temperature in Death Valley could reach two hundred degrees during the day. You could make fry bread on that. Salty, sandy fry bread. I giggled.
Mick stopped and fed me water. “She’s delirious,” he said.
“Not much farther,” Nash promised.
Lower and lower we went, as the morning grew hotter. I hung upside down over Mick’s shoulder and quietly started dying. Sun played on the pale sand dunes and dry flats, forcing my eyes shut against the brightness.
Mick finally stopped and lowered me to my feet. We stood on black pavement, a road, and my heart leapt. I never thought I’d ever be so happy to see asphalt in my life.
When the rushing sound in my ears cleared a little, I heard Nash swearing.
“What’s wrong?” I tried to ask.
Nash was shouting foul and filthy words. Parallel tire tracks showed where a truck had been driven off the road, but of Nash’s shiny new black pickup, there was no sign.
“Son of a bitch !” Nash kicked the dirt, sending up sprays of fine gravel. I knew he wasn’t angry about being stranded in the middle of Death Valley with no transportation and little water—he was pissed that someone had dared to touch his beloved truck.
Mick gave me water again, and I slumped against his side to drink. “Where are we?” I heard him ask.
“About thirty miles from Stovepipe Wells,” Nash said.
“We walk it, then. We can’t afford to wait.”
I didn’t want to hear that, and I was about to argue with him, to beg him to let me lie down right here and go to sleep, when I heard the blissful sound of a car engine. It wasn’t Nash’s big truck but an older, dust-covered pickup with its windows down, bumping toward us along the road. Three people crowded into the cab and several more rode in the bed.
The truck stopped beside us, its engine chugging like a steamboat’s. A Native American man leaned out the window and looked us over. “Hey, you folks lost?”
Mick didn’t hesitate. “She needs a doctor.”
A young woman peered over the driver’s shoulder. “We’re going into Beatty,” she said. “Come on with us, if you want.”
A chubby youth obligingly vacated his seat in the cab and hopped into the truck bed. The young woman remained, helping Mick slide me in next to her. Mick buckled a seat belt around me before he kissed my forehead, shut the door, and climbed into the back with Nash.
The truck had no air-conditioning, but the open windows admitted a dry breeze that still held morning cool from the mountains. My rescuers discussed something as we pulled away, using a Native American language I didn’t know. If they were from Death Valley itself, they’d be Shoshone, from the tribe that lived in the southern part of the valley.
The girl turned to me. “I’m Beth,” she said. “That’s my dad and my good-for-nothing brothers in the back.”
“Janet,” I croaked. “Really, really pleased to meet you.” Beth was college age, I guessed, maybe about twenty or twenty-one. She shot me a grin. “That white guy with the gray eyes is cute. Who is he?”
“His name is Nash Jones. The sheriff of Hopi County. In Arizona,” I added when she looked blank.
“Yeah?” Beth’s dad said. “What’s he doing out here?”
“Hiking.” Well, it was partly true.
Beth looked through the back window at Nash again. “Well, he is sure cute. He have a girlfriend?”
Did Maya Medina qualify as his girlfriend? “It’s hard to say. Have you seen a brand-new black Ford 250 out here? I think Nash loves it more than any girlfriend.”
“Nope,” Beth’s dad said. “You’re from Arizona, huh? What tribe?”
“Diné,” I said, copying his laconic style.
He didn’t make any reply to that, and neither did Beth, and my eyelids drooped. As I drifted toward sleep, my vision started to play tricks on me. Through my eyelashes I saw Beth, but I also saw a shimmering light superimposed on her and an animal shape—with feathery wings? Wings? Were they Changers?
Beth’s dad
Mick stopped and fed me water. “She’s delirious,” he said.
“Not much farther,” Nash promised.
Lower and lower we went, as the morning grew hotter. I hung upside down over Mick’s shoulder and quietly started dying. Sun played on the pale sand dunes and dry flats, forcing my eyes shut against the brightness.
Mick finally stopped and lowered me to my feet. We stood on black pavement, a road, and my heart leapt. I never thought I’d ever be so happy to see asphalt in my life.
When the rushing sound in my ears cleared a little, I heard Nash swearing.
“What’s wrong?” I tried to ask.
Nash was shouting foul and filthy words. Parallel tire tracks showed where a truck had been driven off the road, but of Nash’s shiny new black pickup, there was no sign.
“Son of a bitch !” Nash kicked the dirt, sending up sprays of fine gravel. I knew he wasn’t angry about being stranded in the middle of Death Valley with no transportation and little water—he was pissed that someone had dared to touch his beloved truck.
Mick gave me water again, and I slumped against his side to drink. “Where are we?” I heard him ask.
“About thirty miles from Stovepipe Wells,” Nash said.
“We walk it, then. We can’t afford to wait.”
I didn’t want to hear that, and I was about to argue with him, to beg him to let me lie down right here and go to sleep, when I heard the blissful sound of a car engine. It wasn’t Nash’s big truck but an older, dust-covered pickup with its windows down, bumping toward us along the road. Three people crowded into the cab and several more rode in the bed.
The truck stopped beside us, its engine chugging like a steamboat’s. A Native American man leaned out the window and looked us over. “Hey, you folks lost?”
Mick didn’t hesitate. “She needs a doctor.”
A young woman peered over the driver’s shoulder. “We’re going into Beatty,” she said. “Come on with us, if you want.”
A chubby youth obligingly vacated his seat in the cab and hopped into the truck bed. The young woman remained, helping Mick slide me in next to her. Mick buckled a seat belt around me before he kissed my forehead, shut the door, and climbed into the back with Nash.
The truck had no air-conditioning, but the open windows admitted a dry breeze that still held morning cool from the mountains. My rescuers discussed something as we pulled away, using a Native American language I didn’t know. If they were from Death Valley itself, they’d be Shoshone, from the tribe that lived in the southern part of the valley.
The girl turned to me. “I’m Beth,” she said. “That’s my dad and my good-for-nothing brothers in the back.”
“Janet,” I croaked. “Really, really pleased to meet you.” Beth was college age, I guessed, maybe about twenty or twenty-one. She shot me a grin. “That white guy with the gray eyes is cute. Who is he?”
“His name is Nash Jones. The sheriff of Hopi County. In Arizona,” I added when she looked blank.
“Yeah?” Beth’s dad said. “What’s he doing out here?”
“Hiking.” Well, it was partly true.
Beth looked through the back window at Nash again. “Well, he is sure cute. He have a girlfriend?”
Did Maya Medina qualify as his girlfriend? “It’s hard to say. Have you seen a brand-new black Ford 250 out here? I think Nash loves it more than any girlfriend.”
“Nope,” Beth’s dad said. “You’re from Arizona, huh? What tribe?”
“Diné,” I said, copying his laconic style.
He didn’t make any reply to that, and neither did Beth, and my eyelids drooped. As I drifted toward sleep, my vision started to play tricks on me. Through my eyelashes I saw Beth, but I also saw a shimmering light superimposed on her and an animal shape—with feathery wings? Wings? Were they Changers?
Beth’s dad
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