"Bullshit,” Sonny said. “You ain't found no Silver Spring."
"Hey, man, don't get hostile,” said the Indian. “You said you were a prospector, so I just thought I'd share a tale with you. You believe what you like, man.” He drawled out the word “man” so it sounded long, smooth, and mellow. The Indian sipped at his double shot of Red Star vodka.
The mention of the Silver Spring caused their first conversational pause in over an hour. Sonny had entered the bar planning to drink alone, as he usually did, when he spotted a man with a telltale head of long, straight, black hair. Sonny had introduced himself and bet a beer he could guess the Indian's tribe on the first try. The Indian's name was Dennis Diving-Bird. Most people, however, just called him Dennis the Deadhead. Dennis took the bet, Sonny guessed Hopi — Dennis bought the first round.
After forty years of prospecting in the American Southwest, Sonny prided himself on guessing any Native American's tribe. He liked Indians. They were, in fact, the only people he liked.
"The Silver Spring is just a myth,” Sonny said. “I should know, I looked for it twenty years ago and didn't find squat."
"Where'd you look?” Dennis asked.
"I looked in the Snake, Black, and San Francisco ranges.” Sonny finished his beer and signaled the bartender for another. “I didn't find nuthin'."
"Well, you were close,” Dennis said. He took a puff from the latest in his nonstop chain of Pall Malls. “It's in the Wah Wahs."
Dennis's wrinkled face hid under long, dirty-black hair. He wore a tie-dyed shirt, a fringed leather jacket covered with Grateful Dead skull patches, and smelled awful. But then again, Sonny knew that his two straight weeks in the Arizona foothills had fixed him with a rather ripe stench as well.
"The legends are true, man,” Dennis said. “That spring is bubbling out of the ground into a little pool full of silver dust."
"So you found the Silver Spring?” Sonny tried to sound disbelieving, but curiosity tickled his thoughts. “The legend is true, and it's just sittin’ there waitin’ for someone to claim it?"
"That's right, man. It's just layin’ there as pretty as you please, as long as no one's found it since I was there about ten years ago."
"Right. And that's why you're here, at the Two-Spoke Bar, drinking rotgut vodka instead of livin’ high on the hog at the Hilton."
"Hey, man, just ‘cause I didn't take it don't mean it ain't there."
"Then why the hell didjya leave it?” Sonny wasn't mad at Dennis, only at himself. The story was pure bullshit, yet already he felt that uncontrollable part of him embrace the tale the way a girl's legs wrap around her lover. Some men suffer addictions to drugs, booze, women, money; Sonny's habit was curiosity.
Dennis the Deadhead leaned forward conspiratorially, curling protectively around his drink, keeping his head low to the table. “That place is cursed, man. Maybe even evil."
"Aw, go fuck yourself! No curse ever stopped anyone from grabbin’ the pot at the end of the rainbow. I'd lift the devil's sack and pluck treasure from his ass, if that's what it took."
"That's ‘cause you ain't ever been there,” Dennis said softly. “The Hopi know enough to steer clear of that place. No one goes out there. No reason to go there in the first place. Nothing there but dirt and rock. I went out there to see for myself, to test the legends, you might say, but I only went once. The devil lives on that mountain. You can feel him, man."
Throughout the conversation, Dennis's eyes had sparkled with friendly laughter. Especially when he talked of the summers of ‘79 through ‘84, during which he'd toured with the Dead. Now, however, Sonny noted that Dennis's friendly emotion filtered away like wisps of smoke from his Pall Mall. As he spoke of the Silver Spring and the mountains, his eyes filled with fear. Every few seconds, Dennis looked from one corner of the bar to the next, as if the simple mention of the legend might summon some evil power.
"So if you know where this place is, how come you haven't told anybody?"
Dennis shrugged. “No one ever asked. Most people take one look at me and shy away. I can't remember the last time someone introduced themselves and offered to buy me a drink. In fact, I think you're the first."
Sonny nodded. “Yeah, but a secret like that burns a hole in a man's belly. If no one has found it yet, you haven't really told anyone. Why me?"
Dennis stared at Sonny long and hard.
"I don't know,” he said after a pause. His words were starting to slur slightly. “You're a man of the land. I can feel that. Maybe I told you because if you go there, I know you'll feel what I feel. Maybe because that place scares the shit out of me, and it won't scare you as much, maybe you can do something with it. Maybe it's because I'm getting drunk. Who knows?"
Dennis drained his vodka, his eyes flashing to both corners as he did.
"Could you draw me a map?” Sonny asked.
"Buy me another round of shots and I'll draw it right on this napkin,” Dennis said. “But I warn ya. You won't like that place."
Sonny signaled the bartender again, this time with two fingers for a double shot.
Dennis produced a red Crayola, and on the beer-stained napkin he started drawing a map. Their conversation continued for another hour, during which the two of them got exceedingly drunk, but Sonny wasn't really paying attention anymore. All he could think about was the possibility that the fabled Silver Spring — where silver poured from the ground like water from a bottomless canteen — was real.
Sonny wasn't some greenhorn straight off the bus. He knew the Southwest like a man knows his wife's body. He could hop in his Humvee, drive five or six hours to Utah, then hike into the Wah Wah Mountains and locate Dennis the Deadhead's mythical Silver Spring. The trip might take a day, perhaps two considering hiking speed in the unforgiving Wah Wahs. That wasn't much wasted time, and he'd satisfy his curiosity. He had to check it out. An ounce of truth lined every old wives’ tale, as his sainted mother used to tell him.
An ounce of truth sometimes paid off with an ounce of gold. Or in this case, an ounce of silver. Sonny wasn't going to be picky.
Chapter Two
Snow blew madly in a near-blinding wave, big wet clumps collecting on the windshield only to be swept away by the wipers. Wind drove at the night, the snow marking the wind's direction like tracer bullets. Connell leaned forward and squinted out the window. Visibility was only a few hundred feet. Rows of lights on either side of the winding driveway glowed with fuzzy halos of whipping snow.
"Maybe we should stay for a while, hon,” Cori said. “The party is still going strong. Although I wonder how long it will last without Mr. Life of the Party there to charm everyone.” Her hand reached out to touch his, which clung to the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip. He threw her a glance, offering her a reassuring smile.
"Oh, I'm sure they'll find a way to celebrate without me,” Connell said, holding her hand for a moment. “Besides, I'd rather spend at least some of the first day of the new year with my wife, not a bunch of rowdy, drunken coworkers."
She smiled at him, that warm, melting smile that had caught his eye at a New Year's Eve party six years ago. Caught his eye and never let go. He grinned back.
"Don't worry, Pea,” Connell said, returning the smile. “We'll be fine.” The storm was getting worse, and he had no intention of spending the night at his boss's house, crashed out on the floor somewhere with passed-out coworkers scattered about like victims of some party land mine. This was New Year's Eve, after all, the anniversary of the night he'd met his wife. He would spend the night with her and her alone, in their bed.