Grit Beneath My Nails: A Novel

By R. Eugene Bales

P. A. Perk Parker, recently widowed and retired from the law faculty of a small college in northern California, returns to the Dust Bowl country of his youth to try to find out what happened to his father. Lyle Parker disappeared mysteriously fifty years before in search of legendary Spanish treasure. Perk had heard rumors that a dead body had been discovered in an old mine and that his dad was wanted for questioning in a murder investigation. But now Perk wants real answers.

Assisting him in his search are a pair of county librarians, local peace officers, a childhood friend, and a colorful cast of old timers with their memories. Complications develop when Perk discovers rekindled romance with his childhood sweetheart, confronts the ominous threats of a classmate who bullied him in the schoolyard, tries to follow a disappearing trail of evidence from the past, and barely survives the machinations of a stranger who does not want him to discover the truth.

Set in southeastern Colorado, southwestern Kansas, and northern New Mexico, Grit beneath My Nails narrates the story of one mans discovery--of the past, of nearly forgotten love, and of himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abbott Press
• Release date: Mar 11, 2015
• ISBN: 9781458218438

R. Eugene Bales

R. Eugene Bales grew up in southeastern Colorado and southwestern Kansas. He attended the University of Wichita and Stanford, where he earned his PhD in philosophy. Emeritus Professor of Philosophy at Menlo College and author of numerous scholarly articles, he lives in Menlo Park, California, with his wife, Kathleen. This is his first novel.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

AUGUST 1943

T he last time I saw Dad, he and Dwayne Breedlove were headed west in Breedlove’s ’38 Chevy pickup. Breedlove had surprised us by showing up at about four in the afternoon the day before. We hadn’t seen him for five years.

We didn’t have many visitors back then. At the sound of the approaching vehicle, Dad, Mother, and I hurried out of the house. We watched as Breedlove stopped his pickup amid a swirl of dust and stepped out of the cab. He was wearing Levi’s, a western-style embroidered shirt, and a sweat-stained Stetson hat. His black cowboy boots were highly polished. What I noticed most of all was his belt—black, tooled with rosettes, and fastened with a shiny, silver buckle engraved with Breedlove’s initials.

Hey, Lyle, good buddy, how the hell are ya? he called to Dad.

Ain’t seen you for a while, Dad said. Where ya been?

Breedlove tipped his hat to Mother and grinned.

Ain’t where I been, he said. It’s where I’m goin’. Got somethin’ wet to slake a weary traveler’s thirst?

Cool, fresh water, Mother said. Although I was only ten years old, I could tell from the set of her jaw and the scowl on her face that she thought five years was five years too soon.

Thought I’d never find you, Breedlove said. He slapped his dusty hat against his thigh. How’d you end up down here, for Chrissake?

There was a moment of silence. I think you’d better ask Lyle, Mother said.

Dad cleared his throat. Fresh water right over here, he said as he led Breedlove toward the well house.

This time it’s it, Lyle, I overheard Breedlove say. This time I’ve got it. He was gesturing dramatically with his hands.

That man spells trouble, Mother muttered. Always has.

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Breedlove had found us at the Walter Mitchell place overlooking the Cimarron River valley in Baca County, Colorado, where we had lived since the late summer of 1941. Most people I know do not think of Colorado as a Dust Bowl state, but as the most southeasterly county in the state, Baca was at the heart of the most persistent problem area. Even today, Black Sunday—April 14, 1935, when one of the most destructive dust storms of the era rolled over the plains—is part of county lore.

In 1943 it was a recent memory. Old-timers spoke of a forty-degree drop in temperature followed by an onslaught of churning walls of dirt eight thousand feet high. The turbulence plunged the area into total darkness and generated static electricity that created its own lightning and thunder. People caught out in the storm crawled on hands and knees to grope their way toward shelter. Some of our neighbors told of strangers seeking refuge in their homes.

We were never sure why Dad had ended up in Baca County when he left his family behind and went west looking for work after the failure of his central Kansas appliance store in 1939. But apparently he had heard that a few farmers and ranchers out there were attempting to reclaim some of the area after the dry years of the Dust Bowl and that they needed workers during the reclamation period.

