| Black Mountain Lady |
Jay
Dyck
Dyck
Diary of a Goatherder: 10 February 1980 (continued)
For the balance of the day I played around with the windmill which has been wind
damaged repeatedly.
The day was balmy and very warm.
For the balance of the day I played around with the windmill which has been wind
damaged repeatedly.
The day was balmy and very warm.
| Chapter Twenty-seven CROSSROADS |
In the truck, Glow finished a cigarette. She stubbed it out in the ashtray, peering ahead, meanwhile, into the
blizzard.
"Slow down, Johnny!" she cried. "There's a car stopped up ahead!"
Johnny was startled and stepped on the brake. Immediately the truck turned sideways and slid toward the
blue sedan. Johnny fought for control, turning into the skid, and finally managed to straighten his truck just in
time to glance off the front fender of the sedan.
The car spun crazily, and the doors flew open, while three bodies tumbled into the snow.
The truck stalled and rolled to a stop a short distance away.
"Shit!" said Johnny.
"Never mind," cried Gloria. "Let's see if anyone got hurt." She was out of the truck and running back to
the car. Johnny was right behind her when she stopped in horror and yelled, "What in hell is going on?"
She saw a young girl struggling to her feet, blood running from her mouth, one hand clenched in a fist and
the other struggling to pull up her jeans. The two men seemed unharmed, but dazed, and one of them had a gun.
The girl looked to Glow and Johnny and cried, "Help me!"
By now Clyde had got to his feet, and shakily waving the pistol toward Johnny and his sister he yelled, "No
problem! You folks get on your way! Go on now!"
Glow Dolan paused for a second. Then she marched forward, knotting her fists in rage. "You son of a bitch,"
she snarled and sprang at Clyde.
"Glow!" cried Johnny, reaching vainly for his sister.
An endless second passed. He saw the flash of fire and heard the bang. His sister's body flew backward, and
he collapsed beneath it. Hot blood steamed in an impossibly huge, scarlet streak across the snow.
Andrea had flung the crystal at the instant of the gunshot. It disappeared into the darkness.
Then the Devlin truck was sliding into the crossroads. It hadn't stopped when Tom and Joe were leaping
from the running boards. Bellowing like young bulls, the two threw themselves across the space toward their
sister.
"You motherfucker!" cried Joe and punched Carl so hard his jaw broke, and his head smacked into the side
of the blue sedan.
Clyde fired twice more, and Joe and Tom sprawled lifelessly into the snow. Andrea threw herself down on
Tom's bloody body, and at that moment Uncle Bill's truck came sliding into the crossroads. Clyde and Carl had
only time to look into the headlights before Old Fargo's shotgun blew them straight to hell.
blizzard.
"Slow down, Johnny!" she cried. "There's a car stopped up ahead!"
Johnny was startled and stepped on the brake. Immediately the truck turned sideways and slid toward the
blue sedan. Johnny fought for control, turning into the skid, and finally managed to straighten his truck just in
time to glance off the front fender of the sedan.
The car spun crazily, and the doors flew open, while three bodies tumbled into the snow.
The truck stalled and rolled to a stop a short distance away.
"Shit!" said Johnny.
"Never mind," cried Gloria. "Let's see if anyone got hurt." She was out of the truck and running back to
the car. Johnny was right behind her when she stopped in horror and yelled, "What in hell is going on?"
She saw a young girl struggling to her feet, blood running from her mouth, one hand clenched in a fist and
the other struggling to pull up her jeans. The two men seemed unharmed, but dazed, and one of them had a gun.
The girl looked to Glow and Johnny and cried, "Help me!"
By now Clyde had got to his feet, and shakily waving the pistol toward Johnny and his sister he yelled, "No
problem! You folks get on your way! Go on now!"
Glow Dolan paused for a second. Then she marched forward, knotting her fists in rage. "You son of a bitch,"
she snarled and sprang at Clyde.
"Glow!" cried Johnny, reaching vainly for his sister.
An endless second passed. He saw the flash of fire and heard the bang. His sister's body flew backward, and
he collapsed beneath it. Hot blood steamed in an impossibly huge, scarlet streak across the snow.
Andrea had flung the crystal at the instant of the gunshot. It disappeared into the darkness.
Then the Devlin truck was sliding into the crossroads. It hadn't stopped when Tom and Joe were leaping
from the running boards. Bellowing like young bulls, the two threw themselves across the space toward their
sister.
"You motherfucker!" cried Joe and punched Carl so hard his jaw broke, and his head smacked into the side
of the blue sedan.
