Ms. Got Rocks (8 page)

“Where is your car?” Callaghan demanded.

“What are you doing here?” Rocky demanded in return.

“It is just a job, darlin’. Where is your car?” Callaghan answered and began to cover her like honey with the Irish accent.

“You are a strikebreaker, full time as a job? You make money beating up innocent people? Except for the times you steal people’s claims?” Rocky was standing at the edge of the street, but she had turned and was looking Callaghan straight in the eye.

“No, I don’t. This was a day labor job, to keep the strikers away from the gate. Nothing more than that, just a one-day job,” Callaghan was lying to her that this job was a day labor job to him. But he did not prevaricate in that he was not there as a strikebreaker.

“Got Rocks, go home.” Callaghan said as he pointed at the digital camera that is still peeping. “You don’t have any more batteries. Go home, damn it.”

Callaghan grabbed Rocky by the shoulders and kissed her hard. Hard enough that her bottom lip was split and bleeding when he turned her loose, giving her a hard shove down the street. He turned again to the factory and raced back into the milling crowd.

"What the hell?" Stunned, Rocky moved away from the crowd and walked to her truck parked three blocks away. Stunned that she was leaving before the women have left and stunned that she allowed that claim jumper Callaghan to touch her, much less tell her what to do. She called Terry at the paper from the front of the first 7-Eleven she saw on the way. That was when she noticed the spot of blood on the front of her white T-shirt.

“That jerk bit me,” Rocky announced to the entire 7-Eleven parking lot. They, however, did not seem to care about either her lip or her bloody shirt.

A few hours later, Terry at the newspaper was excited to see the photos Rocky had rushed through her printer Rocky drove them right down to the Auburn Times before the ink had barely set.

“Terry, I was so scared that guy was going to hit me,” Rocky told him.

“If you want to be a press photographer, you’ve got to expect stuff like that,” Terry looked at her like she fell off the turnip truck.

“Press photographer isn’t on my resume. I have no desire to go to Iraq, Sierra Leone or the insides of Myanmar snooping for a picture. No, that has not one whit of appeal to me. I want to take cute little shots of animals and models wearing overpriced designer clothes,” Rocky proclaimed her goal for the first time.

Terry’s expression changed; he was now looking at her like she truly did fall from the turnip truck and the looney bin to boot.

“To each his own, Sugar. These pics are great, thanks for filling in for me.”

Terry was on the phone attempting to sell some of the photos as Rocky left with her paycheck. She went to the bank and then bought a replacement cell phone and restocked the film in her stash. She did not come out ahead financially on the day’s work.

The exhausted but still agitated woman spent the rest of the afternoon getting reprints of the photos and storing the photos on two memory sticks. Looking at them again she started to shake uncontrollably.

That Callaghan guy was in two of the photos that Rocky thought were the best of the lot. Laying guilt on herself, she set them aside to be reprinted for her portfolio.

Rocky told Lovie and Phoebe, “I’m not giving up my day job to be a press photographer, well I wouldn’t even if I had a day job.”

The next project was calling to her. The bad day at the labor protest all but forgotten.

*   *   *

“The whole situation didn’t turn out as I thought it would. I didn’t get inside the factory,” Callaghan reported by phone to his boss. “It was a bloody waste of time.”

“I think it was worth the time,” the boss assured him.

“What, for finding out how they hire their day labor?” Callaghan was practically sneering over the phone.

“Something may come of that later, not every operation is going to be a shootout, ya know,” the boss reminded the aggressive, energetic man.

“The only surprising development was the appearance of the Clancy woman. I damn near had a bloody coronary when I spotted her,” Callaghan reported.

“What is your take on that?” his partner Clark asked.

“She was wearing press credentials; she was taking photographs and reporting on a cell to someone,” Callaghan answered.

“Was she reporting to the Don? Why would he use her, he had enough of the Unistat dudes there to give him the scoop,” Clark said.

“I have the gut feeling that she isn’t connected, not at all.” Callaghan stated.

