Pilgrimage

Pilgrimage



Tubac, Arizona is a far cry from the shores of Carolina. Lowell James had never been west of the Mississippi, much less, southwest desert country. As the plane descended over Tucson, his first surprise was the mountains. Like many, he assumed that Arizona was flat, hot and full of rattlesnakes. His view from the plane window dispelled those notions. Purplish brown mountain ranges dominated the horizon in every direction. Vast expanses of desert stretched as far as the eye could see. The airport, small, brown and unassuming seemed overwhelmed by the size and strangeness of the land. After touchdown, Lowell grabbed his duffle bag and headed to the rental car counter.

Driving south from Tucson, he opened the windows and inhaled desert air. The giant Saguaro cacti dominated the landscape, standing resolute with arms raised to the burning sun. He had read that they grew to over fifty feet and could live to be a hundred years old. He definitely had to pick up a cheap camera before leaving town.

At his exit, he turned left off the ramp and entered Tubac. The small town was a community of artists who sold their wares in the commercial district. Lowell parked, picked a shop at random and entered.

“Yes sir, may I help you?”

Lowell blinked against the dimness of the interior and turned to the clerk. She was an elderly Indian, her dark face a mass of lines and wrinkles. Deep set black eyes smiled at him as she set aside a sandwich and came to the counter.

“Our entire inventory is authentic, native made and signed by the artists,” she swept a pudgy hand to indicate the counter. “Also, twenty percent off this week.”

“It’s very nice,” Lowell glanced at the silver bracelets, turquoise rings and feathered dream catchers. “Actually, I’m looking for a man called Jackson Greer.”

The lady paused, her eyes going dead. She fingered an amulet at her neck and shook her head. “I don’t know this man.”

“No? He wrote a lot of books, westerns. Kind of like Louis L’amour?”

“Sorry, no,” she turned and went back to her sandwich.

Lowell knew she was lying but shrugged it off and tried a pottery store next door. A narrow faced guy with a pony tail sat at the wheel, spinning clay. He was shirtless, wore cutoffs and had a soiled apron tied around his waist. His right knee moved steadily as he pumped. Lowell walked up to watch.

“You’d think they would make a motor for that thing so you wouldn’t have to work so hard,” Lowell commented.

“They do. I guess you could call me a traditionalist,” the guy answered.

“That’s an admirable trait.”

“Yeah, way cool.”

“So, I was wondering if you could tell me how to find Jackson Greer?”

The wheel stopped.

“Look, I know he lives around here somewhere. Why won’t anybody talk to me?” Lowell pressed.

“Jack likes his privacy and artists tend to stick together. Know what I mean?”

“Sure. I’m an artist too. I wrote my first book because of Jackson Greer. I just want to shake his hand.”

“Whoa, dude, that’s some cosmic shit,” the guy nodded and thought about it.

“So, how about it?” Lowell asked.

Slowly, the wheel began moving. “There’s a gas station a mile south on the left. They rent horses out of the back for tourists to ride around in the desert. Ask for Paco.”

As it turned out, Paco was a chatty sort once Lowell flashed a hundred dollar bill. Senior Greer was an hombre loco with muchos pisterleros y no caminos to casa. Lowell added another fifty which bought him directions to the casa and the rental of a dusty mare called Rosita. After locking the car, he slung his duffle over the saddle and gingerly climbed aboard. Paco’s directions consisted of pointing Rosita in the direction of a far away mountain peak, holding up three fingers to indicate miles and slapping the horse on the rump. Lowell began bouncing across the desert while Paco waved his sombrero and laughed. Lowell couldn’t remember the last time he had rode a horse. One thing came back real quick. If you’re going riding, wear long pants. His legs were already beginning to chafe. Shifting about in the saddle, he figured at three miles, how bad could it get?

Bad enough, as it turned out. Even with Rosita slowed to a walk, after an hour, his crotch and butt were hurting. The unforgiving sun was burning his neck and his mouth had turned to cotton. Lowell reined in the horse and dismounted. He dug into the duffle for a spare shirt and tied it around his head. The land all looked the same, rocks, cactus and mesquite. For flat terrain, a guy could get lost in a hurry. There still wasn’t any sign of Jackson Greer’s house. Behind him, the gas station and corral were mere dots, shimmering in the heat. Hoping that Paco’s directions were accurate, he climbed up and continued to ride.

Some time later, he jerked awake with a mouthful of mane, hanging on to Rosita’s neck. He pulled back on the reins and stood in the saddle, surveying his position. There was nothing to see but desert. The silence was a bit unnerving with only the occasional rustle of roadrunner birds in the brush. He couldn’t go much farther without water and decided to give it another half hour. After that, he’d have to turn back. He gave Rosita a gentle kick to get moving. Gradually, he slumped in the saddle, his eyes going heavy.