Clyde fired twice more, and Joe and Tom sprawled lifelessly into the snow. Andrea threw herself down on
Tom's bloody body, and at that moment Uncle Bill's truck came sliding into the crossroads. Clyde and Carl had
only time to look into the headlights before Old Fargo's shotgun blew them straight to hell.
| * * * |
Here is how Tawngness happened to be in the area, near the pond, on that other desperate afternoon. It was
as it had been long ago, with the old woman, and the fire. She was unexplainably drawn to what normally would
have sent her slinking away in prudent fear.
This time there was no fire. But there were humans, three of them. Tawngness watched from a dense tangle
of brush.
She had taken awhile to approach. She had heard Diana screaming. Then as she bellied ever more near, the
sound of the leather belt made her tense with each repetition. When finally she had edged close enough, she
could make out the flame-streaked car, and two men.
Her senses were dancing, and Tawngness was not naive. She had smelled sex a million times, and she knew it
was going on now. Why, with two males on hand, there was not a fight going on, was beyond the imagination of
Tawngness, but it struck her mighty weird. A little closer in, and she could see the female of this human breeding
trio.
Tawngness was old. Her breeding days were behind her. But there had been many times when it had been her
in the receptive role now occupied by Diana. But never like this. Never like this.
as it had been long ago, with the old woman, and the fire. She was unexplainably drawn to what normally would
have sent her slinking away in prudent fear.
This time there was no fire. But there were humans, three of them. Tawngness watched from a dense tangle
of brush.
She had taken awhile to approach. She had heard Diana screaming. Then as she bellied ever more near, the
sound of the leather belt made her tense with each repetition. When finally she had edged close enough, she
could make out the flame-streaked car, and two men.
Her senses were dancing, and Tawngness was not naive. She had smelled sex a million times, and she knew it
was going on now. Why, with two males on hand, there was not a fight going on, was beyond the imagination of
Tawngness, but it struck her mighty weird. A little closer in, and she could see the female of this human breeding
trio.
Tawngness was old. Her breeding days were behind her. But there had been many times when it had been her
in the receptive role now occupied by Diana. But never like this. Never like this.
| * * * |
| * * * |
Small Chinese dogs greet the evening. They walk on boards of clear finished redwood. Sunlight gives a last
lick to the treetops. It's all red and thick. Drowsy, like dreams.
A breeze flows through the trees. Memory. Breath of memory.
From somewhere a child's voice echoing from inside a wooden room came talking to its mother. Its mother.
Then sprinklers were added to the sounds of the summer evening. The range became wider. Children played
in the distance, not too far. It was the neighborhood of the temple.
It grew cooler. The man paused and looked at the hillside. He seemed entranced. Inside his head it was all a
jumble. What things floated on the breeze.
Her appearance was so subtle. Standing by the lemon tree, with her bow, in sandals and white satin.
"Where am I?" he thought, bedazzled. "And what has happened up till now?"
She looked at him. He felt that he would kneel to her. She seemed to be coming closer, and then he was on
his knees. Bare, golden-brown skin winked at him from folds of cloth. It was still white satin; the finest of blue
and red threads danced through the hems, and gold.
Every curve led him back to her eyes, blue shadows, framed by golden hair. Brown hair? Sunlight hair.
Smiling, from everywhere, let him be led back to her eyes.
Safe. She held a white bow. Her quiver hung on her hip. Her arrows had red feathers.
Blood is a pretty color.
Was it his thought or more? Does this goddess… was it her thought… bleed at the full moon?
His mental images were in a jumble. It seemed like it would be easy, to just reach out, and take one, and
describe it.
Is that sex? No. Is it worship?
He let himself through the house, into the twilit street. Moving like a cat stalking a mouse he walked to the
center of the street and turned. The earth turned too, kicked into a lazy tumble to the east by the pressure of
bare feet on asphalt. The moon sailed over the hill, full and red as snow.
The street was deserted. The suburban children were inside, safe from werewolves and approaching autumn.
In their place were moonbeams. He walked on them, and they supported him. The planet rose to his touch.
Gravity pulled the last shreds of sunset into the sea beyond the hills. He drifted higher, out of town. Houses and
asphalt ran off him like water from his oily skin. He felt perfectly naked. High on the hill, the soft, cool sand of a
new road, the dusty breezes of a summer so ancient. Wild grass and barley fled off in every direction. Sweet
incense. The moon's poison burned his veins.
lick to the treetops. It's all red and thick. Drowsy, like dreams.
A breeze flows through the trees. Memory. Breath of memory.
From somewhere a child's voice echoing from inside a wooden room came talking to its mother. Its mother.
Then sprinklers were added to the sounds of the summer evening. The range became wider. Children played
in the distance, not too far. It was the neighborhood of the temple.
It grew cooler. The man paused and looked at the hillside. He seemed entranced. Inside his head it was all a
jumble. What things floated on the breeze.
Her appearance was so subtle. Standing by the lemon tree, with her bow, in sandals and white satin.
"Where am I?" he thought, bedazzled. "And what has happened up till now?"
