(Circa 1903)
Few people really knew Penelope. Those who did might have described her family tree as being heavy on border collies and civil engineers. Duncan Dumont, with whom she shared a tiny shack that hid the entrance to a gold mine, never discussed it. Nor did Penelope, of course. Dogs can’t talk.
Dogs can do lots of other things, however, and Penelope managed more than most. She did so much for Duncan that he considered her a full partner in the mine. But she didn’t care about that. Penelope lived for the old miner who took her in as a pup and raised her more like a daughter than a dog.
The team of two seemed to coordinate their underground efforts by telepathic means. Penelope just knew what Duncan needed, and often supplied things -- water, small tools, dynamite -- before he called for them. If a lantern failed, she would lead him topside through the dark. If a tunnel didn’t seem well supported, she wouldn’t rest until Duncan fixed it.
Unfortunately, their made-in-Heaven match ran afoul of a trio straight from hell. Three riders appeared at their door as the miners consumed the last of a gritty lunch.
“Easy, Pen,” Duncan said. The dog had grown increasingly agitated long before her human partner picked up on the cause. “They’re just some fellas lookin’ for water or directions or whatnot. No need to fret.”
Penelope disagreed and when Duncan opened the door for the new arrivals, she refused to surrender the gap between them and the miner.
“Don’t pay her no mind,” Duncan said. “She just gets a little edgy ‘round strangers. Now, what can I do for ya?”
“You kin start by lowerin’ that scattergun,” said the tallest of the three men. Clearly the oldest, he also appeared to be the leader of the little band.
“Surely you can understand. Livin’ alone out here,” Duncan observed, “one tends to be a might cautious. Where you boys from?”
“Greeley,” said the most heavily bearded member of the band. He kept his hand on a revolver stuck loosely in his trousers and said nothing else. Their leader gave him a dark look suggesting he maintain that silence.
“We’ve decided to do a little prospectin’ ourselves,” the first man said, removing his wide-brimmed hat. The action revealed a forehead that had seen a good bit of dirt but not much sunlight.
“I staked this claim a long time ago,” Duncan said. “I’ve been workin’ it for years.”
“Find anything?” asked the third member of the group, obviously the youngest.
Their leader scowled. “Shut yer trap, Henry. You know better than to ask somethin’ like that.”
Henry did not appear apologetic as he gazed around the interior of the miner’s humble living quarters.
Duncan refused to be rattled, nor was he about to reveal the existence of their gold. Not that it amounted to much -- a handful of nuggets in a drawstring bag. Fortunately, he’d hidden it so well, they’d never find it. “I’ll be honest with ya,” he said. “This area hasn’t got much goin’ for it. You’d do better to look further west. There’s lots of gold in the New Mexico territory. Or, so I hear.”
He went along with the prospecting fiction the visitors offered even though they looked about as much like miners as did the “ladies” working the brothels in Greeley. But, as no one other than Penelope showed signs of hostility, Duncan tried to be civil.
While they spoke, the three strangers had all pressed slowly forward, and though Penelope kept up a low growl, all four men ignored her.
“Truth to tell,” Duncan said, “we haven’t found much.”
“But you keep lookin’,” the tall man said.
Duncan scratched his head. “Yep. Kinda stupid, really. I never shoulda quit teaching. I prob’ly oughta just load Penelope in the buckboard and go back East.”
“Who’s Penelope?” Henry asked when he finished his visual tour of the cabin.
“She is,” Duncan said, nodding at the dog.
“The hell kinda name is that fer a dog?”
“It’s a grand name,” Duncan said. “Penelope was the wife of Odysseus.”
His three visitors shared blank looks.
“The Greek. Namesake of the Odyssey. Penelope remained loyal to him even though he left her for 20 years.”
Henry gave a snort of laughter. “Yer dog looks smarter’n that.”
Duncan shrugged. “Well gentlemen, it’s been pleasant, but I’ve gotta get back to work.”
“We do, too,” said the trio’s leader as he leveled a revolver at Duncan’s chest. “So, if you’ll just tell us where yer gold is, we’ll get it and be on our way.”
Duncan laughed. Give it up? “If I had any, d’ya think I’d still be livin’ here?”
“Careful with that shotgun, old man.” The bearded visitor had also drawn his weapon and looked nervously from Duncan to the dog.
Duncan had little room to maneuver. “Seriously, I don’t--“
Boom!
Finding himself suddenly on the floor, Duncan felt embarrassment rather than pain. He’d let the least imposing of the three bad men -- the runt, for God’s sake -- take advantage of him. Just as quickly, his mind shifted to Penelope. Who would take care of her? It was the last thought he ever had.
~*~
“Damn it, Henry! What’d you go and do that for?” Olen Medford swiped at the kid with his hat. “You could’ve waited ‘til he gave up his gold.”
“He wasn’t gonna tell us nuthin’,” Henry said. “He figured he was so much smarter’n us. Dint ya hear him jawin’ ‘bout his stupid dog? C’mon! You ever heard of a Greek dog? I prob’ly oughta shoot her, too. She’ll jus’ starve to death otherwise.”
“Leave the dog alone,” Olen said. “You’ve done enough damage already. If we’d kicked her around some, the old geezer would’ve told us everything.” He nodded to the bearded member of the gang. “Jasper, take your brother outside and see if there’s anything out there worth grabbin’. The old man said somethin’ about a buckboard. See if he’s got a horse or a pack mule.”
“Sure thing,” Jasper said. “But, why?”
“’Cause now that yer genius brother has gone and kilt somebody, the law’s gonna be on us sooner or later, and we’re gonna need to put some distance between us and him.” He gestured at the dead miner. “Damn yer eyes, Henry. I really wanted to go back to Greeley once we got our hands on the gold.”
“We still can,” Jasper said.
