That Vito and Melissa and little Becky were still alive and well.
It was then that Nellie would call up to Sal in his driver’s seat at least twenty times a day.
“How long before we get there, honey? I can’t wait to see them again. Will we be there soon?”
It broke Sal’s heart every time she asked. For although he showed none of the outward signs of grief as Nellie did, he was hurting too.
They’d traveled three states that way, driving the rig by day and camping at the roadside by night. They’d frequently stop at Walmart trucks, as all the other highway travelers did, and pick through them to find what they could use.
A case of chili and a case of Ravioli could last them a week or more. And there was always at least a pallet, sometimes two, of bottled drinking water.
Old Sal, with plenty of time to think, decided it wasn’t really a bad way to live. They slept under the stars each night, on a mattress in the back of their truck which was covered with boxes and personal items when they traveled. Sal unloaded everything from the mattress each evening, stacking it neatly beside the truck. And he and his wife of thirty seven years would lay there, her head on his shoulder, and look at the stars and the moon.
And the clouds rolling by.
She seldom said anything even now, after she started speaking again. She mostly just watched and listened to Sal’s heart beating.
Sal looked at the heavens each night and wished things could go back to the way they used to be.
No, it wasn’t a bad way to live. They had enough to eat and drink, without foraging through empty supermarket shelves or having to plant gardens like survivors in the city had to do.
And they didn’t have to worry about gangs of marauders going door to door to rob and cause havoc, as the city dwellers did.
As Vito and Melissa and little Becky did.
Highway travelers were a different breed, Sal was finding out.
They knew that food and water were plentiful, so they didn’t have to steal from one another. And most of them were willing to help if called upon. Or to carry on a conversation with a man who hungered for the sound of another human voice.
Chapter 4
Sal parked his rig behind a Walmart truck one afternoon and rooted through it, setting aside two cases of drinking water and three cases of Campbell’s Chunky Soup. He was getting ready to leave when a young woman appeared out of nowhere.
“Hey there, old timer. Did you see any jewelry in there?”
“Jewelry? Never thought to look for any. You can’t eat jewelry.”
“Nope. You can’t. But gold comes in pretty handy these days when you need other things that you can’t eat.”
“Really? Like what?”
“Well, like for example, that horse-drawn pickup back there. That’s yours, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Pretty clever.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Say one of your horses comes up lame. Or dies of a heart attack from pulling a heavy vehicle it’s not used to pulling. How are you going to replace it?”
“Never really thought of it, to be honest.”
“It’s something you should think about, old timer. Horses don’t live forever. And while there are plenty out there available, they don’t go cheap. That’s why you should be collecting jewelry from these trucks.”
“I never thought of that, but it makes sense, Miss…”
“Call me Julie.”
He reached out his right hand and she shook it.
“To be honest, Julie, I never once thought that one of my horses might die on me. And I certainly never thought there might be gold in these trucks. I thought Walmart only sold costume jewelry.”
“Nope. They sell gold chains and engagement sets. And a lot of it’s pretty good quality. No self-respecting woman is going to let her man go cheap on her engagement ring. They sell diamonds too. But nobody will accept diamonds for a horse purchase. Too much chance of getting ripped off.”
“What did you do before the blackout, Julie? Were you a financial advisor? Maybe a precious metals dealer?”
Julie laughed. It came easy and made her pretty face even more so.
“Oh, no. I was a repo chick. When people got behind on their payments and the banks were on the hook, I went out and collected their cars. Boats too, sometimes.”
“That sounds like an interesting line of work.”
“Yep. It can be. Your rig says you’re headed north. Any chance you’ll take on a rider?”
Sal was caught short. Many people had offered to buy his rig since he left home. But no one had ever asked for a ride before.
But he didn’t hesitate. Julie the repo-chick seemed genuine, and he hadn’t heard a peep from Nellie for three days. He was starved for human conversation, and he didn’t think Nellie would mind.
Julie spent three full days, riding on the bench seat next to Sal, taking her turns driving the team. Along the way she showed Sal how to find the unmarked boxes which contained the jewelry, and they split the take fifty-fifty each time.
“Put it aside, but hide it very well. The day will come when you have to replace one or both horses, and gold, silver and penicillin are the only acceptable forms of currency these days.”
After the third day Julie the repo chick said her goodbyes, having to turn east to wherever she was headed. Old Sal hated to see her go, for by that time she’d become a friend.
“Be careful,” he said as she started to walk away. “And thanks for the advice.”
“No problem, old timer. You take care of that wife of yours. She’s really having a rough go of it.”
“I will. I promise.”
Nellie seemed to be getting worse by the day. Sal was afraid he might lose her permanently. Not in body, for she seemed to be in good physical health. But her mind was slipping farther and farther away as each day went by.
A week later, just as Julie had suggested, one of the horses began to favor one of his front legs. Sal examined it and didn’t find anything wrong with the hoof. Nothing wrong with the leg either. At least what he could see. The knee joint was swollen, but wasn’t much bigger than the joint on the other side.