She looked at him. He felt that he would kneel to her. She seemed to be coming closer, and then he was on
his knees. Bare, golden-brown skin winked at him from folds of cloth. It was still white satin; the finest of blue
and red threads danced through the hems, and gold.
Every curve led him back to her eyes, blue shadows, framed by golden hair. Brown hair? Sunlight hair.
Smiling, from everywhere, let him be led back to her eyes.
Safe. She held a white bow. Her quiver hung on her hip. Her arrows had red feathers.
Blood is a pretty color.
Was it his thought or more? Does this goddess… was it her thought… bleed at the full moon?
His mental images were in a jumble. It seemed like it would be easy, to just reach out, and take one, and
describe it.
Is that sex? No. Is it worship?
He let himself through the house, into the twilit street. Moving like a cat stalking a mouse he walked to the
center of the street and turned. The earth turned too, kicked into a lazy tumble to the east by the pressure of
bare feet on asphalt. The moon sailed over the hill, full and red as snow.
The street was deserted. The suburban children were inside, safe from werewolves and approaching autumn.
In their place were moonbeams. He walked on them, and they supported him. The planet rose to his touch.
Gravity pulled the last shreds of sunset into the sea beyond the hills. He drifted higher, out of town. Houses and
asphalt ran off him like water from his oily skin. He felt perfectly naked. High on the hill, the soft, cool sand of a
new road, the dusty breezes of a summer so ancient. Wild grass and barley fled off in every direction. Sweet
incense. The moon's poison burned his veins.
| * * * |
Cat One looked away. Her gaze sailed off, over the hills, across the sea and into frozen space.
Life is hard, she reflected. Turning, she made her way down the hill. Perhaps she could help her mother feed
the chickens.
Life is hard, she reflected. Turning, she made her way down the hill. Perhaps she could help her mother feed
the chickens.
| * * * |
After shooting himself, Johnny studied dance for a while. Studied under several of the foremost dancers in
San Diego at the time, he did, and they were the foremost instructors as well. That concentrated semester of
immersion in dance, living off the GI Bill, and practicing incessantly whenever space, and privacy, presented
themselves, probably enhanced his perfect healing from the long trauma of the bullet.
But it changed him too, brought out a side of the old ruffian that was a delicious sacrifice for Johnny to allow
himself to offer, in order to gain the thrill.
What a past this dance student had, the knowing of a lion, the heart rage of predation, the coarse beauty of
the mountains, and the loss of everything.
San Diego at the time, he did, and they were the foremost instructors as well. That concentrated semester of
immersion in dance, living off the GI Bill, and practicing incessantly whenever space, and privacy, presented
themselves, probably enhanced his perfect healing from the long trauma of the bullet.
But it changed him too, brought out a side of the old ruffian that was a delicious sacrifice for Johnny to allow
himself to offer, in order to gain the thrill.
What a past this dance student had, the knowing of a lion, the heart rage of predation, the coarse beauty of
the mountains, and the loss of everything.
| * * * |
At dawn, Vikor was observing the eastern sky from the observation bubble of a passenger train that hurtled
across the New Mexico desert. The body of John Fitzgerald lay curled in the trunk of the BMW, which was parked
just a few blocks away from the scene of the crime, deep in the long term parking structure.
Vikor spent a lot of time imagining his trails tapering off into nothingness. This body, for instance, would
start to reek in a few days. So, despite that Vikor had paid for a month's parking, it would be investigated, the
corpse would be found, identified, claimed and mourned.
No one would go jetting off to San Diego, California, to pick up the trail in response to, let us imagine, an
Amtrak itinerary with the killer's train number and departure and arrival times circled in red ink and left on the
floor of the victim's car.
No, the first sign that San Diego was on the wild cat's circuit would be when checks or credit card vouchers
from transactions performed in the city by the border began to arrive at the bank and or the home of the
deceased. Of course, those transactions would be as much in the past as the wind that skirled about the wheels of
the BMW as it zipped down America Street, turned on Fremont, and disappeared into the depths of another
structure, this one a giant, temporary crypt. Vikor would be gone from San Diego by then, blasting away in a jet…
A few days later… or was it weeks? The time moves for a stalker at a pace that makes the past a puzzle… he
was sitting in a high restaurant in Southern California, watching yet another trail taper, reviewing in his mind a
fresher kill.
Vikor knew that it was not impossible that some dogged police detective might eventually discover the link
between the deaths of John Francis Fitzgerald in St. Louis, Missouri, and Gail Henderson, in San Diego,
California. But even then, he comforted himself, that trail was colder when it began than the first. It was just a
bunch of unmarked bills, and the krugerrands. Now, the krugerrands just might provide clues, should Vikor
decide to unload them right away. But he had forty thousand dollars, more than that, and he didn't need that gold
right then.