“I ain’t much interested in runnin’ anywhere,” Henry added.
Olen put the business end of his gun in Henry’s face. “One more word outta you, and I’ll put a hole in yer head so big, that dog can crap in it.”
“Why can’t we just put the old man and the dog in the mine and blow ‘em all up?” Jasper walked across the room and dragged a box of dynamite from the bottom shelf of a dilapidated bookcase. “There’s enough here to level Greeley.”
“We don’t even know where the entrance to the damned mine is,” Olen said.
Henry pulled aside a rug covering a hole in the cabin’s back wall. “It’s right here,” he said. “You still gonna shoot me?”
“Don’t tempt me. Just grab the damn dog and throw her in. Jasper, gimme a hand with the miner.”
When Henry reached for Penelope, she sank her teeth into his hand then raced out the door to freedom. Henry, busy cursing and cradling his bleeding fingers, had no hope of stopping her. He stumbled to the door and with his off hand fired several shots at the fleeing canine. None came close to the mark.
“Are you through screwin’ around?” Olen shouted when Henry finally gave up on a target he’d couldn’t have hit with both hands. “We’ve got work to do, you idjit. Soon’s we find the gold, or prove there ain’t any, we need to blow the mine. Either way, I don’t wanna be here any longer than necessary.”
Henry found an old shirt and wrapped it around his injured fingers. He also stumbled across some money the old miner had stashed in a drawer with a spare union suit. Olen promptly relieved him of the cash.
The three went to work and finished around dusk. They all managed to get out of the tunnel -- and the cabin --j ust before the dynamite went off. Thick clouds of smoke and dust boiled out of the open door of the shanty, which then collapsed.
“Y’know,” Jasper said, once the debris stopped falling, “we prob’ly oughta take the leftover dynamite with us.”
Olen gave his head a shake. “I don’t trust that shit. Never know when it’s liable to go off.”
“I wouldn’t mind blowin’ up somethin’ else,” Henry said. “We’ve got nuthin’ to show for this whole trip ‘cept a few lousy dollars. Paper money at that. I can’t believe the old man didn’t have some gold somewhere.”
“We’ll never know,” Olen said. “C’mon now, mount up. We can still make Greeley before the saloons close.”
~*~
Despite having spent so much of her life underground, Penelope maintained a powerful sense of smell. It came in handy when working in the dark, a condition she actually found comforting. Tracking the three men, whom she thought of as “hat,” “beard,” and “boom,” did not, therefore, present a problem.
After foraging briefly through the ruins of her former home, she followed the three strangers to the big, noisy place where she and her human sometimes went for food. She never cared for it. Too many horses, wagons, and people. Worse still, no one paid any attention to her. But for this visit, that suited her just fine.
~*~
Safely back in Greeley, Olen and Jasper played faro with a gambler named “Smilin’ Mike.” They occupied a corner spot in a saloon called the Spread Eagle. The table afforded a good view of the rest of the room and occupied prime space near an open window. Ventilation provided an adequate trade-off for their privacy.
Henry opted out of the game, knowing his card skill -- counting skill, really -- left much to be desired. He contented himself drinking what passed for whiskey in the turn of the century tavern. Leaning back against the unvarnished pine bar, he watched as Olen and Jasper demonstrated how Smilin’ Mike got his name.
“Tough luck, gents,” the gambler said as he cleaned them both out.
Jasper looked especially annoyed. The money he’d lost to the gambler had been promised to one of the working girls who circled the tables like wolves at an unsupervised lambing. Henry’s plan to sample the lady’s charms disappeared along with his brother’s.
“Maybe you need a good luck piece,” Smilin’ Mike said. He pulled a bandana from his pocket and waved it like a pennant, an appropriate gesture since the square of cloth looked exactly like a small confederate battle flag.
“If it’s such good luck, how come the South lost?” Olen asked.
“It’s good luck for me, not them,” Smilin’ Mike said. “You can’t imagine how many o’ them yokels came West and lost their asses playin’ cards.” He squinted at them. “Lady Luck’s been good to me, but I wouldn’t step across the street without my good luck charm.”
“I don’t put a whole lotta stock in luck,” Olen said.
“I do.” Smilin’ Mike then laid a dark, heavy, top load Smith and Wesson .44 on the table. “’Course, I’d be a fool to rely on it completely.”
Olen and Jasper took their leave and joined Henry near the bar. “Good thing we paid for our room up front,” Jasper said. “I’m done.”
“Me, too,” said Olen. “I’ll see you in the mornin’.”
When Henry attempted to follow them upstairs, Olen halted him with a hand on his chest. “We only got two beds, and I’m sure as hell not sharin’ mine with you.”
“Me, either,” Jasper said.
Unlike with the faro deck, Henry managed that math fast. “How come I don’t get to sleep in the hotel?” Though he knew his voice had the unbridled tone of belligerence that came from too much cheap whiskey, too fast, he didn’t care.
Olen glared at him. “’Cause I’m the boss of this outfit, and what I say goes.”
“Sometimes ya win, and sometimes ya lose,” added Jasper. “This is yer time to lose.”
“Besides,” continued Olen, “somebody’s gotta look after the horses. I saw some trees just outside of town. Camp there. I got a little money left. I’ll buy ya breakfast.”
The two senior members of the gang moved on before Henry could muster further argument. He left the saloon, located the horses, and somehow managed to climb onto his. The other mounts trailed behind as he skulked out of town.
The stand of trees Olen mentioned weren’t nearly as close to Greeley proper as he implied. They stood a good half mile from the nearest building, and while they might have once been part of an actual forest, they were outnumbered by stumps twenty to one. While such a sad commentary on man and nature might have impacted someone caring and sober, it made absolutely no impression on the whiskey sodden killer.
After staking out the horses, Henry tossed his bedroll on the ground and collapsed on top of it. Sleep came quickly.
