A God in Ruins - Leon Uris [134]
Hank looked at his watch. Five A.M.
“We didn’t pull our weight yesterday. Those trucks breaking down screwed up our entire transport. Darned if we can make it into Mexican Hat tomorrow if we skirt this row of canyons as originally planned.”
Hank’s long, thin, arthritic finger traced an alternative route. “We can cut off about nine and a half miles if we go straight up Six Shooter Canyon.”
“Where does the end of the canyon lead us?”
“Into the rear of an outfit called Hudson Mining and Cattle, a big tumbleweed ranch.”
“I heard that Hudson Mining has some Utah militia training, and they are none too friendly.”
“Well,” Hank answered, “I tried to reach them by cellular phone to get permission to pass through, but their phone didn’t answer.
“Webster,” Hank said to the chief master of Colorado. Webster Penrose inched to the front. “I don’t think anything goes up Six Shooter Canyon anymore, but I’ve flown over it constantly and had occasion to go for three miles to a wide water hole…right here…Bloody Gulch. Now, I don’t think it’s dangerous, except in a winter flash flood that sets the rocks spilling down.”
“Suppose we go in as far as the ranch and are turned away? What about that, Hank?”
“Then we go back to Bloody Gulch and pick up a goat trail out of the canyon. It will put us on the Navajo reservation, and we still will have saved several hours.”
“Possible injuries, Hank?”
“Nothing we can’t deal with,” Webster Penrose interrupted. “We have a helicopter on standby in Farmington.”
At the rear of the circle a clicking sound accompanied by bells ringing turned attention to Brad Bradley, trying to raise White Wolf on his personal computer.
“What kind of shit is this?” Hank Skelley exploded. “Trucks to carry off our bedding and kitchen, ground-control satellites, computers, evacuation helicopter. Excuse my obscenity, but we are Eagle Scouts and we aren’t ready to come in out of the cold.”
Agreed. No one had disagreed with Hank for five years, maybe longer.
They broke camp. Bedrolls, the kitchen, and dead weight were piled to be picked up by trucks. Each scout had a two-canteen limit of water for the five miles through the canyon, and each hoped to find sweet water at Bloody Gulch.
Fall in! Pep-talk time. Ranging back and forth with megaphone, Hank Skelley yelled out that this column held more boys from more states than the other columns. “We will reach Mexican Hat first or croak trying!”
“Let’s hear it for Hank Skelley!”
“Hip-hip-hooray!”
“Number one to Mexican Hat!”
Chester Skelley, Hank’s grandson and one of the most decorated scouts in the West, was called front and center to take his place alongside Hank to lead them into Six Shooter Canyon a few miles past the stream.
Chester felt faint and of throbbing heart as the pride in him swelled. He knew it was probably his grandfather’s last forced march. Getting there first would take daring. Chester knew about courage. He had fought his way back from a near-crippling childhood disease with superhuman determination.
Singing stopped as they faced the sheer walls and narrow path of Six Shooter Canyon. A huge sign read: CLOSED; DANGEROUS; DO NOT ENTER, and accordion barbed wire covered its mouth.
“You sure about this?” Brad Bradley asked.
“It’s public land and we are American citizens,” Hank responded. He knew it was his last jamboree. He knew he had to get there first even though the other columns had easier routes. This five-mile push through Six Shooter would end up in legend and song.
Fifty yards in, a boulder blocked the trail. Chester scatted up, found the footings, and extended his hand to his grandfather. As the young man pulled the old master up, it became a golden instant. Their eyes met for only a blink, and their smiles were just as quick. One generation was making, one generation was taking its passage.
And on, into the valley.
The red alert