Fort Davis Rocks

Fort Davis Rocks

A Novel

Robert C Deming

Smashwords Edition

Also available in print form

Copyright by Robert C Deming, 2014

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information and storage retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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Cover Photo by Carolyn Miller. Used with permission and gratitude.

Note – some words used in dialogue are intentionally misspelled, written to sound as the character pronounces them. I hope this isn’t confusing, I’m just writing what I heard them say. Also, a couple of my test readers thought the level of intimacy presented could be more than some of my readers expect from me. I didn’t add these scenes intentionally, they just showed up. If either of these trouble you, you might quit this story here.

In this glare of brilliant emptiness, in this arid intensity of pure heat, in the heart of a weird solitude, great silence and grand desolation, all things recede to distances out of reach, reflecting light but impossible to touch, annihilating all thought and all that men have made to a spasm of whirling dust far out on the golden desert.

Edward Abbey

Prologue

Water from the previous night’s rain trickled out of the cedar breaks through very thin soil on top of a continuous layer of limestone. The water drops collected in a depression and ran down the gentle slope, finally cascading over rock smoothed by millennia of trickling water. The rock had been warmed by the August sunshine, and when it finally reached the swimming hole, it was noticeably warmer than the crystal clear pool into which it cascaded, with irregular but consistent tinkling sounds.

At the edge of the hole an old live oak tree clung to the bank with half of its original root structure, the other half having disappeared when the soil beneath was scoured out by a succession of floods. One root still grasped a piece of limestone it had grown around, and held it out, as if in a hand, or defying the disappearance of the rest of the foundation the tree had once relied on.

Along the side of the pool, which was perhaps twenty feet by forty feet, long, slender, green leaves of bear grass dipped into the glassy surface like so many people with their heads bent toward the water. Above, a knotted rope hung from the upper reaches of the old tree, ready to deliver children into the four foot deep water. The wind blew loudly through the upper branches of the trees, but at the surface, air barely moved. Two turkey vultures soared far above; one swooped down for a closer look, then went on its way. The only sounds beyond the water dripping into the pool and the wind in the treetops were the sounds of kisses being shared by the young couple at the upstream end of the pool.

Tiny fish, many only a half inch long, searching for something to eat, finally investigated the hair on Raquel’s arm. She pulled her arm out of the water. They’re biting me! Delbert, eager to continue kissing the girl, looked down into the water. He, too, had felt the tiny fish nibbling on the hairs on his legs, but he was far too engrossed in the girl to care. She put her mouth back on his, and tasted his tongue again, then abruptly pulled away and threw herself backwards into the water, causing a splash that scattered the fish.

Delbert sat still, watching her through the distortion of the water. Raquel surfaced again, facing away from him, wiggled a little, then turned toward him. She held her white bikini top in one hand, and the bottoms in the other. She had long, black hair, and skin the color of toasted marshmallow. A ray of summer sun found its way through the canopy of leaves and illuminated one of her nipples. She grinned at him, then turned abruptly and climbed out of the far end of the pool. Delbert watched her swaying hips, transfixed by the sight, the first girl he had ever seen unclothed, the vision seared into his memory forever. As she slipped on her sandals and began running up the trail, he swam to the shallow end, where he could climb out, but by the time he got his shoes on, she had disappeared.

The absence of the two fifteen-year old church campers had been noticed, and counselors scoured the area for them. One almost ran into the naked girl on the trail through the oaks. Delbert’s parents could not be immediately located, but Raquel’s mother arrived by sunset. By the next evening, Raquel was living a cloistered life in a family compound in Matamoros, Mexico.

Chapter 1

Thirty Years Later

King looked at the approaching fire with disbelief, if not panic, on his face. An impossibly tall wall of bright yellow flames and grey smoke raced toward them, while air rushed past him to be consumed by the fiery demon. The fire jumped the road just south of him: there were fences on both sides of the road. He and Gwynne turned and ran north down the center of Highway 17, away from the approaching flames, toward the dubious safety of the town of Fort Davis.