Unfortunately, morning came quickly, too. The merciless sunshine drilled into him like the bit on a boring machine. He’d seen one once, in a Memphis railroad yard. His mouth felt like he’d swallowed a sock, which was odd since he didn’t own any socks.
What he needed more than anything was to find his hat and a place to relieve himself. Just about anywhere would satisfy the second requirement, but his hat had definitely disappeared.
Careful not to hit his bedroll, Henry emptied his bladder where he stood, then went in search of his well-worn Stetson.
After a brief search he discovered what happened to his hat: a dog had it. Stranger still, it was the dead miner’s dog, or its twin.
Unable to recall the Greek name the old man had given the dog, Henry called to it using every substitute he could think of. None worked. The dog trotted around until she found something of interest: a gopher hole. With a last look at Henry, she dropped the hat over the hole and then pushed it in with a front paw.
Henry yelled at her, but neither threat nor curse had any effect.
Satisfied, the dog ran off in the general direction of Greeley. Henry considered trying to shoot her, but his good hand was still a mess -- worse than the day before --and his hangover wouldn’t mix well with the sound of gunfire.
Knowing the sun’s effects would only get worse, Henry set about retrieving his hat. He walked to the spot where he’d seen the dog at work, then got down on his hands and knees for a better look down the hole. It wasn’t a gopher hole as he first thought, though it may have been a burrow of some kind. It expanded a good deal, just below the opening. His hat lay at the bottom.
Though the hole was deeper than he expected, his hat remained within reach. It would be a stretch, and he’d be feeling around in the dark, but he knew he could grab it.
He dropped to the ground, flat, and stuck his left arm in the hole. Ignoring the rocks and scrub which bordered the narrow opening, he reached around for the familiar stiff felt.
Suddenly, something terribly sharp stabbed his hand. And then again.
Screaming, he withdrew his arm and grabbed at the rattler still digging its fangs into his wrist. The snake hung on despite Henry’s frantic efforts to dislodge it. The pain in his hand grew even worse as he tried to pull the snake loose.
When it finally let go, Henry tossed the writhing death-dealer as far as he could with his good hand, the one that had merely been bitten by the miner’s dog. He fell backwards, suddenly feeling faint. The wound was raw and bleeding, and the flesh around it quickly began to swell.
Fear latched onto Henry’s heart the way the rattler latched onto his hand. Excruciating pain only added to his woes. With both hands impaired, climbing on his horse would be impossible. His only hope was to reach town. Greeley had no doctors, but there was a Chinaman who, some claimed, could cure damn near any disease a white man was liable to catch. Henry prayed he could do something for snakebites, too.
He ran, at first. By the time he’d covered half the distance to town, his vision had grown blurry and sweat dripped from every pore. Breathing had become difficult, and not simply because his tongue had started to swell. Dizzy and growing weaker with every step, Henry called out his brother’s name as he collapsed in the dirt.
~*~
Olen and Jasper found Henry when they came looking for their horses. They managed to get him to the Chinaman, who worked out of a room attached to the livery stable.
The wizened Asian merely shook his head as he issued the prognosis, “Too bad for him,” he said. “He dead soon.”
“Ya gotta do something,” Jasper cried. “Can’t you suck out the poison?”
The Chinaman shrugged. “Too late now.”
They carried Henry, unconscious but groaning, back to their makeshift camp. The last of the miner’s money went for food and whiskey, and the pair agreed to stay with Henry until the end. A day later, when the whiskey ran out, Olen went back into town hoping to find a way to earn some more money.
Henry lay next to a pile of cold ashes, all that remained of the previous night’s campfire. Jasper had taken a short walk. Helplessness and stress over his brother’s condition had worn his nerves to a nub, and while he had great faith in Olen, there were no guarantees that anyone in Greeley would give him the time of day, much less a job, or even a handout.
As he turned his steps back toward the campsite, Jasper noticed a dog digging in the ashes.
“Get away from there,” he shouted, despite the risk of waking his brother.
The dog ignored him, much as it had the first time, at the miner’s shack. Could it really be the same dog, he wondered. The stupid animal was digging in the fire pit, but Jasper wasn’t close enough to determine just what it had in mind. He yelled again.
This time the dog looked up at him, briefly, then went right back to work.
Jasper hurried his steps, and closed the gap considerably before the dog backed away. When it stopped to sniff Henry, Jasper yelled some more. Finally, it took off at a lope.
Jasper checked what little remained of their supplies, but nothing seemed missing or out of place, and there was no trace of whatever the fool dog had been after. Jasper didn’t give it another thought.
Henry died a short while before Olen returned. The sun hadn’t even gone down.
“Find any work?” Jasper asked.
“They need a hand over at the stable,” Olen said. “It’s shit work and the pay’s no better. I hate to say this, but--“
“What?” demanded Jasper.
“I stopped by the undertaker’s place and had a little chat with him.” Clearly uncomfortable with the task ahead, Olean hurried on. “He said it’d cost eight dollars and fifty cents to put Henry in the bone orchard. That includes a wooden marker.”
Jasper contemplated the figure. He definitely preferred a cemetery plot over a hole in the dessert, but the price surprised him. “That’s a might steep, ain’t it?”
“Casket’s the biggest part of it. We could wrap him in a blanket instead, but--“
“He deserves a casket, Olen. Geezus. He’s my brother.”
“Yer right. Don’t know what I was thinking.”
The two sat in silence for some time before Olen stood up and strode toward his horse.
“Where ya goin’?” Jasper asked.
“To earn that eight dollars and fifty cents.”
“Want me to go with ya?”
“Naw,” said Olen. “You sit up with the-- with Henry. I’ll be back soon’s I can.”
“I’m gonna heat some beans for supper. You sure you don’t wanna stick around?”