Gold buries well, and that was what Vikor figured to do with it. And the place he wanted to bury it was at the
foot of Clark's hill, on the farm that now belonged to his mother.
Cat One.
A lot of moonlight had twinkled their eyes since last they had seen one another, mother and son. Vikor's
itinerary, the random path that he had created with his old cowboy hat, included three more cities after Houston,
namely San Antonio, Austin, and St. Paul, Minnesota.
A true predator, he rummaged to himself, with a laugh. As if in criticism of the author's philosophical
rambling, he imagined how it would be were he to drop to all fours and begin to eat, to chomp into the solid flesh
of his prey. Would he start at the heels or the haunch, like a dog?
Or would he start at the head, like a cat? He could imagine biting off a cheek, a plump cheek, or perhaps the
flesh that fills the hollow of the temple would prove a succulent morsel. Perhaps the brain…
Perhaps a little more civilized, he thought. (fried brains, scrambled with eggs, perhaps?) Search complete, he
rose and turned and continued to walk, but back the way he had come, back toward John Fitzgerald's automobile.
He had a wallet, a watch, and a set of keys. Walking uphill was nothing to Vikor. He had started at the bottom of
the cavernous structure. In the sparsely parked tower of the early evening, he had noticed Mr. Fitzgerald's BMW
a moment before he saw its owner. By then he was on the fifth level.
Mr. Fitzgerald himself was the very next encounter. Vikor didn't even know his name yet. The killing and
subsequent frisk and seizure took only seconds. It was over before it had begun, the victim dragged to the sodium
shade of a parked Mercedes Benz, the guts looted, the lion gone…
It also made Vikor snicker at himself when he imagined himself as a lion. Along with that true predator
stuff, he thought. Meanwhile, back at the real-life action, he reminded himself, here he was nearly jogging along
in business clothes and in a hurry. You see it every day, whether for a bus or a train or an appointment, one of
the herd breaks into a canter right up Main Street, neck-tie a-flying. And nobody thinks a thing of it.
Well, they think things of it, but things like, what a jerk! Some envy, perhaps, at a guy or a gal who can kick
over the traces and unselfconsciously take control of his or her life and run and succeed and save the day and
compete and make it, but coming to surface in thought or comment only as, what a dolt, or, he should have given
himself more time, or, I've never had to do that ('cause of good planning), or, he's endangering other people (with
these sophomoric hijinks).
But never do they think, my God! He's just stabbed a man in the heart and robbed him, and now he is running
away!
Vikor didn't yet know the name of his temporary new identity, but a look at the logo on the key ring had told
him that the BMW was his. His, now meaning Vikor's! He slowed down and stopped by the door. The car was a
silvery blue.
Vikor liked it right away. Swiftly, he let himself in and tossed his briefcase on the seat.
Vikor had considered bringing an empty briefcase and swapping it for the one that might end up containing
the victim's cash or credit cards. It might end up containing one hundred thousand dollars in bearer bonds, or a
million dollars in cash.
The problem was, as he saw it, that he wanted to be carrying a briefcase himself, prior to the kill. It was a
part of his disguise. His cover.
But he wanted the other briefcase, and the sight of your ordinary, everyday businessman carrying two
briefcases did not fit such a comfortable groove in Mr. or Mrs. Average Mind. Two briefcases? Come on.
So, the first had to be abandoned. It had to be left behind with the body of the victim. Let it be the dead man's
"cover" now.
This was not Vikor's first journey as a marauder. Some time in the past, he had reasoned that a succession of
empty briefcases left with the bodies of murder victims might embroider a pattern that a resourceful detective or
even a computer could discover. The "Empty Briefcase Killings" were not a period, a trend, a newsy item or a
story that he ever wanted to be able to remember.
So, by now he pretty much knew what were the items that appeared routinely inside of a briefcase.
Briefs, a clean pair. Some have them, some don't. Vikor did not include them in his throwaway case, nor did he
have any legal briefs to abandon, or any business papers of any sort. He did include paper, a notebook usually,
with a number of pages torn out and disposed of previously.
Other stationary items, like pens, pencils, and erasers, calculators (hey, it takes money to make money, and
thrift stores have lots of them. It doesn't even need to work), neck-ties, paper-clips, rubber bands, chocolate bars,
rubbers, mirrors, straws, alligator clips…
He drove his new car down and out. The fellow at the lone cashier's booth never looked at anything but the
parking ticket, the money, and the picture on his tiny television. Then the BMW disappeared into the night.
across the New Mexico desert. The body of John Fitzgerald lay curled in the trunk of the BMW, which was parked
just a few blocks away from the scene of the crime, deep in the long term parking structure.
Vikor spent a lot of time imagining his trails tapering off into nothingness. This body, for instance, would
start to reek in a few days. So, despite that Vikor had paid for a month's parking, it would be investigated, the
corpse would be found, identified, claimed and mourned.
