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Authors: Theodore Taylor
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once, Sanchez at his heels.
Inside the cabin, Jose pulled the mattress away and jammed the Colnett money into his pocket. He was stuffing some of his clothes into the suitcase when he heard shouts from up near the barracks and the sound of a car starting.
Sanchez stood by the door, his back hairs up and bristling. Jose said to him, "We must go. They will shoot you."
Putting the art supplies in, he slammed the suitcase shut and left the cabin. "Hurry," he said to Sanchez, but the dog was already plunging ahead.
They went behind the cabin and started across the fields toward the railroad tracks, Jose running as fast as he could with the half-packed suitcase.
They were gone before Eddie arrived at No. 6, carrying a 30.30.
Book II
The Miracle
1
S AN R AMON WAS DECAYING. Until the freeway had cut it off two years previously, bypassed it with a sweeping curve, it had been a lively little town on the royal road, El Camino Real, historic old No. 101. Now, much of it was abandoned and boarded up. Some of the doorways were littered.
There were exactly seven square blocks to the business districtâtwo blocks on the east side of the Real, five on the west. Once, truckers had stopped at Olcott's Service Station to gurgle down gallons of diesel fuel or gasoline. People had come from Atascadero and Cholame and San Ardo to buy groceries at Estaban Cole's market, tools at San Ramon Hardware, and furniture from Nello Solari; or to have beef stew at the Dinner Bell, or a beer at Pook Goodwins Mission Bell Bar.
Now, they found it simpler to roll out on the banked lanes and go south to San Luis Obispo or north to King City. The drugstore had been abandoned. So had the dry goods store across from the mission and seven other shops. Their windows were either boarded or grimy.
Once, the town could depend on at least three hundred visitors a day to Mission San Ramon, which stood about forty feet off El Camino Real. In addition to dropping silver in the poor box and spending perhaps a dollar at the mission store, the visitors were usually good for at least five dollars in meals and gas in the town itself.
Now, the only mission visitors seemed to be the buffs. Even the busloads of schoolchildren from nearby communities, herded together for a historical outing, had ceased to come. An exceptional day could tally no more than twenty-five visitors. On some days, when the winter mist lay cold over the Salinas Valley, Father Lebeon would pray for even five visitors, and the sandaled, brown-robed Franciscan brothers, their
capuchos
pulled up over their heads, would have been willing to settle for three.
As much as anything, the village of San Ramon had lost its will to survive.
On most nights, Frank Olcott kept his filling station open until one, simply in hopes of capturing an extra dollar for the day. Sometimes, farmers gassed their pickups around eleven after a few drinks at Pook's. Olcott, who was sixty-three years old, seldom slept well anyway because of an old back injury. He kept a pot of coffee on for any eye-weary traveler going slow enough to take the San Ramon off-ramp.
In addition to owning the station, Olcott had been mayor of San Ramon for over twenty years, as well as its only peace officer. In this capacity, he had little to do. He always wore his badge, but sometimes it made him feel silly. The only disturbance amounting to anything usually occurred Saturday nights at the Mission Bell. He'd hobble down the Real, stick his head in the door of Pook's place and yell, "Anyone want to fight a cripple?" That usually did it.
Tall, balding, a stoop-shouldered man with a farmer's ruddy face and sharp gray eyes, Olcott had been struggling to save San Ramon ever since the freeway dried it up. He'd formed a committee to publicize Mission San Ramon, but no one had any suggestions for persuading motorists to slow down to twenty-five and take the exit. He'd even requested the government to declare San Ramon a distressed area. Nothing had
Inside the cabin, Jose pulled the mattress away and jammed the Colnett money into his pocket. He was stuffing some of his clothes into the suitcase when he heard shouts from up near the barracks and the sound of a car starting.
Sanchez stood by the door, his back hairs up and bristling. Jose said to him, "We must go. They will shoot you."
Putting the art supplies in, he slammed the suitcase shut and left the cabin. "Hurry," he said to Sanchez, but the dog was already plunging ahead.
They went behind the cabin and started across the fields toward the railroad tracks, Jose running as fast as he could with the half-packed suitcase.
They were gone before Eddie arrived at No. 6, carrying a 30.30.
Book II
The Miracle
1
S AN R AMON WAS DECAYING. Until the freeway had cut it off two years previously, bypassed it with a sweeping curve, it had been a lively little town on the royal road, El Camino Real, historic old No. 101. Now, much of it was abandoned and boarded up. Some of the doorways were littered.
There were exactly seven square blocks to the business districtâtwo blocks on the east side of the Real, five on the west. Once, truckers had stopped at Olcott's Service Station to gurgle down gallons of diesel fuel or gasoline. People had come from Atascadero and Cholame and San Ardo to buy groceries at Estaban Cole's market, tools at San Ramon Hardware, and furniture from Nello Solari; or to have beef stew at the Dinner Bell, or a beer at Pook Goodwins Mission Bell Bar.
Now, they found it simpler to roll out on the banked lanes and go south to San Luis Obispo or north to King City. The drugstore had been abandoned. So had the dry goods store across from the mission and seven other shops. Their windows were either boarded or grimy.
Once, the town could depend on at least three hundred visitors a day to Mission San Ramon, which stood about forty feet off El Camino Real. In addition to dropping silver in the poor box and spending perhaps a dollar at the mission store, the visitors were usually good for at least five dollars in meals and gas in the town itself.
Now, the only mission visitors seemed to be the buffs. Even the busloads of schoolchildren from nearby communities, herded together for a historical outing, had ceased to come. An exceptional day could tally no more than twenty-five visitors. On some days, when the winter mist lay cold over the Salinas Valley, Father Lebeon would pray for even five visitors, and the sandaled, brown-robed Franciscan brothers, their
capuchos
pulled up over their heads, would have been willing to settle for three.
As much as anything, the village of San Ramon had lost its will to survive.
On most nights, Frank Olcott kept his filling station open until one, simply in hopes of capturing an extra dollar for the day. Sometimes, farmers gassed their pickups around eleven after a few drinks at Pook's. Olcott, who was sixty-three years old, seldom slept well anyway because of an old back injury. He kept a pot of coffee on for any eye-weary traveler going slow enough to take the San Ramon off-ramp.
In addition to owning the station, Olcott had been mayor of San Ramon for over twenty years, as well as its only peace officer. In this capacity, he had little to do. He always wore his badge, but sometimes it made him feel silly. The only disturbance amounting to anything usually occurred Saturday nights at the Mission Bell. He'd hobble down the Real, stick his head in the door of Pook's place and yell, "Anyone want to fight a cripple?" That usually did it.
Tall, balding, a stoop-shouldered man with a farmer's ruddy face and sharp gray eyes, Olcott had been struggling to save San Ramon ever since the freeway dried it up. He'd formed a committee to publicize Mission San Ramon, but no one had any suggestions for persuading motorists to slow down to twenty-five and take the exit. He'd even requested the government to declare San Ramon a distressed area. Nothing had
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