Chapter 4 ~ Page 55
With grass abundant, and water so fully appreciated, none of us much felt like heading out into the wastelands again. James provided the impetus. He had ridden Daisy into town to call his father. There wasn't anything to tie her to, so he let her stand in the street, while holding onto the lead rope which stretched across the sidewalk to the phone booth. Just as his number rang, a drunk from a nearby tavern came shuffling along and tripped over the rope.
Of course it was funny, and James couldn't help laughing, which only added insult to injury. The fellow rose, plain mad, threatening to get "Marshall Dillon." Since by this time our boy was just a might spooky of men wearing badges, he leaped on his horse, thundered up to a "Ped Xing," looked both ways, beat it up to a stop light, and signaled for a left turn back to our 'hideout.'
I wasn't too worried about the drunk suing us, but asked, "Anything more?"
"Yes, but you won't like it?"
"Tell."
"Well, when this fellow and I were arguing, Daisy—you know how nervous she gets—well she backed up to a parked car, and, well, uh got nervous all over the hood."
"The drunks car?"
"No. There were some words on the side that said Department of Something, Riverside County."
We left the next morning before first light. By the time the sun was four fingers off the horizon (held at arms length, this measures, one hour) I knew that the next 227 miles were going to be as tough as the first.
The trail was easy to follow for we rode up the dry San Gorgonio River bed that parallels the freeway leading to Palm Springs. Occasionally, blasts of hot air whipped up bursts of sand as if to say, freeways, movie stars, or not, this still was hostile country. On our own sound stage we could picture ourselves traversing a deserted desert, miles from help.
We ducked under the freeway at West Palm Springs, and turned north to parallel the Whitewater River. Our first encounter with this stream was to cross a trickle in a dry wash. As we rode further back into the mountains, towards the headwaters, the volume of water increased, and the river began to live up to it's name. This phenomenon of a disappearing river was caused by the desert sand sucking, as if a parasite, the life blood of the stream.
Having lived the last week in a world where we couldn't quite figure out the what and why of our wherefore, returning to situations of simple struggles between forces of nature was a welcome feeling. Near the road we also were welcomed back by a carload of Mexican migrant workers who leaned out of a window as they passed by, and yelled, "Ai yi yi yi yi ' Caballos."
Of course it was funny, and James couldn't help laughing, which only added insult to injury. The fellow rose, plain mad, threatening to get "Marshall Dillon." Since by this time our boy was just a might spooky of men wearing badges, he leaped on his horse, thundered up to a "Ped Xing," looked both ways, beat it up to a stop light, and signaled for a left turn back to our 'hideout.'
I wasn't too worried about the drunk suing us, but asked, "Anything more?"
"Yes, but you won't like it?"
"Tell."
"Well, when this fellow and I were arguing, Daisy—you know how nervous she gets—well she backed up to a parked car, and, well, uh got nervous all over the hood."
"The drunks car?"
"No. There were some words on the side that said Department of Something, Riverside County."
We left the next morning before first light. By the time the sun was four fingers off the horizon (held at arms length, this measures, one hour) I knew that the next 227 miles were going to be as tough as the first.
The trail was easy to follow for we rode up the dry San Gorgonio River bed that parallels the freeway leading to Palm Springs. Occasionally, blasts of hot air whipped up bursts of sand as if to say, freeways, movie stars, or not, this still was hostile country. On our own sound stage we could picture ourselves traversing a deserted desert, miles from help.
We ducked under the freeway at West Palm Springs, and turned north to parallel the Whitewater River. Our first encounter with this stream was to cross a trickle in a dry wash. As we rode further back into the mountains, towards the headwaters, the volume of water increased, and the river began to live up to it's name. This phenomenon of a disappearing river was caused by the desert sand sucking, as if a parasite, the life blood of the stream.
Having lived the last week in a world where we couldn't quite figure out the what and why of our wherefore, returning to situations of simple struggles between forces of nature was a welcome feeling. Near the road we also were welcomed back by a carload of Mexican migrant workers who leaned out of a window as they passed by, and yelled, "Ai yi yi yi yi ' Caballos."
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Text and Photographs © Barry Murray 1971-2007 Mac&Murray Multimedia