Skull Valley...The Next Chapter

The Rattlesnake Dance…

            

            The conductor glanced at his watch, a habit honed over the many years of riding the rails for the Western Pacific Railroad. He knew by the time on his watch that they would be slowing to stop at St. John Station to drop off that nice Sergeant Clark. “Poor boy” he thought, “I wonder what he done to get assigned to Dugway.” He hurried down the aisle to the seat that Clark was in. The soldier had been asleep for two hours when the engineer applied the brakes on the train. In fact the only people on the train awake at midnight on that hot night in August 1952 was the engineer, fireman, brakeman, and the conductor. They were headed east from Los Angeles through Salt Lake City to Chicago. This route took them through the barrens of western Utah and through Rush Valley where they stopped to drop freight for farmers that lived there and soldiers who were assigned to the newly activated WWII Army base 25 miles to the West. In those days it was an hour’s drive on a rough road over the pass that crossed the Onaqui mountains.

            “Sergeant Clark! Wake up! You’re here!” the conductor whispered urgently, hoping that he wouldn’t wake the whole car of sleeping riders. He reached over to shake the soldier’s shoulder but Clark grabbed the hand before he could touch his shoulder. “You don’t touch a soldier just back from Korea.” the Sergeant growled.  

            “It’s time Sergeant, you need to get your bags ready by the door, the engineer won’t stop for long since you’re the only one getting off, and the mail bag will only take a minute.” The conductor walked away. There were bags to collect and ready, in order to drop the soldier, almost literally, on the platform before the engineer pushed the throttle open to hurry on to meet his schedule.

            Clark stretched the kinks out of his back and shoulders that had accumulated after the long hours of sitting and sleeping in the same seat. He collected his service cap and uniform jacket and put them on and then lifted the heavy duffle bag. He bent down to look out the window, but it was black as pitch out his side of the train and he couldn’t see a thing.

            The conductor wasn’t exaggerating any when he said that the engineer wouldn’t stay long. Clark had just got his duffle out of the door and seen the conductor toss out his footlocker from the baggage car, race across the lighted platform with the large mail bag, open the station door with his key, toss the mail in and re-lock the door and then race back to the baggage car just in time to step in before the train began to move forward. The conductor leaned out the door and shook his fist at the engineer who, of course, couldn’t see it in the dark, then leaned back in and slid the door closed. The train moved slowly until they cleared the switch onto the main line and then the engineer poured the steam to the engine and sparks flew as the big driver wheels spun on the steel rails until they caught. The train quickly dissolved into a receding blinking red taillight as it sped on to its destination.

            Sergeant Clark stood there watching until he could no longer see the train lights and then he turned to survey the platform and station wondering just what he was supposed to do now. There were a couple of overhead lights that dimly lit the platform and the driveway that passed by the front side where trucks and cars would come to collect the freight and people that the train left behind twice a day. He wondered where Dugway was from here and how he was to get there when he knew the answers to those questions. The station was deserted at midnight and it didn’t take a genius to figure out why. When he looked out into the distance the only lights that were visible were the yard lights of a small community off to the east, and  a larger glow farther to the south that he assumed was Dugway. “Too far to walk” Clark mused out loud. He kept looking for clues as to what he should do next. He walked up to the station door and looked in, there was a counter and a few chairs and a bench inside. Not much else. He walked around the corner of the station and was surprised to see an open phone booth.  After sizing it up, he sat down on the seat and picked up the handset.  He figured if nothing else he could talk to the operator, maybe she had some idea of who he should call. Sticking his finger in the zero hole of the dial, he turned it to the stop and let it return on it’s own power. 

            “Operator…” the ear piece squawked in is ear.

            “Uh, Uh, operator this is Sergeant Brian Clark and I’m at the St. John train station…uh, I’m supposed to report to Dugway and the train dumped me off here, uh, do you have a number that I could call?” Clark was sure that she would think he was a crackpot.

            “Sergeant Clark, I have a note here that says soldiers are supposed to call the duty officer at Dugway, do you want me to ring them for you?” she was being very helpful.

            “Yes, ma’am, if you would please. Thank you ma’am! A whole lot!” Sergeant Clark was pretty relieved.

