The Mojave Chronicles

By Walter Stump

Enter into Shoshone Valley, home of the Kendal Bauxite Mine, where there is a deserted Anasazi village constructed by a people who dated well beyond the first millennium, and Cactus Charlie’s Saloon. In this beautiful high desert valley there are several individuals who have decided to spend their lives here, even after the mines have been scavenged and a town has virtually disappeared. When an angry woman enters their sanctuary seeking out her biological grandmother, she discovers a world of individuals who, over time, change her anger into a newborn friendship. She has come to condemn, but instead discovers herself and a new-found love. She falls under the spell of a secret Anasazi spirituality and becomes of a small but vigorous group determined to keep the Mojave their home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Walter Stump
• Release date: Jun 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476245119

Walter Stump

Walter Stump was born in Barstow California and raised in San Diego. He is a prolific author of several plays, several Readers Theatre scripts, and two theatre textbooks. His is also author of several works of fiction. Choosing the long neglected form of the novella, Stump put together a volume titled THE TRAIL OF THE MOUNTAIN GOD, a series of novellas tracing the phenomenon of individual discovery. In this book THE MOJAVE CHRONICLES, the author continues to utilize the novella as a platform to describe disparate souls over several generations. Stump, now retired, taught for 36 years at the University of Southern Maine where he held the title of Distinguished Professor of the Performing Arts.

Book preview

BOOK ONE:

ANASAZI

CHAPTER ONE

The Beginning

She had turned off the freeway several hours ago and was now following what was once known as Route 66. There were mountains overpowering her, framed by a thousand miles of blue sky. The enormity of the vista was a miracle in itself. Peg Glendell was at the wheel of a 1970 Volkswagen painted with what one might call hippie graffiti; bright colors not always copacetic.

She stared at the unimaginable beauty surrounding her. ‘My God, she thought, how incredibly beautiful.’ There were bumper stickers, partially torn, on the back and the side of the bug. One said Peace not War. Another, more poetic, read Flowers not Guns. But all these phrases were mementos of a bygone era, suited more to the sixties.

She had driven west from Massachusetts in search of a person whom she had not known but who had suddenly entered her life. To find that person was a quest that Peg, a pretty girl, with long, straight blonde hair reaching down to her mid-back, was determined to do. Her face was set off with intelligent blue eyes, light, crisp and clear like the desert sky. She was tall with a willowy figure but unfortunately covered in a bizarre outfit consisting of a long skirt, sandals, and a purple blouse. At first glance one might label Peg a flower child, although that anachronism was not exactly correct. At this time in her life, she had driven west determined to find answers to questions that only recently had come up.

She had just survived the passing of her mother and had grieved long and hard over her mother’s premature death from cancer. She had isolated herself from the world in her grief. The death of her mother and the loss of her father just a few scant years before had left the young girl in a state of depression. It was the passing of her father that matured her, but her mother’s sickness had been a disaster. After the death of both her parents, Peg had sat in her apartment alone, barely eating or going out for three months. Finally, she resigned herself that her mother was gone and would never return. The need to tidy the realities of one’s life before embarking on another became evident. Peg began the unpleasant task of going through her mother’s things. ‘I don’t know if I can do this,’ she thought.

She was feeling the same desperate sadness and betrayal many a person has felt probing into the remnants of a loved one’s life.

Peg’s mother, Margaret, had been a physician of some note. Dr. Glendell was a beautiful woman both physically and mentally, who had been very secretive about much of her past. She had not spent time familiarizing her daughter with the past elements of her life. Peg carefully packed her pictures and other treasures in a box to store away until she felt able to study them. There was, thought Peg, an overwhelming sadness in packing memories in a box. It was almost as if one were actually packing a life away. In this numbing process, Peg tried to fragment and separate those items she could understand from those to which she would have to return.

She discovered a chest filled with her mother’s letters and diaries. Peg hesitated to read the letters, almost as if she were afraid to open secrets best left unknown. Yet she knew it was important to know the past if not for her own memories but to keep her mother’s legacy alive. ‘I’ve got to do this. There’s no other way. I must.’ It was in that state that Peg began to read letters that had been hidden for years.