“We’ll see. She may turn into exactly what we need for this project.” the Boss said.

Callaghan disconnected the cell as he said, “Or not.”

C
hapter 9

A
fter dinner, the dogs meandered into the cooling evening, while Rocky enjoyed being able to sit in a chair, most especially on her own porch.

Phoebe was hunting in the meadow and Lovie was running around pretending she was hunting. Lovie the Boxer was not seriously interested in hunting anything to eat or for sport. Phoebe, however, must have terrier bloodlines somewhere, because she took her hunting of rodents seriously.

Sitting on the porch Rocky watched Phoebe hunting over by the rocks and Lovie was coming from the other direction near the river back to the cabin. Lovie was carrying something she had found. Rocky could tell by the way the big dog was moving that she was proud and excited by whatever it was. Last time she brought in a prize, it was a huge grasshopper.

Rocky put aside the miner’s moss from the flume of the dredge she was cleaning of gold bits. The cleanup from her Dad’s final dredging could wait while she checked out what Lovie was packing. Whiskey Gap was rattlesnake country, she watched the dogs like a hawk when they were hunting.

The dogs grew up in snake free Alaska. Rocky wondered if snake caution genes were included in their gene pool.

The massive brown dog moved around the side of the cabin avoiding the porch. Whatever she had must be good in dog value; she was not going to share. That could be good or not good for the rest of them.

In case Rocky had to make a trade, she raided the refrigerator for a packet of string cheese and an apple. Lovie’s favorite snacks may be a valuable enough bribe.

Rocky whistled for the Boxer and she appeared around the porch with her mouth full of brown fuzz.

“Oh no, Lovie must have killed a rabbit,” Rocky thought, repulsed.

The dog brought her kill, and dropped it onto Rocky’s foot for admiration. When it moved Lovie put her big paw on the side of it.

“My God it is alive,” Rocky said to the beaming dog.

It was a baby bunny. Rocky thanked Lovie and gently examined the baby jackrabbit. Other than being wet with canine spit, there was not an injury to it. Lovie was glowing like a proud  mama showing off her firstborn.

“I get it Lovie, you know this is a baby and it is just the right size to be your baby.” Rocky was trying to reassure the big dog.

“Lovie, the baby is very cute,” she said to the dog while offering her a bite of string cheese. It was cute; even slobbered on it was cute. The little jackrabbit looked like it may be two weeks old because it had fur and its eyes were open.

“Lovie, Sweetie, you can’t keep the baby. The baby must go back to his mother,” Rocky told the watchful Boxer as the bunny settled down in her hand.

Finding an old basket, they nestled the bunny down to rest. Lovie would not allow the bunny more than a foot from her. Lovie put her muzzle next to the bunny and rolled it over with her nose, as she would have done to a puppy.

“Lovie, we’ll go to the store in the morning and find you a bunny stuffed toy. The baby must go back to his mommy in the morning.” Her sweet old dog was busily grooming the rabbit, not paying a bit of attention to Rocky.

Bringing the basket and Lovie outside, she picked some of the juiciest tender young blades of lawn grass for the little jackrabbit. Rocky hoped it was already eating greens or they are in big trouble for the night. The baby nibbled on a stalk of grass and Lovie seemed very happy at that.

Lovie never had puppies. She would have made a splendid mother, though she would also have washed her puppies to pieces. She was again washing the baby, rolling it over and over with a muzzle as big as the entire rabbit.

“Lovie, the baby needs to rest, you are overwhelming it, even when you don't mean to,” Rocky told the dog.

Draping a towel over the top of the basket and putting the basket next to Lovie’s bed, the dog seemed content with that spot. Lovie climbed into her bed to stand watch over the rabbit while it rested.

Rocky was outdoors at dawn, watching jackrabbits in the area she saw Lovie roaming last night. There were many rabbits in the area, scattering when she walked toward them. She was hoping to find the nest and replace the baby in it.

Having searched that entire section of the meadow Rocky didn’t see nests or baby rabbits free ranging in the area.

