La Quinta, California: A Story and An Experience
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BEAU L'AMOUR'S COMMENTS (in blue):
A La Quinta Story
Bell drives to La Quinta, en route to making a large
land purchase in Arizona. He carries with him $60,000 in cash in a locked black bag. He turns off at La Quinta on the chance that he may see an old friend from Korean war days.
He arrives at the ranch, is recognized and greeted by
his friend’s wife but when he asks about Fred, she looks at him, “but Fred was killed.”
She volunteers nothing more, and finally he brings up
the subject again, and she tells him Fred was lost at sea returning from Korea, that his plane went down.
Bell is astonished. “But that can’t be! We came back
together!”
They had been on the list to return on a certain plane,
he recalls, but an earlier plane was leaving and they were invited to go...together they hopped the first plane, which arrived all right. The plane on which they were scheduled to return was lost at sea.
Something about the attitude of the wife and her brother
disturbs him. Also, because the flyer who flew them back is now dead, Bell realizes he may be the only one who could prove that Fred arrived at home.
He retires to his room after they quietly refuse to
allow him to drive on that night. Without being rude he cannot leave.
Yet once in his room he is frightened.
He must get away, and obviously they do not want him to
leave.
The last he had seen of Fred, Fred was anxious to get back home to his wife whom he had married only a short time before leaving for Korea. Fred is an extremely wealthy young man, but an unspoiled one. Fred might have been killed en route home, but that was improbable. Obviously, hearing that he had been killed on the plane, notified by telephone, they had gone into the bedroom and killed Fred, burying his body somewhere outside.
And now they must, to keep their secret, kill him.
And what could be better? They could keep the $60,000
and let his company believe he had absconded with it.
Better still, Fred had been abroad on a business trip,
and the plane crashed on which he had been booked.
He tries to escape. His car is out of order. He slips
out of the house after his gun is taken and they pursue him through the hills. He rolls rocks down, uses every means to win. Slips off a sock, puts a rock in it.
Strong characters; unusual knowledge; interesting clues.
Use ranch.
Put guts and vitality into this. Make it real, filled
with suspense, and different! Make it stronger than the average Post story.
The La Quinta Experience:
Already I had walked further than intended, but where did the trail lead? Obviously others had followed it. An Indian trail originally, I had no doubt, but a white man had done work here and there, probably to turn the old Indian trail into a bridle-path. I walked in.
The growth was changing, a subtle change but visible to a discerning eye. There was no palo verde now, no ocotillo, although still occasional barrel cactus or cholla. I glimpsed an evergreen (buckthorn), a plant used by Indians to provide a deep yellow dye. Usually it was found in the juniper areas of the mountains. It was very hot.
Pausing, I turned to look back. The valley was lost in haze. No individual buildings were visible, although the roads were still to be seen in the places where they were closest to the mountains.
A golden eagle soared on motionless wings, riding the thermals. High as he was and insignificant as I must seem, I knew he was interested in me. I was not listed in his table of possible food items but nevertheless I was important to him because my walking (might) startle small creatures into movement and so expose them to his attack. Nothing happens in the wilderness without its repercussions.
Another mile, and still another. By now my wife would know what had happened and whatever breakfast had been prepared was put aside until later.
The trail followed the easy contours of the mountain, rising steadily but not abruptly. Animals and Indians unless startled do not waste strength in climbing straight up. They are wise enough to conserve their strength and accept the easy way.
Twice I saw lizards...once a small gopher, but no snakes. So many people worry about snakes in the desert but snakes do not like heat, they prefer shady places and one should avoid stepping too close to the shade under bushes or trees and rocks. Rarely have I come upon snakes in the desert. They are there, of course, but are nocturnal creatures and avoid man when possible. Nevertheless, one should walk with caution and not stoop to pick anything from the ground without a careful look around, and of course, be careful to notice that stick you are reaching (for) is really a stick and not a snake.
At one time I was in the desert for several months and saw nothing resembling a snake until the last day. A very pretty young lady offered to drive me to the mine to pick up (my) travelling gear and on the way out and back we ran over three snakes, all headed in the same direction. Some snake convention, no doubt.
Now, suddenly, the trail dipped down into a small fold in the hills and I stopped, amazed.
Before me was an oasis of palms, at least two or three hundred of them tucked away in the hills out of sight. This, then, was where the trail led.
There was no sign of man. The (palms) were cloaked from top to bottom in the skirts of old (palm leaves), leaving each tree ten to twelve feet in diameter.
All was very still. No bird moved...nothing. I walked warily, not knowing what animal might start up or what else I might find. There was no water visible. It is often said that a palm tree has its head in the sun, its feet in the water, and it is true that where one finds palms water is not far below the surface.
Once in the grove I stopped, listening. In the wilderness, and particularly in the desert, one finds one's self often pausing to listen...to what?
No sound...only stillness. A faint wind stirred the dry palm fronds, a small creature rustled among the dead leaves at the base of a palm. I moved on, working my way through the grove toward the center.
Suddenly, I stopped short, my hair prickling on the back of my head.
There, her back to me, dirty blonde gray hair falling over a (shawl of dead palm leaves), and seated on a fallen palm log sat the witch that haunted this place. I scarcely breathed, then slowly, I relaxed.
It was not a witch. Not really. It was the stump of a fallen palm, broken off by wind...a sight rarely seen...covered by palm leaves and looking very much as described. I had a camera, and took a picture. The witch did not move. Nothing stirred. Edging around through the palms and brush I looked at her from the front.
No face, and no features, the streaky blonde-gray hair covered where the face must have been. There was an opening...was she looking at me?
Satisfied that I had found the spirit of this lonely place I walked away.
I did not look back....
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