Last Stand at Gowler Canyon: A Modern Western

By Joseph W. Michels

The year is 1988. Dave Nash, a 45-year old Viet Nam vet, has just retired after 25 years working as a telephone linesman in rural Iowa. He discovers he’s been left a desert ranch in Southern California by his late aunt. Dave never met the woman—the sister of his mother—and has no idea how he came to be the beneficiary. But having no strong ties to the greater Des Moines area where he grew up, he decides to pack all his worldly goods in the back of his brand new pickup and drive out to California to see if he can make a new life for himself on a defunct 120 acre ranch miles from any paved road.

Upon arriving at the ranch, Dave meets up with a vivacious, Scottish-born heiress named Liz Simmons who owns a ranch not far from his. A woman of considerable accomplishment, Dave feels inadequate in her company, but she’ll have nothing of it, and aims to insinuate herself into his life. His few other neighbors are equally unstinting in their welcome: the proprietor of a bar/restaurant about a mile away named Carl Hurbinger, and a free-lance writer named James Hausman who resides in a small house at the place where the uneven dirt tract that leads to his ranch links up with the closest paved road. Soon, Dave finds himself becoming involved in the lives of his neighbors. It all comes to a head when he’s forced to deal with a crackpot scheme proposed by Seymour Berenger, a friend of one of his neighbors.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781663203359

Joseph W. Michels

JOSEPH W. MICHELS came to fiction writing after a long career as an archaeologist and cultural anthropologist. KAGNEW STATION: DATELINE 1956 is a sequel to the ALAN HARPER TRILOGY. The author became acquainted with Kagnew Station in 1974 while directing a large archaeological project in the region. The project’s headquarters was two blocks from the entrance to Kagnew Station and the project’s staff made extensive use of the base’s facilities.

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Copyright © 2020 Joseph W. Michels.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means,

graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by

any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author

except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue

in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Credit for cover art photo:

Copyright © aliciamariemassie/shutterstock.com

Credit for author photo:

Copyright © 2019 Dina L. Michels

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ISBN: 978-1-6632-0334-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-0335-9 (e)

iUniverse rev. date:   06/16/2020

CONTENTS

Acknowledgement

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

Four of the key fictional characters used in the book were the creation of some of my most ardent readers. Each of four readers (who prefer to remain anonymous) volunteered to come up with a fictional character, agreeing to supply each with a brief backstory. The four fictional characters of whom I speak are: Liz Simmons; Carl Hurbinger; James Hausman; and Seymour Berenger. It was both a challenge and a genuine pleasure to work with these characters as I fashioned a storyline and gave life to the novel. To all four of those readers who gifted me with their character creations, I extend my warmest appreciation and thanks.

CHAPTER ONE

Dave Nash picked up Interstate 80 where it connected with State Route 169, just west of Des Moines. You okay? he asked Luke, a two-year old male Black & Tan Coonhound who sat upright and alert in the passenger seat as if he was just another human. Luke looked over at him, his long ears flapping, then returned his attention to the passing traffic.

I’ll take that as a yes, said Dave as he pressed down on the accelerator and felt the pickup’s V-8 engine propel the vehicle forward at a steadily rising speed. He kept an eye on the instrument panel and remained attune to the vehicle’s steering, suspension, and engine sounds…seeking reassurance the new American-manufactured pickup he’d just taken delivery of was performing the way he expected it to. The vehicle was one of the brand’s more popular models—with automatic transmission, four-wheel drive, air conditioning—that he’d ordered in a dark metallic brown with a tan interior.

Dave glanced in the rearview mirror, imagining he could see Des Moines steadily receding from view, or even better perhaps, the small town on the North Raccoon River, 65 miles northwest of Des Moines, where he was born and raised. A foolish gesture, he thought, forming a wry smile, but curiously one that seemed to give him some satisfaction—a way to mentally break with his past as he started a whole new life far to the west.

It was 1988, and Dave was forty-five years old. He’d just retired after twenty-five years working as an Iowa telephone lineman based out of Des Moines.

