Mojave Desert Sanctuary

by Gary J George

  “If we take you to the rodeo grounds, can you show us?”

  Willy nodded.

  Horse opened the back door of Andy’s unit, and he and Willy got in. Andy drove slowly through the soft sand and stopped the car near the bleachers. He started to get out.

  “Un!” shouted Willy.

  “Andy, he wants you to get your gun out before you open the door.”

  Andy drew his service revolver and held it up for Willy to see.

  “Sho un,” said Willy. “Sho un.”

  “He says you need your shotgun.”

  Andy released his shotgun from its holder and got out with it. He opened the back door for Horse and Willy.

  It had been months since the rodeo, but when a gust of wind kicked up sand in the arena, the smell of manure with a vague undertone of hot dogs and popcorn rose into the air. The bleachers partially surrounding the arena were laid out in a horseshoe shape with stands on the south, east and west sides. The north side of the fenced oval contained the stock pens and chutes where the animals were released to be roped or bulldogged. There were also chutes where cowboys climbed onto the backs of broncos or bulls before the animals were turned loose in a cloud of whirling, dangerous and dusty mayhem.

  Willy surveyed the area carefully and then motioned for Horse and Andy to follow him. He walked around the south side of the bleachers toward the steps that led up to the announcer’s booth. As they walked, Horse said to Andy, “Willy lives in that booth up there when there’s no rodeo.”

  “Don’t they keep it locked?”

  “Yeah. But I have the key.”

  “Oh.”

  Just below the steps, Willy stopped and pointed at the ground. Horse could see the deep impressions left by Willy’s boots where he had run through the sand toward the steps. Mixed in with the boot prints were the tracks of a number of dogs. The prints of one of the dogs were huge. Willy made growling noises and snapped his teeth. He pointed at himself and then at the steps.

  “The dogs were chasing you, and you ran up the steps?”

  “Ehss!”

  Willy growled and snapped his teeth again and mimed a running dog.

  “The dogs came after you?”

  Willy shook his head and held up the only remaining finger on his right hand.

  “One dog came after you?”

  Willy turned to the steps and began to climb. As he and Andy followed, Horse noticed Willy’s frayed and faded pants were ripped just below his calf. He could see blood leaking down the back of Willy’s sock.

  The door to the announcing booth was nothing more than a slab of plywood hooked with crude hinges to the other slabs of plywood that formed the rectangular booth. There was a hasp for a lock and above the hasp a simple handle screwed into the wood so the makeshift door could be pulled open.

  Willy pointed to the door, and Horse looked closely. There were deep scratches in the plywood. Horse was over six feet tall and the scratches were chest high on him. Beside him, Andy let out a long, low whistle.

  “Man, that’s a big dog.”

  Willy turned away and pointed at the tear in the left leg of his pants Horse had noticed as they climbed the stairs.

  He growled and snapped his teeth again.

  “My God! That big fella got ahold of you?” asked Andy.

  Willy put the back of his hand to his forehead and grimaced.

  “I’ll bet it hurt!” said Horse. “Can you let me have a look at that?”

  Willy pulled his pant leg up above his calf. His sock was ragged but clean, except for blood from the bite.

  “That’s a bad bite, Willy. I’m going to run you over to the hospital.”

  Willy shook his head.

  “No, don’t argue with me on this one, partner. This is serious.”

  Willy hung his head, but finally nodded agreement.

  “So, Willy, you managed to get inside and close the door after the big dog bit you?”

  Willy growled and made barking noises.

  “But the dog wouldn’t go away.

  I see. How long do you think it stayed?”

  Willy pointed at Horse’s watch. Horse held it up. Willy tracked halfway around the face of the watch with the finger on his right hand.

  “About half an hour?”

  “Ehss.”

  “Okay, then what did you do? Walk down to the highway?”

  Willy shook his head, then held his hands behind his ears and turned his head from side to side.

  “You listened for the dogs for a while before you climbed down.

  How long?”

  Horse held up his watch again.