When time came Rocky loaded everyone in the truck and they arrived at the vet office in Auburn when it opened.

The vet informed Rocky she could turn the bunny loose. It was older than she thought, and could take care of itself. The tech gave the bunny a rabies shot, and Lovie got a booster shot.

The cardboard carrying case from the vet would be a good sleeping nest for Thumper until Rocky could find a plastic airline kennel at a garage sale. Lovie would understand the kennel concept as a den for the rabbit. Rocky knew that Lovie was not going to allow her bunny to go outside without her. Lovie would bring it back inside. Thumper the jackrabbit, was now part of the family.

Rocky stopped at the Auburn feed store for dog cookies, rabbit pellets, a litter pan and a salt ring for the bunny.

Lovie was thrilled with the whole situation, and Rocky guessed she could afford to feed another animal that eats the lawn. She had not seen Lovie this happy in a long time.

*   *   *

The adventure of a lifetime happened so fast that Rocky did not expect it to work out. Dev and Margie needed to back out on the “Adventure of The Lost Dutchman Mine” trip they had bought at the local charity auction. Dev had a high priority meeting with the Interior Minister of Dubai and Margie was going with him.

They gave Rocky one of the tickets. Friday morning at the last minute she threw Dev’s climbing gear, her climbing shoes, outdoor clothes, Dev and Margie’s cameras,all the batteries and chargers she had into a sports tote.

Thumper and Pokey the Border Collie got boarded at the vet on the way to the airport, devastating Lovie to leave her bunny until the big Boxer saw the plane.

It was an easy flight to Phoenix with the dogs, though she was feeling a little breathless at the thought of a guided tour of the general area of the famous Lost Dutchman Mine with hiking, and rock climbing. A weekend of campfires, western history and photo ops at every turn with all meals that she did not have to cook included.

Devlin floated a loan for expense money with the collateral of her discovery of the Lost Dutchman Mine.

The airport car rental counter was stacked with people, impatient pushy people. Rocky watched the woman in line ahead of her, the top of the line rock climbing gear splayed across the two lines of customers attempting to claim their vehicles.

The woman was certainly in shape, there was no mistaking the rock climber frame, adorned by shining brown hair in a braid reaching to the fit fanny of the woman. She was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt that looked like it was silk and the stonewashed jeans were emblazoned with a label Rocky couldn’t pronounce but they looked like they were made for this woman and no one else. Her boots were to die for and brand spanking new.

Rocky could not help herself, she was from Alaska and therefore everyone’s business can be inquired about.

“Excuse me. Where are you going to climb?” Rocky asked the woman’s back.

The young woman turned and Rocky could see the first word out of her mouth was going to be the F-word. The woman’s expression changed instantly from hate to curiosity.

“I’m going over by the Lost Dutchman Mine, I hear there are some interesting buttes. Where are you going?” the woman asked her expression changing to pleasant, as pleasant as a woman looking like this could. Jasmine Harris looked fresh out of university possibly eight years younger than Rocky.

Jazz had the compact lean body style of the excellent cross-country skier and rock climber. Her hair was fascinating to Rocky. It was light brown, shining and in a neat skinny braid hanging down to her flat bottom. Her smooth silky hair was in direct contrast to Rocky’s critical mass of glowing natural curls that do as they damn well please.

No one describing Jasmine Harris would call her a classic beauty. In fact, at first glance they would say she was bordering on ugly. Her nose splayed across her face like a small squashed baked potato, her forehead was much too narrow, and her brown eyebrows crawled across her brow like a singular fuzzy caterpillar.

What men noticed was, she radiated power. Her intelligence, her mega wattage smile, and that certain something dangerous bubbling under the surface that gave her an intriguing ambiance leaving few who met her thinking she was unattractive.

Most would describe her as one of the most interestingly fascinating women they have ever met.

If Jazz lacked for male company the world would end, power was an incredible aphrodisiac to some.