As he picked up the rhythm of the fast moving traffic he let his thoughts drift. He thought about his boss at the telephone company who shook his head at Dave’s decision to retire so young. His boss had been tirelessly pressing Dave to remain with the company…to accept a promotion into management, telling him a whole new career could be his for the asking. But Dave knew himself well enough to know he had no stomach for that kind of responsibility. He reached over and petted Luke, gently fingering Luke’s velvety left ear. Luke leaned his head into Dave’s stroking hand, eager to have him continue.

Dave thought back on the day he was finally able to justify his decision in a way even his boss could accept…it was the day after he’d received a letter from a law office in California. The letter had informed him an aunt on his mother’s side had left him in her will some property in the heart of California’s desert southwest.

The attorney had included a photograph and sketch map of the area, together with a brief description. Dave discovered he was now the owner of a 120-acre ranch located at a place called Gowler Canyon. Apparently it wasn’t a real ranch, but had once been used for farming. In recent years, advised the lawyer, the ranch had served principally as the permanent residence of his aunt who lived alone. Evidently, there was a large 1930’s vintage ranch house on the property that his aunt had thoroughly renovated. She’d also paid for the laying of an underground cable array that connected the residence to both the valley’s electrical grid and to the local telephone network.

Dave didn’t tell his boss any details, just impressed upon him the fact he was now the owner of a ranch in southern California that had been neglected and urgently needed his personal attention.

Word of the ranch quickly got out among his fellow workers, making it difficult for Dave to even contemplate remaining in the Des Moines area after retirement, which of course was his original intention. Dave gave a resigned shrug, as he thought about the quandary he’d inadvertently put himself in, but now—having grown comfortable with the idea—he was happy to finally be on the road heading west.

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Around one o’clock that afternoon, Dave and Luke reached Big Springs, Nebraska, where Dave picked up Interstate 76. Time for a real stop, buddy, he said as he pulled into a rest area where there’d be grass for Luke to explore with his ultra sensitive sense of smell, and where Luke could do his business.

Dave put Luke on a long retractible leash, then walked around to the back of the pickup to inspect the rope lashings that secured his belongings piled high on the truck bed. The load seemed to be okay, so he gave Luke his head, following him at some distance as the dog scrambled about, checking one smell after another.

As Dave absently let Luke plot the direction and pace across the grassy expanse, he studied the weather. It was early October and even at midday the air seemed pleasantly temperate, chilled a bit by a modest breeze. It brought to mind for him the prospect of deer hunting season, still almost two months away back in Iowa, but happily he’d learned the hunting season where he was going was just about to begin.

Dave had grown up hunting white-tailed deer with his father in the woods near Raccoon River, and in anticipation of being able to continue the activity he had brought along his deer rifle, a 30-caliber lever action model he’d owned for several years. He’d also brought with him what he referred to as his varmint gun—a 22-caliber revolver given to him by his father.

Okay, Luke…you’ve had enough break time…into the car with you! said Dave, holding the truck’s passenger side door open. Luke complied—seemingly just as eager to put some additional miles between themselves and Des Moines as Dave himself.

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Dave spotted a motel on the southern outskirts of Denver that advertised a willingness to take pets. It was only four o’clock in the afternoon, but Dave figured nine hours of driving was enough—not only for himself but especially for Luke. He shifted to the slow lane and took the next turnoff.

The motel belonged to a national chain that had been popular about ten years earlier but now appeared a bit time-worn—not only physically but also architecturally. Dave backed his truck up against the raised curb of the sidewalk outside the entrance to their assigned room then climbed down and walked around to the passenger side, letting Luke jump to the ground.

Remember, I get the right side of the bed, admonished Dave as he unlocked the door and pushed it open. Luke rushed in, then quickly reconnoitered—checking the room’s odors for signs of dogs who might have preceded him. That taken care of, Luke jumped up onto the bed and claimed the left side, just as Dave had hoped he would. But then with some foreboding he watched as the mattress sagged under Luke’s seventy-five pounds of weight. With a resigned sigh, Dave realized he probably shouldn’t count on getting much sleep given the inferior quality of the bed they’d be sharing.