  Willy traced all the way around the watch.

  “So, this all started about sunrise. Where were you when you first saw the dogs?”

  Willy gestured toward an area a few yards from the bottom of the steps.

  “Okay, Willy. Let’s get you over to the hospital.

  Andy, go back to the office and go through the logs with Fred. We’ve had calls lately about people losing pets in town. We always lose a few to coyotes, but there have been more than usual lately.

  Stick around until I get back. I want to talk this through with you.”

  “I’ll get right on it, Lieutenant.”

  Andy turned to Willy. “I’m sorry you got bit, Willy. And I’m sorry I couldn’t understand you.”

  Willy shrugged and smiled.

  The three men went down the steps and headed for Andy’s car. Horse noticed that Willy never stopped looking around as they walked. It was obvious the dog attack had left him badly rattled.

  Andy drove Horse and Willy back to Horse’s unit.

  Horse opened the passenger side door so Willy could sit in the front seat with him. He backed onto the shoulder of 66 and left enough room for Andy to back out in front of him.

  Horse stayed in the room while the doctor examined the bite on Willy’s leg. The flesh around the bite marks was badly lacerated. Dr. Hayden flushed the area with alcohol and antiseptic, sutured two of the tears and covered the others with butterfly bandages. Through it all, Willy never winced or made a sound.

  “Any idea how long it’s been since Willy had a tetanus shot?”

  “Can you remember, Willy?”

  “Ah me.”

  “In the army.”

  “You mean Willy’s a veteran?”

  “That’s where he got all the injuries.”

  “Well, if it’s been that long, we’d better take care of that.

  And another thing. You’re going to have to quarantine the dog that bit him to make sure it’s not rabid.”

  “I think it’s a feral dog, probably part of a pack. We’ll try to find it.”

  “When you do you’re going to have to kill it and take it over to Horace Creighton. He’ll remove the head, get it under refrigeration, and send it to San Bernardino County Veterinary Public Health for testing.

  “How long does it take to get results back from them?”

  “They’ll phone you with the information the day after they get the head.

  If you don’t find it and get test results before five days from now, we’re going to have to start Willy on a series of rabies shots.”

  “I’ve heard those are painful.”

  “Excruciating would be a better word.”

  “Okay, I’ll find it.”

  “By the way, who’s paying for this?”

  “Put it on the county tab.”

  “How do I describe Willy?”

  “Willy Gibson. Five foot seven, brown hair, gray eyes, one hundred and thirty pounds. No known address. Dog attack victim.”

  “Can you wait here with Willy a minute?”

  “I’m his ride.”

  Dr. Hayden left the examining room. It was only a minute or two before a nurse came in.

  “Morning, Betty.”

  “Morning, Horse. Can you roll up Willy’s sleeve for me?”

  When Horse complied, the nurse swabbed Willy’s upper arm with alcohol and gave
him the injection. She covered the area with a bandage. Once again, Willy showed no reaction.

  When they were walking toward the parking lot, Horse asked, “Did you follow all that, Willy?”

  “Ehss.”

  “Now look. Don’t worry too much about those shots just yet. I’m going to find that dog, okay?”

  Willy smiled and made a “thumbs up” gesture with his only thumb.

  “In the meantime, let’s get you out of that announcer’s booth. It’s not safe out there with those dogs around.”

  Willy looked worried.

  “It’s okay, Willy. I’ve got a better place in mind.”

  Horse left the hospital parking lot and merged with the eastbound traffic on Broadway, which was both the main street in Smoke Tree and Highway 66 as it passed through town.

  Willy had a puzzled look.

  Horse drove through town to the Highway 66/Highway 95 split and took Highway 95 south. After a few miles, he turned onto a dirt road that led to the County of San Bernardino landfill. He was still in sight of the highway when he stopped at a flat-roofed, squat, square building made of cinder block and discarded materials.

  “Willy, do you remember Sixto Morales?”

  Willy twisted his lips in disgust.

  “Ehss.”