Among the letters were love letters between her mother and father. Peg cried as she felt the depth of her parent’s love. How they were, indeed, soul mates. Both of them had chosen medicine as a profession because they were determined to contribute their skills to help make a better world.

‘I am so proud,’ she thought. Peg had always known they had a love that was self-nurturing. In her mother’s diary, she made other discoveries that were important. Peg had known her mother was an only child who had been adopted by her aunt, but she had forgotten that the same was true of her father. He, too, was also an only child. She knew her father’s parents were killed in a plane crash. She recalled even reading articles about their deaths. But she did not know much about her maternal grandparents. Peg had been told her grandfather had been killed in the war and her grandmother had died shortly after giving birth.

It was during the second day of her search that she uncovered a letter from California that was to change her life. She opened it and found a note informing Dr. Glendell that her biological mother was very ill. Peg was shocked. She had never been told that her mother’s biological mother was still living. The letter suggested that Dr. Glendell should come to see her.

I don’t believe this, she said out loud, my grandmother is still living? Furious, Peg called Laura Stebbens, her aunt, and demanded why she was never told about her grandmother’s existence. Aunt Laura, understanding her niece’s confusion, decided to tell Peg the entire truth as she knew it. She admitted to keeping the secret hidden even from her adopted child. But when asked why, her aunt had to confess it was only because she was not a nice woman.

Not nice? What do you mean?

Her aunt had anticipated that her niece would discover the letter, but had been uncertain of what to do.

Can’t you even tell me now, Aunt Laura?

It’s difficult, Peg. It was difficult for your mother too.

You sound like this is some great mystery.

Aunt Laura, a small woman with dark eyes matching her huge black pompadour hairstyle, sat down and spun one of her many rings around her finger, a routine she used whenever uncertain of a problem. She had tried remaining apart from the secret but Peg’s consistent questioning was taking its toll.

Finally, she decided to let Peg know the entire truth. She replied with a self-righteous air.

All right, if you must know, I will tell you. She was a whore.

What?

Yes, Peg, she was a prostitute, a loose woman. I took the child to save her from a dissolute life. My niece was no good then and she is no good now! You should thank me.

Peg’s world was shattered. That night she fought sleep while the news dominated her thinking. Peg’s aunt told her that she, herself, had only recently discovered that her niece was still alive. She was reluctant to tell her adopted daughter who was sick and in the later stages of her disease. Peg was in a state of uncontrollable anger at both her Aunt Laura and her grandmother. She decided to confront her biological grandmother. She would tell her about the death of her daughter as well as the depth of her selfishness. Peg knew her quest was of revenge, yet, it was also of discovery and one of curiosity. As soon as school was out, she closed up her home and left New England to set out on her journey.

At first, Peg drove the main highway to make time. Then she moved off the freeways on to the little roads and towns where America lives. In some ways her life as well as her anger slowed down. She stopped when she felt the need to breathe life and eventually she moved out from the old of the east and Midwest, to the youth that was the west. She knew her grandmother lived in a place called Shoshone Valley through the address in the letter, but she had no inkling where or how desolate it was. When she had reached the outer fringes of the Mojave Desert in Arizona, she marveled at the tortured beauty of the landscape. There were extinct volcanoes with lava fields that flowed across the barren landscape whose flanks were covered with the softness of wild flowers. She was amazed at how beautiful it was. She felt something special, almost mystical, about the place.

Peg traveled Route 66 for a while until she was told by a service station attendant to turn north toward Reno along the fringes of Death Valley and eventually onto a dirt road leading to the Valley. She followed a winding trail to the top of a desert pass where she stopped and looked off in the distance. For as far as her eyes could see, there was only this fresh wilderness where life seemed to disappear and all that remained was a silent loneliness she could almost feel. ‘Mystical,’ she thought, ‘almost spiritual.’

Suddenly, feeling a deep sense of belonging, she drove down into a valley located between two fairly high mountain ranges and across to another summit. Again she stopped and looked down at what appeared to be a ghost town. There were remnants of homes, actually more like wooden shanties scattered throughout the plateau. What appeared to be a mine, chiseled out of the slope, rested on the side of one hilltop, appearing to be all that was left of an earlier civilization.

‘So this is Shoshone Valley,’ she thought.

