Mojave Green

by The Brothers Washburn

  “Breaking their noses,” Martha corrected, still trying to hide her smile. She sounded particularly tickled by the current turn of events.

  Camm did not back away from Dwight’s jabbing finger, but gave him a serious scowl. “Back off, cowboy,” she warned. “Right now!”

  “Or what? You think you can fight me? Get real! Just who do you think you are? Wonder Woman?” Dwight laughed and continued to jab her in the shoulder.

  Camm smelled the sour odor of beer on his breath. His eyes were bloodshot, bright red. She stepped forward with her left foot and resumed her boxer stance.

  Dwight hesitated, and then, smirking, jabbed her hard one more time in the shoulder. “What?” he challenged with a snarl. “You gonna do something about it? Huh, girlie? I’d like to see you try. Come on! What ya gonna do?”

  Camm had always been taught by her parents, teachers, and pastor that you never threw the first punch in a fight, but if someone else did, it was okay to defend yourself.

  Cal gave different advice. He said if it became obvious a fight was unavoidable, then throw the first punch and make it count. If you took the other guy down first, fast, and hard, the fight wouldn’t last long. Cal took his own advice and few people messed with him. Camm decided not to wait to see what Dwight was going to do next—she took Cal’s advice.

  She danced lightly from foot to foot, and then planted her left foot firmly ahead of the right as she leaned in with a quick left jab, punching Dwight solidly in the right eye.

  Shocked by the unexpected jab, Dwight stumbled backward, but quickly recovered his balance, holding a hand over his smarting eye.

  Mark watched in amazement. “What’d you do that for?” he asked plaintively.

  “Owwww!” Dwight howled. “Who do you think you are? Man! You’re out of control! Someone really needs to slap you hard up side your head.”

  He still wasn’t down and was again moving in on Camm. But she was faster. Stepping forward with her right foot and leaning in with her body weight, Camm brought her right fist around in a combination roundhouse right cross, striking Dwight on his left eye.

  This time his whole body lurched back. He staggered, trying to regain his balance, but stumbled over Mark and fell hard next to him on the grass. “Ouch, ouch, ouch!” Dwight shouted and rolled around on the grass, yelling and swearing as he covered both eyes with his hands. He looked like a small child throwing a temper tantrum.

  A sharp pain throbbed in Camm’s right index finger where her fist had struck Dwight’s skull above the eye. She kept her expression neutral, not letting her face betray the pain.

  Mark, Martha, and Sally all looked at Camm in awe, mouths hanging open.

  Dwight finally quit thrashing around and peered up at Camm the best he could through swollen eyes. “You stupid ape! You are in so much trouble. I’m going to get you kicked out of school! I’m bringing criminal charges, too! You can’t go around punching people like some big ol’ hairy Amazon. I’ll see that you’re expelled, not just suspended!”

  “I don’t think so, Dwight.” Martha calmly stepped out from behind Camm.

  “What do you know? You little twerp!” Dwight snarled.

  “I’m taking a criminal law class this semester—I actually know a lot. First of all, we did not attack you—you attacked us. It was an unprovoked attack, and you both brought masks to hide your identities. You could have been robbers or rapists, anything you wanted, hiding behind masks to take advantage of helpless girls.”

  She shrugged her slight shoulders. “Maybe, you really are rapists. But, Camm stopped you. Whatever you say, this was no joke. You heard Sally screaming—our fear was real.”

  “Yeah,” Sally piped up. “You made me pee my pants.”

  As if making closing arguments, Martha continued. “Second, you made first offensive contact by jabbing Camm in the shoulder. That’s assault and battery, and Camm had a legal right to defend herself. Sally and I are witnesses—you were becoming increasingly more violent. Camm had reason to fear for her safety and for our safety as well. Camm was also defending us.”

  “Yeah!” Sally added emphatically.

  Martha held out three fingers for Dwight to see. “Third, if this goes to the dean, you’re both in big trouble for messing with the school lights that are supposed to prevent these kinds of attacks. You can claim it was just a prank, but at this point, we are entitled to assume it was a real attack, and you blacked out the lights so that no one would see you attack us.