  “Yeah, a lot of people felt like that.

  Sixto was shot in the fall of last year after robbing a liquor store in Bullhead. He died two days later at the House of Three Murders out in the river bottom. Sixto’s mom, Lucinda, the woman people in Smoke Tree called ‘Landfill Lucy,’ lived in this building. Mrs. Morales went up to Bullhead one day and killed the man who shot her son. She’s serving life in prison over in Arizona, so nobody is using this place, and it doesn’t belong to anyone.”

  Willy held up his hands, palms up.

  “I’m telling you this because I want you to move in here. Those dogs might come back to where you were before. I don’t want you to get hurt again. Take a look inside. The door is open.”

  Willy got out of the car and walked to the makeshift door. He pulled it open with his thumb and middle finger and peered inside.

  He turned around and smiled at Horse.

  “We’ll get your stuff from the booth and bring it out here.”

  Willy went inside the shack.

  Horse reversed his unit, made a ‘K’ turn and headed back to the highway.

  When Horse got back to the station, Andy was waiting for him.

  “I’ve got the information you wanted.”

  Horse led him into his office.

  “Good. Let me get set up here.”

  He got a piece of white poster board and propped it on an easel. He drew an arrow for north in the upper right hand corner and put a circle in the middle of the paper. He labeled it “rodeo grounds”.

  “I took Willy to the hospital. Doc Hayden cleaned and stitched the bite. It was a lot worse than I thought it was when Willy showed it to us. Doc told me if we couldn’t find the dog that bit Willy for testing within a couple of days, Doc’s going to have to start him on rabies shots. Big needle in the stomach, a series of shots over days. We’ve got to find that dog.

  What did you find out about the missing pet incidents?”

  “They’re mostly from along the edge of the big wash coming down from Eagle Pass.”

  “Which streets?”

  “Mesquite, Acacia, Cottonwood, Cactus Flower and all the housing tract streets that dead end into Edge Street.”

  Horse stood up and drew a curving line on the poster board that represented the north side of town. He drew short lines representing the streets.

  “Tell me about the pets.”

  “Mostly cats and small dogs. Even a couple of big dogs that were badly injured but managed to make it home.”

  “Nothing from the south side of town?”

  “Nossir.”

  “Good. That narrows the search.

  I put Willy up in the shack Lucinda Morales was living in. Maybe he’ll be safe there for a while.

  So, the dogs are running the wash along the northwest edge of town.”

  “And the pack that chased Willy killed those missing animals.”

  “Bet on it.”

  “You don’t think they might be town dogs?”

  “No, these are feral,” said Horse. “And more than that, recently feral. We haven’t been getting these reports for long. So, what we have is a few dogs that belonged to someone who has turned them loose. And dogs that have recently gone feral aren’t hunters. They raid garbage cans and pick off small animals at the edge of town because if they moved into the open desert they’d starve to death.”

  “How do we find them?”

  “Track them.”

  “That won’t be easy.”

  “Not for you or me it wouldn’t. I can track people, but tracking dogs over sandy, rocky ground? Way beyond my skills. But I know someone who can do it.

  Remember Chemehuevi Joe?”

  “You mean the guy who officially wasn’t there when we caught Harvey Vickers last year?”

  “Yep. Joe can track anything that doesn’t fly or swim.

  I’ll call Keith Halverson at Smoke Tree Hardware. He’ll know if Joe is doing carpentry work here in town. If he isn’t, I’ll head out his way and see if I can find him.”

  “Want me to come along?”

  “No. I’d like you to run back out to the rodeo grounds and pick up Willy’s stuff from the announcing booth. Everything he owns will be in a duffle bag. I left the door unlocked, so snap the padlock when you’re done. Take the bag out to Lucinda’s shack.

  Willy’s not used to you yet. Just put it outside the door and holler at him. Tell him who you are and what you’ve done. Once you’ve done him a favor, he’ll feel like he knows you.”