She eased the Volkswagen into a lower gear and started down the old road. She drove slowly carefully watching the road as it wound around the black rocks of a lava flow.

My God, she said out loud, I’ll bet the mountains of the moon would look like this. The lava, turning a blackish gray, was jumbled and jagged, looking no more than a black river. On the other side of this lava flow was the remains of an ancient gas station. Its two brown gas pumps, standing like rusting twins in the desert, had the old-fashioned large handle for pumping. It was a gas station designed to have you really pump the gas. Only now they were standing like sentinels of a past life. The porch facing the pumps was shaded with a wood awning near collapse with one of the supports bent and partially broken. Peg stopped the car and walked over to the gas station.

‘It looks like a movie set,’ she thought.

Between the front of the store and what seemed to be a tool shed was a passageway. Walking along the side of the building she saw several small structures situated behind the house as well as two large, protective cottonwood trees shading the whole area. Unlike smaller cottonwood trees she had seen before, these were enormous, spreading themselves over the entire yard. They could be fitting respite for friend and fowl. She returned to the car and picked up her bag and knapsack, walked down the passageway to what looked like a bar with two large flaps on either side.

Behind the bar was a cooler with worn wooden doors. Two old weathered stools faced shelves loaded with old bottles. She quickly realized this had once been more than a home. It was just an old outdoor saloon. ‘How bizarre,’ she thought, thinking of all the days and nights so many people had spent here.

Because of the proximity to the mine, it was obviously a place where miners once congregated. She could almost imagine them seated on the stools in the moonlight savoring the cool air as opposed to the dusty danger of the mine, guzzling beer and shouting raucous jokes.

The area in front of the bar looked to be the remnants of a dance floor with a few tables still surrounded by chairs. In the corner was an old derelict piano, its sides carved with marks and its open cover broken from sunlight. For a moment, she wistfully thought she could hear music from the jukebox or a tune from the piano underneath a din of happy voices.

‘Damn,’ she thought, ‘there must have been real good times here.’

Peg took out her Android phone and took a few pictures of the bar, the baby grand piano and other places where life had been in full swing. Peg recalled Johnny White, an old boyfriend, who actually believed in miracles. It was Johnny who had told her that if you allowed yourself to tap into the ambient energy you could be transported back in time. She was suddenly seized by a strange feeling of deja vu.

It lasted for only an instant but she could not explain the feeling. She looked back at the house, which probably had once been a general store. On what was left of the back wall were several pieces of mining equipment, old worn out saddles, bridles, horseshoes and a Coke poster dating back to the forties. She pulled out a chair, sat down, and continued to survey this new world.

Looking once again at the bar she saw that over the counter was a worn sign on which she could just barely read, ‘We speak German, French, Greek, Spanish, Italian and Japanese.’

‘My God,’ she thought, ‘that had to be some kind of joke.’ Peg smiled, wishing Johnny White was with her at that special moment. She felt as if she was standing in a junky old museum. Yet despite the disorderliness, there was a special feeling of form and unity, so unlike what she could see, but nevertheless as real as she could feel.

She began to think she could get used to living here. There was an ambience, a special aura, a feeling of home, of roots.

There was something deeply western about this place, something American. It was bold, sweaty, workable, used, innovative, slightly broken down, homespun, cluttered, unpretentious, plain, simple, incredibly old and aging.

Once again she felt that deep sense of deja-vu. Could Johnny White be right? Was this real or just an almost overpowering feeling of cultural memory? It was like a part of her had been here before and the whole experience she was having was a part of her cultural roots.

The door leading into the store was situated on a porch covered with a large wooden awning. On the porch was an overstuffed chair on one side and what looked like a homemade rocker on the other. When she walked toward the porch she suddenly stopped and wondered what it would have been like to live here in this place, at that time. Suddenly, she became aware of a noise coming from the chair on the porch from what she had thought to be a bundle of rags. She realized, much to her amusement, that it was actually an old man sleeping and snoring. She had probably missed him, she thought, because the bundle of rags seemed such a natural part of the decor.

The old man appeared to be about eighty or ninety with an unkempt white beard. He had a hat pulled down over his eyes and although he was snoring loudly, he nevertheless had his old stained shirt neatly tucked into a pair of dirty gray pants. His whole ensemble was held together with a pair of worn suspenders. Peg walked up the steps and stood before the old man.