In the fifteen additional minutes the two women stood in line at the car rental agency, they discovered that they were going to the same place and decided to share a vehicle. They drove the rental Jeep Cherokee up to the “Outback Trading Post” at Jackalope Springs on Highway 88 outside of Mesa, Arizona. In that short time, it seemed they had been friends for a long time.

An elderly man crept down the old warped silver cedar veranda steps and stood in the swirling beige dust watching Rocky park the Jeep.

“Rocky, tell me that isn’t our guide. He looks like an ancient “Dilbert” in western wear,” Jazz said trying to keep a straight face because the man was so close to the vehicle.

“Looks like, Jazz,” Rocky said. “I thought Dev paid for real reality, not virtual reality. He is in another world if he thinks he can pack anything up that mountain.”

The elderly man coughed and spat at the dust revved up by the Jeep. Rocky and Jazz passed the disbelieving eye roll between them.

Horace Engstrom did look like an elderly couch potato with some old time cowboy movie wrangler tucked in.

He was Rocky’s height of 5’8”, with approximately forty years on her. Rocky’s quick estimate was seventy years for him. The man was able to walk, but not upright. He was wearing a camo fabric Australian Bush type hat. It had not seen a tub of soapy water since dinosaurs roamed the west. Peeping out from under the hat were a few strings of silvery gray hair that did not look any too clean, as well.

His jeans and outer shirt should have been thrown out at Y2K and what could be seen of his undergarments made a body plead for a bon fire. Horace had waddled his way to the driver’s side door of the Jeep.

Rocky lowered the window. Horace stuck his hand inside the car. His hand was amazingly clean, if well used, gnarly and covered with old and new calluses.

Rocky thought, “This dude works for a living.” She shook his hand,disengaged from him and jumped out of the Jeep.

“Welcome, I’m Horace Engstrom; I will be your guide today,” the old man said.

“You sound like the server who took my breakfast order,” Rocky said, she again was forced to shake his hand, as Horace thoroughly looked her over.

“You girls can put your gear over there. There is nobody around here that will bother it. Actually, isn’t anybody around anyway,” Horace explained, while he gave Jasmine the all over inspection look. Her inspection was not as thorough as the one Rocky’s curvy body received.

“I thought Vegas was desolate, with nothing growing on the mountains, but this is positively back side of the moon-ville.” Jazz was turning in a circle looking at the bare craggy beige sandstone mountains surrounding the small trading post. She shaded her eyes and looked at the road that continued on its lonely way to somewhere behind the next rough bare mountain.

The only vegetation in sight was a few creosote bushes, hugging the side of the trading post for whatever protection from the hellish environment the building might provide.

The dogs bounced out of the car, and instantly Rocky knew that the ground was broiling hot, both dogs look startled and in pain.  Rocky pointed to the slight shade of the porch and the dogs made a flying leap up there. This was not going to work for the dogs.

From the porch, Rocky stepped into a movie set designer’s idea of a gift shop from the Gold Rush.

She was hoping to find an authentic Native American hand woven rug to go with the Persian rugs in the living room of the cabin. Each rug in the stack was made in China. Rocky moved on.

The older woman behind the counter was pure gen-u-wine Southwest and Rocky instantly loved her. Loved her despite or perhaps because she was Mrs. Horace Engstrom.

Rocky made arrangements to board the dogs with her in air-conditioned comfort for the weekend. After taking the dogs for a pit stop and back to the porch, Rocky listened to the instructions and plans by Horace Engstrom.

Horace escorted Rocky and Jazz to the corral, where they saw the transportation for the expedition to Weaver’s Needle. The three little burros did not look strong enough to carry Rocky across the corral, much less up the nearest formidable mountain.

The old miner proudly introduced the women to Mamie, Jackie and Lady Bird. The burros stood in the corral looking ninety per cent asleep, ten percent tired.

Jazz was still taking a close look at her first experience with desert. She was staring at her new boots and scuffing around in the crusty sand soil mix of the corral.

“This does look like that Desert Sand colored house paint. It is exactly that same color, same as baby poop.”Jazz was saying more to herself than to Rocky. Rocky nudged her in the ribs to pay attention.