consecutive night spent in the desert. The old prospector’s name was Ben Hanlon. Not knowing the exact date or year he wasn’t sure how old he was—in his late fifties or early sixties he believed. He could pretty much estimate the month by the position of the sun, and he was fairly certain he could come within a year or two of the correct year, though he wouldn’t bet on it.
He made his camp at the foot of Weaver’s Needle—a tall rock obelisk so precisely formed it looked almost as if it had been made by the hand of man. Weaver’s Needle guarded Superstition Mountain and as Hanlon settled in for the evening, he looked up at the mountain. “Well, Mr. Mountain, you have beaten a lot of men,” he said. “And you may beat me as well, but I plan to give you one hell of a battle before I cross over that canyon.”
He was tired from a full day of digging into crevices and breaking open rocks. It was all part of his ceaseless quest for the gold treasure of Superstition Mountain, known by everyone as the Peralta Vein.
A kangaroo rat scampered out from under a mesquite tree, then waited quietly for a long moment to get its bearings. Ben saw the rat, but the rat did not see Ben. Very slowly, Ben reached for his short handle pickax. With one quick, practiced move, he brought the pick down on the rat’s head, killing it instantly.
“Well, little feller, you dropped in just in time,” Ben said to the rat’s carcass. He pulled his knife from its scabbard, and started to work. “I was beginning to wonder what I was going to have for supper.”
Working quickly, and expertly, Ben skinned, cleaned, and spitted the rat. He cooked it over an open fire, watching it brown as his stomach growled with hunger. The rat was barely cooked before he took it off the skewer and began to eat it ravenously, not waiting for it to cool. When all the meat was gone he broke open the bones and sucked out the marrow.
After his meal, he allowed himself a smoke, filling his pipe three fourths with dried sweetgrass and one fourth with tobacco, in order to conserve his tobacco. Finally, with his hunger satisfied, he stretched out on the ground, more hospitable in the cool of evening. Listening to the quiet, almost melodious hoots of a great horned owl, he drifted off to sleep.
Somewhere in Kansas
Janelle had read about it, of course, but she had no idea how large America was until she started her journey two days ago. All day long, except for the occasional stops at places so tiny she wondered how they could call themselves towns, there had been nothing to see through the windows but open space.
Earlier she had asked the conductor if he could supply a board so she could write a letter and he had obliged her with one. As it grew too dark for her to see anything outside, she used the light of the wall mounted kerosene lantern to write a letter.
My Dearest Sister Sue,
My heart is heavy with sadness over being separated from my baby, but I know that what I am doing now is the right thing. With every mile of distance I place between myself and New York, I am removing myself from the scandal and shame I brought on myself. Not until I am well clear of that scandal and shame, will I be able to recover some sense of dignity and self-worth.
I will try and describe for you some of the sights I have seen on this trip. First, I had no idea of the size of this country. From New York we can easily travel to Boston, or Philadelphia, or Baltimore within a day and, for the entire trip be well aware of the civilization which surrounds us. And, though the distance was long, such was the caseas far as St. Louis, which likes to call itself the Gateway to the West. It is modern and civilized in every way. As we crossed the Mississippi River, I counted almost forty great riverboats tied up on the banks of the river. The city itself is filled with big buildings and teeming with masses of people. Except for the rather peculiar, flat sounding accents, one could almost believe they were in New York.
But the farther west I go, the less of civilization I see. For this entire day, we could have been at sea, so flat and featureless is the land. Often the horizon is so far away, and so clearly delineated, that one gets the impression of seeing all the way to the outer edge of Earth itself. I find it all exciting and rather strangely magnificent, and were my heart not heavy with sorrow over the conditions which have placed me here, I rather think I might enjoy it.
Please take care of my baby, and tell Mother and Father that I love them dearly. I do this so as to bring them no more sorrow. And, Sue, my dearest, dearest darling sister, know that my love for you exceeds all bounds.
Your sister,
Janelle
Finishing the letter, Janelle put it in an envelope, sealed it, and affixed to it a gray blue Franklin, one-cent postage stamp. When the conductor walked by a short while later, she called out to him.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Here is your writing board, and I thank you for allowing me to use it. I wonder if you could tell me the best way to mail my letter?”
“Why, I can take the letter for you, miss,” the conductor said. “We have a mail car attached to this very train. I shall just take it to the clerks there.”
“But we are going west, and this letter is for New York.”
The conductor smiled. “Not to worry, miss. They will simply set it off with the mail at the next stop, and an east bound train will pick it up.”
“Oh, yes, I suppose that is how it would be done. Thank you,” Janelle said, handing him the letter. “Thank you very much.”
“You are quite welcome, miss. I notice that some of the other passengers have had their beds made. Shall I send the porter to turn down your bed?”
“Yes, thank you. I would appreciate that.”
Half an hour later, Janelle was in the lower bunk, which she preferred over the upper because she could look through the window. A full and very bright moon painted the barren landscape in stark shades of black and silver. Seen at night, the landscape seemed softer, and less harsh than it did by day, under the blows of a midday sun.
At such quiet, introspective moments, Janelle wondered if she had made a huge mistake in leaving New York to come to a land that she had never seen before. She thought of her baby. She missed him terribly, and wished he had been old enough to understand why she felt it was necessary that she leave.
She wept for a while. Then, listening to the clack of the wheels on the track joints, and gently rocked by the sway of the car in motion, she drifted off to sleep.
Superstition Mountain
At dawn the notches of the Mazatzal Mountains, which lay to Ben Hanlon’s east, were touched with the dove-gray of early morning. Shortly thereafter, a golden fire pushed over the mountain tops, filling the sky with light and color, waking all the creatures below.
Hanlon woke up, checked his mule, then walked away to make water. He craved some coffee, but in truth he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a cup. He had some sassafras root, so he could make sassafras tea, though it was a poor substitute. He was able to have a morning smoke, but even with his strict conservation of tobacco, he was quickly running out. Soon he would have to cut down to only one smoke per day, and the time would come when he couldn’t smoke at all.
He would have enjoyed a biscuit with his tea, but he had no flour. He wished he had preserved a little of his supper so he could have some breakfast, but he didn’t, so he started work without eating. He could always eat later.
Thinking