A white pickup truck with Texas Parks and Wildlife on the side and lights on top slid to a stop. The lights were flashing urgently, the horn blowing. They could see the driver motioning to him, so they went around to the side and climbed into the passenger seat.

Delbert put the transmission into reverse and turned the truck around in a U on the highway. You’re fixing to be crispy critters there. He put the transmission back in drive and floored the accelerator as the flames reached them.

I guess I owe you one, Delbert.

King turned around in time to see his classic Porsche 911 Targa, parked on the dry grass of the highway right of way behind them, begin to burn. After just a half mile, Delbert stopped the pickup on the right side of the road and put the transmission in park.

Be right back.

He grabbed a pair of fencing pliers off the seat beside him and jumped out, leaving the door open. Beside them on the land next to the highway, a herd of Hereford cows, maybe fifteen of them, pressed against the fence, bawling. Delbert cut the six strands of barbed wire, starting with the bottom strand. As he got back into the pickup truck the cows poured through the gap and onto the highway.

That son-of-a-bitch E W don’t give a God damn about anybody ‘cept hisself.

King looked at him, not understanding.

That’s Earl Wayne Haas’s place. He’d just leave those cows here to burn to death. Nothing deserves that, especially not a cow. Delbert looked at King. Not even you. Where you want me to drop you off? I’ve got to get to the park. What the hell you doing back there?

Ran out of gas. Coming back from Marfa.

Well, that’s a God damned stupid thing to do.

King shrugged. Was in a hurry.

They came into Fort Davis. King pointed to the right, to the Limpia Hotel.

This’ll do. Appreciate the lift.

Gwynne, you getting out here?

Would you mind dropping me at my place? That fire’s going to come right through town.

Delbert put the truck back into gear, jammed his foot down onto the accelerator, and pulled back onto the highway.

What you been up to?

Went to the Shark for lunch. He’s still trying to make time with me.

He have any luck yet?

He was getting pretty damned close.

*****

King stood on the sidewalk as Delbert’s pickup went out of sight up the road to the north. The smell of smoke was strong in the air. He looked back to the south, where he could see a wall of smoke, but no flames. He shrugged, and walked across the small courtyard and into the bar.

The only people in the bar were the bartender and a busboy from the adjacent restaurant.

You want a drink? I’m closing up. Boss told me to go home. The fire, you know.

King thrust his hands in his pockets, trying to decide. Can you make an old fashioned?

King pulled a twenty dollar bill from his wallet and took a seat on a barstool. He played with the bill, folding it in half lengthwise, then in half again, and unfolding it, then folding it again.

Boss said the fire looks like it’s coming right through town.

He slid the cocktail glass across the bar. King held the twenty out toward him. The bartender held his hand up.

On the house. I closed the register just afore you got here.

King put the bill down on the bar.

Tip, then. Take it.

The bartender took the bill and stuffed it in his shirt pocket, nodded to him, and left. The busboy went with him.

The bartender turned around in the doorway. Turn the lights off on your way out.

One week earlier

King walked into the front entrance of the Limpia Hotel in Fort Davis, Texas with a bit of a swagger in his step. He had never had a half million dollars in his bank account before, the proceeds of an advance on his third novel and the sale of movie rights. The first novel had been ignored until the second garnered a review in the New York Times and the third had been purchased in a bidding war. When he reached the front desk, he pulled an American Express Platinum card out of his wallet and tossed it on the polished mahogany counter.

Best room in the place. One night for now. Which way to the bar?

The desk clerk picked up the card and read the name, looking from the card to King and back to the card. The name on the card read James King. But he wasn't known as Jim or Jimmy or even James. Only his mother still called him James; his former patients called him Dr. King, but in his mind and to those who knew him well, he was simply King.

The bar?

The clerk pointed to his left. Outside and across the courtyard.

Bags are in the back seat of the car. The Porsche. It’s not locked.

