Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [102]
My body is tired but I know that falling back to sleep won’t be easy.
There’s no way to tell how far we walked after finally giving up on the Ford. I’m guessing that we covered a good fifteen miles, and I’m thankful there was an unusual layer of clouds that persisted for most of the day. And the ground is harder than I’d anticipated; I’ll take that over wading through sand any day.
I shift position and Espy stops snoring until I’m still, and then the soft sound starts up again. I’m angry with myself for carrying Esperanza this far into things. If I thought her brother was going to hurt me when we returned from San Cristóbal, I’m doubly concerned about what he might do when we get back this time. I have to cling to that last bit; I refuse to entertain the possibility that we’re going to die out here, even though hardier and better-prepared men and women have met just that fate in this wilderness. God’s playground. I wonder if that makes me God’s plaything? Like an action figure.
As much as I’ve tried to minimize the obvious connection, this business is like a bully, forcing me to think about things that I’d rather not consider. The problem is that you can’t have bones with divine power and withhold the divine element. There’s a part of me that hopes Elisha’s bones, if they do exist, turn out to be nothing more than dusty relics. It would make things a lot easier; it would allow me to avoid dealing with the list of items I’ve ignored for a very long time. At least when Duckey pushes my buttons, he placates me with cigars.
I chose to continue on toward the Manheim estate. Going back the way we’d come would have been just as long, and we know what waits for us back there. No, if fate is forcing us to face a grueling march through this hostile place, we might as well try to accomplish something.
The fire pops and there’s a momentary flare of light, enough so that I can make out the tarp overhead where we secured it to a nearby boulder. Staring at the glowing embers, I allow myself to drift off.
There’s a scene in an old Western—I think it’s a Clint Eastwood film—where a man comes crawling out of the desert, drags himself into the nearest saloon, and asks the bartender for whiskey. Women cross to the other side of the road to avoid him, shielding the eyes of their children, and men look upon the pathetic creature with contempt and no small amount of wonder that he’s somehow managed to triumph over the elements. I imagine this is close to the response that Espy and I generate as we enter town on the single road that bisects it.
The sign we passed a half mile back when we reconnected with the road—coming down through rocks larger than the truck we abandoned five days ago—read, Kent Station, population 435. From what I can see, through a haze of weariness, we’re approaching the town center: several one-story buildings built in straight lines on either side of the sun-bleached road. It really is like something from a movie; I almost expect to find that the structures are façades—that I could walk around them and see the angled beams that prop up the fronts.
Every step I take sends pain shooting up and down my leg and into my hip. But I’ve been dealing with the pain for the better part of three days, and it’s become something I’m able to ignore. Like the blisters on both feet, and the sunburn on my face and neck. None of them carry an urgency rivaling constant thirst. My throat and mouth have had every bit of moisture sucked from them; I can hardly produce saliva anymore.
I stop and swing the gathered blanket from my shoulder and set it on the ground. From it I pull our last nearly empty bottle of water. I hold it out to Esperanza, who accepts it with a weak eagerness. She takes three measured sips before handing the bottle back, and I down the