  Fifteen minutes later, he knew Joe wasn’t working anywhere in Smoke Tree. Horse left the office and headed south on 95. Just beyond the tiny Smoke Tree Airport that was just a hangar, a windsock and a runway graded out of the desert, Horse turned onto a dirt road.

  The road cut west and led to the foothills of the Sacramento Mountains where Horse lived with his wife, Esperanza. He had built their simple, small, home of stuccoed cinder block topped with a sloped, tarpaper and white-rock roof on five acres bought for next to nothing in 1954.

  As the house came into view, he could see the long row of cottonwood trees he had planted on the north side of the property as a windbreak for the relentless winds of January, February and March. Behind the house was a substantial corral that took up one of the acres. It was built of railroad ties cemented into the ground and connected by heavy pipes set into holes cored through the ties. Caps screwed onto the end of the threaded pipes held them in place. Cheaper than a fancy, metal fence, but just as substantial.

  Just below the corral was his tack room. It was built of eight-foot-long, eight-inch-square railroad ties. Working with the two hundred pound ties had not been easy, but Horse sometimes liked to think that long after the town of Smoke Tree had disappeared into the sands of the Mojave Desert, his tack room would still be standing.

  As he came up the whitewashed-rock-lined driveway, he could see his palomino gelding Canyon and his wife’s Roan mare Mariposa looking his way. The bougainvilleas on the big trellises he had built on the north and south sides of the house were blooming red and purple. A rain bird was spraying his front lawn. It was deep green in the morning sun. He was one of the few people in Smoke Tree who planted winter rye when his Bermuda grass went dormant each November. He could see smoke from the fireplace being pushed to the west in the wind typical of December on the Mojave.

  He parked his cruiser behind two other vehicles: his wife’s ’57 Chevy Bel Air and his ’55 Chevy pickup. As he got out and walked around to the back door to avoid the sprinkler, he smelled sweet smoke from a mesquite wood fire.

  When he opened the back door, his wife smiled the smile that never failed to gladden his heart. Esperanza had been born a Narvarro, and there wa
s much more Spanish blood in her family than in his, a fact her mother, Esmeralda, had always been quick to point out to anyone she talked to, no matter how many times they had heard it before. In fact, her mother had tried to persuade Esperanza not to marry Horse, claiming he was far too dark. A light brown in comparison to Horse’s deep mahogany, Esperanza was a small, slim but surprisingly strong woman with long black hair that dropped halfway to her waist. Her hazel eyes were the color of sandstone flecked with mica. Her teeth were so white they sparkled when she spoke. And she placed no credence at all in her mother’s talk of “Spanish blood”.

  “I’m a Mexican,” she always said. “Just like my Carlos.”

  Esperanza’s mother was bitterly disappointed when her daughter married “that Mestizo”. Esperanza’s father, who looked much more Spanish than his wife, thought Carlos Caballo was a wonderful young man. But when Umberto Navarro died of cancer two years after Horse and Esperanza were married, Esmeralda began to become more Spanish by the day. She was soon one hundred percent Spanish with none of that inferior “Indio” blood at all. When people who had known her and her husband for years began to laugh at her claims, she moved to Santa Fe to live with her sister. Contact between mother and daughter now consisted almost entirely of Christmas and birthday cards.

  Esperanza walked over and hugged him.

  “You’re home early, Mi Carino.”

  “Not to stay, querida. I’m just here to change into my hunting boots.”

  She stepped back, the smile disappearing.

  “I don’t like the sound of that. Don’t tell me you’re chasing bad guys across the desert again.”

  “No. No bad guys this time.

  I’ve got to find Chemehuevi Joe.”

  Esperanza frowned.

  “The last time you were with Joe, someone tried to shoot you.”

  “Not this time. I promise.”

  “Why do you have to find Joe?”

  “A wild dog bit Willy Gibson earlier this morning. A big dog. Part of a pack.”

  “Oh, that poor man. As if his life weren’t hard enough.”

  “It was a nasty bite, but that’s not the worst part. If we can’t find that dog, Willy will have to have rabies shots.”