‘I had an excellent teacher.’
They stood watching as the sun slipped below the rim of the basin. For a moment, as if the turtle in its depths was surrendering its light to the sun, the whole lake turned golden.
Transcription: Telephone Recording Between
Volta and Wild Bill Weber
WILD B.: ‘Lapidem esse aquam fontis vivi.’
VOLTA: Indeed. And how are you, Bill?
WILD B.: Headed for the desert.
VOLTA: You have a choice, Bill. I will give you one million dollars, or I will get down on my knees naked and beg you, if you’ll consent to teach another five years.
WILD B.: I’m done. Bye.
VOLTA: (laughing) All right, school’s out. How was your last student?
WILD B.: He’s paying attention.
VOLTA: No doubt. What do you think of him?
WILD B.: No limit. He slows himself down with questions, but some of them are the right ones. Even more, I think he’s capable of understanding some answers.
VOLTA: How did he react to the explosion?
WILD B.: As expected.
VOLTA: By the way, I was honored you consulted me. Or were you just trying to spread the responsibility in case it went awry?
WILD B.: Even the bold and brilliant get nervous.
VOLTA: True. But as long as they’re not too bold, they also grow wiser.
WILD B.: He knew to let it go, that he had to. He even had a powerful premonition the night before. He heard his mother calling Alllee-alllee-outs-in-free.
VOLTA: I told you he might be the student you were looking for.
WILD B.: You wouldn’t happen to know who his father is, would you? Daniel said not even his mother knew, but since you know everything, I thought I might ask.
VOLTA: Your flattery is wasted on my failure – I have no idea. His mother, Annalee, as I believe I mentioned, was a woman of well-founded pride and immense courage. There’s evidently much of her in Daniel.
WILD B.: No argument, but let’s not get carried away. He’s young. The young make some hideous mistakes.
VOLTA: They’re supposed to.
WILD B.: And there may be a problem. He hasn’t dreamed since his injury, or at least he doesn’t remember his dreams.
VOLTA: That’s dangerous.
WILD B.: So is remembering them.
VOLTA: Let’s not pursue it, Bill. Let’s honor our friendship by respecting our disagreements. You might also honor it by telling me what the problem really is, since you would never consider the lack of dreams anything but a blessing.
WILD B.: Daniel likes the edge. He’s a little too dazzled by oblivion.
VOLTA: Adolescence encourages ecstatic mistakes.
WILD B.: Too dazzled. But that’s just a sense I have, nothing else.
VOLTA: Is there a possibility your own fears or desires amplify your perception of his?
WILD B.: Of course.
VOLTA: I’m not challenging you. I sense the same thing in Daniel. You know, Bill, we ride the same wave so often, if it weren’t for your hard-headed foolishness, we’d have no disagreements at all.
WILD B.: Praise life for the saving graces.
VOLTA: That’s a bit like praising time for tomorrow.
WILD B.: Speaking of tomorrows, Daniel wants to know what’s next.
VOLTA: I wouldn’t attempt to consider it without consulting you. You’ve been with him eighteen months.
WILD B.: And about the last three he’s been cooking in his own juices.
VOLTA: Ah, hormones. Kiss the brain farewell. Any specific recommendations?
WILD B.: Sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll. Daniel’s had a solid dose of the alchemical salts; an infusion of outlaw spirit might be timely – though it would be wise to have a tempering influence near at hand.
VOLTA: The Stocker operation. Mott and Aunt Charmaine.
WILD B.: Bingo.
Through more of Alexander Kreef’s legal wizardry, Daniel was released from custodial probation and, after passing a high school equivalency exam, allowed to seek gainful employment. Alexander Kreef had heard that Ariba Farm and Ranch Company was hiring, and happened to have one of their cards in his pocket. Daniel was hired over the telephone and told to report to the Rocking On Experimental Range Station, a three-thousand-acre ranch in southern Oregon. Mott Stocker, the ranch foreman, would be expecting him.
When they met at the horse barn a week later, Daniel was glad Mott had expected him and not been taken by surprise. Mott was six foot eight and a solid 260, his powerful physical presence strengthened by the thunderbolt-shaped scar on his forehead, his long black tangled hair and beard, and what proved to be his usual attire: an Australian bush hat with a band of sharks’ teeth strung on a thin, gold wire; a long-tailed buckskin shirt, grease-stained and grungy, belted with a snap-holstered Colt .45 automatic and sashed with a bandolier of extra ammunition; a jockstrap (buckskin pants when he went to town); and a pair of motorcycle boots. The only thing fragile about Mott Stocker was the pale blue of his eyes, a color that seemed almost too delicate to exist, that hovered on the threshold of perishing back into light.
Daniel liked Mott’s eyes and worried about the rest. As they saddled up, Daniel wondered how Mott’s mule, Pissgums, could survive his rider, not to mention the weight of the bulging saddlebags and twin scabbards, one holding a sawed-off twelve-gauge pump, the other a marine-issue M-16.
Daniel, with an attempt at lightheartedness, nodded toward the arsenal and said, ‘Are we expecting trouble?’
With a deep and thoughtful drawl, Mott said, ‘Better to have ’em and not need ’em than to need ’em and not have ’em.’
‘What’s in the saddlebags?’
‘Grenades, small mortar, extra rounds and clips, some other stuff.’
‘Well, you have ’em, that’s for sure.’
‘Yeah. But what I’d really like is a bazooka – one of those World War Two jobs. Awful hard to come by, though.’
A little nervously, Daniel asked, ‘Just where are we headed.’
‘Gonna ride up on Grouse Prairie and meet Lucille.’
‘Who’s she?’
‘Dan, they told me you were coming here to learn the ropes. Some of the rope can tie us up, some of it can hang our ass. It’s an important part of the business to never ask more questions than you need answers for.’
‘I thought this was a cattle ranch.’
‘Moo,’ Mott drawled.
They reached the log bridge on Crawdad Creek right after sunrise. Halfway across, Mott jerked back hard on his mule’s reins, bellowing ‘Whoa, Pissgums, you sum’bitch!’ Daniel, following, pulled up his horse. Mott dismounted and reached under the bridge timbers for a quart jar of clear liquid.
He unscrewed the cap and lifted it toward Daniel. ‘Breakfast.’ He drank a third of the bottle. ‘Wahhh!’ he roared, offering the bottle to Daniel.
Daniel took it, his eyes watering at the fumes. ‘What’s this?’
‘Warmth in a cold world,’ Mott wheezed. ‘Whiskey. Homemade.’
Daniel took a cautious sip. ‘Whew,’ he said huskily, ‘it burns.’
‘Don’t be shy. Best have another slash – long ride to the top.’
Daniel took an even smaller sip and handed the bottle back to Mott, who offered it to the mule. Pissgums sniffed the bottle, snorted, shied slightly, then lipped the rim. Mott poured slowly till Pissgums tossed his head and backed away.
‘Goddamn, you’re getting particular,’ Mott said to the mule, then turned to explain. ‘He don’t like it if it hasn’t been aged at least a month.’
‘Hee-ee-yaw-yaw-yaw,’ Pissgums brayed, and bolted suddenly across the bridge.
Mott pulled his .45, cupping it as he swung on the fleeing mule.