I ain’t no thief and I ain’t no liar, but Mr. Ron didn’t know that. It just didn’t make no sense to me why he gon’ trust me to take all his daughter’s stuff way off yonder to Colorado. Now I ain’t the most intelligent man, but I can figure things out purty good, so I wadn’t worried ’bout gettin there. But for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why a rich white man would give me his four-by-four, $700 cash, and all his daughter’s possessions, and expect a broke, homeless man that can’t read or write to go nearly a thousand miles to somewhere he ain’t never been, deliver the goods—and bring back the truck!
It just didn’t make no sense. I knowed he was a smart man that maybe thinks he knows what he’s doin. But bein smart don’t mean he’ll ever see his truck again—that takes faith.
I expect I never had no more than $20 or $30 of my own at one time, ’cept for once when Mr. Ron slipped me a hundred. Then he gives me $700 cash and a $30,000 truck fulla TVs, furniture, and stereos. I just couldn’t let the man down.
He drawed me a map, thinkin I could read it, and explained the best he could what signs to look for and how to get there. After we finished loadin the truck, he pointed me in the gen’l direction of Colorado. Then, when I was pullin out, he kept runnin by the truck, hollerin, “Two-eighty-seven! Two-eighty-seven!”
Now, I’m gon’ be honest with you: With all his talkin and pointin and hollerin, I was real nervous and couldn’t remember everthing he told me. But I did remember him sayin if I miss 287, I’m gon’ wind up in Oklahoma. And the way I’m gon’ know it is I’d cross a big bridge over a big river and the sign’d say “OKLAHOMA,” and the river’d say “RED.”
And that’s exactly what happened. I knowed I had a problem so I stopped at a gas station and told a fella I was lookin for Highway 287 to Colorado. He told me a different way to get there, and I was a little worried about that ’cause he didn’t look too smart. I took outta there again and was drivin purty slow ’cause I was afraid all Mr. Ron’s daughter’s stuff gon’ blow out the back. I figured he’d rather me be gettin there late with the goods than on time with a empty truck.
Part of the $700 he give me was for a motel room, but I slept in the truck ’cause ain’t nobody ever trusted me before with that much stuff, and wadn’t no way in the world I was gon’ take a chance on somebody stealin it.
Things was goin purty good. The folks in the gas stations kept me goin in the right direction. Now, when I got into Colorado, I started seein mountains away off, and I was thinkin how purty they was. But I figured Mr. Ron’s daughter’s camp musta been around on the other side of them mountains, ’cause for sure ain’t nobody gon’ drive up over em in a truck. The more I kept on drivin, the bigger them mountains got. I could see snow on top of em, but I couldn’t see where they ended so I started worryin about how I was gon’ get around em. Next thing I knew I was smack up next to em with the road headin straight up!
I stopped at another gas station and asked a lady how I was s’posed to get to Winter Park. She looked at me and pointed up the mountain. And when I asked her where the Crooked Creek Ranch was, she pointed to the top.
“The road is narrow,” she said. “Once you head up there, there’s no turning around.”
That caused me and myself to have a little talk. I’m a strong fella, I thought. Ain’t no reason to be scared. So I got back in the truck and headed up the mountain. Real slow.
The drive was mighty purty, the sky spreadin out from the mountain blue as a lake, and the trees all red and orange and yella like they was on fire. ’Bout halfway up the mountain, I decided to do me a little sightseein, so I pulled over to take a look over the edge and see how far could I see.
That was a mistake.
I couldn’t see no bottom. The edge of that road dropped off into the biggest nothin I ever saw in my life. I got back in the truck right quick and squeezed that steerin wheel so tight I thought it was gon’ break off in my hands, and I started pourin sweat even though it was freezin outside. I didn’t go no more than about five miles an hour the rest of the way and by the time I got to Winter Park, I had about a hundred cars stacked up behind me like a freight train.