No one would go jetting off to San Diego, California, to pick up the trail in response to, let us imagine, an
Amtrak itinerary with the killer's train number and departure and arrival times circled in red ink and left on the
floor of the victim's car.
No, the first sign that San Diego was on the wild cat's circuit would be when checks or credit card vouchers
from transactions performed in the city by the border began to arrive at the bank and or the home of the
deceased. Of course, those transactions would be as much in the past as the wind that skirled about the wheels of
the BMW as it zipped down America Street, turned on Fremont, and disappeared into the depths of another
structure, this one a giant, temporary crypt. Vikor would be gone from San Diego by then, blasting away in a jet…
A few days later… or was it weeks? The time moves for a stalker at a pace that makes the past a puzzle… he
was sitting in a high restaurant in Southern California, watching yet another trail taper, reviewing in his mind a
fresher kill.
Vikor knew that it was not impossible that some dogged police detective might eventually discover the link
between the deaths of John Francis Fitzgerald in St. Louis, Missouri, and Gail Henderson, in San Diego,
California. But even then, he comforted himself, that trail was colder when it began than the first. It was just a
bunch of unmarked bills, and the krugerrands. Now, the krugerrands just might provide clues, should Vikor
decide to unload them right away. But he had forty thousand dollars, more than that, and he didn't need that gold
right then.
Gold buries well, and that was what Vikor figured to do with it. And the place he wanted to bury it was at the
foot of Clark's hill, on the farm that now belonged to his mother.
Cat One.
A lot of moonlight had twinkled their eyes since last they had seen one another, mother and son. Vikor's
itinerary, the random path that he had created with his old cowboy hat, included three more cities after Houston,
namely San Antonio, Austin, and St. Paul, Minnesota.
A true predator, he rummaged to himself, with a laugh. As if in criticism of the author's philosophical
rambling, he imagined how it would be were he to drop to all fours and begin to eat, to chomp into the solid flesh
of his prey. Would he start at the heels or the haunch, like a dog?
Or would he start at the head, like a cat? He could imagine biting off a cheek, a plump cheek, or perhaps the
flesh that fills the hollow of the temple would prove a succulent morsel. Perhaps the brain…
Perhaps a little more civilized, he thought. (fried brains, scrambled with eggs, perhaps?) Search complete, he
rose and turned and continued to walk, but back the way he had come, back toward John Fitzgerald's automobile.
He had a wallet, a watch, and a set of keys. Walking uphill was nothing to Vikor. He had started at the bottom of
the cavernous structure. In the sparsely parked tower of the early evening, he had noticed Mr. Fitzgerald's BMW
a moment before he saw its owner. By then he was on the fifth level.
Mr. Fitzgerald himself was the very next encounter. Vikor didn't even know his name yet. The killing and
subsequent frisk and seizure took only seconds. It was over before it had begun, the victim dragged to the sodium
shade of a parked Mercedes Benz, the guts looted, the lion gone…
It also made Vikor snicker at himself when he imagined himself as a lion. Along with that true predator
stuff, he thought. Meanwhile, back at the real-life action, he reminded himself, here he was nearly jogging along
in business clothes and in a hurry. You see it every day, whether for a bus or a train or an appointment, one of
the herd breaks into a canter right up Main Street, neck-tie a-flying. And nobody thinks a thing of it.
Well, they think things of it, but things like, what a jerk! Some envy, perhaps, at a guy or a gal who can kick
over the traces and unselfconsciously take control of his or her life and run and succeed and save the day and
compete and make it, but coming to surface in thought or comment only as, what a dolt, or, he should have given
himself more time, or, I've never had to do that ('cause of good planning), or, he's endangering other people (with
these sophomoric hijinks).
But never do they think, my God! He's just stabbed a man in the heart and robbed him, and now he is running
away!
Vikor didn't yet know the name of his temporary new identity, but a look at the logo on the key ring had told
him that the BMW was his. His, now meaning Vikor's! He slowed down and stopped by the door. The car was a
silvery blue.
Vikor liked it right away. Swiftly, he let himself in and tossed his briefcase on the seat.
Vikor had considered bringing an empty briefcase and swapping it for the one that might end up containing
the victim's cash or credit cards. It might end up containing one hundred thousand dollars in bearer bonds, or a
million dollars in cash.
The problem was, as he saw it, that he wanted to be carrying a briefcase himself, prior to the kill. It was a
part of his disguise. His cover.
But he wanted the other briefcase, and the sight of your ordinary, everyday businessman carrying two
briefcases did not fit such a comfortable groove in Mr. or Mrs. Average Mind. Two briefcases? Come on.
So, the first had to be abandoned. It had to be left behind with the body of the victim. Let it be the dead man's
"cover" now.