  “I think you are right, Dwight. Someone could be expelled for this, but it won’t be Camm. It will be you, the attackers, not one of your intended victims, who get expelled.”

  “And fourth!” Sally had sobered up in the excitement and decided to throw in her own two cents. “You both got your butts kicked by a girl—by a girl! Do you want the whole school to know? Once you start complaining, we’ll make sure everyone hears the whole story.”

  They all eyed each other, no one speaking. Dwight and Mark kept glancing up at Camm, who scowled down at them, both fists still clenched. She hadn’t retreated an inch.

  Finally, Mark rolled onto his side and carefully stood up. The blood flow from his nose had abated a little, but he continued to gingerly press a blood-soaked hanky to his nose. Reaching down with his free hand, he helped Dwight to his feet, guiding him away from Camm.

  With both eyes now almost swollen shut, Dwight staggered as he tried to find his footing. Supporting and pulling Dwight along, Mark led him back in the direction of the frat house.

  “I can’t believe I have to go through plastic surgery again.” Mark sighed.

  Camm and Martha looked at each other as if to say, “Well, that explains a lot.”

  The last thing they heard from the pathetic pair was Dwight grumbling, “Who does she think she is, anyway?”

  With a big sigh, Sally smiled at Camm. “I guess you’re right. It’s time to go home.”

  She slid her arm through Camm’s arm on one side, and Martha did the same on the other. The trio resumed their course to the dorms, Camm ignoring the throbbing pain in her right hand.

  Soon, they walked under another small street lamp, and this one didn’t go out.

  Martha grinned up at Camm in the yellow light. “You’re my hero,” she whispered.

  II

  “Hey, guys! Wait up.” Dylan struggled to catch up with the other two boys. He was a little shorter and heavier than Danny and Larry, and it took him longer to travel the same distance. This was true especially when the other two ten-year-olds purposely ran ahead in an effort to leave him behind. Not that they didn’t like him—the trio went everywhere together. It was just their way of teasing him for being slow.

  Staring after his friends as they jogged up the steep mountain trail, Dylan thought how some things never change, including how he had almost missed today’s adventure. As he was sneaking out the back door that morning, his mom had spied him. “Dylan Justenough, where do you think you’re going? And with your rifle, too? Does your father know?”

  Luckily for him, a loud crash and the baby’s wail from the kitchen had sent his mom flying out of the room, and he had made his escape. With all the kids in the Justenough family, he knew it would be awhile before she gave him another thought.

  Meeting Danny and Larry where the pavement ended on the northern side of Pioneer Point, they had hiked across the open desert to the foothills of Argus Peak, northwest of Trona, and then up a narrow canyon to a natural spring called Indian Joe’s.

  Down in Searles Valley, the soil was so alkaline and filled with chemical salts that very few plants could survive. Only a few desert plants grew at all, and then not well. Not even grass would grow. Of course, those same minerals and chemicals created jobs for the valley’s residents. Trona’s largest employer was a mining operation that extracted minerals from the dry lake bed and shipped them all over the world.

  Up at Indian Joe’s, however, the soil was mostly free of the chemical salts. Over a hundred years
earlier, John Searles, Trona’s founder, had planted garden vegetables near the spring. Some of the plants still grew wild in the protection of the canyon’s shade where they could drink all year long from the life-giving spring waters. Fig and other non-native trees that Searles had planted also still grew along the steep canyon floor below the spring.

  After prowling around Indian Joe’s, enjoying the cold spring waters and resting in the shade, the boys had decided to hike farther up into the mountains in search of jackrabbits, roadrunners, ground squirrels, and other worthy prey. They were anxious to shoot the new box of long-rifle ammo that Dylan had brought along for their .22 rifles. Dylan was always able to get more ammo from his older brothers.

  “Maybe, we can even find a rattlesnake or scorpion,” Danny said as he sighted in on an empty beer can.

  The hot desert sun beat down on them as they trudged along the upper mountain trail. Dylan was sweating profusely and struggling to keep up. When he finally asked for a rest stop, the two faster boys hooted as if it were a funny joke.