“You go ahead without me.”
Jasper set about gathering materials for a camp fire. Before he struck a match, he wrapped Henry’s blanket a little tighter around his corpse and dragged the resulting bundle several feet away from the fire pit. Then he built the fire.
He used his knife to cut the lid off the can and had just spread some of the kindling out before putting the beans on when he heard a distinctive hiss.
Dropping the beans and rising to his feet, he searched frantically for the source of the sound. That’s when the dynamite went off and sent critical parts of him in several different directions. It happened so fast, Jasper never felt a thing.
~*~
For many logical reasons, the town of Greeley had few glass windows. Those it did have, however, shook in response to the blast of Jasper’s campfire.
Olen not only heard it, but felt it. He turned slowly to look at the scene he’d left behind and saw only a dust cloud billowing into the air. Standing square in the middle of Greeley’s main thoroughfare, Olen was quickly joined by many permanent residents, all of whom stared in disbelief at the battered trees in the distance.
After a brief, stunned silence, everyone began talking at once, and Olen couldn’t think. He had little doubt that Jasper had joined his brother in the Promised Land, or the alternative. They were, in either case, reunited. What Olen couldn’t get square in his head, was how it had happened.
At about that moment, a dog walked briskly up to him and deposited a well-chewed wad of red, white, and blue cloth at his feet.
Still dazed by the explosion, its portent and ramifications, Olen merely gazed down at the fabric in silence. Motionless. No one else seemed to notice. Then the dog barked.
Olen squinted. Was it the miner’s dog? What in the world was she doing here, in the middle of Greeley? And why had she delivered the cloth to him?
He bent down and retrieved the fabric. He spread it out on his thigh, ignoring the damp from the dog’s mouth. Still befuddled by the explosion, he stared down at the infamous ‘stars and bars’ of the confederacy.
“You there!” shouted a voice he partially recognized.
Me?
“Stand where you are, you thievin’ bastard!”
Olen looked up, surprised to see Smilin’ Mike advancing toward him with blood in his eyes and the ugly Smith and Wesson in his hand. “Uhm, whut?”
“That’s my good luck charm,” Smilin’ Mike said, pointing at the bandana.
“It is?”
The dog barked again. Olen swiveled his head to spot her, and came up empty until she peeked out from behind the gambler. His nerves shot completely to hell, Olen dropped his hand to his holster out of reflex, his palm on the handle of his Colt.
Smilin’ Mike, however, was way ahead of him and fired his .44 dead center into Olen’s forehead.
~*~
Little Owen Mabry, the tow-headed son of an earnest couple dispatched by an association of Southern Baptists to establish a college in west Texas, stood beside the wagon which bore all their worldly goods. The family had just reached Greeley after a difficult journey from Rome, Georgia. Ready to scout a location for the proposed college, they had stopped for much-needed supplies.
Owen had found and quickly befriended a skinny, long-haired dog with which he lolled in the shade beneath their wagon.
“Don’t get too attached to that dog,” Owen’s father said. “I’m sure she belongs to somebody.” He glanced at Greely’s rough buildings and the people who occupied them. “I wouldn’t want to upset anyone around here.”
“I can’t believe we even stopped,” Owen’s mother said. “Considering what we’ve heard about this place.”
“We’re nearly out of food,” he said.
“And how’re we gonna pay for it? We can’t even wire for more expense money. There’s no telegraph office.” She glanced nervously about. “Or much of anything else.”
“Have faith,” Mr. Mabry said. “The Lord will provide.”
When the dog bolted and ran away down the mud rutted street, Owen called after her. She ignored him and disappeared behind the livery stable at the edge of town.
Mr. Mabry put a hand on his son’s shoulder. “It’s probably just as well, Owen. We can’t afford to feed ourselves much less a dog, too.”
“Y’know,” said Mrs. Mabry, “a guard dog might not be a bad idea.”
Owen briefly followed their conversation, but grownups never understood the important stuff, like how boys and dogs belonged together. He couldn’t explain it, but no one could convince him that God had planned it any other way.
His parents had gone into the general store to see if the shopkeeper might be willing to barter for anything they had. Eventually, all three came outside so the merchant could poke around in their belongings.
As Owen waited for the interminable bargaining to end, the skinny dog reappeared. It dodged around a mule-drawn wagon and raced between a pair of cowhands staggering from a saloon before reaching him. The dog finally collapsed next to him, panting heavily in the afternoon heat.
She had dropped something at Owen’s feet, but he left it there to find her some water. He grabbed a bucket from an iron hook on the side of the wagon and dipped it in a nearby trough. The water didn’t look or smell very good, but Owen figured the dog wouldn’t care. He was right. She nearly stuck her whole head in.
Meanwhile, Owen hefted the little drawstring bag she had brought. It felt oddly heavy, and the contents clicked softly when he jiggled them.
“What’ve you got there?” his mother asked.
“I dunno,” he said. “The dog brought it.” Before she could say more, Owen dumped the bag into his palm. Gold nuggets of various sizes poured out, far too many for the little boy’s hand. The overflow landed on the ground.
Mrs. Mabry suddenly appeared faint and leaned against the wagon. She removed her bonnet and fanned herself with it.
“You all right, Ma?” Owen asked.
“I believe I am,” she said, then bent low and whispered for him to pick up the shiny stones and put them back in the bag.
Mr. Mabry and the merchant had nearly finished their negotiations when Owen’s mother asked him about the dog.
The store owner shrugged. “Used to belong to an old miner who worked up in the hills. He brought her in from time to time, but I heard he got himself kilt. Explosion of some kind. Anyway, the dog wandered into town a couple weeks ago. Been hangin’ mostly ‘round the Eagle.” He pointed at a particularly seedy, two-story saloon. “Why? You interested?”