After putting out food and water for Luke, Dave settled into the one upholstered chair in the motel room and took out the sketch map the lawyer had enclosed with the letter. The drawing was fairly crude, and Dave noticed that the lawyer had neglected to give the map any kind of distance scale. What he could manage to discern was that Gowler Canyon was one of a handful of canyons that drained into a large open area called Coyote Wash, but how far the canyon was from the single road drawn on the map was difficult to assess. An uneasy feeling began to take hold, making Dave think maybe this whole relocation idea could have benefitted from a little more due diligence on his part. With a shrug, he got up from his chair and headed out, leaving Luke to manage on his own. He began walking across the large parking area that served multiple businesses, in the direction of an all-night diner located at its north edge…intent on getting a hot meal before calling it a night.

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By the morning of his fourth day on the road Dave Nash was on Interstate 40, just west of Flagstaff. He’d left the windows of the pickup open to catch the air as they drove, welcoming the way it circulated around the truck’s cab in a kind of frantic rush. Its dryness didn’t surprise him; what did was how crisp it felt so early in the morning…before the sun had a chance to raise the temperature from its overnight lows. He glanced over at Luke who seemed to be reveling in the stream of foreign odors being carried through the passenger window. This is what your new home is probably going to smell like, old boy, said Dave, reaching over and playfully stroking Luke’s neck.

According to the map, he’d reach the town of Kingman in about two hours. The prospect excited him—not because he had any special attachment to the town, but because that’s where the highway soon crossed into California. After that, he knew he’d be in the southern part of the state and on his way to his deceased aunt’s ranch.

As the promise of finally arriving began to sink in, Dave grew a little uncomfortable, wondering whether someone had cleared away all of his aunt’s personal belongings, or whether he’d be expected to do it. He’d never met the woman…knew virtually nothing about her…so had difficulty imagining what he might encounter. He tried to speculate, leading off with the few facts at his disposal: first, he’d been told she was a woman in her seventies at the time of her death; second, she reportedly lived alone…no husband, no household pets and no livestock; third, she lived in a ranch house some distance from even the closest town. On the face of it, he thought, it seemed an austere and frugal sort of life…one that probably meant she had few personal possessions and a somewhat limited wardrobe. That line of thinking gave him a measure of relief…even if her personal possessions were still there when he arrived there’d be little need to worry—an hour or so of boxing up the scattered items would probably be all that’s needed, he thought.

It then occurred to him that more than likely he’d be stepping into a similar sort of life. Despite making some mental effort he found he couldn’t easily dismiss the thought. After all, he reasoned, it was a fact that all his worldly goods fit nicely within the confines of the bed of his pickup, and he knew there wouldn’t be a moving van laden with all the rest following along behind because he’d gotten rid of everything else.

Dave reflected on the irony of it all, but knew from years of reading philosophy and literature on his own—not ever having gone to college—that his minimalist take on life hadn’t arisen from some ideological source, but from a desire to avoid stress of any sort. Dave knew himself well enough to know that possessions, responsibilities, even relationships, were all things he tended to navigate around whenever possible. His stress barometer was eczema; when it erupted on his skin he’d take steps to diminish the source of the stress; when it cleared up he knew he’d achieved a healthy measure of tranquility in his day-to-day life. With a wry smile, Dave reflected on the fact that the four-day drive, with the uncomplicated companionship of his dog, Luke, was proving to be good for his eczema.

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He’d picked up State Highway 95 upon entering Californa and had been on it for some time when a sign at the next turnoff told him he was approaching a commercial strip. Dave figured it would lead him to where he could get some lunch, gas up, and inquire how best to reach Beeman, the small town noted on the sketch map which the lawyer seemed to want him to use as a key reference point.

It was just about noon. An hour earlier, Dave had been obliged to close the windows and ramp up the air-conditioning in order for Luke and himself to remain comfortable. He had the impression that the outside temperature had been climbing steadily—particularly once they passed into California. Dave judged it now to be in the high 80’s.

The first building he saw as he approached the commercial strip was a Visitors Welcome Center, Dave pulled over and parked. Then, after taking a moment to stretch, he put Luke on a leash and headed inside.

How can I help you? asked the young woman at the counter.

I could use a map of the area, said Dave.

Are you interested in someplace special, or do you need a map covering the whole area? she asked.

I guess eventually I’ll be wanting to check out most parts of the area, replied Dave politely, but right now I’m in need of directions to a town called Beeman.