Maybe he thought it was far enough away from the failed business and the related entanglements that no one could find him. There had been rumors, after all, that Breedlove had lured him into gambling with promises of easy money and that Dad had been dipping into the till at the store, desperately trying to cover his gambling debts. Maybe he was trying to escape from the gamblers. Probably he was excited by the prospects of being a pioneer. And surely he drew desperate hope from promises that the parched land of the frontier was about to yield up its bounty once again to those who would nurture it, that he would strike it rich and prove to the world—and especially to Mother—that he still had a few tricks up his sleeve.

Arriving in the southeastern Colorado county sometime during the early spring months of 1940, Dad managed to eke out a living for himself working at various farms doing odd jobs. Later that year he met Walter Mitchell. Walter took an immediate liking to him, and by the summer of 1941, he had hired Dad on to sharecrop at Walter’s spread overlooking the Cimarron River in the far southern part of the county. As soon as the deal was settled, Dad sent for us.

Mother never tried to hide the fact that she hated Walter’s place, Baca County, and Colorado—or that she had never liked Dwayne Breedlove. She said he encouraged Dad’s weakness for gambling. Dad scoffed.

You’re just jealous ’cause I knew him ’fore I knew you.

Dad and Breedlove had been like brothers since they were teenagers. They had hunted jackrabbits in the Flint Hills of Kansas with .22 rifles, shot snooker at the local pool halls, and snorted the bootleg whiskey that Breedlove always had a way of finding. Sometimes they even passed themselves off as brothers. Physically similar, they were compactly built, blue-eyed, and fair-skinned with golden red hair. And, Mother said, Dad was a sucker for the schemes Breedlove always seemed to have for getting rich.

This time he had come with a scheme to search for lost treasure. He said he’d heard a legend about Spanish gold bars that had lain for hundreds of years in an old mine shaft somewhere in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. He said he was sure he had figured out the location. That evening, over a supper of fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, and chilled mint tea—all bounty of Mother’s garden and chicken yard—he spelled out his thinking.

It all came to me, fell into place, good buddy, like ducks in a row, he said. You here in Baca County, the treasure just to the west. It’s like a pattern. This time we can’t miss.

He turned to Mother. Great fried chicken, Becca, he said, wiping his mouth with the cuff of his sleeve.

She didn’t smile. She was shaking her head. I could tell she couldn’t believe that Breedlove actually was talking about buried treasure.

Them damn fools got it all wrong, Breedlove continued. "They been lookin’ for the stash in New Mexico. My readin’ of the legend puts it farther north, maybe not actually in the Sangre de Cristo range, but in the shadow of the range. In fact, I think it may be in one of mines right here out west of Baca County."

Dad’s hands were trembling as he absorbed the full impact of the story. But it’s illegal to own gold, he said. What’d you do with it if you found it?

They’s some ol’ boys down in Mexico ain’t too finicky ’bout FDR’s rules, Breedlove said with a smirk. We’ll find a way, never you doubt that.

A search for hidden Spanish gold sounded like the most romantic adventure I had ever heard of. Can I go along, Dad? I begged. Please?

No, son. You got to stay here and take care of your mother. And somebody’s got to make sure the hogs get slopped and the cows get milked. But I won’t be gone long.

Mother stood up from the table. Lyle, she said, surely you’re not thinking of actually doing this.

Becca, Dad protested, this could be our big break, what we’ve been waitin’ for.

No, Lyle, not another fantasy, Mother said. You take off on this wild goose chase, don’t bother to come back.

Becca …

She walked out of the room.

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Dad showed Breedlove the bunk area in the machinery shed, where Breedlove could throw down his bedroll. The two of them talked long into the night. I sat and listened for a while, eager to hear more about the Spanish treasure. But mostly they talked about what was happening in the town of Flint Center, where our home had been. When the subject of Dad’s failed appliance store came up, Dad cleared his throat and told me it was time for me to go back to the house and get ready for bed.

Can’t I stay just a little longer? I pleaded.

No, sonny boy; it’s gettin’ to be your bedtime.

I stood up slowly. ’Night, Mr. Breedlove, I said.

’Night, Perky. Sleep tight; don’t let the bedbugs bite.

The wind was coming up as I shuffled back to the house. Mother’s lamp was still on, but she didn’t say anything to me as I came in. I crawled into my bunk and listened to a coyote howl and the wind blow until I fell asleep.