Hey mister! He didn’t move. She stepped closer to him and in a rather loud voice said, Hello … anyone home? Hearing no answer she stepped even closer to the man and shouted, Hello … Yo … anyone home … Hello! The old man woke with a start and he looked at the girl. She could see he was in his nineties but his eyes were intelligent and sparkling.

Yew don’ have to wake up every damn rattlesnake in the damn house. I hear you. He voice was raspy with a long drawl that sounded distinctly southern.

The mention of rattlesnakes frightened Peg. She had always been deathly afraid of snakes. She jumped back and quickly looked at the ground around her feet until she was satisfied that there was nothing crawling near her. She crossed closer to the old man and looked into his eyes. Are you saying there are rattlesnakes here?

He pulled a sack of tobacco from his shirt. Aw hell, lady, you don’t have to worry. They ain’t gonna’ bother you none. They jes want something to et. They is look’n fer one of them rats thet lives under the house. The old man poured tobacco from a pouch in his pocket onto a piece of cigarette paper. She watched him roll it neatly and put it in his mouth.

But Peg was more concerned with what the old man had mentioned. Did you say there are big rats under this place? Her face grimaced and she wrapped her arms around her chest.

He lit his cigarette and stared at Peg. Ah fergot there ain’t none of them critters round here no more. Them wildcats et em.

Peg began to frown. She was becoming terribly uncomfortable. Wildcats?

The old man puffed on his smoke and stared at the girl. Peg was about to leave but the old man spoke up. You really don’t have to worry none. There waz a bunch of them around before the coyotes chased ’em off.

‘Damn it,’ Peg thought, ‘that little bastard has been pulling my leg.’ She gave the old man her best ‘don’t mess with me’ look. Who the hell are you anyway? she said, now irritated as she walked toward him.

They call me Death Valley Shorty, but you can call me Shorty for short." The old man cackled at his joke and ended up in a paroxysm of coughing, which resulted in hawking a large goober, which he quickly and accurately spit into a can next to the chair.

Peg could not quite assimilate what she was seeing. Although she tried to hide her disgust, it was too obvious. She ventured a question, Have you lived around here long?

Shorty looked over at the young woman obviously delighted at the effect he was having. Bout a hundred and five years.

Peg frowned. A hundred and … .

Well, give or take twenty.

Once again Peg was aware she had been taken for a ride and was not happy. She prided herself as a woman not easily taken. She straightened herself and focused on her tormentor. Can you tell me where I am?

Yup.

Well?

Well what?

Peg looked at Shorty for a moment and then shouted, Look sir, I have ben driving for more than a thousand miles. I need to find someone. All I am asking for is a straight answer. The old man was quietly enjoying himself, his eyes sparkling. California.

Peg moved closer to the old man, her eyes staring down at him as he began to move back.

Damn it to hell, I’m in no mood to listen to this bullshit. Now, specifically, where the hell am I?

Shorty shrugged his shoulder and replied, Shoshone Valley, ma’am.

Peg held her handbag out as if she was about to hit the old man, but turned to the sky as if in prayer.

"Look, don’t play games with me. I know I am in Shoshone Valley. I want to know what this place is. This place where you and I are standing. You understand? What is the name of this place?"

Shorty squashed out his cigarette, raised an eyebrow and looked at the girl.

Well now don’t yew go and git yerself all roiled up. I’m trying to help yew. Yew didn’t ask me what the name of this place is, yew just ask where yew wuz. Yew could be in Nevada, yew know.

At that moment, an old Ford sedan pulled up to the front of the saloon and stopped. An older woman jumped out of the car and pulled out a picnic basket from the back seat. The basket was covered with a cloth. She shut the door of the car and proceeded to walk between the building and the house to the back.

Although in her eighties, she still carried herself as if she was still a young girl. She had the kind of beauty that changes with age but does not diminish. She was a classic southern beauty whose looks had not faded, only matured. In some ways, she was as pert at eighty as she was at twenty in a more all-encompassing way. Dressed in a western style cowboy outfit, she wore faded jeans with a plaid shirt tucked in with pride showing off a still remarkable figure.