Well, then I think you’ll find our standard area map to be sufficient, she said, selecting a folded map from a display case behind her and handing it to Dave. This map also features some key points of local interest.

Is the town of Beeman on the map? asked Dave.

Yes, it is, she replied, pointing to its location, Using this map I don’t imagine you’ll have any difficulty finding your way.

Dave studied the map, making a quick assessment of the best route to take to get to Beeman, and from there to the area sketched out by the lawyer. Okay, now I see what I need to do, he said quietly to himself.

Will there be anything else? she asked.

No…but thanks…you’ve been a big help. Oh, yeah…there is one other thing…do you know whether Beeman is big enough to have a restaurant and maybe someplace where I can buy fuel?

Definitely, she replied. Beeman happens to be one of the younger towns in the region. And although small, it’s thought to have a promising future. Local developers have been fairly active…I think you’ll find it has everything you need.

Thanks, said Dave as he gave Luke’s leash a gentle tug, rousing him from his resting position stretched out on his stomach, flat against the cool concrete of the floor.

Dave led Luke out to the pickup, helped him in, then went around to the driver’s side and slipped behind the steering wheel. As he backed out of the parking place he glanced down at the fuel gauge and was reassured he could probably make it to Beeman without having to stop for gas. Food was another matter, but he figured he could tough it out until they reached the town. We’re getting close, Luke, he said as he turned back onto the road that would return them to the main highway.

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The town of Beeman sat at a point where several state roads came together. As he came up on it he could see that buildings were scattered thinly at the outskirts, but began to be placed in greater proximity to one another as he neared the center of town. Still, even there, he noticed, most commercial buildings featured generously-sized parking lots. And like most desert towns he’d passed through, the layout of the paved streets tended to conform to the rigid angularity of the U.S.G.S. Section Grid that had preceded it. He supposed he had reached the heart of the town when he spotted a bank, a post office, and a courthouse all grouped together around the only intersection that seemed to have a traffic light.

Dave kept driving—still on the hunt for a truck stop where he could get fuel. He knew from the sketch map that the road he needed to take out of Beeman, the one that would lead him to Coyote Wash, was a main access road located on the east side of town, so he headed in that direction. He passed a restaurant that curiously advertised a Tiki Bar. He also passed a couple of nationally-branded motels, a modest church, a food market and a fairly large farming supplies outlet.

Dave noted that all the commercial buildings appeared to be efficiently-designed single story structures with few if any architectural flourishes; unless of course he was expected to regard the outsized and often gaudy signage attached to the buildings as somehow claiming that distinction. Finally, as he approached the eastern edge of town, he spotted a large truck stop. And sharing the parking lot was a pizza joint, a fast food restaurant and an auto supply store.

He pulled alongside a pump station, shut off the motor and climbed out. After connecting the fuel hose and making sure the flow was properly adjusted, Dave opened the passenger door, clipped on Luke’s leash then watched as he jumped down. He led him around to the back of the vehicle where he filled a bowl with fresh water so Luke could slake his thirst. Standing there, in the intense heat of midday, he again questioned the wisdom of his willingness to relocate. But he pushed the doubts aside and let the anticipation of finally arriving lighten his mood.

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After grabbing a quick burger and fries at the fast food joint, Dave pulled out of the truck stop onto a highway that led east, away from town. Dave noted with satisfaction that it was the one he was expected to use. On both sides of the road he could see recently constructed mini-subdivisions filled with small, single-story stucco houses with flat roofs and minimally landscaped yards. The developers appeared to have invested in a scattering of palm trees and desert pines along the principal streets, but Dave figured the people buying these homes were less interested in their landscaping than in their affordability.

Once past the narrow band of residential neighborhoods, the main access road seemed to leave all traces of human settlement behind. At first, all of Dave’s attention was taken up with the impression of how the road he was on seemed to extend forever through a rugged and wild desert setting of immense proportions. But a more discerning inspection rewarded Dave with occasional glimpses of settlement—a residence or two, or maybe a house trailer—hidden well away from the road and connected to it by nothing more than an earthen track. He took a deep breath and turned to Luke, I guess this is what we’re going to find when we arrive, old boy…hell, the way I figure it, you’ll probably have to make friends with a coyote or two if you plan on having any other canines to play with. Luke looked