The next morning, I woke up to the smell of coffee and the sounds of Dad and Breedlove talking in the kitchen. I jumped out of bed, threw on a plaid shirt, pulled on my jeans, and stepped into my shoes. I hurried to the kitchen with my shoelaces still untied. I didn’t want to miss any conversation about hunting Spanish treasure, but mostly I didn’t want to get bawled out for oversleeping and missing my chores. Dad must have seen the apprehension on my face.

It’s okay, son, he said. Me and Dwayne’s already milked the cows. We’re in a hurry to get on the road. They were seated at the kitchen table.

Mother, her face grim, was putting coffee mugs, oatmeal, leftover cornbread, and a pitcher of milk on the table. I took my place across from Dad. We ate in silence. Not even Breedlove talked. After breakfast I helped Mother clear the table while Dad and Breedlove filled water bags at the well. The morning was still cool when they loaded up Breedlove’s pickup.

Take good care of your mother, sonny boy, ya hear? Dad said as he settled himself into the passenger seat.

Yes, Dad.

He slammed the door. I’ll be back before you know it.

Okay, Dad. Good luck!

Dad turned to Mother, obviously hoping for approval. Becca?

I don’t want you to do this, Lyle.

Before Dad could respond, Breedlove started the engine, shifted into reverse, and backed the pickup out of the yard. Dad waved out the passenger-side window as they turned onto the road. The pickup kicked up dust as it headed west. Mother and I stood silently, watching the dust, with an incandescent glow in the morning sun, settle over the purple and gray expanse of sage and thistle. The pickup disappeared in the distance.

1

AUGUST 1995

A little before sundown, I nosed the Mustang into a space marked Reserved for Registration at the Cimarron Motel on South Main in Pike’s Bluff, Colorado. I had just driven in from Kayenta, Arizona. I had taken US 160 all the way east to its intersection with US 287/385 at the southern end of Springfield and then turned south for the drive to Pike’s Bluff. US 160 isn’t the easiest route from Arizona to Pike’s Bluff, but I had a special reason for choosing it this trip. Twenty-five years before, Molly, the kids, and I had taken that route. Jack was ten and Katy seven, and we were driving from San Francisco to central Kansas to visit Mother. We had stopped in Kayenta to visit one of Molly’s uncles, who was teaching on the reservation, and had visited the Cliff Palace in Mesa Verde. We’d stayed overnight at a Travelodge in Durango. But this time I was alone. I was at loose ends with my life. The kids were long since off on their own, and I’d lost Molly to a cerebral hemorrhage on March 15 the year before. And I’d just retired from thirty years on the law faculty at a small college in Northern California.

With the Oklahoma state line as its southern city limits, the town of Pike’s Bluff derived its name from the legend that the Pike expedition party encamped there while on the trek that eventually led to the discovery of Pike’s Peak. That Zebulon Pike and his party followed the Arkansas River and probably were never nearer than sixty miles from where the town is located never dissuaded the townspeople from promoting the legend.

Pike’s Bluff is located near an outcropping overlooking the Cimarron River valley, fewer than ten miles north of the Cimarron Cutoff branch of the Santa Fe Trail. Its Main Street is the town’s north-south thoroughfare for US 287/385. In the 1920s ambitious town leaders mounted an unsuccessful attempt to wrest the Baca County seat from Springfield, and in the 1930s the town rivaled Springfield in size and importance. But Springfield was more centrally located in the county and used its advantage as the county seat to eventually overshadow its competitor to the south.

During the years Dad spent sharecropping on Walter Mitchell’s spread, Pike’s Bluff was our main destination for supplies that we couldn’t get at Mr. Zdenka’s Cactus Corner Store, the country store four miles from our house. Some twenty miles west of us, Pike’s Bluff boasted a population of about 1,400. It had had a Rexall drugstore with a soda fountain and two pinball machines, a creamery, a general store, three filling stations, six churches, the Alhambra movie theater, and a dance hall. Pike’s Bluff was where I saw my first Hopalong Cassidy movie, found the comic books from which I learned to read, and attended my first Pentecostal Holiness revival meeting. It was where I learned to do the two-step one Saturday night when my big brother Byron let me tag along on one of his trips into town.