The only customers in the bar were two older men in faded blue jeans and western shirts with the weather-beaten look of ranchers. They turned to look at King when he entered the small room. With no look of recognition, they returned their attention to each other, and resumed the hushed tones of their private conversation.

King walked up to the copper-clad bar. The woman tending bar was of medium height, slender, wearing skinny jeans and a tank top. King noticed right away, as did all men, that she wasn’t wearing a bra, and small but perky breasts tantalized with the obvious point of a nipple showing through the thin cotton fabric. She had very short black hair with streaks of grey, and a sort of chiseled appearance, a narrow waist, and the muscles of an athlete. When she walked around the bar, collecting empty glasses and spent napkins, it was her small and well-formed ass that was noticed and often commented on. Her nipples went without comment, but not without more private thoughts.

The bartender focused on King as he made his way around the tables to the bar and took a seat right in the center. He looked at her, waiting for her to ask for his order. She did not speak, but tilted her head slightly to her right. They looked at each other in this fashion, in silence, for about thirty seconds, like it was a game of chicken, and the first to speak lost.

Do you know how to make an old fashioned?

The bartender reached under the bar and removed a copy of The Bartender’s Guide, turned to a page near the back, and held it up in front of King.

Two jiggers of bourbon, two dashes of bitters, a splash of water, teaspoon sugar, cherry, slice of orange. That old fashioned? She rattled off the recipe without looking at the plastic-covered page, then tilted her head to the right again and raised her left eyebrow at him.

Make it a double. Top shelf, if you please.

Big spender. Haven’t had any of those in here lately. She turned away to fix the cocktail.

Business kind of slow?

You might say that. You’re not from around here.

Just got in. Never been here before.

Saw you drive up in that chick magnet.

The what?

The Porsche. 911 Targa. We have a drought on. Ranchers are selling off their cows, hoarding cash. Yeah, business is slow.

So how do you know that much about cars?

I’m a classic, like your car. And you.

How old do you have to be to be considered a classic?

She slid the drink across the bar. That’ll be twelve dollars. My friends call me Gwynne. You can call me Guinevere.

King pulled a twenty dollar bill out of his wallet and put it on the bar. Name’s King. Keep the change. You got a boyfriend, Guinevere?

More or less. Why you asking?

I’m going to be here a while, don’t know a soul. Thought maybe you could show me around.

Well, it’s mighty nice of you to suggest that. At the moment the boyfriend is more, rather than less, but that changes from time to time. I should warn you he carries a gun.

I see. And who is this vacillating vaquero? King was proud of such a clever phrase, produced within the rhythm of the conversation, and grinned.

He’ll be the tall drink of water coming through that door in about ten seconds.

King turned toward the door. The man who came through the doorway was over six feet tall, lean, and weathered. He was, indeed, carrying a gun on his hip, and was dressed in a short sleeved khaki uniform shirt and dark green pants with a badge over his left shirt pocket. He removed a dark green ball cap as he entered the room, revealing short, dark hair with streaks of grey. He nodded to the two older men at the table, walked up to the bar, and sat down at the first bar stool.

He spoke to Gwynne. Feels good in here. Looks like summer’s here early.

Gwynne didn’t smile, but looked at him intensely, then without hesitation, reached out with her right hand and slapped the man hard on his left cheek. His head turned with the force of the blow, but he didn’t flinch.

Nice to see you, too.

That’s for standing me up yesterday.

Couldn’t be helped.

Call next time. If there is a next time. She nodded her head toward King. This here’s King. He’s the newest drifter in town. Only been here five minutes and already tried to pick me up.

Did he get anywhere?

Might have if you hadn’t showed up. He’s driving a Targa.

What’s that got on a ‘78 Ford Ranger?

Gwynne shook her head slowly. Well, the air conditioning probably works.

The man shrugged. It’s a classic.

You men are all classics. Well, I’m working until 9 tonight anyway. I warned him that you’re packing heat.

Packing heat, uh? You reading those detective novels again?