            “OK, Sergeant, hold on for a minute please…” he could hear a phone begin to ring in the background. “Brian are you alright? Is there anything else I can get you?”  She was being really helpful, or at least trying to be.

            “Well, ma’am, I could use a blanket it is kinda chilly here all of a sudden.” He chuckled as he waited for her reply so she would know it was a joke.

            “I would if I could Sergeant. Uh, here is your party, go ahead.”

            “Hello?” a rough voice answered.

            “Hello, this is Sergeant Brian Clark, and I am at the St. John train depot. My orders say to report ASAP. Do you have any idea when that can happen?” The voice on the other end of the conversation smoothed out and assumed an air of pomposity that let Clark know that it was an officer on the other end. “Uh Oh”, he thought.

            “SERGEANT CLARK, THIS IS LIEUTENANT JONES! I will have you to understand that I will send someone to come and get you. They will be there when they get there, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”

            Sergeant Clark made a rude gesture at the phone, “YESSIR! NOT A PROBLEM SIR!” he responded as if the officer were standing in front of him. Except that he wasn’t standing at attention and he wouldn’t make the gesture if the Looie was there in person. But he wanted to know what he should do while waiting. So he asked nicely, “Sir, May I ask when that may be? It is kind of chilly here, Sir.”

            The Lieutenant told him to hold on for a minute, Clark could here him yelling at another sergeant who then yelled at a private who took his time answering.

            Finally, the lieutenant came back on the line and said, “Sergeant Clark, I am sending a driver to pick you up, it’ll take about an hour so I suggest that you open up your duffle and get your field jacket out if you are cold. In the meantime, Sergeant Florez will have a room set up for you when you get here.  “GOT IT, Sergeant Clark?”

            “Yessir, Lieutenant Jones, I’ll be here waiting.”

“Why do I always run into a piss-ant Lieutenant? I never catch a break.”  Sergeant Clark thought as laid himself down on the station bench and covered himself up with his field jacket. The thoughts of the Lieutenant quickly faded from his tired mind and he dropped off to sleep, “Snooze every chance ya get…”

            The clatter of tires and old worn steel crossing the two sets of railroad tracks woke Sergeant Clark from his fitful sleep curled up on the station’s outside bench. He looked over at the yellow headlights coming his way down the driveway. Wearily, he stood up and stretched, cursing the hard slats of the bench and the chill in the air. He peered at the dusty OD paint of the ’42 Chevy staff car, glad that it was a car and not a hard sprung Deuce and a half. At least his butt would get a rest, and with any luck he could go back to sleep. The driver’s side window lowered jerkily as the man behind the steering wheel struggled with the crank.

            “Howdy there Sarge! Sure is a purty night ain’t it?” a young soldier with one yellow stripe on his sleeve said as he stuck his head out of the partially open window. “Ya ready to head back?”

            Sergeant Clark pressed his lips together, he considered reprimanding the young soldier for his familiarity, but he decided that it was too damn late at night and he was just too tired to hassle the Private.

            “Yes I am, Private…” he paused for the kid to provide his name.

            “Oh! Uh that would be Private Carson, Sarge. Ben Carson.” The kid answered. “Let me help you with your traps and all.” He continued as he opened the door and leaped out to lift the footlocker down to the side of the car.  He slapped the side of his head as he realized that the keys were still in the ignition and he rushed to get them. Sergeant Clark watched the kid run back and forth. He jumped down from the platform and dragged his duffle bag after him. As he slid the strap on to his shoulder just as the kid arrived and took it from him, easily handling the heavy bag. Clark watched the tall, lanky kid stride over to the open trunk and deposit the bag in with the footlocker.

            “Ok, Sarge we’re ready…wait just a minute, I better drain a little of that rootbeer that I had at supper, it is a long and bumpy ride back to the post.” Carson walked out of the glare of the headlamps and relieved himself. Sergeant Clark thought he had better do the same but he snagged the dangling keys from the trunk lock before he went a little ways into the dark to do his business.

            “Sarge, you want to sit in the back seat or the front?” Carson was poised to rush to open either one on Sergeant Clark’s response.

            “Front seat, Private, I’m not an officer, I work for a living” Clark replied with the typical NCO ditty. The kid popped open the front door and bowed to usher the sergeant to his seat. Sergeant Clark obliged him.