“I am,” Owen said.
His father frowned, but Owen went on anyway. “Well, I am interested.”
“You’d be the only one,” the merchant said.
“Fine,” said Mrs. Mabry. “Owen, kindly put the dog in the wagon and hand me whatever she dropped on the ground.”
Only too eager to comply, Owen raced to do her bidding.
“Have you lost your mind?” an astonished Mr. Mabry asked. “The last thing in the world we need is a dumb mutt!”
She smiled at him. “Didn’t you tell me the Lord would provide?”
He nodded, though the gesture lacked enthusiasm.
“Well,” she said, “I believe he just did.”
~End~
(Circa 1926)
The mustachioed visage of Andrew Volstead peered out from a cheap wooden frame above the speakeasy’s saloon-style bar. A bullet hole punctuated his left eyebrow and lent him a quizzical look. The vandalism came as no surprise in light of Volstead’s role in the enforcement of prohibition and the bar’s occasionally well-armed clientele.
Kate Mabry, sitting at her piano, smiled whenever she looked at the over-sized photo. Because of Volstead and the other assholes who couldn’t keep their noses out of everyone else’s business, she had a job -- in a gin joint, true, but a job. Two jobs, really, if one also counted race car driving, which Kate sure as hell did.
“Well, bless my soul if it ain’t Katie Mabry,” said a tall, overly groomed, and slightly zozzled young man as he dropped to the piano bench and pressed his leg against hers. She slid to the far edge. He followed, his hand moving slowly toward her knee. A span of bare flesh lay exposed between the hem of her skirt and the rolled top of her stocking.
“You wanna die young?” she asked. “Go ahead and touch my leg.”
He froze, his paw hovering over her exposed thigh. “What? The bank’s closed?”
“Get lost, Jep.”
He stood up, laughing. “You don’t know what yer missin’.”
“I pray that’s true.”
“It’s just a matter of time, y’know.” His gaze flowed south from her face to her lap with a strategic pause at her chest. “You’ll come around.”
She suddenly craved a hot bath. “You familiar with eternity, Jep? That’s just a matter of time, too.”
“If you’re gonna play Mrs. Grundy ya oughta cover up those stilts.”
The barman made a face at her. He paid her to play music, not piss off the trade. “I’ve got work to do,” she said.
“It’ll keep. I’ve got a proposition for ya.”
“Not interested.”
“Oh? I figured a big time race driver would jump at the chance to ditch an old clunker like yours. Wouldn’t you like to get your hands on a real car?”
“Like yours?” She laughed, hoping her interest wouldn’t show. But a car like Jep Dickerson’s? A Big-6 Buick? Who wouldn’t take a chance?
“Yeah. Like mine. But, if you don’t care, I’ll go peddle my potatoes elsewhere.”
“Hold on,” she said. “Let’s talk.”
~*~
Kate strolled into the chemistry lab without knocking. Though she could easily have passed for just another college student -- and a strikingly attractive one -- she would never have been caught dead taking classes. “Hey, big brother,” she said. “You busy?”
Owen “Doc” Mabry looked up from his work. “Me? Nah. I was just sitting here hoping someone would come in and distract me. Lo and behold, it’s you!” He sat back on his stool amid a wonderland of glass tubing, bubbling beakers, and vials of curious fluids.
“I need a little help,” she said.
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I sorta made a side bet with Jep Dickerson.”
“Jep Dickerson, the rich, snotty, jerk? That Jep Dickerson?”
“I guess I’ve mentioned him before.”
“Frequently, but never in a nice way.”
She shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t care about him. I care about his car.”
“You made a side bet about his car?” Doc gave her a bemused look. “I don’t get it.”
“He challenged me.”
Doc felt his blood pressure rising. “He baited you.”
“We’re gonna race. Just Jep and me.”
“No mechanics?”
“No other drivers. You’ll be right beside me, like always. I need you.”
“You need a mortician, not a mechanic. Your car’s dead.”
“Aw c’mon, Doc!” She punched him playfully on the shoulder. “We can squeeze one more race out of it. We have to! I’ve already signed us up. It’s July the 4th. And if we win -- No. When we win -- we’ll drive off in Jep’s big, beautiful Buick.”
“Wake up, Katie! Your car is a wreck, a worn out pile of junk. His car is a thing of beauty: a Buick. A six-cylinder Buick, fer cryin’ out loud!”
“So?”
“So, what’s the side bet? What happens when we lose?”
She pursed her lips but said nothing.
He cleared his throat. “Guess you didn’t hear me. What happens when we lose?”
“That can’t happen.”
“Damn it, Kate! What’s at stake? What aren’t you tellin’ me?”
“Actually,” she said, “I’m the only one who stands to lose anything.”
“That doesn’t sound good. What are you putting up against Jep’s Buick?”
“It’s nothing, really. Besides, we’re gonna win!”
“Are you nuts? I barely manage to keep all the parts attached to that rolling rust heap of yours. How in hell do you expect to beat a brand new Buick?”
“We just need a little edge.”
“Ah. I get it. We just need to borrow a Bugatti or maybe a Benz. That kind of ‘little’ edge?”
She exhaled in exasperation. “Okay, so we’ll need a big edge.”
“And where,” he asked, “will this big edge come from?”
She gave him the same smile that had gotten him into trouble so many times in the past. Though several years his junior, from the time she learned to talk, she had always taken the lead in everything they did. Or, at least, every shady thing they did. And that covered a lot of ground.
“Katie?”
“Do you remember the article you showed me in that science journal of yours? By some German guy.”
“Dr. Froelich? The physicist?”
“Yeah, him! Remember how excited you were about it?”
Her smile was infectious, but Doc knew better than to let her sucker him in again. He had a story for every scar her smiles had led to in the past. He dipped his brows. “Dr. Froelich is working on liquid rocket fuel.”