This was not Vikor's first journey as a marauder. Some time in the past, he had reasoned that a succession of
empty briefcases left with the bodies of murder victims might embroider a pattern that a resourceful detective or
even a computer could discover. The "Empty Briefcase Killings" were not a period, a trend, a newsy item or a
story that he ever wanted to be able to remember.
So, by now he pretty much knew what were the items that appeared routinely inside of a briefcase.
Briefs, a clean pair. Some have them, some don't. Vikor did not include them in his throwaway case, nor did he
have any legal briefs to abandon, or any business papers of any sort. He did include paper, a notebook usually,
with a number of pages torn out and disposed of previously.
Other stationary items, like pens, pencils, and erasers, calculators (hey, it takes money to make money, and
thrift stores have lots of them. It doesn't even need to work), neck-ties, paper-clips, rubber bands, chocolate bars,
rubbers, mirrors, straws, alligator clips…
He drove his new car down and out. The fellow at the lone cashier's booth never looked at anything but the
parking ticket, the money, and the picture on his tiny television. Then the BMW disappeared into the night.
| * * * |
If it hadn't been for the goddamned baby, might better express the tone of sentiments from both sides of
Johnny Stream's heritage. Not quite one year old, he had been left that night with his maternal grandparents in
East San Diego. In the years to come, many of his relations would find themselves wishing with cold guilt that he
had been along for the ride when the former Sandy Marmon, now Sandy Stream, and her brave had gone for their
last ride out Boulder Creek Road.
Sandy had met Henry Stream at Stallion Oaks. It was a whirlwind romance. The Marmon family owned a
tract of land six miles farther out Boulder Creek Road. She had been returning with a group of friends from a
picnic there. Those were heady days in nineteen eighteen; the ongoing war had somehow released a generation
from the straitjacket of tradition and conformity. Prohibition was still two years away, yet everyone felt like an
outlaw, and the west was still wild.
In this spirit, the crowd of young folks had stopped at the notorious mountain inn for a round of drinks before
resuming the long drive down the hill. What began as a liberated flirtation of a new age, another bold woman
shaking loose from the bridle of submission, passed quickly through the stages of illicit romance, tragic
pregnancy, shotgun marriage, rebellion, rejection and alcoholic denial, and at last the flaming plunge over the
towering bluffs of Boulder Creek Road itself.
So it was that, even as a young boy, Johnny Stream sought the refuge of the quiet canyons and the windy
ridges of the hills and mountains of the Cuyamacas. The other boys, the pure bloods, would not tolerate him in
their play except as a target for their bullying.
In this respect, he was strangely charmed, for he discovered on his own the wholesome discipline of life on the
open range. To have been welcomed by his generation of peers could easily have led to his sharing their desperate
dissolution as they grew to accept life for young bucks as a meaningless scourge of drugs and alcohol and
prejudicial failure.
He rediscovered what they had left behind, the pleasures of solitude, the skills of the outdoorsman, the
beauty of the hunt. He became familiar with the still undeveloped parcel of land that clung like an unredeemed
savings bond to his mother's family, and he went there more and more, to hunt, or just to camp, to gaze at the
moon and the stars.
He would sit on a high rock and look far to the west, down through a notch in the mountains that revealed the
ocean during the day and at night the lights of San Diego Harbor and Point Loma. He would listen to the wind that
rustled the pines; he would bathe in the waters of Fugitive Creek. He would fish for trout in Boulder Creek where
it wound its rocky way from Cuyamaca to El Capitan.
Johnny Stream's heritage. Not quite one year old, he had been left that night with his maternal grandparents in
East San Diego. In the years to come, many of his relations would find themselves wishing with cold guilt that he
had been along for the ride when the former Sandy Marmon, now Sandy Stream, and her brave had gone for their
last ride out Boulder Creek Road.
Sandy had met Henry Stream at Stallion Oaks. It was a whirlwind romance. The Marmon family owned a
tract of land six miles farther out Boulder Creek Road. She had been returning with a group of friends from a
picnic there. Those were heady days in nineteen eighteen; the ongoing war had somehow released a generation
from the straitjacket of tradition and conformity. Prohibition was still two years away, yet everyone felt like an
outlaw, and the west was still wild.
In this spirit, the crowd of young folks had stopped at the notorious mountain inn for a round of drinks before
resuming the long drive down the hill. What began as a liberated flirtation of a new age, another bold woman
shaking loose from the bridle of submission, passed quickly through the stages of illicit romance, tragic
pregnancy, shotgun marriage, rebellion, rejection and alcoholic denial, and at last the flaming plunge over the
towering bluffs of Boulder Creek Road itself.
So it was that, even as a young boy, Johnny Stream sought the refuge of the quiet canyons and the windy
ridges of the hills and mountains of the Cuyamacas. The other boys, the pure bloods, would not tolerate him in
their play except as a target for their bullying.
