CHAPTER NINE
Walking goes in two-four time, but riding either on horse or in an automobile makes a rhythm like a waltz. For half an hour Blake had been thinking up waltzes and trying to hum them against the waltz that his mind seemed to prefer. Whenever he relaxed for the shortest space of time he would hear again, like a stubborn gramophone far back between his ears,
It’s three o’clock in the morning:
We’ve danced—th’ whole night through....
and the tick of the left rear wheel of the car kept it up.
Talking was useless; it was impossible to talk except at certain times of the day. Just after breakfast, when they started out, everyone was talkative for an hour. Then they fell silent until lunch, wherever that might happen to be. Afterwards the four people were dead quiet until they had stopped for the night, except for little interludes when Gwendolyn Saville-Sanders would say,
“Do look at that hill over there. Marvelous.”
Or Mary would call, “Blake, dear. Not quite so fast. You can never tell who’s coming around the curve.” When Teddy was driving she didn’t worry. Only relatives are unsafe as chauffeurs.
The left rear wheel ticked and Blake hummed waltzes and all the time the road was leading them farther and farther from any place that he had ever been. He felt great. He paid no attention to gas and oil and air. Teddy took care of all that, with the jealous love of a childless woman who has borrowed a nephew for the week. For Blake, stopping for gas and oil was a rude interruption. He would be far off somewhere and suddenly the car would stop in front of a dusty little red pump sitting in the middle of the landscape, with a man in overalls shambling out of the dusty little house behind it. Then Gwendolyn would order soda pop all around, and mop her face. Or she would ask for the ladies’ room in a husky whisper that made Blake ashamed to go to his side of the little house.
In between the road was a broad highway, not good enough to let you forget the driving. One pass through the mountains kept Mrs. Saville-Sanders twittering for a long time, but most of the way was on flat ground with the mountains on either side and a long way ahead. He liked it better that way. They were not like California mountains. They were flat on top, and not so blue. Some of them were red and the other colour was a dull yellow. Once they met a man on horseback who was dressed like a Mexican but looked darker. A Navajo? Probably. Later they saw a flock of sheep, and Gwendolyn’s ecstatic cry called their eyes to the distant figure, herding them. Yes, it was a Navajo woman in full skirt. They passed a collection of brown buildings with huts like bee-hives scattered around them, and flaunting signs announcing that this was a Navajo trading-post where one could buy real genuine Navajo blankets and silver rings made right there on the premises. At this place they all sniffed, and Teddy stepped on the gas.
Towards Shiprock, the road turned bad. An hour of bumping and floating in the air above the back seat brought from Mary a flat decision that they would stay at Shiprock, if they ever got there.
“The Navajo may be very picturesque,” she said, “but we’ll do something dreadful to the car if we treat it like this. Don’t the springs give way sometimes? Oh, Teddy, didn’t you see that bump? No, Blake, we’ll stay at Shiprock. Goodness knows what we’d find beyond it, anyway.” She broke off and clutched at her hat, bouncing miserably.
Blake was in despair. He knew that it was no use to remonstrate: especially as even Teddy seemed to agree. Teddy was never any good in a free-for-all; he always took Mary’s side. Blake didn’t think of criticizing him for it. Teddy was simply sometimes a baffling adult and sometimes a companion. It was all in the way you caught him. He himself, still dependent on adult decisions, accepted his bad luck without question.
They found Shiprock at evening, and left Mary and Gwendolyn in their rooms while they strolled around the town, staring. It was thus they came across the truck-driver who was willing to take passengers into the country with him. He was chatting with the owner of one of the trading-posts, and he asked them about the roads.
“They were fine until we got here,” Blake said, aggrieved. “Now the trip’s over. He”—with a nod at Teddy—“backed out.”
The truck-driver pushed his hat back. “He’s got sense,” he said. “You don’t want to go driving these roads if you don’t know ’em. Where were you aiming to go?”
“Oh, around,” said Teddy. “To see the country. We’ve got a couple of women who want to stop, that’s the trouble. They think it’s just as good right here.”
