Miles from Town: Chapter 4

Three days after Smith’s hit-and-run visit, Gil was sweeping out the dust that had accumulated on the floor in the last 24-hours, when a shadow crossed the uneven wooden planks. It was ‘One-eyed’ Jack.

The old man stood there watching as the younger man swept the floor. “You won’t find me doing women’s work like that, beside my floor is dirt.”

Gil looked up and saw Jack smiling at his comment. “Come in, coffee’s on and I’m about to burn some beef in the pan.”

“No thank you, come to trade for eggs.” Joe held up a large rattlesnake that he’d already skinned.

The sight was less than appetizing to Gil and he tried not to show it as he quickly turned to retrieve the brown chicken eggs. “How many?”

“Two.”

“Sure you won’t stay for some coffee?”

“No. Maybe one day soon.”

Gil handed the two eggs to the Indian and watched as he deftly scaled the trail over the berm and onto the hillside, then down to where his claim must me situated. He then turned his attention to the snake that Joe had left setting on the porch.

Not only was it skinned, but he had boned it as well. “Maybe a little flour, some salt and pepper and I might be able to stomach it.”

Gil poured himself a cup of coffee, grabbed Eugene O’Neill’s four act play ‘Gold,’ written in 1923, and headed outside to enjoy the coolness of the morning air. The book with it’s brittle spine and rough, cracked binding about a sea-captain who thinks that a bangle he has found on a Pacific Island is of gold, encrusted with precious gems, although it is obvious to others that it is only two-penny trash, fit Gil’s mood perfectly.

There had been times in the last 72-hours where he’d begin to wonder what it was that caused Smith to cling to this particular mine. From what he’d seen, there wasn’t much in the way of color, nor had the shaft seen work to any extent in the last few years.

The thought lingered, drifting in and out of his mind until he had to ‘put it away,’ as his father said. He decided that the next time Smith arrived, he’d have a letter ready to mail to let his folks know that he was okay and doing fine.

Gil was the oldest of three children; a sister, who was a year younger than him and a brother three years his junior. Each were out in the world making their way as any good child, grown to adulthood, should be doing.

He was doing the same, just not in the traditional sense as he disregarded returning to school after having done poorly as a child-student. Nor did he simply want to work the rest of his life on the farm, preferring instead to travel around the country taking various jobs here, picking up work there.

“Besides, I’m doing alright.” Yet there was a sense of longer for his distant family – a longing he had to also ‘put away,’ as the prolong thought would serve to do nothing more than drag him down into a sadness.

With the door shaved and reshaped so that it closed smoothly and perfectly, and the window sill refitted in the wall, there was very little for Gil to do, other than roam the hillside, the desert and to chop wood. And if he were honest with himself, he preferred knocking about the wilds, not staying close to the cabin and mine.

Soon, he found himself hiking further and further from the encampment. He found wild horse tracks, wild because they showed no sign of horseshoes in their prints, and followed them for nearly four miles.

Eventually they lead him to a smallish body of water that the Mustangs would visit. Upstream was a hot springs, while further south the water was cool, and drinkable.

“If I can figure out how to catch me some fish, that would be great.”

As he walked back, he saw a figure in the far distance. It was Jack.

Gil quickened his pace hoping catch the old man. Unfortunately for Gil, the younger man walked into a slight dip in the earth and by the time he came up on the other side, the old Indian had vanished.

It was the first time Gil had felt the pang of loneliness. He pressed on, arriving back at the shack before sunset.

That evening he had a visitor – Jack came walking down the hillside. “I take that cup of coffee, now.”

Smiling, Gil quickly got a second cup and filled it to the Indian. They sat in silence, watching the stars and drinking their coffee.

“You are a different White man,” Jack offered.

“Yeah? How’s that?

“I saw you today on the flats and I know you saw me. Most White man would have shouted. Not you. You stayed quiet. Make’s you different.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“More good than bad.” With that the old man set his cup down and headed back up the hillside into the darkness.