  “See you on the other side of that ridge up there,” Larry had called, and the two sprinted off laughing. It was no joke to Dylan.

  Drawing a shaky breath, he squared his shoulders and set off, chubby legs pumping the trail as he vainly tried to close the distance between himself and his friends. He hadn’t gone far before he was forced to stop, out of breath and lightheaded. Hands on his hips, he worked to suck in enough dry desert air to replenish his lungs.

  Feeling suddenly strange, Dylan shivered, as if cold, though ahead of him the air shimmered with heat. An otherworldly feeling clung to this place. Giant boulders, some bigger than a house, littered the mountainside. Dry, suffocatingly hot air engulfed him, and the deep, deep silence of the desert settled over everything like an ancient blanket. He felt like an explorer who had left earth and gone to an alien planet.

  Without warning, his vision wavered and the strange sensation passed through him again. Feeling like he might throw up, he carefully leaned his rifle against a big rock and bent forward with his hands on his knees, taking regular, deep breaths like his mom had shown him. As quickly as it had come, the strange feeling faded. He straightened to look around. Danny and Larry were already almost to the distant ridge and still running.

  Dylan’s shoulders slumped. I’m never gonna catch those guys—not as long as they’re trying to stay ahead of me.

  Numbly, he watched their shrinking forms grow more distant. Heat waves rising from the dirt gave their images a glimmering mirage appearance, as if they were disconnecting from him and his world. Suddenly, they vanished from sight.

  At the same time, a strange noise drew his attention to the big rocks up the mountainside above him. He spun around, seeking the source of the noise, but there was nothing new to see. The noise stopped.

  “You guys, knock it off!” he hollered, angry now, certain the noise was part of a joke they were playing on him. His harsh yell wandered out into the open desert air, disappearing without even an echo in response. Then, he remembered. Larry and Danny were a long way up the mountain trail ahead of him—he was down here alone.

  Another chill traveled up his spine, once more in defiance of the overwhelming heat. Involuntary shivers vibrated throughout his body, leaving him shaking with the strange sensations. Again, he felt nauseated, almost seasick. Bending over like before, the sensation quickly passed, but now he was worried.

  Why did he keep feeling so strange? Was he getting sunstroke? Would he be able to make the long hike back home across the open desert to Pioneer Point?

  He heard the strange noise again. It sounded like rocks rattling around in a plastic five-gallon bucket. He looked behind him and to each side—nothing. Wait. There was something, a shimmering dull emerald color, like a wave, gliding along just visible behind the large boulders to his right. He closed his eyes, worried he was seeing things. He was sure now he was suffering from the early symptoms of heatstroke.

  Keeping his eyes closed, he leaned back into the shadow of a huge rock and took long, slow breaths. The rock’s surface felt cold against his hot skin.

  He thought longingly of the cool shade back at Indian Joe’s, but decided to continue up the trail after his now-long-gone companions. If he kept in the shade of the bigger rocks as much as possible, he should be all right. He didn’t want to give his friends any more cause than they already had to ridicule him.

  Feeling better, he opened his eyes and turned up the trail, only to come to an abrupt halt. Something lay on the path that hadn’t been there before—a large, peculiar rock. More greenish in hue than the other rocks around it, it was thick and flat, shaped like a giant arrowhead, pointing downhill toward him.

  Large, perfectly round black disks sat on either side of the wide top, with two holes, perfectly placed, under the disks. A large crack ran evenly along the bottom of the rock, under the two holes. The markings were amazingly symmetrical, appearing exactly on one side as on the other. Like a statute, carved and placed in the middle of his path, it sat there twenty feet in front of him. More than a foot tall, it was at least three feet across at its widest point. Strange he hadn’t noticed it before.

  He took a step forward when something on the rock moved—or did it? He wasn’t sure what he’d just seen. As he continued to watch, it moved again. A long black ribbon, forked on the end, shot out of the crack, then was sucked back in. It was barely there, less than a second.

  Suddenly, the rock started rising off the ground, up, up, up, high into the air.

