BY JACK HELMUTH
Copyright is held by the author.
“Hey tenderfoot, you lost?” a voice crooned from nowhere.
Too tired to be startled, I looked up the sandy mound to my left and saw a fellow seated on strange looking desert vehicle. I was pushing my motor bike. “Ran out of gas,” I replied.
“Apparently.”
He released the handlebar brakes and coasted to a stop a few feet from my front tire. He had a kindly face, an avuncular air, but behind his steel rim glasses were eyes that missed not a thing. He wore a weathered Stetson.
I looked at his vehicle and said, “What are you driving, a lawn mower?”
He bristled at that and said, “This is the ultimate desert machine. It is a Pak Jak.” He pointed behind his seat, between the red steel rails, at a large gas tank. “And I don’t run out of gas.” He nodded toward my bike. “What are you driving, or should I say pushing? Triumph, huh.”
“Yeah. A TR5 500cc Trophy. Absolutely love it. Bought it used a few months back, almost like new though. Just getting used to it,” I added weakly.
He smiled and then suddenly held a finger to his lips for silence. I noticed he had a revolver strapped to his waist, beneath his sport coat. It looked like a 38 special. We turned and listened to the rhythmic hooves of a horse’s cantor, perhaps a half mile away. When I turned back, I saw that he had a Winchester lever-action rifle laying on his lap.
I looked at it and said, “The rifle that won the west.”
“That’s what Hollywood says.” He shifted in his seat, straightening his bolo tie. “We’ve had a string of robberies lately. So we must be careful of thieves, which is why I cut my engine and drifted into this gulch.”
I glanced at the rifle. “I read a newspaper story awhile back about a hiker who came across a Winchester leaning against a boulder. Seems like it must have been there for some time. Some rust. The story speculated on whatever happened to the rifle owner. Did he set it down, wonder off, and not find his way back to the rifle? Interesting stuff.”
He smiled. “I guess so. Maybe I can use it in one of my stories.”
I looked at him quizzically. He said, “I’m a lawyer and a writer. Write Westerns on occasion. My name is Erle Stanley Gardner.”
I nodded. I offered and we shook hands. “My name is Alan. I read some of your stories in Argosy, when I was a kid.”
A cowboy covertly appeared on the sandy mound above us on what looked like a Quarter horse. He chuckled, “And I read Esquire ’cause I liked the girly pictures.” He sat tall wearing a white work shirt and wide brimmed straw cowboy hat. He had a Winchester laid across his saddle horn.
It suddenly occurred to me that everyone had a Winchester but me.
“That’s Sam, my ranch foreman…we heard him riding by a little while ago,” Mr. Gardner explained. Looking up at Sam, he said,” Anything new going on?”
“Yeah. I heard the thieves hit the Parker Ranch this morning.”
“No!” Mr. Gardner shook his head and grimly explained, “That’s the fourth ranch this month. Not to my liking.”
I suddenly realized that these fellows were out here in the desert and had formed a two-man posse.
“So what brings you out to the desert?”, Sam asked.
Mr. Gardner watched me closely.
“I was headed down the highway and thought, what the heck, cut through the desert for a few miles and see some of its beauty. Not thinking that I’d get lost and run out of gas.”
“Not a great plan,” Sam said. “The soft sand, hilly surface will eat up your gas supply. And you’re headed Southwest. Should be headed South.” He shook his head. “What’s your name, anyway?”
“Alan Neves.” I must have straightened up when I replied.
“Were you in the military, Alan?”, Mr. Gardner asked.
Standing more upright by military habit. “Yes. Edward Alan Neves, Sergeant First Class.”
Mr. Gardner nodded kindly. He was used to working with clients as a lawyer, I could tell. He waited for me to continue.
“I served in Korea. 145th Field Artillery battalion.”
“What did you do? Designation?”
“I was a cook. Cooks have a lot of friends.” He waited, so I continued. “I brought my kitchen right up to the front. I wanted our soldiers to have a hot cup of coffee and donuts at dawn, when the fighting would start again.” I added, with a lowered tone,” They even gave me a medal for doing that.”
Mr. Gardner nodded. “Well Alan, why don’t we get you back on the road.” He reached behind his seat and handed me a full Jerry can of gasoline. I filled my tank gratefully and decided to top it off. Why not. Gas is expensive and I did not want to run out of fuel again.
I looked at Sam, who sat stoically, with a red tipped wooden kitchen match sticking out of his mouth. “Why the match?” I asked.
“Helps to keep me focused.”
“Oh.”
I returned the Jerry can to Mr. Gardner. He opened a thermos and handed me a cup of cool water. It tasted good. I handed it back but he filled the cup again.
“Drink up. You have to stay hydrated out here.” Sam nodded in agreement.
“You know Alan, I am impressed by your military service. And going above and beyond by serving our soldiers hot food at the front is most laudable,” he said in a sincere lawyerly fashion. “You seemed hesitant to tell us you were awarded a medal. That hesitancy, not being boastful, speaks tons out here in the West. I just want to tell you, be proud of that medal. You earned it and those in command thought so too…much less those soldiers you fed.”
End of summation and he smiled gently. I thanked him.
I turned my bike around. Sam said, “Head South this time,” he pointed. “Go about twelve miles and you’ll be back on your highway. Then turn left or right,” he added with Western humor.
I rode for several miles going from the gulch to some higher ground. The sun was not as high and the promise of a cooler night wind had started. I stopped, cut my engine off by a remarkably tall cactus and sat in its slender shade. The solitude of the desert encouraged me to think about the day and Mr. Gardner’s comments on my military service. The wind kicked up creating sounds of whispering sands that gently exfoliated the bike’s paint. You notice things more intently when in the desert.
***
I found the same tall cactus many years later. It has only two branches making it look like a field goal post. I sat in its slender shade. I was riding a TR6 600cc Trophy now. I’d retraced the ride in the gulch where I met Mr. Gardner and Sam. Mr. Gardener had gone on to even greater fame with his Perry Mason novels and TV show. His true love of the law and of the desert isn’t as well known, though. The sun was getting lower, the evening wind was starting up and I heard the whispering sands of the desert speaking to me once again. Thank you for the memories, Mr. Gardner.
***
AUTHORS NOTE: Erle Stanley Gardner is best known today for his Perry Mason novels and TV show. However, he was also a successful lawyer and pulp fiction writer, which included Westerns. He constantly travelled the rough terrain of the deserts in Southwest U.S., which became the locale for his stories. Whispering Sands (1981) and Paydirt (1983) are collections of some of his Argosy magazine work from 1930 to 1934. He was also a successful lawyer in Southern California, often defending Mexican and Chinese clients who were falsely accused because of discrimination. He even became rather fluent speaking Chinese. When he died in 1970, he had published more paperbacks than any writer. This short story pays tribute to his Western stories. And yes, he did use expressions like “tenderfoot” in his fiction.
***
Jack Helmuth has rekindled his interest in writing fiction. He was a finalist for the 57th annual Irene Leache Memorial short story prize. He is faculty emeritus at the University of Michigan and over time has created a trove of fiction, with both literary and suspense genre stories. He is now writing full time.