But the horse jerked when Sal poked and prodded on the joint. It was then he realized it wasn’t much bigger than the other one because both of them were swollen and tender. One a bit more than the other.
Shadow had always been a good horse, but was going on sixteen years of age. And he’d never pulled a wagon before. Or a shell of a Ford pickup either, for that matter.
Sal was certain it was equine arthritis.
And that meant two things. First, it wasn’t just some passing ailment that would get better on its own. And second, it would be cruel to continue putting the horse through more abuse.
He found a nice place to camp for a few days at a state park west of Kansas City. Found a four-man tent in the back of a trailer bound for a sporting goods store in Phoenix. Figured nobody would miss it.
He also took two hundred feet of nylon rope from the same truck and unhooked the horses.
Sal was a horseman all his life. He thought it cruel to hobble a horse, yet couldn’t trust them to free graze without wandering off. If they wandered out of his view they’d probably be stolen. And that would present an even bigger problem than the one he already had.
He took the rope and looped it once around a sturdy oak tree, then tied each end of the rope to the horses’ leads. When Shadow allowed some slack in the rope, Max could walk farther from the tree. When Max allowed some slack Shadow could do likewise. However, both were still tethered to the tree and couldn’t go far. The grass hadn’t been mowed in over a year and was knee high. And the tree was only fifty feet or so from a playa lake.
It was time to relax and rest. Humans and equines alike.
Chapter 5
On the second day in camp, Sal managed to shoot a rabbit from sixty yards away. It was a lucky shot, as Sal’s eyesight was failing and h
e wasn’t a great shot even in his younger years.
Sal’s shot would have gone cleanly by the left side of the rabbit, except the creature spooked as Sal was pulling the trigger. The sad fact of the matter was, the rabbit ran into the bullet rather than the other way around.
But Sal didn’t care. The result was the same. And he and Nellie had fresh meat for the first time in two weeks.
On the third day Sal finally realized there were fish in the playa lake. He was a much better fisherman than he was a hunter. He filled his stringer twice that day, and twice again the next day.
It was far more than he needed and he could have left some in the water for others who’d come later. But old Sal just couldn’t help himself. And he didn’t know when he’d find another place so chock full. Or the time to fish.
So he took way more than he should have. He and Nellie had their fill and he turned the rest into fish jerky. They’d be snacking on it for many miles to come.
On the evening of the fifth day he reexamined Shadow’s leg. The swelling had gone down, but not appreciably so. The strain on the joint wasn’t from hauling the pickup. It was arthritis, brought on by advancing age.
And pulling the pickup certainly didn’t help.
Shadow still walked with a slight limp as he hooked up his team. He needed to be put out to pasture. But for the time being there was no alternative. Asking Max to pull the rig by himself would only cause him injury as well.
Sal patted Shadow’s shoulder and said, “Just a little bit longer, boy. We’ll find somebody to replace you and let you live out your remaining years munching on grass and crapping in a field somewhere.”
Sal took the rig off the interstate and started traveling the country roads, stopping frequently to ask residents whether they knew of any horses for sale. By now he had a zippered money bag full of gold rings, bracelets and chains. Plenty, he figured, to pay for a sturdy horse.
And that was how he and Nellie had come upon Karen and Tommy’s farm house not far from Leavenworth, Kansas.
Two of Swain’s best men were on the gate that day. Men who knew Swain’s drug dealer and would let him in and out without any hassles. And who had enough common sense to pick and choose any number of other visitors who showed up occasionally to visit with Swain or ask him for favors.
“What can we do for you, old man?”
“I’ve got an old horse that’s going lame. I’m looking for someone who has a new horse to sell me. And perhaps willing to take mine as a partial payment.”
One of the sentries laughed out loud at Sal.
“Now, why would anyone take your old horse as partial payment when you yourself say it’s going lame?”
“Horses are good for more than riding and hauling, my friend.”
“You want to sire an old horse? Is he still capable?”
“He is like me, my friend. He doesn’t feel romantic as often as he once did. But occasionally he is in the mood and is certainly capable.”
The sentry laughed once more. But he thought Swain might get a kick out of seeing the skeleton of a pickup truck being drawn by two horses.
“Okay, old man. Come on in,” he said as stepped to one side. “Drive on up to the house. Tell the man on the porch you’re here to see Mr. Swain.”
Sal repeated the name so he wouldn’t forget it.
“Mr. Swain. Very well. Thank you, sir.”
Sal slowly drove the team up a long caliche drive toward the farm house. There were several children playing in the yard out front. Ring Around the Rosie. They appeared to be having a joyous time.
All activity stopped, though, once the rig got close enough for the children to hear the clop, clop, clop of the horses’ hooves.
All heads turned. Jaws dropped. Giggles were heard.
None of the children, or those adults present either for that matter, had ever seen two horses pulling a pickup truck before.
The man on the porch, a rifle cradled in his hands at the ready, walked down the steps to greet him.
