Authors: Wayne Wightman
Martin's parents' house had burned, but he carefully searched through the debris near the blackened kitchen sink and found their two coffee cups. After gently dusting away the ashes, he could still see the dark coffee rings in the bottoms. These cups he packed in his saddle bags.
Santa Miranda was now consigned to memory.
....
They returned to their village in early midday. They pulled up their horses to watch Charlie and Ross in wide-brimmed hats, surf fishing out beneath the circling gulls. They were far enough away that their voices were inaudible, but every once in a while the wind carried their laughter back to them.
It was then that he and Roy heard a faint buzzing noise.
He looked back at the village, but it wasn't coming from that direction. It was coming from the south, along the oceanside highway, and it was growing louder. Roy shaded his eyes and looked down the highway.
It was loud, whatever it was. Very loud. The engine revved too fast for a car. Down the highway, at the curve, a motorcycle and sidecar rounded the corner at high speed.
Diaz? Could it be Diaz?
The rider wore an old-fashioned tight leather helmet and shaded aviator goggles.
The motorcycle had been new sometime in the recent past, but now it was splashed with mud, and most of the paint looked like primer. The sidecar was stuffed with bedding.
And there was blond hair flying from under the leather cap.
The motorcycle roared up to them and choked to a stop. She wore scuffed leather pants and a heavy leather jacket that smelled hot from the sun. When she pulled the cap off, her hair fell loose. “One of you Martin Lake?” she asked, a Midwestern twang in her voice.
“Yes, I am.”
She stepped off the bike and extended her hand. “I'm Cloris Danse. Diaz sent me.” She reached over to the sidecar and pulled back a tattered blanket. “That there's his son, Diaz Junior. And my dog, Felicity.” The dog was a sleepy-eyed black-spotted Australian shepherd. The child looked almost a year old, with wide dark eyes and fat cheeks.
He had left her, she explained, promising to come back, but he didn't. And then, many months later, a woman had passed through El Dorado Springs and had handed her this.
She pulled from a pocket a palm-sized square of paper that had been folded many times. Just off-center, there was a half-inch diameter hole in it, and the back layers of paper were stained dark brown.
“That's his list,” Martin said quietly. “There's blood on it.”
Cloris nodded. “He had it wrapped in a piece of paper with my address on it, saying to notify me if... you know.”
Martin nodded. Another death in his life.
“So this woman she found me. She told me he was protecting her with his body when he was shot, stood in the way of the bullet, and she lived because of him.”
Martin nodded. “He'd do that.”
“Yes, he would. You know what all those names and dates are?” She took the paper back. “He never told me.”
“He told me they were friends. He had their names so he wouldn't forget any of them. The dates are when they died.”
Cloris stood quietly looking at the paper in her hands. “I loved that crazy guy,” she said. Martin thought she might cry. Then she looked up and spoke strongly. “I shed all my tears a long time ago. I had a hell of a time finding you, but down in San Luis Obispo I mentioned your name and they said, 'Oh yeah,
that
guy.' They said about a year ago you lodged a few small caliber objections in some local messiah.”
“We had a difference of values.”
Martin heard Isha barking only a moment before she appeared, running full speed toward them. She danced in his arms and licked his face.
“Diaz said I could trust you and that you'd take me in. Will you?”
“Consider yourself at home.”
At that moment, laughing and talking with friends at the edge of land and ocean, it seemed that he had just stepped out of his year of isolation, had come up from the underground, and stood in the sun for the first time. Though it was threaded with the despair of loss, the brilliant day swarmed through him, light made life.
A Note on Diaz
Till his death, Diaz and I knew each other longer than anyone except our families. His preferred ride was a 1946 Indian, fully restored to the highest of glosses. In the 1960s we were both students at San Francisco State during the Haight-Ashbury business. Most of all, Diaz wanted to be an actor and I thought his best role would be to play himself. Before he died, he read this novel and was pleased. His brain was plugged into the 220 version of life and the only fuse was death.
A Final Note
With any project, I always wonder, “Where did I goof it?” “What am I not seeing?” If you see textual irregularities you think I should know about or correct, please let me know. Or if you have comments, my email is open.