“That’s it!”
“This may sound insane, and I really hesitate to even mention it, but you don’t own a rocket. You barely own a race car.” He paused. “Correction: you don’t own a race car. You own a collection of race car parts. I certainly hope you aren’t thinking what I think you’re thinking. Are you?”
Her unabashedly devilish smile spread even wider.
~*~
Greeley, Texas, wasn’t a big town, but it was growing. It would never rival Lubbock, or even Amarillo further north, but it offered a few amenities for which those towns were known. Chief among these was Chadwick College, a tiny liberal arts school closely affiliated with the Baptist church. Though their parents had been instrumental in founding it, family jobs had never been part of the arrangement. Yet, that’s where the professional pursuits of brother and sister met. Or rather, collided. While Doc educated Chadwick students during the day, Kate entertained them at night.
Sundays were held in high regard in Greeley, even by the folks who operated the town’s two speakeasies. It didn’t pay to anger the people in the pulpits, and not just because they had the ear of county politicians and lawmen. A couple of them were in the business of meeting the needs of Greeley’s thirsty residents. Doc never let such hypocrisy bother him. Life was never perfect, but it tended to be more comfortable when nobody rocked the boat. He liked it when things were predictable.
Kate didn’t.
It had been nearly a week since Doc had seen his sister, though they shared the modest home left to them by their parents. “I heard something strange the other day,” he said when the two sat down for a pre-church breakfast. He poured coffee into her cup.
Kate’s chin rested on her hands, her eyes droopy from a late Saturday night shift.
“You know Jimbo Taylor, right?”
“Sure,” she said. “He hauls hooch for Russell Jones.”
“That would be the Reverend Russell Jones.”
“Everybody’s gotta live,” she said. “What wisdom did Jimbo have to share?”
“Seems he’s been talkin’ to your pal, Jep Dickerson.”
Her head came up quickly, the droopy eyes now wide open. “He ain’t my pal!”
“According to him, Jep’s been tellin’ folks all over town the two of you will soon be gettin’ romantic. Only, that’s not exactly the way he phrased it.”
“That pig! What’d he say?”
“Just that there’s a little more to that wager of yours. Care to elaborate?”
Kate stared down into her coffee and remained uncharacteristically quiet.
“Katie?”
“What?”
“Did you agree to sleep with Jep if you lost the race?” He expected her to lash out at him for even hinting at something so outrageous. But she didn’t.
“Aw, Katie,” he said, shaking his head, “if I know about it, everyone does. What are folks gonna say?”
“I can’t control what people say!” A familiar look of fierce determination clouded her pretty face. “They’ll say whatever they want to say anyhow. What we have to do is win. That’ll shut ‘em up and make a liar outta Jep.”
“The damage is already done. Even if you win, folks’ll say you swapped your virtue for a breezer.”
“Not just any breezer,” she said, with a complete disdain for logic. “This convertible is a Master Six! Do you know what they sell for? Almost two grand!”
Doc stared at her in disbelief.
“What?” she asked, defiantly.
“I won’t be a party to this,” he said. “Forget it.”
~*~
The lab had finally grown quiet, and Doc was looking forward to continuing his work on a project he’d started weeks earlier. He had his notebook out and was arranging some test equipment when Jep Dickerson entered the room, closing the door quietly behind him. “Hey Doc,” he said. “You wanted to see me?”
“Thanks for dropping by,” Doc replied.
Jep wandered closer, his hands idly touching one piece of equipment after another. Doc suppressed the urge to tell him to keep his mitts to himself.
“Is this about the race?” Jep asked.
“Actually, it is,” Doc said. “I’m afraid there isn’t going to be any race. At least, not between you and my sister.”
Jep leaned back against a work table and crossed his arms, a smug look on his face. It was as close to the man as Doc had ever come, and he suddenly believed all the negative things Kate had said about him.
“We have a deal,” Jep said. “But I don’t recall you bein’ a part of it.”
“Katie and I race as a team.”
“Yeah, but she’s the driver. She’s the one folks pay to see.” He shrugged. “She can always get another grease monkey. Hell, I’ll hire one for her.”
“You aren’t listening. I said she wasn’t going to race you.”
“And I said it’s none of your damned business!”
Doc shoved his hands in the pockets of his lab coat. “We’re done here. I’ve said what I had to say.”
Jep didn’t move. He simply maintained the simpering smile which triggered Doc’s dislike. He felt himself growing more tense and wondered if he’d soon need to defend himself against the taller man.
“You probably think I don’t know what you do for old man Jones,” Jep said.
Doc took a quick, involuntary breath.
Jep plunged on. “You’re responsible for makin’ his ‘shine drinkable.”
“That’s baloney!”
“You’re the one who adds colors and flavors so the speaks can sell it like it was the real thing -- genuine stuff, just like it says on the bottles, only those bottles have been refilled so many times, the labels are wearin’ off.”
“Even if that were true, it has nothing to do with you,” Doc said, trying not to sound overly defensive. He’d paid off the mortgage with profits from his process. As long as prohibition remained the law of the land, he’d have a steady income to bolster his meager associate professor’s salary.
“I’m just a citizen,” Jep said, “but my old man’s a Judge. As an officer of the court, it’s his duty to uphold the law. He’d take a dim view of your little sideline.”
“You’d blackmail me?”
“I’m just sayin’ you need to let Kate live her own life. If she wants to play with the boys on the track, she might just have to play with ‘em in the sack, too.”
“Get outta my lab,” Doc said.
Jep eased away from the work bench and sauntered to the door. “You got about a month to get ready. I’ll see ya at the fairgrounds.”
~*~
“Hey, Doc!” Kate said as she entered the shop behind the house. Their father built it to store farm the equipment he bought and sold once he’d lost his position with the college. Now it sheltered Kate’s race car and some machine tools the elder Mabry once used to repair damaged machinery.