The Cimarron Motel didn’t exist yet when I was a boy. On the west side of Main Street and facing east, it was a two-story, L-shaped concrete block structure, with an asphalt parking lot that had room numbers painted in the parking slots. Outdoor staircases, one for each leg of the L, provided access to the upper decks. An overhang sheltered the balconies that served as passageways to the rooms. The exterior’s paint looked fresh. Recent plantings adorned the perimeter of the parking lot. Eight or ten vehicles were parked in the lot. I hadn’t known what I was getting myself into when in Durango I’d consulted an AAA Travel Guide to check available lodging. Listings in Pike’s Bluff were meager, but I had called ahead to make the reservation anyway. I did know I wanted to be sure of a bed that night.

Could be worse, I muttered to myself.

I turned off the ignition and sat there in the quiet for a couple of minutes, hoping the trembling caused by eleven hours of highway vibration would subside. It didn’t. I swung open the car door and stepped out onto the asphalt pavement. A ninety-five-degree blast of August wind—smelling of dust, sage, and a feedlot—scorched my face.

Thank goodness for air-conditioning, I thought.

I was stiff from the long drive, and it felt good to stand on firm ground. I closed the car door. The sun was low in the sky, and clouds gleamed with the brilliance of crimson, gold, and purple. A vapor trail, probably from a flight from Dallas to Denver, shone white against the cerulean blue of the sky.

With only my memories and an old family snapshot, I had come to look for Dad.

2

E ntering the door marked Office, I stepped up to the desk. No one was in sight. A TV was blaring a rerun of Gunsmoke from an adjacent room, and I caught the aroma of frying onions. A bell sat on the counter with a note: Ring for service. I rang. While waiting for someone to respond, I surveyed the office. The waiting area was small, not more than twelve by fourteen feet. Two straight-backed chairs flanked a water cooler at the wall opposite the entrance. A Mr. Coffee machine, with a handwritten note—Complimentary Coffee 6:30–9:30 a.m.—sat on a small table between the door and the desk. A rack containing brochures for local attractions hung on the back wall.

I was getting ready to ring again when a slender woman with blondish hair came through the door from the next room. She wasn’t wearing much makeup, had tired lines around her eyes, and was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt with a Colorado logo. She was wearing rubber thongs, and her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. I guessed her to be in her thirties.

’Scuse me, she said, swallowing. She wiped her chin with the back of her hand. Just fixin’ supper. She swallowed again. Help you?

Perk Parker, I said. I called from Durango this morning for a reservation.

She flipped through her Rolodex and came up with a card. Right, she said. You asked for a nonsmoking room?

That’s right.

From below the desk she dug out a registration form and placed it on the counter. See you got California plates. Just travelin’ through?

I busied myself filling out the registration form. Actually, I said, I lived in Baca County when I was a boy.

Really? We just moved back here a couple of years ago ourselves. Grandma needed me to be here. She’s not well.

I finished filling out the registration form and handed it to her.

Your reservation’s just for one night, she said. Think you might be stayin’ any longer? She dusted a speck of lint off the desk.

I don’t know yet. Any chance I could stay on a few more days, if I need to?

Let me look here in the book. She flipped through several pages of what appeared to be a registration directory. From what I could see, the pages were not filled up.

Prob’ly so, she said. Just let us know as soon as you can.

Fine.

She handed me a room key. Nonsmoking rooms are upstairs. Room 27 is at the end of the balcony. Anything we can do, let me know. I’m Darlene.

Thanks, Darlene. What’s the best restaurant in town?

Santa Fe Trail Steak House is just across the street and up three blocks. Wednesday night’s regulars’ night, but there’s travelers comin’ through too.

Thanks again, I said.

3

I moved the Mustang to the parking space marked for room 27, dragged my bags from the trunk, and climbed the outdoor stairs to find my room. I had packed light for this trip, just a couple of duffels, a Dopp kit, an Igloo ice chest, and my laptop. I wasn’t expecting to mix in high society. From what I could remember, there wasn’t much of that in Baca County anyway. At least not that a sharecropper’s kid would have known.

I let myself in, switched on the light, and examined the room. It was a basic motel unit. It had a queen-size bed, a chest of drawers with a twenty-seven-inch Magnavox TV on it, a small refrigerator, and a nightstand with a touch-tone telephone. There was a window air conditioner. The bathroom had a combination bath/shower. I was relieved to find a bathroom. My last stop had been Trinidad, two and a half hours earlier.

