGuffey Reader for the eighth grade equivalent. “How about you? Finish school yet?”

  “I did. Say, how about we sit down over yonder out of the hot sun?” Gopher now knew Grenda was close to his age, maybe a year younger.

  The two of them strolled over to a pair of benches that separated an intricate miniature model of the mill’s big undershot water wheel. If they turned toward each other slightly, they came close to facing one another.

  Grenda announced that the shade was a big improvement over being out in the sun. To obtain a bit of a cooling breeze she fluffed her full, many-layered dress. Doing so sent cooler air under that dress, an action Gopher didn’t miss. During one particular fluff, she accidentally raised her dress just high enough to show a good portion of her alabaster thighs. Then she asked Gopher to go for a walk while they talked.

  He politely declined the walk at that moment, content to sit there for a while.

  The lumber order was a simple one. Olson already had a stock of standard-size boards meeting Friedman’s specifications. In short order, the wagon was loaded and made ready to travel north.

  Gopher stood by the passenger side and awaited Grenda’s arrival. He eagerly wanted to feel her softness again as he assisted her up into the seat. She sauntered over to the wagon and made a show of being utterly and unmistakably feminine. She offered her hand and allowed him to put his arms around her and heft her up to the first step, whereupon she grabbed the edge of the seat and bent over to put her other foot on the floorboards.

  She was close enough to smell her. She had the sweet odor of freshly cut carnations about her. He was instantly intoxicated.

  All too soon, Mister Friedman urged the team forward as he made the long turn around and headed north.

  Gopher knew the two of them would have to spend the night out on open ground, probably at that little green meadow where Heidi had been bitten. He sorely wished they had stayed in town and left at first light the next morning. But Friedman’s schedule was set and there was nothing he could do about it.

  That night, Gopher Piddington could not sleep. And when he did nod off, his dreams revolved around Grenda Friedman and her lovely feminine form.

  In the morning, he thought about what she might be doing at that moment out on the prairie. Then he forced his thoughts to other, more relevant things. One part of him was eager to be on his way to Colorado but another side of him desperately wanted to see more of Grenda Friedman.

  For three days he pondered his conflicting emotions. And for three days he was miserable. There seemed no good answer to either option. If he stayed in Santa Fe how often could he finagle a trip to Chimayo? And how often would the Friedmans be shopping for anything in Santa Fe?

  On the other hand, Grenda may be nothing more than a very good tease and may refuse his advances. He had heard about women like that. If he stuck around, the chances of striking up a relationship may amount to nothing more than the occasional meeting with nothing to show for all his trouble. What exactly he expected from being around her, he did not know. He only knew she was attractive and enjoyed her company.

  In the end, after nearly a week of serious deliberation, Gopher Piddington decided his future lay in Colorado and not with Grenda Friedman. He resolved to head north on the next train out of Santa Fe. When he went to purchase that fateful one-way ticket, he discovered the first train to Lamy left before dawn the next morning. He bought the ticket, paid for all the way to Denver, where he expected to be granted a job interview with the main offices of the Denver & Rio Grande Western Railroad.

  His meager belongings included his heavy winter coat, a change of clothes, his money purse and his mother’s Colt .44. She had offered it when she called the family meeting, even though she still held out hope that her son would remain in Santa Fe. “If you are still bent upon going to Colorado, then for God’s sake, take the pistol and hope you never need it.”

  For now, Gopher kept the heavy firearm and a box of bullets in his duffle. He figured he would strap it around his waist when he got to Colorado. Showing a big hog leg was frowned upon by most modern-day rail travelers.

  Long before dawn, Gopher Piddington was seated in the lobby of the small depot waiting for the depot master to direct any passengers to their assigned car. He could hear the locomotive building steam pressure. Soon the whistle would be
sounded, just to make sure everyone knew it was nearly time to go.

  When the whistle blew, Gopher jumped up, grabbed his bag and walked briskly to the double doors that led out onto the boardwalk and the waiting train to Lamy and on to Colorado.

  The last time Gopher was on a train, he was really too young to take in all the wonders traveling by rail offered. Everything was new and exciting to him. He was having the time of his life.

  When Gopher did not come down for breakfast, his parents went upstairs to see what was wrong. His bed was made perfectly—a rare occurrence, prompting the question, had he slept there at all the night before?

  The only clues to his absence were a note and a shattered vase. The vase spoke of his life savings being removed. The note explained his driving need to experience the world he dreamed about. It went on to assure his parents that he loved them and hoped they weren’t angry about his decision.

  Further down the note were the following words: Do me a favor when, or if, you see Grenda Friedman. Tell her I miss her. I will write all of you when I can. Love, Gilbert.

  “Well,” Able said, “I think our little boy has flown the coup.”

  “Yes, I think you are correct. I hope he’s as smart as he thinks he is. He’s awfully young to be out on his own.”

  “But he has two things going for him.”

  “And what might those be, my husband?”

  “He’s got both our adventurous bloodlines running through his veins. That just might be enough to see him through this adventure.”

  RIDING THE RAILS

  Besides the ever-present clickety-clack of wheels rolling across the track joints, there wasn’t much about trains Gopher remembered. The whistle shrieks and the puffing of the steam engine were familiar but as a four year-old he had forgotten some of the more interesting aspects of leisurely travel.

  The countryside rolling past was fascinating. With every mile or so the landscape changed, just as it did as the sun either set or rose. Then there were the other passengers. Watching people was a never-ending parade of humor, curiosity and sometimes, outright disgust.