“They think they’ve had their trip,” said Blake. “They want to rest here a few days.”
“Well, say,” said the driver. “Come on with me. I’ll drop you off at Clearwater, if you like, and you can catch the mail truck back on Wednesday. There’s plenty room in the car.”
“Where’s Clearwater?” Blake asked eagerly.
“Oh, it’s fifty mile out. You’ll get a sight of the country going up there. I start at ten tomorrow morning soon as I get loaded. Take it or leave it.”
They took it immediately, and hurried home to argue with the ladies.
It was raining when they started, and McLean swore in a cheerful mechanical manner. “We won’t make any time worth bragging about,” he said.
For a long time they drove down a mere path across flat country, but when the road started to climb they entered a pine wood. It was lovely in the rain; clear spaces were bright green and under the trees the ground was brown and clean-looking. McLean said it was bear country. They saw no bear, but sometimes a rabbit ran ahead of them, scurrying from side to side of the road and just missing death when he achieved the idea of diving into the underbrush. Now and then they slowed up to let the tail end of a flock of sheep and goats go by, scrambling and crowding and making silly noises and poisoning the air with their stench. Sometimes a Navajo cantered past on horseback, raising his hand in salute and for a moment skipping the steady beat of his whip on the horses’ flanks.
The truck panted louder, hesitated, ploughed ahead on a momentary level and groaned in a humming falsetto above the grind of the engine.
“She’s a bitch of a hill,” said McLean.
There was a view. Hills rolled out from the cliff below them, and dropped away to a streaked valley that showed far off where it was not raining; where a dry butte sat placidly in the golden light. The roof of the truck dripped dismally. Down again with dragging brakes and slow turns; Blake caught his breath at every blind corner, forgetting that they would not meet any other cars. The other side of the mountains sent them spinning off into a red country lined with severe rocky hills, and for a long time they rode through the valley, following roads with what seemed to him an utter disregard of direction. All the roads looked alike: two parallel strips of bare soil through the rabbit-brush. But Mac said that any wrong turning would take them, after painful windings, to the door of an Indian house (hogan, he called it) and then they would have to find the way back and start over. Crossing a narrow bit of clay land that bordered a stream, the heavy truck slipped and slid down and churned away helplessly. Mac swore and climbed out, pulling a shovel after him. He beckoned to the boys and they all worked furiously, carrying stones to pack down under the wheels. After an hour they backed out and started on.
Panting, his hands and knees covered with drying mud, his stomach growling in hunger, Blake nevertheless felt glad of the accident. He had met with disaster and overcome the elements. It was his country, as it was the country of the dark men and the garrulous cheerful truck-driver. This was the place he had come out West for. In these quiet wild valleys he forgot even the search. Now, riding at dusk in a muddy truck, he forgot the boy in Santa Fé ceaselessly looking for something.
Clearwater was three buildings square and neat in the middle of a clearing; built partly of trimmed stone and partly of logs. The storehouse looked like a barracks; the trader’s house was the same except that there were lights in the windows and a big dog tied to the door and a red-haired boy standing by him. He ran towards the truck, crying,
“Mac, Mac! Dad killed a rattlesnake in the henhouse. It almost bit Ma. Who’s with you?” When he saw strangers he grew quiet and stood motionless. Mac threw him a bag.
“Catch, Buddy. Where’s your Dad?”
They pushed open the screen door, passed the growling dog, and entered a bare ugly room with sacks piled in the corners. Beyond this was a living-room with stiff blue plush furniture, and a woman hurrying through the other door to meet them.
“Evening, Mac.” She rubbed her hands down her flat hips and looked shyly at the boys.
“Evening, Mrs. Bush. Can you put the boys up for a couple of days? I figured Warren would stop by Wednesday, so I brought ’em along.”
“That’s right. Come in and eat; Jim’ll be here in a minute. He’s looking up the store. Come on in; I was just dishing supper.”