He awoke in a shady place. Somehow, they had veered off course and ended up in some kind of ditch. Wide enough for three horses to pass, the sloped bank on either side was head high and ringed with mesquite trees. With a start, Lowell realized he couldn’t see the landmark and kicked Rosita to get going. The mare stiffened her legs and refused to move. He kicked her again and she jerked her head, almost pulling the reins free.

“If I were you, I’d listen to my horse.” The stranger stepped out into the open, thirty yards away.

Lowell stared at him. The man was clad in sweated denim with leather vest and chaps. He wore the battered Stetson low over his eyes and was armed. The pistol hung off his right hip and the rifle, draped across a forearm.

“See that mess of cactus, in front of you?” The stranger pointed his gun barrel. “I reckon the stuff got carried down here in the wash after the last rain. It’s called Cholla and is the goddamndest pricklest cacti that God ever made! If I ever catch you trying to drive a horse through it, I’ll shoot you myself.”

“Sorry. I didn’t know,” Lowell mumbled and wiped his eyes, feeling lightheaded. “You wouldn’t have a drink of water, would you?”

“Seeing as how you’re on my land, I’ll ask the questions.”

“Holy crap, you’re Jackson Greer!”

The stranger leaned forward, spit a stream of tobacco juice and eyed Lowell. “You got about two seconds to start talking.”

“I brought you something, Mr. Greer,” Lowell leaned over for his duffle.

Black dots swam before his eyes. Feeling woozy, Lowell straightened up and blinked against the darkness rushing in. He never even felt the ground when he fell.

When he opened his eyes, he was staring at a night sky filled with stars that seemed close enough to touch. Momentarily disoriented, he glanced around and saw Rosita, tethered beside a brown and white paint. Jackson was hunkered by a small fire, tending a frying pan.

“I see you’re not dead,” Jackson said and tossed a canteen in Lowell’s direction. “Sip it slow, the sun done bout dried you out today. Keep it down and I’ll feed you some beans.”

“Mr. Greer…thanks for helping me out. I guess you saved my life.”

“A man don’t need no thanks for doing what’s right. Even when it’s helping some greenhorn who’s wandering around out here like a damn fool! Just clam up and drink. Don’t say another word till that canteen is empty. I’m still mad as hell that I’m sleeping down in this wash tonight because of you.”

Lowell nodded and sipped the tepid water. Jackson tossed a couple of sticks on the fire before producing a tequila bottle. He took two healthy slugs, wiped his mustache with the back of his hand and leaned in to check on the beans.

“I looked at the book you brung me. Least I’m assuming it was meant for me. You weren’t in no shape to say so. I read a couple of chapters…not bad, could have used a little more seasoning. It’s flattering that you dedicated it to me but you done the work.”

Lowell gulped the last of the water, turned the canteen upside down for Jackson’s approval. The old man nodded and Lowell came out of the bedroll.

“But you inspired me!” Lowell sat by the fire. “I read ‘Sundown Mountain’ when I was in the seventh grade. After that, I collected everything you did, all first edition hardbacks. I always wanted to be like you!”

“Shit! Quit yammering like a star struck school girl. Every man’s got to make his own tracks. How the hell did you find me, anyway? I know Paco had something to do with it. I’m gonna have to hang that Mexican, someday!”

“Well…his directions were deliberately vague, I think.”

“I don’t care. He knows better than to send a good horse out in this heat!”

“I’m…sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?” Jackson glared at him.

“For intruding on your privacy but I didn’t have a choice. Do you believe in fate? I do. Six months ago, I was sitting in a Dentist’s office and picked up a magazine. There’s an article about Tubac and you’re mentioned as a local artist. Before I put the magazine down, I get a call that they’re going to publish my book. In that moment, I knew it was time to follow my dreams.”

Jackson shook his head, rubbed the white stubble on his jaw and took a pull on the bottle. He ladled beans on a plate and added warm tortillas.

“Congratulations,” he said and handed Lowell his supper and the bottle. “There are only three things in life that I ever lived by and that’s one of them. Always follow your dreams.”

“What are the other two?”

Jackson laid a tortilla in his palm and spooned it full of beans. “I reckon you’re gonna talk my ears off till sunup. At least let me grab some grub, first.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Greer.”

“Just call me Jack.”

Lowell smiled and looked out at the desert sky. He knew that he had just heard the title for his next book. Maybe, with any luck, he could convince Jackson to let him hang around for a few weeks and get some seasoning. He looked across the fire, raised the bottle and drank.