As she strolled through the passageway to the back yard with the basket in hand, she could hear the shouts of another woman. She stopped suddenly when she saw Peg and could see the frustration on Peg’s face. The older woman crossed to Shorty, setting down her basket.

Shorty, you quit tormenting this young girl. She looked up at Peg and smiled. Don’t pay any attention to this old coot, honey. Her voice was soft and her speech sounded like an educated southern drawl. She lifted the towel covering the basket as she turned her gaze directly to Peg. For a moment, the older woman was startled. She stared for a moment at the flamboyantly dressed girl and then looked back to the basket.

Sorry, dear. It’s just that you remind me of someone. What can I do for you?

Shorty once again coughed a goober up and spit in the can. Then he turned his attention to Gracie. She wants to know where she’s at and what’s its name.

The older woman took a tablecloth from the basket and placed it on top of one of the tables. She then proceeded to take what was Shorty’s supper out of the basket, motioning for him to come over. Shut up Shorty and eat your dinner while it’s hot. Shorty stood up and walked quickly down the stairs to the table and sat. Gracie gazed at Peg who had sat down on the steps of the porch.

This used to be called Cactus Charlie’s Saloon, honey, what’s left of it. It was the only stop where the men who worked in the Kendall mine could get something after work. My name’s Gracie, Gracie Sweatman. But everybody calls me Gracie. And this little felluh here is Shorty.

We’ve met, Gracie. So you say this was Cactus Charlie’s Saloon?

That’s right. I didn’t catch your name, honey.

I’m sorry. My name is Margaret Glendell but everyone calls me Peg.

Peg slowly reached her hand out to the older woman. They shook hands but Gracie continued to stare at the young girl. Peg noted the strange expression on Gracie’s face.

In the meantime Shorty stared at the food on the table and turned to the older woman, Gracie, where’s muh beer? She turned back to the old man taking her eyes off Peg for the moment.

Doc Rand says you can’t have anything alcoholic to drink.

Shorty pushed the plate away. Then I ain’t eaten. A man’s gotta have a couple of beers to keep the digestion work’n. Gracie, with a disgusted but resigned look on her face reached into the basket and pulled out a bottle of beer, Here. The old man took the bottle from her, placed it against the edge of the table and popped the top off. Peg continued to stare at the old man with a combined look of incredulousness and amusement. Shorty guzzled the contents of the bottle and handed the empty bottle to Grace while Peg just stared at the old man, slightly amused and surprised that the older woman would give in so quickly. Gracie turned to wink at Peg before shrugging her shoulders and handing Shorty another beer.

I guess you can’t unpickle a herring. She walked back to the girl. Are you lost, Margaret? Can I help you find wherever it is you are going?

The young girl was obviously becoming less nervous. Please call me Peg. No, this is where I want to be.

Gracie looked puzzled and sat beside her. "Well that sure is interesting. Why would a young girl want to wander into a ghost town?

Peg looked around her at the large trees and the tables, the dance floor and the bar.

Because Cactus Charlie Koons was my grandfather. Shorty dropped the beer he was drinking and spat the remainder on the floor.

Gracie, obviously surprised, began to study the young woman.

Shorty stroked his white beard. Now you wait just a minute, girl. I know’d Cactus Charlie for most of my life. He never told me about no kid of his.

Peg calmly turned her head to the old man, her face pale and expressionless as she continued, That’s because he didn’t know about it either. My grandmother never told him. It was her warped sense of pride. She kept my mother a secret in more ways than one. I’ve traveled all the way here to tell her that her beautiful daughter, the one she gave away, is dead. She walked over to Shorty, her voice becoming a bit husky, My grandmother’s name was Megs Morrison. Did you know her, Shorty? You most likely did. She was a whore. All you men here probably screwed her.

The old man jumped to his feet. His face was a picture of anger and outrage.

Don’t you ever, ever call Megs a whore in front of me! You hear what I’m say’n? As Shorty began moving toward the girl, Gracie stepped in front of the angry old prospector.

Calm down, Shorty. She put her hand on his chest pushing him back onto the chair making certain that he wasn’t going to move, then crossed to Peg and looked closely into her eyes. "I knew there was something about you, Peg. You look just like her; you look just like Megs.