They followed her to the next room, where an oil lamp burned on a spread table. The rest of the room was shadowy, but Blake saw a radio against one wall. Mac sat down and they joined him. The boy lurked in the corner, studying them. When his father came in he darted behind him. Bush was a tall blond man with a brown face, inflexible and expressionless. He shook hands mutely with each of the boys when they were introduced by Mac, and they each stood up. Mrs. Bush came in with a tray of beef stew and canned peaches and mashed potatoes and they all started to cat, silently.
With the food and warmth, Blake began to overcome his first feeling of strangeness. The little-boy fear of sleeping away from home was ebbing and he thought that perhaps he was growing up at last. He even managed to ask for a second helping of stew, but to join in the slowly increasing conversation was an effort too much for him. Bush asked Mac about the trip and was regaled with detailed saga of the accident in the mud. Buddy ate fast and kept his round green eyes fixed on the strangers. When the meal was over they stood up without ceremony and went their various ways. Mrs. Bush began to clear the table, scolding Buddy steadily in a low tone. The two men went outside to the other building, and Teddy and Blake followed at a distance, trying to think of something to do that would take them out of the way. It was almost dark by this time: the shadows, that in the daytime looked like pools of ink under the brush, had been diluted and spread and run together over the sand, melting all the brush and the rocks in one dark blanket. They turned together down the valley, walking swiftly on the rough road.
Tramp, tramp, tramp, with a little skipping noise when one of them kicked a pebble. The air was cool and dry and sweet. It grew darker. They passed a tiny fire where two Indians sat on their heels and watched a coffee pot. A long, happy, swinging cry sounded over across the valley, down the mountain. It was dark.
Out of the swelling joy in his breast, Blake cried, “We’re out of the States! We’re in another world.”
Teddy answered with silence. Tramp, tramp, tramp. He loved Teddy and the Navajos and the stars, the heavy yellow stars. For one pure moment things stood still, just like that, and then he knew that it would be one of those moments that would come back some day when there would be least reason to remember. Some instant of time that was waiting for him to catch him some day, perhaps in the middle of a city street in the summer when the asphalt oozed and rose around his heels; out of nowhere, a reasonless ecstasy that wrapped a valley at night, with the Navajos singing, and Teddy.
It hurt. If he could only cry, and spoil it.
Then Teddy caught his breath and said, “Let’s not go back to Santa Fé.” He felt it too, then. Of course; he had to feel it too. He repeated, “Let’s not go back. You mustn’t go back to school and I mustn’t go on shaking cocktails for hostesses. We’ll go to Mexico and get away from everything. How about it?”
Walking swiftly, Blake said, “All right. Yes.” It was a perfect thought. He felt no impulse to make plans. Leave it at that; then going will be simple.
“We can drive it easily,” Teddy said. “We’ll get a car that we can depend on and it’ll be simple. I don’t care if we never come back, either.” He slowed up in his walk, wheeled, and started back to the trading post as though their errand had been finished. Skipping to catch up, Blake followed in step. Tramp, tramp, tramp.
Mexico City, with broad white streets and narrow little slums. There would be fights. He and Teddy would frequent the little cafes ... knives flashing ... the room full of glowering peons allied against them.... He leaped at the swarthy man with the knife who was striking Teddy in the back. The knife felt sharp but not very painful as it reached his heart. Madden was shaking his shoulder and saying, “Blake! My God, he’s dying.” He stirred, smiled.... Blinking the wetness from his eyes, he blushed in the darkness and shoved his hands into his pockets. Tramp, tramp.
Another flash; sitting in the cheapest seats in the Mexican theatre, surrounded by grimy sweaty people, mustachioed men and mustachioed women. They shouted as the dancer whirled out on the stage, stamping her little red heals. But she looked straight at Teddy, and her eyes were like Gin’s, fixed on Teddy in the same mocking, hurt way. And Teddy folded his arms and looked at her with his high little smile, the smile that always made Blake hate him and love him too. The music played; her little heels tapped the stage imperiously. She took the rose from her bosom and tossed it....
But someone was singing; someone really was singing out there in the dark, miles off across the rabbit-brush. Chanting, rising to a hysterical falsetto and swooping down again to a minor note under the one that began the song.... From the shadows back of the store-room another man answered him, for all the world like a coyote.