  Fighting an overwhelming sense of disbelief, Dylan realized it was not a rock. Turning to run, he opened his mouth to yell for help.

  He never got the chance to yell, let alone run. Everything went dark. Momentarily, his feet kicked wildly, but in no time at all, he descended head first into pitch black.

  “What’s taking Dylan so long?” For the last half hour, Danny had been practicing his baseball throw using the round, smooth rocks from a dry creek bed.

  “I bet he’s hiding along the trail somewhere to jump out and scare us,” Larry muttered.

  Keeping a sharp eye out for an ambush, they trudged back down the trail in silence. Not far from where they had last seen him, they were surprised to find Dylan’s .22 rifle lying across the trail in the dirt.

  Danny frowned. “Dylan wouldn’t ever drop his .22 in the dirt like this. He waited too long to finally get his own.” Picking up the rifle, Danny carefully brushed off the dirt and blew the dust out of the barrel.

  “What’s that?” Larry ran further down the trail and bent to pick something up. “Look at this,” he yelled, waving a lone hiking boot. “This is Dylan’s. It has his name on it.”

  Together they stared at the boot in disbelief. The laces were knotted tight as if the boot was still tied to Dylan’s foot.

  “Is he playing a joke on us?” Larry almost whispered.

  “That doesn’t seem like him.”

  They scanned the rugged mountainside, hoping Dylan would pop up at any second yelling, “Got ya,” but nothing moved. All was quiet.

  Danny blew out a slow breath. “What’s he doing out here in the mountains, all by himself, no rifle, and wearing only one boot?”

  Though they searched for him the rest of the morning, they never got a chance to ask.

  Like so many of Trona’s lost children before him, Dylan had disappeared without a trace, never to be seen again.

  III

  Cal’s roommates were all out, so he had the apartment to himself, at least for now. He decided to whip up a pot of baked beans—California Gold style. He began by cooking four strips of bacon in the bottom of a sauce pan. As the bacon sizzled and sputtered, Cal sang himself a bean song that he made up on the spot:

  Eating beans is always smart.

  Lovers eat beans to strengthen their heart.

  Hunters eat beans to sharpen their dart.

  Athletes eat beans by the shopping cart.

  Here he was distracted momentarily w
hile he focused on the preparation of his meal. As the bacon cooked, he peeled and diced a Granny Smith apple. Removing the cooked bacon, he broke it into small pieces, and then fried the diced apple in the bacon grease. After the apple bits were fried crispy and placed on a paper towel, he poured out most of the grease (pouring it directly down the sink, which his best friend Camm had said he should never do, so he did it with hot water and lots of dish washing soap).

  Next he poured in a whole can of kidney beans, and then added the bacon and apple bits. He sliced in copious amounts of onion and added sliced jalapeño peppers from a jar, pouring in some of the juice for good measure. He added brown sugar, ketchup, and vinegar with a little mustard to up the flavor ratio. Finally, he up-ended a bottle of hot sauce over his concoction. He used Tapatio, his favorite brand.

  He loved the smell of Tapatio, and in most of Cal’s recipes, it was the most important ingredient.

  Surveying his work with satisfaction, he thought, Take it from the boss. Don’t risk a loss. You may win the toss, but don’t skimp on the hot sauce.

  It occurred to Cal that should he ever need a mantra, it would be: Don’t skimp on the hot sauce! He could see applications of that bit of wisdom in all areas of life.

  While the savory-smelling pot of beans simmered, he went back to his happy bean song:

  You can get your beans at the closest Walmart,

  Or make your own—it’s a real fine art.

  Simmer beans slowly, keep ingredients tart,

  Plan your meal wisely, keep the horse before the cart.

  I’m not one to boast, but for my own part,

  A dish of good beans will always make me . . .

  His cell phone rang, playing a Katy Perry tune, interrupting his song just as he spooned the hot beans into a large bowl. He had a box of rainbow-colored Goldfish crackers to go along with the beans, and, in the freezer, an extra-large ice cream sandwich for dessert. He sighed, not wanting an interruption to his feast, but he knew who was calling—he had a girlfriend.