“Hello, stranger. State your business.”
“The men at the gate told me I could talk to a man named Swain. I’m interested in buying one of his horses.”
The guard smiled. Not because he didn’t believe the man on the rig. But because he knew for a fact Swain had no horses to sell. He had only a few for the mounted patrols, and had always stated publicly that he wanted more.
Perhaps the men on the gate thought the man was an easy mark, and let him in to be swindled or robbed.
“Mr. Swain is napping. Would you like to talk to his assistant?”
“Yes sir. That would be fine.”
The man went back to the door and knocked on it. Someone opened it up and he whispered something old Sal could not hear. Then he went back to his original position adjacent to the door, rifle at the ready, in case he was needed further.
Ruben Sanchez walked out the door, obviously a bit irritated at being disturbed.
He couldn’t help but smile, though, at the sight of the pickup-turned-wagon.
He walked down the steps trying not to chuckle. At least until he found out what the old man wanted.
Sal stepped off the rig and reached out his hand.
Sanchez ignored it and started to walk around the pickup, with Sal in tow. Sanchez smiled broadly, no longer hiding his disdain at the Ford Ranger.
“You make this yourself, old man?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Ain’t much to look at, is it now?”
“I wasn’t aiming for beauty, my friend. I was aiming for something to get me where I wanted to go.”
Sanchez paused to formulate a good response when both men were distracted.
Nellie had opened the pickup’s door and was stepping out. She was looking into the distance and muttering something.
They were her first words in several days.
She said, “Becky! Thank God we’ve found you!”
Chapter 6
Nellie had been hallucinating for days. In her fragile mind, she and Sal were still on their way to Vito’s house.
In her mind, they never arrived at the house and found the bodies. Never buried them. Never prayed over them.
She’d blacked it all out.
In her mind, Vito and Melissa and Becky were alive and well and waiting for them.
In her mind, the little girl playing in the yard with the raven hair and ponytail, who bore a striking resemblance to Becky, was Becky herself.
She stepped out of the pickup and ran to the child.
Several things all happened at once.
The man on the porch, sensing a threat but not understanding what it might be, lifted his rifle and followed Nellie across the yard with it.
Nellie broke into tears as she neared the young child.
Little Beth Spears, confused by the woman running toward her and calling her a strange name, shied away.
Sanchez, as confused as everyone else, started to mutter, “What the…”
Sal, seeing the man with the rifle aimed at his wife, yelled, “Don’t shoot!”
The man didn’t shoot. But it wasn’t because Sal told him not to. He just happened to be one of the few men in Swain’s employ who would not shoot an unarmed elderly woman in the back.
Sanchez and Sal watched from a distance as Nellie reached the young girl in the yard and swept her up into her arms.
Sanchez turned to Sal and demanded, “What in the hell is going on, old man?”
“Please. My wife is ill. That girl looks like the granddaughter we buried a few weeks ago. Our only granddaughter. The only one we can ever have. She hasn’t been right in the head ever since. Please forgive us. I think she believes that girl is our Becky.”
Sanchez was confused. And more than a little bit angry. For although he certainly felt no attachment to the girl in the yard, he hated being blindsided. Or put into a situation where he lost control of things. And when Swain was sleeping he was in charge. Somebody driving a wagon into the yard
and chasing after one of his hostages made him look bad.
More than anything else, Ruben Sanchez hated it when he looked bad.
Still, he tried to control his anger.
“Exactly what is it you want, old man?”
“I am sorry for my wife’s behavior. We simply came here to buy a horse. One of ours is going lame, you see, and needs to be put out to pasture.”
“You have money to pay for such a horse?”
“Yes, sir. We have some gold.”
“How much are you willing to pay?”
“That would depend on the horse.”
Sanchez was tempted to just shoot the old man and his stupid wife, take their ridiculous rig, and all the gold they had on them.
But that would have created a couple of problems.
First, Swain had gone upstairs to sleep.
But Sanchez knew something about Swain that many of his men did not know.
Swain was a dope addict. Methamphetamines. He very seldom slept. The speed kept him awake for five, six nights at a time. In all likelihood he was up in his room in a drug-induced stupor. Gunshots would have disturbed him and interrupted his high. Swain hated to be interrupted when he was getting high. It made him grumpy and ready to pounce and yell at somebody.
Sanchez hated getting yelled at.
Second, Swain hated it when things went on without his knowledge. He was a micromanager. He was not going to allow a horse to be sold without his direct knowledge and consent. And he was always bitching about needing more horses, so he probably wouldn’t agree to the sale even if asked.
Third, Swain hated clutter. And litter. At the sound of gunshots he’d come charging outside in a very foul mood, throwing a tantrum like a child and demanding to know who in hell shot who and why. Then he’d see the ridiculous rig in the center of the yard and brand it ugly and an eyesore.
He’d say it made his kingdom look cluttered and order Sanchez to get rid of it.
And Sanchez didn’t want the damn thing either.
On Desert Sands: Alone: Book 6 Page 2