After a while he came upon a stretch of desert that was different from the rest and from the dry lake bed. Smooth and hard, it seemed to run in a narrow ribbon forever in both directions. For a short time he followed it — the going was easier than in the sandy ground, but it made him feel uneasy. Exposed. To what, he did not know.
He searched the low mountains before him. All was peaceful. He looked back — and froze. Far away, up from the ground, the blazing round light was rising. Blood red, it seemed larger and more menacing than ever before. He began to run — slowly at first, then faster and faster — away from the frightening, luminous disk, terrified that it had come to pursue him again. He ran heavily in the soft sand. Frantically he looked around for refuge. He found none. Except — there! Straight ahead, among the clumps of desert shrubs, close to the ribbon of hard desert. The two hulking shapes, huddled close together, reminded him of the cave in which he had hidden from the monsters of the darkness and safely spent a time of rest. Perhaps here, too, was safety.
He ran toward the squat lumps half concealed in the desert brush. He raced up to the nearest one. There was an opening in it — hidden by a sheet made of a rough, pliable substance, the kind that covered his own body, hanging in tatters from his arms and legs, but heavier and stiffer. He squeezed through a slit in it into the cave beyond. It was warm — and had a pungent, comforting odor, and the floor was covered with withered vegetation. He peered out through the slit in the sheet hanging across the cave opening. The dazzling light still hung in the sky. It stabbed at his eyes, brighter and more ablaze than before. He withdrew. It would not see him if he stayed hidden. He crawled to the far end of the cave and crouched down in a corner.
He became aware of a dull ache in his stomach. And his mouth was dry. It made him think of the creek — and food. He was hungry. Over the pungent odor permeating the cave he became aware of another smell. It was sweet and pleasant. He was surprised to find that his mouth grew moist. In the half-light he looked around. The smell came from a lumpy object leaning against the wall in the other corner. He crept over to it. Cautiously he touched it. The smell was strong. The bulky thing was also made of some kind of material, rough and yet soft. It was bunched together at the top with something wrapped tightly around it. He could not get it loose. He tore at the material itself; it gave way and ripped apart. Through the hole several brightly colored round objects spilled out onto the straw on the floor. The sweet scent came from them. He picked one up. He sniffed it. He bit into it. The taste was bitter — but he ate it. The inside was sweet and dripping with moisture. It was not like the water he knew from the creek, but it quenched his thirst. Contentedly he ate the oranges spilled from the torn sack, quickly learning to discard the rind and eat only the inside pulp.
Suddenly a grating sound rent the silence. He stiffened in fear. The sound almost at once turned into a deep, steady rumble — the cave lurched and began to swing and sway.
For a moment he sat petrified in the pitching cave. Then, mustering all his courage, he crept to the opening and looked through the rift.
Terror-stricken, he stared. The world was racing away from the lurching cave. The desert, the clumps of vegetation, the long, hard ribbon — everything was rushing away from him at terrifying speed. He scrambled back to the safety of the far corner of the cave and pressed himself into it. He closed his eyes and waited, trembling, for the world to stop running…
Lupe was whistling to himself — off key. He felt better. He shouldn't have had those last two Dos Equis at Mama Rosita's in Lone Pine, they'd made him feel muy mareado. But he was pleased with himself. He'd done the right thing, pulling over and taking a snooze in the cab. It would have been foolish to try to negotiate the winding road through the Panamint Range into the valley — especially since his little pick-up had only one good headlight. A la chingada. They would wait a few more hours for him to pick up the nag.
Faded lettering on the beat-up horse trailer hitched to the pick-up read:
McSWEENY STABLES
Renting — Boarding
BISHOP, CALIFORNIA
Lupe had borrowed it. He was on his way to Furnace Creek in Death Valley to pick up a horse. The poor caballo, he had gone lame trotting fat turistas all over the godforsaken place. His tourist-trotting days were over now, and he, Lupe, was buying him — cheap — from Juan, the stable wrangler. He grinned to himself at the thought of how pleased his chamaquito would be. Dios mio, he deserved it. He had six sisters — but he'd always wanted a horse. Muy bien, he would be easy to keep — out back.
He'd gotten a late start. He stepped on the gas pedal. He suddenly felt thirsty. Aiii, the heat of the day was beginning already. Should he stop and get a couple of oranges from the sack he was bringing to Juan? The hell with it. He'd wasted enough time. In another couple of hours he'd be wrapping himself around another Dos Equis…
He'd left Stove Pipe Wells Village in the valley behind and had turned south on the road to Furnace Creek. He'd been driving for about an hour and a half. He shifted in his seat. Someday he'd have that tear fixed; the damned springs were coming through. He was uncomfortably aware of his full bladder. Half of it Dos Equis, no doubt. Beer always filled him up. The road was deserted for miles — he'd stop and take a leak…
Huddled in his corner, Tom became aware of a change in the swaying, tossing motion of his cave. Nothing had happened to him, and he was beginning to lose some of his terror. He crept to the opening and peeked out.
The world outside was slowing down — and it had changed. It stopped. Now was his chance to escape from this disturbing place. He jumped to the ground and raced for the nearby foothills.
Lupe was opening the cab door. In the rearview mirror mounted on it he saw a quick motion. His mouth dropped open. He jumped from the pick-up in time to see the figure of a man racing into the desert. What the hell?
He had a sudden thought. He ran to the back of the horse trailer. He threw the canvas flap aside and looked in.
“Caramba! Pinchi pendejo!” he swore. Juan's sack was ripped open; the floor was littered with half-eaten oranges.
He shook his fist at the rapidly disappearing figure.
“Wait!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “Wait!.. I'll report you! Ladrón!… Thief!.. The Rangers will crush your cojones!”
He kicked the worn tire on the trailer wheel in frustrated anger and stalked back to the pick-up. He almost forgot the reason he'd stopped. He strode to the edge of the road and unceremoniously relieved himself, watching the steam rise from the thirsty sand.
He glared after the fleeing orange-thief — no more than a dot disappearing into the foothills.
“Me meo sobre de ti!” he grumbled in disgust. “I piss on you!”
2
The sign over the modern, one-story stone building read:
DEATH VALLEY NATIONAL MONUMENT RANGER HEADQUARTERS
ELEVATION:
150 FEET BELOW SEA LEVEL
A USAF scout came racing into the parking area in front and came to a stop alongside several other military and Ranger vehicles.
There were anger and impatience in the way Colonel Jonathan Howell dismounted and strode toward the building. He was followed by a man wearing a Ranger uniform, Chief Ranger Charles Stark.