            Private Carson jumped into the drivers seat went to start the car. The keys weren’t in the ignition and the Private began to panic, slapping his pockets and looking on the floor. He was just about to get out of the car to check the trunk lock, when the Sergeant took pity on him and held out his hand, dangling the keys from his little finger.

            “Always put them in your pocket when you’re not using them, that way you won’t drop them or lock them in the trunk.” The sergeant chided him.

            Private Carson grinned sheepishly. He put the key in the ignition and turned it. Nothing happened. He tried it again and the starter moaned a little then caught and the engine coughed once then it took off and began to run. “Whew, that was close!” He put it in gear and took off for the post. Sergeant Clark asked him why he was travelling away from the large glow of lights on the horizon ahead of them. Private Carson just chuckled, then he explained, “That is the Deseret Chemical Depot, Dugway is an hour’s drive over that way” gesturing out into the deep blackness to the West .

            They turned on to the highway and rolled up to the railroad crossing. The car’s headlights shone down on the roadway to reveal a dark lump in the middle of the lane that they were in. Private Carson hit the brakes and slipped the gear shift into neutral and crammed on the emergency brake. He opened the door and began to take off his shoes and socks. Sergeant Clark was watching him and was about to say something when Carson reached over to the dashboard and turned on the radio, he twisted the dial until a Mexican station started playing Mariachi music. Clark was really perplexed now, so he decided to see what was going to happen.

            Private Carson reached into the seat behind him and retrieved a straw sombrero, and then standing on the warm pavement began to dance to the music, it sounded like La Cucharacha to the sergeant, but then again, it all sounded that way to him. Private Carson danced up to the dark lump in the road and circled it yipping and ki-yiing. The sergeant watched as the tail and head of a rattlesnake rose from the lump.

            Alarmed, he called out, “Private, what are you doing?”  Carson just waved him off. The snake struck, but the Private was too far away for the snake to bite him, so he circled clockwise still dancing to the blaring trumpets and strumming guitars occasionally yipping or crowing like a rooster just at the right time to match the music. The snake recoiled and shifted following the dancing soldier. Carson took a step closer and the snake struck again, this time even nearer but Carson jumped back again. He still circled clockwise, provoking the snake to strike again and again. The snake was furious but getting tired from chasing the constant movement of his tormentor. The Sergeant could tell this by the way the snake’s body was not able to recoil as fast and as far as he had at the beginning of the dance. Private Carson must have seen it too because he reversed his circle and the snake struck farther than he ever had, and the Private jumped straight up. The snake was stretched straight out beneath Private Carson. He dropped down with one heel right on the snake’s head, smashing it and grinding it into the pavement. The snake’s body coiled furiously around Carson’s leg but as the message radiated out to the muscles of the snake’s body that it’s brain no longer functioned, it relaxed.

            Private Carson jumped back away from the dead rattler. He took out his pocket knife and cut the head from the snake and picked the snake up by the tail and started for the car.

            “Not on my watch, Private.” Sergeant Clark warned the young man, “Toss him out for the crows.”

            Private Carson laughed a little and did as he was told. He walked back to the running car and turned the music off. He began to put his socks and shoes back on his feet.

            “Do that often, Private?” Clark asked.

            “Every chance I get, especially at night when those Mexican radio stations come in. It makes it more fun.” He chuckled again as he slid in beneath the steering wheel, shut the door, put the car in gear and drove across the railroad tracks and headed the staff car back to the Army base they were calling home for the time being.

            “Where’d you learn to do that, without getting bit?” Sergeant Clark asked.

            “Oh I learned it from my Mexican friends down by Nogales, Arizona where I’m from.  They do it for the tourists. ‘Course they pull the teeth out first.” Private Carson mused on his memories as he drove on, straw sombrero bobbing in time with the bouncing car. “I’ve seen some strange stuff, but this takes the cake.” Sergeant Clark thought as he settled into the seat cushion and closed his eyes.

            Another dark lump showed in the headlight’s glow on the road. Private Carson leaned forward with wolfish grin on his face and touched the brake pedal with his foot.

            “Don’t even think about it, Private.” Sergeant Clark ordered the Private. “Drive on.”