Gwynne smiled, her expression mirthful. She turned to her left. King, this is my vacillating vaquero. His name is Delbert, but I call him Del.

Delbert reached out with his right hand toward King, who responded by reaching out with his right, and they shook hands. King squeezed the offered hand hard, a technique designed to intimidate, but he found the muscled hand and arm resisted his force. Delbert’s face showed nothing except the red mark of Gwynne’s right hand.

What did you say I was? A vacill what?

Vacillating vaquero. His words.

I suppose. Pick you up at 9:00? Dinner at my place?

TV dinners again? She slid a glass of ice and Coke across the bar to Delbert.

Not today. Picked up some fine little tenderloins from Stone Village Market. Rusty tried to give them to me. I think he’s trying to bribe me. For what, I don’t know.

You think tenderloin might get you somewhere?

Delbert raised his eyebrows. Worked in the past, then he swiveled the barstool to his right to face King. What brings you to this godforsaken corner of the desert?

Wide open spaces. One person per square mile. Peace and quiet. I’m a writer. Got a big project due in a month. Needed to eliminate distractions. Anyway, a roadrunner ran in front of me at the city limits. I was headed to Marfa. Seemed auspicious.

Delbert nodded, taking in all the comments, organizing them in his law-enforcement brain. You might be more of a celebrity in Marfa.

King laughed. Trying to avoid that. You got any recommendations on a place to stay?

You going to be here a whole month? Most people don’t make it that long out here.

That’s my plan. What about you? Why’re you here?

Delbert screwed up his face for a moment, thinking. Born and raised here. Left. Came back.

King looked at Gwynne. Brevity isn’t a virtue where I come from.

Delbert turned back to face the bar.

They’d be glad to have you here, but then you’d have to put up with Gwynne.

Gwynne tilted her head to the right and looked at him without smiling, and then she turned to look at King.

There’s some old houses here that rent, you know, bed and breakfasts. King nodded. Plenty of ‘em. The Chamber of Commerce has a list. Chamber’s about a block away, by the courthouse. Or, it might be easier to go to the Stone Village and find Rusty. I think he handles most of them.

Delbert drained the glass of Coke in one long draught, set it on the bar, and wiped his mouth with the back of a hand.

Later, darling. I’ll be outside at 9:00. He put his cap on and walked out the door.

Gwynne watched him walk out. That man does have a fine ass. I think that’s why I put up with him.

She turned to King. Ready for another?

Not just yet. He some kind of cop?

State Park Police. Davis Mountains State Park, not the National Park.

King grunted. Didn’t know parks had policemen. They have a lot of trouble?

Not really. Rowdy college kids, that kind of stuff.

And what about you? You from around here?

Maryland. Ended up here by accident.

Sounds like there is a story there.

Let me see if I can put it in six words. Drifted in, he left with car. She tilted her head. There you go.

A tragedy?

More like a comedy. No, tragicomic.

And the origin of your beautiful but uncommon name?

Family name. We came over from Wales after the war. The Great War. Years later, I arrived.

Guinevere is English, not Welsh.

Gwynne laughed. Oh, you are a clever man. That is correct. The nickname for Guinevere is Gwen. I just said that to put you off.

Didn’t work. You are far too interesting to put me off so easily. You here for the long term, or will you be drifting out soon?

I’ll be here as long as I’m interesting.

King raised his eyebrows. Interesting.

Gwynne smiled a tiny smile, the corners of her mouth lifting just a tiny bit, and raised her eyebrows just a tiny bit to match his, her eyes sparkling.

Oh, my dear Gwynne, you are more than interesting. Tantalizing. Mesmerizing. Tempting.

King finished the cocktail and pushed the glass back across the bar to Gwynne. You get a day off from the bar?

Chapter 2

Raquel drove into the north end of Fort Davis on Hwy 17 as the sun was directly overhead in an empty blue sky. She hadn’t as much as driven through the town in 20 years, hadn’t really been there in 30. She had put this so place far behind her that she thought she might