A man stopped a truck in front of the door, came in and asked how far it was to Furnace Creek. Charlie looked him over, then glanced at the truck. “Fifty-eight miles the short way. Nearly 80 the other. You’ll have to take the long way.”
“Why?” the fellow bristled.
“Your load is too high for the underpass on the short route. Road’s washed out anyway.”
The man frowned and turned to go.
“Wait a minute,” Charlie called. He reached for a sack of flour, laid it on a counter. Then he stood a slab of bacon on its edge and cut off a chunk. “You’ll stop at Bradbury Well—”
“I won’t stop nowhere,” the truckman said.
“You’ll have to. Your radiator will be boiling.” He got a carton, put the flour and bacon in it and reaching on a shelf behind, got coffee, sugar, and canned milk and put these in. “Old Dobe Charlie Nels is camped there. Poor old fellow hasn’t been in for two weeks....”
The man looked at Charlie, uncertain. “You want me to drop it off, huh?”
“Yes,” Charlie said and lugging the carton to the truck, he shoved it in.
With squinted eyes the driver watched. “Mister, I’ll surely fill up here on my way back,” and with a friendly wave, climbed into his cab and I began to understand why all over the desert I’d heard of Charlie.