Doc wiped his hands on a rag and looked at his sister in dismay. “I’m havin’ a devil of a time with this new carburetor.”
“What’s the problem?”
“The problem is, Henry Ford didn’t intend for his cars to run on nitromethane.”
“Nitro what?”
“Nitromethane,” Doc said. “Rocket fuel. We can’t just swap it out for gasoline. The engine would probably blow us to Kingdom Come.”
“But you said it’d work!”
“I said it might work, provided I came up with a way to switch to the nitro at the last minute. Assuming we’re still even in the race at that point.”
“Why not just use the nitro stuff from the start?”
“’Cause we don’t have enough. And even if we did, I’m not sure how long the engine will last once we start burning it.”
She looked bewildered.
“Here’s the thing,” he said, “unlike gas, nitromethane carries its own oxygen --built in -- so when it burns it doesn’t need as much outside air. That means we can burn lots more of it in the same amount of time -- eight times as much!”
“And that’s good?”
“Yes! ‘Cause even though it generates less energy than gas, we can burn so much more of it with the same amount of air that we can double the power it puts out.”
“So, what’s the beef?”
“We’ve gotta force it into the cylinders, which means we need a different kind of carburetor.” He let his voice trail off when he saw Kate’s eyes begin to glaze over. “Sorry,” he said. “Sometimes I get lost in the details.”
She reached out and patted his arm. “I trust ya. I know you’ll make it work.”
In fact, she looked so trusting, he didn’t have the heart to tell her he’d probably never get it to work, and even if he did, there would likely be one drawback that overwhelmed all the others. Assuming he solved the mechanical problems, and that was a huge assumption, there’d be time to mention the rest later.
~*~
Race day came all too quickly. Kate stood around and watched all the other events, unable to keep still while waiting for her match-up with Jep and his magnificent Buick. Along with its cream colored top and bright red body, the vehicle sported black and nickel trim. It positively screamed luxury and power.
The sleek roadster had been polished to perfection. The top was up to protect the occupants who stood beside it like conquering heroes.
By contrast, Kate’s car had been stripped down to little more than bare bones to save weight. It might out-corner the huge Buick, owing to some clever tinkering Doc had done over the years, but there was no way it could compete on the straightaways. The Buick boasted an immense, 6-cylinder, 75-horsepower engine. Kate’s little 4-banger was good for maybe half as much.
She worked hard at ignoring the crowd, but wasn’t very successful. The looks she got from the spectators would have sent a lesser girl into hiding, but Kate wasn’t about to shy away on account of anyone. It made Doc proud, and more than a little angry.
“Focus on the race,” he advised.
“Think the nitro’s gonna work?”
He shrugged. “I hope so. My last test worked, but I couldn’t run it very long. We can’t afford to waste any of the Go Juice.”
She gave him a hug. “Even if it just sputters and dies, I know you gave it your best shot. There’s not another girl on Earth who has a brother as swell as mine.”
He wondered if she’d feel the same way when Jep wrapped himself around her in bed and... Perhaps he could do something about that after the race. He still had their Dad's old shotgun. It hadn’t been fired in years, but he felt sure it would work just fine.
The announcer intruded with his loud speaker. A Buick dealer in El Paso, Jep’s uncle, had put up a $100 prize, but the publicity he’d get from having one of his cars humiliate the celebrated female racer was worth much more.
“This is a ten lap challenge event,” the announcer intoned, his voice freezing the milling crowd. He introduced the competitors to smattering applause, and in Kate’s case, laughter. Everyone knew the outcome beforehand. All they had to do was look at the two vehicles sitting side by side at the starting line.
“All right you two, crank your engines,” the starter said. He raised a blank pistol and prepared to get the race under way.
“Buckle up,” Doc said as he settled in next to Kate.
She reached for the ends of a leather belt he’d bolted to the frame. Neither would fly out of the car in a tight turn. Unfortunately, they’d both remain in it if it exploded.
“There’s something I didn’t mention about the nitro,” he said, raising his voice to compensate for the roaring engines and the noisy crowd.
“Can’t hear ya,” she shouted back.
He blew air from puffed cheeks and muttered, “Never mind.”
The starter fired his pistol.
~*~
The car leaped forward, pressing Kate back against the seat. A familiar feeling overwhelmed her, narrowing her world to the view in front and the sounds around her. The big Buick pulled steadily away. Jep turned his head to flash his stupid, toothy grin.
Moron, she thought, wishing she could give the old Ford more gas. She touched Doc’s arm to get his attention. “Can’t we give her a little rocket juice?”
He appeared alarmed. “Now?”
She nodded vigorously.
“It’s too early. We’ve only got enough for about half a lap.”
Kate groaned. At this rate, Jep would be finished and sitting up in the stands long before they got close enough to the end to use their secret weapon.
“Focus!” Doc yelled. “It ain’t over yet.”
“Yes it is,” she muttered as they headed into the first turn.
They were still close enough to the Buick to hear a shift in the pitch of its engine. Suddenly they weren’t giving up any ground. Kate gripped the wheel, her jaws clenched tight. The Buick kicked up a steady spray of dirt from a track left raw by a dozen earlier races. Kate kept her lips sealed.
As Doc hoped, the little Ford cornered better. Jep rested his forearm on the sill and drove one-handed. His mechanic relaxed, too, knowing any advantage Kate gained in the corners would disappear as soon as they left the long curve at the far end of the track.
The first lap ended with the Buick several car lengths ahead. Kate knew she’d already gotten more out of the Ford than she’d ever gotten before, but it wasn’t nearly enough. She felt tears welling in her eyes, but refused to let Doc see them. She’d finish the damned race and let Jep claim his prize, but after that she’d move away. There were plenty of other places where a woman with good looks and steady nerves could make a life for herself. She would miss Doc though. Desperately.
