Komatke Gold. Benjamin Vance
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without seeing any of my old friends. Ron and I made it back to Parker around 5:30 p.m. the next evening. I was right on.
We went directly to my father’s shack to load the best of his belongings before it got too late. As soon as we pulled onto the dirt road my fathers’ shack was situated on, we saw someone run behind some Tamarack trees in the back alley. Reflexively Ron gunned the metallic green Chevy 428, took a hard right through another alley and damn near ran over a teenage kid in a real hurry. He looked like a scarecrow in the dim glow of the headlights, with pimples glistening, eyes wide, and kicking up dust with every misplaced stride. I managed to keep Ron from running over him and instead we gave him a good scare. At the time, I had no reason to recognize him.
When we checked, it didn’t appear the shack had been burglarized, but the old trailer I’d piled with trash was gone. I smiled as I visualized the leeches rummaging through all that trash looking for money that had already been removed, by yours truly. The loss of the old trailer was a blessing, but I still intended to report its’ theft. Even though it was totally dark by the time we caught our breath, we started loading the stuff I’d set aside.
At about 11:00 p.m. a city patrol car drove by slowly with an Anglo deputy inside. I waved him down to report the trailer theft, explained who I was, and he actually offered to help. I got the distinct feeling he knew who I was. Anyway, we left Parker about 12:05 a.m. and didn’t stop until we hit a Wickenburg cafe for coffee. Word about the move reached the county lawyer, but I told him I was throwing away some junk and he never asked another question on that subject. I also informed him about the trailer theft, gave him the suspects, and that was enough for that.
After we moved the things to Phoenix to be distributed to the Gila Reservation Mission, I returned to Parker in the old Datsun. Then I began a tireless search around Parker for my father’s assets. At the time, I was pleased to find he was actually not a pauper, and even began to expect a little inheritance. It was something like a treasure hunt where you depend on clues from someone losing his mind. I called banks and checked for safety deposit boxes, bank accounts and certificates of deposit. I got nowhere on the safety deposit box, even though he told me there was a safety deposit box in a certain Parker Bank. I’m sure now he didn’t have all his senses during his last days. At the time though, I thought perhaps he enjoyed sending me on wild goose chases, or perhaps he thought he’d get well soon and didn’t want me rummaging through his entire life.
Nevertheless, I found a single old, greened brass safety deposit key under some tarnished silver jewelry hanging from a single nail pounded into one of the four-by-fours holding up the “living room” roof. I tracked down the number to his local bank that had denied he had a box, but then the story was, “Oh yeah-we do have that box listed in your fathers’ name.”
In that small box was probably the best part of my fathers’ life; a part he wanted to preserve, or perhaps to protect. I shouldn’t go into a complete list of things I found in there. That’s history. The bank was only required to account for the cash, which was a mere $6,500. That made a total of $10,000, with the National Geographic contributions. I thought it was probably getaway money, or Mexico “honey money” if you get my drift. Among all the photos and mementos, Mexican pesos and few pieces of old jewelry, there was one other incongruous thing in that unused box. It was a strange piece of rolled-up leather that looked like old parchment. It was crudely covered in plastic film and old crusty yellowed clear tape and looked like just another bit of junk. The bank ladies weren’t the least bit interested so I unceremoniously threw it into a cardboard box with the rest; put the $6,500 cash into an executors’ account and headed back to Yuma.
When I was finally able to look at the contents of the box in the privacy of my MCAS room, I found the dry, brittle leather was sparsely covered with dim representations of mountain ranges and streams. I thought I recognized some of them. The blurred and stained writing seemed to be a form of Old Spanish and even though I couldn’t understand most of it, I saw that it referenced mountains which looked like the Kofas! The old friends looked very familiar on the map, and with a different name of course.
****
If one hasn’t been raised in the hot, dry state of Arizona, but wants to visit or live there, one really should learn a bit about the geography, folklore and hazards. Visitors die every year because they don’t understand the desert. When I off handedly stated the Kofa Mountains seemed like old friends, that’s precisely what I meant. Out west, and especially in Arizona, mountains are “individuals” really. They are something or “someone” that you use for bearings and familiarity. If you live long enough, they’ve sheltered you in a storm, provided cooling breezes in the summer and continue to wring a few precious drops of rain out of clouds during summer monsoons.
Unlike Eastern hills which aspire to be mountains, most are recognizable as individuals or Native American surnamed ranges of peaks that were distant landmarks and even holy places before time existed. As an example, the volcanic remnants that form Humphrey’s Peak at Flagstaff are sacred to some Native Americans and the Hopi believe Yaapontsa, the wind spirit, lives in a cave close to Humphrey’s Peak and Sunset Crater.
During conversations, the mountains are given a certain respectful status by native Arizonans and by Native Americans. By native Arizonans, I mean anyone who’s ever done serious climbing, suffered from exposure or dehydration, been lost and climbed to a pinnacle of one of these mountains to get bearings … and survived.
Now, I wouldn’t want people to think I’m too crazy, but I “talked” to some of those mountains in my younger years and they whispered back! I know an old Army officer is not supposed to talk about bizarre stuff like spirits and such, but believe me, unless you’ve been where I’ve been, don’t knock it. I’ve witnessed things on the Arizona desert that would make your spine tingle and the hair on the back of your neck want to hide in your crotch. I’ve been places where there was no sound at all, nothing, except the sound of my own breathing.
I’ve heard sounds like water rushing where there’s no water, the grunting and clicking of desert tortoises fighting, a screaming that scares the coyotes and starts their anxious yipping during the day; I’ve heard sounds that coyotes cannot. I’ve stood high in the Kofas, the Estrellas and the Mazatsals and heard dust devils whispering to heaven. I’ve re-buried Indian bones and heard the chanting sounds of Indian Nations among the wind and shards. I believe a lot of old desert rats and even some archaeologists from Arizona universities could verify should they dare risk their reputations.
An old Hopi once told me “Those Mountains don’t like crowds!” I believe one only hears these things when alone, and no I don’t smoke … anything!
Desert “leeches” love to smoke though. They smoke and drink even when they’re broke. How do they do that; welfare? They love hospitals too, especially the leeches who come crawling around when the smell of death and money are in the air.
I was in my father’s room for the second time on the second day and hadn’t been there 20 minutes when I was confronted by a squatty Mexican woman, one pimply older teenage boy, one shy and pretty teenage girl, and a smelly, unshaven Anglo-trailer-trash bum, all wanting to be my long-lost loving “relatives”. My father’s ex-prostitute ex-wife, her “husband” and her lovely kids had all driven from Parker to Yuma just to meet me. My, what a treat they were.
Ruddy faces, unwashed elbows, and cigarette after-smell chronicled the arrival of my “step sister and brother,” and my “step mother” and her insignificant other. What they didn’t realize was I recognized the pimply teenage boy from the alley incident. He didn’t recognize me, but I know he suspected. Not long after that, I started meeting other “leeches.” Several of my father’s old friends started coming around and it was during those various visits I learned they thought of the bastard kids as my sister and brother as well. Someone had been doing a lot of psychological warfare. In my naiveté I wondered if they were there because they thought they could get part of his estate. Hell, of course they did; had an excellent plan to get it, and had already hired an attorney.
My father never adopted his ex-wife’s bastard kids and left no signed will, but the presiding La Paz County Judge decreed that because my father stated in the divorce