It was late in the afternoon, and the room felt stuffy. I switched on the air conditioner and popped open a can of Bud from the ice chest. I unpacked my bags and checked to see whether the room’s telephone had a modem jack. It did. Before leaving from home, I had consulted the Earthlink directory for dial-in numbers and had been relieved and a little surprised to find one for Baca County. I connected the laptop to the modem jack with a telephone cable, booted up the computer, and tested the number. The motel’s telephone system was old enough that I had to wait a couple of minutes for a connection, but it worked. No messages were waiting. I dashed off quick e-mails to Jack and Katy telling them I had arrived in Pike’s Bluff and giving them the telephone number for the Cimarron Motel.

Jack and Katy knew I had come to Baca County to try to find out what had happened to my dad. They didn’t know the whole story of his disappearance. From the time they were little, I’d told them about how their grandpa had gone off on an adventure with an old friend and never returned. I’d told them we never knew what happened to him. But I’d never burdened them with the details of the discovery of a dead body in an old mine or with Dad’s being wanted for questioning in a murder investigation. Molly knew, and I wouldn’t have lied or whitewashed the story if the kids had asked. But Molly and I had agreed it would serve no purpose to volunteer the information. Enough now just to keep them up to date on my search, I thought.

Before starting to look into the historical records in the county archives, I wanted to check in with Billy Ray Mitchell. Maybe he would know something about what had happened to Dad. Billy Ray was Walter Mitchell’s oldest son. He had inherited the old family place when his father died and had lived there ever since, the same place we had lived while Dad was sharecropping for Walter. I had written Billy Ray from San Francisco to alert him that I was coming.

I liked Billy Ray and always had, although he was at least ten years older than I, closer to my big brother Byron’s age than mine. He never spoke down to me but treated me as a friend. I looked forward to seeing him again. Most of all I wanted to pick his brain. I wondered whether he would be able to shed any light on the circumstances of Dad’s disappearance. I had been only eleven years old when Mother and I left Baca County to move back to Flint Center. I wondered how much scuttlebutt the county natives hadn’t wanted to tell us.

But I hadn’t seen Billy Ray for forty years, and I wasn’t sure how he would react to my getting in touch just to ask a favor. I thought of requests for letters of recommendation that had arrived out of the blue from former students I hadn’t heard from for twenty-five years. Sometimes such requests were irksome, but for a college professor they were part of the job. Responding to my request for help was not part of Billy Ray’s job description.

I looked up his number in the Baca County telephone directory and touched in the seven-digit number that was listed.

I’m listenin’, he answered.

Billy Ray?

That’s me.

Hi, Billy Ray. It’s Perk Parker.

Hey, how the hell are ya? Where ya at, anyway? He spoke with authority, his voice a bit gravelly.

I’m bushed. Drove in from Kayenta today. I’m at the Cimarron Motel in Pike’s Bluff.

Hey, high style! How’s it look? We heard Darlene and Johnny’s been sprucin’ it up.

I took a sip of beer. It serves my needs, I said.

Good. Got your letter. Be good to see ya, anytime.

Okay if I come down late tomorrow morning?

Mighty fine, he said.

Great, I said. See you then.

Remember how to get here?

I’ll find my way, I said. It’ll be good to see you.

We said our goodbyes. He hadn’t seemed annoyed. I heaved a sigh of relief.

4

I had been rehearsing the next move all the way from San Francisco. I took a deep breath and touched in a Morton County, Kansas, number. The connection seemed to take forever; then I heard the rings on the other end of the line. One ring … two … three …

Hello? The voice was familiar, a little husky, musical, in the mezzo range. Even after all these years, years happily married to Molly, years faithful to Molly, I felt a pang in my heart.

Jodie Mae?

There was a long pause. I heard the sound of rhythm and blues faintly in the background.

Yes?

I tried not to make a sound as I cleared my throat.

It’s Perk. Perk Parker.

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Jodie Mae Henderson had been my childhood sweetheart. We first met at the Pike’s Bluff Creamery when I was six and she was four. My mother, Rebecca, and her mother, Johanna, were at the creamery selling cream and eggs, cash crops from the farms, and they struck up a conversation, commiserating about hard times. They discovered that they had common interests in patchwork quilts and sewing. Before we left the creamery, they agreed to see each other again, to share recipes and trade handwork patterns. They became lifelong friends. I fell in love with Jodie Mae on the spot. She was a slender child with brown ringlets that fell to her shoulders, limpid brown eyes, and laughter that tinkled like the song of a meadowlark. I thought she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. A few years later, when her family moved into the school district where we lived, she