“What’s he up to?” Doc shouted.
Kate stared ahead. Jep had slowed down. “He just wants to razz me,” she said.
The moment she pulled even with him, Jep blew her a kiss and pulled away again. If only she could throw a rope around his neck. How she’d love to tighten a tie like that!
His goal was simply to kick up more dirt. Doc had removed the windshield to reduce vehicle weight. Goggles kept debris from their eyes, but nothing protected their faces. Kate ached to ram Jep’s Buick into a wall. If only she could catch up to him.
He finally tired of taunting her, and by the time he finished his seventh lap, she was just wrapping up her sixth.
“Let’s burn the good stuff now,” she said. “Maybe it’ll blow up and kill me.”
Doc just shook his head.
Suddenly, the Buick pulled to the side of the track and stopped!
“Go, go, go!” Doc yelled, turning in his seat to keep an eye on Jep.
Kate was already pushing the little Ford as hard as she could. She wanted to ignore the jackass, but curiosity got the best of her. “What’s he doing?”
“He’s letting the mechanic drive,” Doc said. Jep strolled around the car to switch places with his hired hand. Kate made up most of the lap by the time the Buick got back up to speed. She hoped she wouldn’t grind her molars flat before it was all over. Teeth would come in handy when she got the chance to bite him.
The mechanic wasn’t as unwilling as Jep had been to leave them behind. He gunned the big 6-cylinder and raced ahead proving Jep had just been toying with them. As the Buick drew farther away, Kate glanced across the track and saw Jep light a cigarette. What would he produce next, she wondered, a glass of champagne?
“Just drive,” Doc yelled.
She kept at it, despite her empty boast that she didn’t care what people thought. The reality of her situation had grown starkly clear: she was about to become Jep Dickerson’s sex slave. As an alternative, suicide began to look very attractive.
~*~
Doc was already fuming when Jep attempted one final insult. Having switched places again with his mechanic, Jep piddled along, waiting for Kate to catch up. He obviously wanted to make the last lap look like a race.
And for the first time that day, Doc smiled.
“I failed to mention a little something about the nitro,” he said.
“Anything important?”
“Maybe. The thing is, nitro doesn’t burn as fast as gasoline, so when the valve opens to release the exhaust into the tail pipe, the last of the nitro will still be burning.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Only if you’re close to the tail pipe.”
She looked at him in sudden alarm. “We’re right on top of it!”
“Sorry,” he said with a chuckle. “It has to be close and aimed in your direction.”
Kate had run the little Ford at full throttle since the race started, but over the course of the last lap, the engine began to misfire. They both pretended not to notice, but neither did it convincingly.
As they flew into the last turn, Jep adjusted his speed. It would be just like him to let her almost catch up before he poured on the coals and streaked across the finish line.
“You ready?” Doc asked, tightening his seat belt.
“Hell yes,” Kate answered as he reached under the dash for the switch that would change their fuel from gravity fed gasoline to a high pressure stream of nitromethane.
Doc flipped the switch. There was a momentary lurch as the engine coughed in response to the conversion. And then….
Wham!
Hellfire and brimstone erupted from the Ford’s tailpipe.
The engine roared like a volcano and smashed Kate and Doc back into their seats. From somewhere in the distance they heard the crowd screaming. Doc imagined Jep’s eyes growing wide as they covered the open ground at better than twice their previous speed and hurtled past him.
Doc hung on with both hands and Kate gave vent to a rebel yell the likes of which no Texan had heard since the battle of Galveston sixty-some years earlier.
Jep cursed the Buick. His mechanic looked like he’d found a piranha in his pants, and both of them shrank away from the furnace blast that trailed behind Kate’s car.
With twenty yards to go, something inside Kate’s engine broke off, melted down, or blew up -- possibly all three. A great cloud of thick, black smoke rolled into the air as Kate disengaged the drive shaft from the suddenly silent motor.
Jep’s Buick bore down on them as the Ford coasted forward.
The transition from rocket blast to unpowered roll turned the world around them into a slow-motion movie. But instead of Rudolph Valentino riding into the dessert or Douglas Fairbanks swinging through the rigging of a tall ship, they became Charlie “The Little Tramp” Chaplin and an orphan girl soon to be despoiled by a heartless monster.
“No!” Doc screamed as he leaped out of the Ford and hit the ground in full stride. He put his hands on the exposed frame and pushed Kate’s car toward the finish.
Jep laid on his horn as if that might deter either of them from giving it everything they had. When that didn’t work, he shoved his mechanic overboard.
The roar of the Buick’s mighty engine grew.
Kate already had the Ford in neutral and urged the racer to give her just a little more. “C’mon, baby, you can do it!”
Doc couldn’t talk. He needed every molecule of oxygen he could get, and with a final gasp, shoved the Ford toward the finish line with all the strength he had left.
~*~
The newspaper called it a photo finish.
Doc didn’t know quite what to make of it.
Jep started complaining even before the photos were developed, but once they were ready, no one had any doubt about who won.
It was an election year, fortunately, so when Doc paid a call on Jep’s daddy, Superior Court Judge Amos Dickerson, the old jurist saw him right away. The meeting didn’t last long, which was fine with Doc. He got what he wanted.
“What’d he say?” Kate asked when he walked out of the Judge’s walnut-paneled chambers.
“He said not to worry.”
Kate looked only partly relieved. “That’s it? That’s all he said?”
Doc smiled. “The Judge said his family couldn’t expect other folks to live up to their bargains if they didn’t do the same. He knows nobody in the county would vote for him if he let Jep wiggle out of the bet.”
Finally, Kate began to smile, too.
“He also said to change the oil in that Buick on a regular basis.”
~End~