West With Giraffes(68)

The Old Man leaned forward, studying the sign. “I saw this on the trip coming out. The highway got finished all the way West only last year, except for some bridges over bone-dry shallow washes like this one. It shouldn’t be stalling us. The concrete goes in and out and on its way.”

As we pulled close, one of the troopers adjusted his Stetson and headed to my window as the giraffes popped their heads out to investigate.

“What in the Sam Hill . . . where are you taking a pair of giraffes? There’s nothing ahead but desert,” he said.

“San Diego,” the Old Man called over me. “We don’t have the time to get stuck. Can you let us through?”

The highway patrolman, flipping back to john-the-law mode, rested his hands on his gun belt. “Sorry, sir, no can do. You need to get off the highway. It’s closed until we see what’s going to happen with the water in the wash.”

We both stared at the dry gully. “What water?” the Old Man said.

“There’s a thunderhead stalled about a hundred miles up north, raining like a son of a gun. Been gully-washing the place up there for over twenty-four hours now. They’re already calling it a century storm,” the patrolman answered.

“Did you say a hundred miles north?” the Old Man repeated.

“That’s what I said, sir. With the topsoil gone after years of dusters, we don’t know how all that gully-washing’s going to break. So since we’ve got three washes like this in the next ten miles, we’re shutting the highway for now.”

“But if it’s a hundred miles north it’s not going to happen in the next minute, is it?” tried the Old Man.

“We won’t know until we know, sir.”

The Old Man looked around at all the dry dirt and the clear sky and tried again. “We need to keep the giraffes going. We’re traveling fast as we can to keep ’em alive.”

The trooper rested a hand on my windowsill. “Sir, I don’t think you’re comprehending the gravity of the situation. Either of you ever see a flash flood? They come out of nowhere in seconds and take trees and livestock and houses clean away. You can drown in two feet of water, swept away with it all.”

The Old Man sized up the trooper. “That so.”

The trooper sized up the Old Man right back. “That so.”

“You ever see such a thing?” the Old Man said next.

The trooper leveled his gaze. “Never saw a duster before I found myself in one. This land has a clock all its own. Out here, where you got plants that bloom once a century and varmints that stop their hearts beating when they need a break from the sun, you don’t believe in such things at the risk of your own neck,” he said, glancing up at the giraffes. “Those are some valuable necks to risk.” He turned to me. “Son, I’m sure you got the sense not to buck me, what with that prized cargo in your care. Just take these special animals on back up the highway a bit for the night. Back all the way to Muleshoe if you need to. Stay safe, until we know what’s what.”

Then he took a few steps back, placed both hands on his gun belt, and waited for us to obey.

My insides were pitching a fit. We were only minutes from getting out of Texas. So I wanted to buck him, all right, as if the rig could do any such thing. Because what nobody knew but me was that on back “a bit” was the abandoned road to my pa’s farm.

The trooper wasn’t budging, so, taking a lung-busting breath, I swerved the rig around cactus and tumbleweeds on the road’s edge, half hoping the tires would sink in the dirt, then headed back by the place I thought I’d finally put behind me forever.

The Old Man was talking.

“What?” I said.

“You ever seen such a thing?”

I shook my head.

“I think that trooper’s been in the sun too long,” the Old Man grumbled. “We could’ve already been past it all by now. Besides, they’re giraffes. No water coming down a shallow wash is going to drown a giraffe. Not in this rig and not on pavement. We could ford a stream with the rig on pavement.” He paused to fume. “Well, we’re not going all the way back to Muleshoe. I seem to recall some dump a mile back.”

Perking up, I agreed.

So we pulled in to the next overnighter we saw, a run-down tourist court and campground so ratty we’d passed it the first time with barely a notice. It was already filled up with other stalled travelers. The Old Man stepped down from the rig anyway, pulling out his wallet as he went. Getting out to stretch my legs, I could see him inside the office, handing a scruffy man bill after bill from his billfold, until he was marching back to the rig.

“OK,” he said, “we’re here for the night, hiding as best we can behind that line of pitiful-looking mesquite trees out back. They’re not even nibbling prospects for the darlings. It’ll be hay for them tonight. But I’d rather not be here for the next couple of hours until it gets dark. Considering that stinky fella inside didn’t blink taking my money, even more folks are sure to be piling in. I’m not going to let the darlings be the sideshow. Besides, we should keep a breeze going for them as long as we can. So let’s go find that gas and grub store I remember a ways back. We can waste some time filling up and getting provisions for the night cheaper than from this scalper.”

Well, that had me fidgeting once again so bad, there was no hiding it. Because I knew exactly where he wanted to go. It was the only gas station and supply store for miles around my pa’s farm, and I was about to stop at it with a couple of giraffes.