CHAPTER 1
August 1995
A little before sundown, I nosed the Mustang into a space marked "Reserved for Registration" at the Cimarron Motel on South Main in Pike's Bluff, Colorado. I had just driven in from Kayenta, Arizona. I had taken US 160 all the way east to its intersection with US 287/385 at the southern end of Springfield and then turned south for the drive to Pike's Bluff. US 160 isn't the easiest route from Arizona to Pike's Bluff, but I had a special reason for choosing it this trip. Twenty-five years before, Molly, the kids, and I had taken that route. Jack was ten and Katy seven, and we were driving from San Francisco to central Kansas to visit Mother. We had stopped in Kayenta to visit one of Molly's uncles, who was teaching on the reservation, and had visited the Cliff Palace in Mesa Verde. We'd stayed overnight at a Travelodge in Durango. But this time I was alone. I was at loose ends with my life. The kids were long since off on their own, and I'd lost Molly to a cerebral hemorrhage on March 15 the year before. And I'd just retired from thirty years on the law faculty at a small college in Northern California.
With the Oklahoma state line as its southern city limits, the town of Pike's Bluff derived its name from the legend that the Pike expedition party encamped there while on the trek that eventually led to the discovery of Pike's Peak. That Zebulon Pike and his party followed the Arkansas River and probably were never nearer than sixty miles from where the town is located never dissuaded the townspeople from promoting the legend.
Pike's Bluff is located near an outcropping overlooking the Cimarron River valley, fewer than ten miles north of the Cimarron Cutoff branch of the Santa Fe Trail. Its Main Street is the town's north-south thoroughfare for US 287/385. In the 1920s ambitious town leaders mounted an unsuccessful attempt to wrest the Baca County seat from Springfield, and in the 1930s the town rivaled Springfield in size and importance. But Springfield was more centrally located in the county and used its advantage as the county seat to eventually overshadow its competitor to the south.
During the years Dad spent share cropping on Walter Mitchell's spread, Pike's Bluff was our main destination for supplies that we couldn't get at Mr. Zdenka's Cactus Corner Store, the country store four miles from our house. Some twenty miles west of us, Pike's Bluff boasted a population of about 1,400. It had had a Rexall drugstore with a soda fountain and two pinball machines, a creamery, a general store, three filling stations, six churches, the Alhambra movie theater, and a dance hall. Pike's Bluff was where I saw my first Hopalong Cassidy movie, found the comic books from which I learned to read, and attended my first Pentecostal Holiness revival meeting. It was where I learned to do the two-step one Saturday night when my big brother Byron let me tag along on one of his trips into town.
The Cimarron Motel didn't exist yet when I was a boy. On the west side of Main Street and facing east, it was a two-story, L-shaped concrete block structure, with an asphalt parking lot that had room numbers painted in the parking slots. Outdoor staircases, one for each leg of the L, provided access to the upper decks. An overhang sheltered the balconies that served as passageways to the rooms. The exterior's paint looked fresh. Recent plantings adorned the perimeter of the parking lot. Eight or ten vehicles were parked in the lot. I hadn't known what I was getting myself into when in Durango I'd consulted an AAA Travel Guide to check available lodging. Listings in Pike's Bluff were meager, but I had called ahead to make the reservation anyway. I did know I wanted to be sure of a bed that night.
"Could be worse," I muttered to myself.
I turned off the ignition and sat there in the quiet for a couple of minutes, hoping the trembling caused by eleven hours of highway vibration would subside. It didn't. I swung open the car door and stepped out onto the asphalt pavement. A ninety-five-degree blast of August wind—smelling of dust, sage, and a feedlot—scorched my face.
Thank goodness for air-conditioning, I thought.
I was stiff from the long drive, and it felt good to stand on firm ground. I closed the car door. The sun was low in the sky, and clouds gleamed with the brilliance of crimson, gold, and purple. A vapor trail, probably from a flight from Dallas to Denver, shone white against the cerulean blue of the sky.
With only my memories and an old family snapshot, I had come to look for Dad.
CHAPTER 2
Entering the door marked "Office," I stepped up to the desk. No one was in sight. A TV was blaring a rerun of Gunsmoke from an adjacent room, and I caught the aroma of frying onions. A bell sat on the counter with a note: "Ring for service." I rang. While waiting for someone to respond, I surveyed the office. The waiting area was small, not more than twelve by fourteen feet. Two straight-backed chairs flanked a water cooler at the wall opposite the entrance. A Mr. Coffee machine, with a handwritten note—"Complimentary Coffee 6:30–9:30 a.m."—sat on a small table between the door and the desk. A rack containing brochures for local attractions hung on the back wall.
I was getting ready to ring again when a slender woman with blondish hair came through the door from the next room. She wasn't wearing much makeup, had tired lines around her eyes, and was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt with a "Colorado" logo. She was wearing rubber thongs, and her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. I guessed her to be in her thirties.
"'Scuse me," she said, swallowing. She wiped her chin with the back of her hand. "Just fixin' supper." She swallowed again. "Help you?"
"Perk Parker," I said. "I called from Durango this morning for a reservation."
She flipped through her Rolodex and came up with a card. "Right," she said. "You asked for a nonsmoking room?"
"That's right."
From below the desk she dug out a registration form and placed it on the counter. "See you got California plates. Just travelin' through?"
I busied myself filling out the registration form. "Actually," I said, "I lived in Baca County when I was a boy."
"Really? We just moved back here a couple of years ago ourselves. Grandma needed me to be here. She's not well."
I finished filling out the registration form and handed it to her.
"Your reservation's just for one night," she said. "Think you might be stayin' any longer?" She dusted a speck of lint off the desk.
"I don't know yet. Any chance I could stay on a few more days, if I need to?"
"Let me look here in the book." She flipped through several pages of what appeared to be a registration directory. From what I could see, the pages were not filled up.
"Prob'ly so," she said. "Just let us know as soon as you can."
"Fine."
She handed me a room key. "Nonsmoking rooms are upstairs. Room 27 is at the end of the balcony. Anything we can do, let me know. I'm Darlene."
"Thanks, Darlene. What's the best restaurant in town?"
"Santa Fe Trail Steak House is just across the street and up three blocks. Wednesday night's regulars' night, but there's travelers comin' through too."
"Thanks again," I said.
CHAPTER 3
I moved the Mustang to the parking space marked for room 27, dragged my bags from the trunk, and climbed the outdoor stairs to find my room. I had...