In this respect, he was strangely charmed, for he discovered on his own the wholesome discipline of life on the
open range. To have been welcomed by his generation of peers could easily have led to his sharing their desperate
dissolution as they grew to accept life for young bucks as a meaningless scourge of drugs and alcohol and
prejudicial failure.
He rediscovered what they had left behind, the pleasures of solitude, the skills of the outdoorsman, the
beauty of the hunt. He became familiar with the still undeveloped parcel of land that clung like an unredeemed
savings bond to his mother's family, and he went there more and more, to hunt, or just to camp, to gaze at the
moon and the stars.
He would sit on a high rock and look far to the west, down through a notch in the mountains that revealed the
ocean during the day and at night the lights of San Diego Harbor and Point Loma. He would listen to the wind that
rustled the pines; he would bathe in the waters of Fugitive Creek. He would fish for trout in Boulder Creek where
it wound its rocky way from Cuyamaca to El Capitan.
| * * * |
Widowmaker was a five year old bay. Marilyn Heinz had raised her from a suckling foal. When Al Wells, her
first husband, drove headlong into a carload of drunken marines on Torrey Pines grade one night, Widowmaker
earned her name, and her keep, for life.
Marilyn had lots of horses. When Johnny was out again for another visit a month or so later, the three of
them discussed which of the animals would be suitable for getting the sailor back in the saddle.
Bob offered to let his partner ride Spot. He himself could ride any of the others he said, generously, and Spot
was stable and dependable, and a soft ride. Johnny was still plenty stiff and sore. It was a nice gesture, but he had
already picked a mare that he felt would be fun.
The two guys and Marilyn were leaning on the top rail of a large corral where the suitable horses had been
gathered. Spot himself stood anchored to a hitching post outside of the corral.
"I like that brown one there," said Johnny, as the herd milled, and Marilyn's favorite trotted past the little
group. Marilyn Wells heaved a sigh.
"I just knew you'd pick her," she moaned.
"No good?" said Johnny, eager to please, but disappointed.
"Oh, no, Widow's a great horse," said Marilyn.
Johnny shook the dust from his memory's bells, and looked again at the dancing filly. "Widow?" he
exclaimed. "Is that Widowmaker, the filly you were training before the war?"
"That's her," chimed Bob, who had been standing silent on the other side of his aunt. He was glad to have
Johnny back. He wanted to ride!
"Shush," said Marilyn. "Yeah, that's her. I wish I had more time to spend with her," she said in wistful
complaint. "She could probably use some steady riding. Shut up Bob!"
Bob had said something like, "Yeah!" in response to his aunt's agreement. Now Johnny spoke up again.
"So, how did she turn out?" he asked with some seriousness, as he watched the saucy mare round the corners
of the paddock one more time.
"Great!" said Marilyn. "She's great. She's spunky; you got to pay attention every second. But she runs like a
dream.
"She's my favorite," she admitted.
"Oh, no, I won't take your favorite horse," he gallantly began.
"No, no, it's fine. I want you to; it'll be good for her. I don't have time, but she's just on loan, you
understand. You don't have to pay me a nickel, and she can eat here whenever, but I'm gonna want her back
someday, Johnny."
"Fine with me," murmured the sailor. Distracted now by the horse, who had suddenly noticed him, Johnny
slipped through the redwood rails. He limped over to the beautiful gal with no trouble, and he patted her on the
cheek with a croon.
"That you, Widow?" he said. He ran his hands across her back, down her neck and her chest, over her flanks.
"That you? I remember when you were just a filly. Just a silly filly," he went on circling behind the horse with a
hand on her rump, then continuing up the other side. "Just a silly filly," he said. He fished a chunk of carrot
from the back pocket of his jeans and offered it to his new friend. She nibbled and nickered. Life had become a
little boring for Widowmaker. Maybe now that was beginning to change.
He found her to be as spunky as promised. She was still a silly filly, but Johnny did not want to be marooned
on a cripple's plug. He figured his recovery would go faster and farther with the challenge of energy and muscle
that was Widowmaker gripped between his thighs.
He was right, but she tossed him off at first, aware that the silly salt scarcely had his land legs. Horse legs
were something he better get reacquainted with real fast, he thought to himself as he stood up and dusted himself
off. They were in Marilyn's arena. Lucky he was to come down on his good side; that way it only hurt like hell.
Bob and Marilyn didn't even try to talk him out of climbing right back on.
After that, though, Widowmaker played fair. She had made her point. She didn't want to go through all that
training, that breaking, again. She was the horse for Johnny, and she was ready for a ride.
She snorted. They were off.
Marilyn had opened the gate. As soon as they had cleared the posts, Johnny gave her a touch with his spurs,
and she burst into a steady canter. That was what he had wanted. Save this trotting business for another body.
As promised, the slow gallop was a delight. Johnny felt the inescapable pains that related to his cure being
massaged away.
Bob Cabler had run to the hitching post to collect his own cayuse. Spot knew what was up, and he wanted to go
along. Cabler was on in a flash. He reeled in his favorite half-reared position, caught a glimpse of Marilyn as the
horse came down at a gallop, yelled, "Thanks, Aunt Marilyn," and was borne away on the thundering dust clouds
in pursuit of his favorite pal.
first husband, drove headlong into a carload of drunken marines on Torrey Pines grade one night, Widowmaker
earned her name, and her keep, for life.
Marilyn had lots of horses. When Johnny was out again for another visit a month or so later, the three of
them discussed which of the animals would be suitable for getting the sailor back in the saddle.
Bob offered to let his partner ride Spot. He himself could ride any of the others he said, generously, and Spot
was stable and dependable, and a soft ride. Johnny was still plenty stiff and sore. It was a nice gesture, but he had
already picked a mare that he felt would be fun.
The two guys and Marilyn were leaning on the top rail of a large corral where the suitable horses had been
gathered. Spot himself stood anchored to a hitching post outside of the corral.
"I like that brown one there," said Johnny, as the herd milled, and Marilyn's favorite trotted past the little
group. Marilyn Wells heaved a sigh.
"I just knew you'd pick her," she moaned.
"No good?" said Johnny, eager to please, but disappointed.
"Oh, no, Widow's a great horse," said Marilyn.
Johnny shook the dust from his memory's bells, and looked again at the dancing filly. "Widow?" he
exclaimed. "Is that Widowmaker, the filly you were training before the war?"
"That's her," chimed Bob, who had been standing silent on the other side of his aunt. He was glad to have
Johnny back. He wanted to ride!
"Shush," said Marilyn. "Yeah, that's her. I wish I had more time to spend with her," she said in wistful
complaint. "She could probably use some steady riding. Shut up Bob!"
Bob had said something like, "Yeah!" in response to his aunt's agreement. Now Johnny spoke up again.
"So, how did she turn out?" he asked with some seriousness, as he watched the saucy mare round the corners
of the paddock one more time.
"Great!" said Marilyn. "She's great. She's spunky; you got to pay attention every second. But she runs like a
dream.
"She's my favorite," she admitted.
"Oh, no, I won't take your favorite horse," he gallantly began.
"No, no, it's fine. I want you to; it'll be good for her. I don't have time, but she's just on loan, you
understand. You don't have to pay me a nickel, and she can eat here whenever, but I'm gonna want her back
someday, Johnny."
"Fine with me," murmured the sailor. Distracted now by the horse, who had suddenly noticed him, Johnny
slipped through the redwood rails. He limped over to the beautiful gal with no trouble, and he patted her on the
cheek with a croon.
"That you, Widow?" he said. He ran his hands across her back, down her neck and her chest, over her flanks.
"That you? I remember when you were just a filly. Just a silly filly," he went on circling behind the horse with a
hand on her rump, then continuing up the other side. "Just a silly filly," he said. He fished a chunk of carrot
from the back pocket of his jeans and offered it to his new friend. She nibbled and nickered. Life had become a
little boring for Widowmaker. Maybe now that was beginning to change.
He found her to be as spunky as promised. She was still a silly filly, but Johnny did not want to be marooned
on a cripple's plug. He figured his recovery would go faster and farther with the challenge of energy and muscle
that was Widowmaker gripped between his thighs.
He was right, but she tossed him off at first, aware that the silly salt scarcely had his land legs. Horse legs
were something he better get reacquainted with real fast, he thought to himself as he stood up and dusted himself
off. They were in Marilyn's arena. Lucky he was to come down on his good side; that way it only hurt like hell.
Bob and Marilyn didn't even try to talk him out of climbing right back on.
After that, though, Widowmaker played fair. She had made her point. She didn't want to go through all that
training, that breaking, again. She was the horse for Johnny, and she was ready for a ride.
She snorted. They were off.
Marilyn had opened the gate. As soon as they had cleared the posts, Johnny gave her a touch with his spurs,
and she burst into a steady canter. That was what he had wanted. Save this trotting business for another body.
As promised, the slow gallop was a delight. Johnny felt the inescapable pains that related to his cure being
massaged away.
Bob Cabler had run to the hitching post to collect his own cayuse. Spot knew what was up, and he wanted to go
along. Cabler was on in a flash. He reeled in his favorite half-reared position, caught a glimpse of Marilyn as the
horse came down at a gallop, yelled, "Thanks, Aunt Marilyn," and was borne away on the thundering dust clouds
in pursuit of his favorite pal.
Off in the darkness, the crystal fell into the outstretched hand of Agnes Tawny.
| * * * |
