Free The Boys from Santa Cruz by Jonathan Nasaw Page A

cocktail weiner in the top of the tree.
    I decided there was no point sticking around to watch. I told Dusty I was sorry, turned my back, and walked away. It was early morning. Dew on the leaves, the western slope of the mountains still in blue-green shadow. For some reason I remembered a joke Big Luke used to tell, about what to do in the event you were attacked by a grizzly bear. Get to the center of the nearest large city as quickly as possible, was the punch line.
    It sounded like a good idea to me, especially as staying put was not an option. I decided to head west, using the sun to orient myself until I struck the highway. But the same sun I had counted on to lead me out nearly did me in. After an hour or two, the heat was worse than anything I’d ever experienced in Marshall County. Or seemed worse, because at least at home there was water. Pepsi. Mountain Dew. Sprite. Cold beer when I could sneak one out of the trailer.
    I did have a few sips of tepid water left in my canteen, but by midday even that was gone, and within a few hours I’d sweated myself dry. Everything was buzzing, my head, my eyeballs, the high blue sky, the heat waves shimmering off the rocks, the bleached white sunlight and the purple-edged shadows, and especially the insects, the gnats, blackflies, horseflies, bluebottles, mosquitoes, and god knows what else.
    When I stopped and covered my ears, the buzzing only grew louder. I was on the verge of heatstroke, but I refused to quit. Scratched and scraped, mosquito-bit, sore-shouldered and leg-weary, I pushed myself until my legs started to cramp. The pain was excruciating. I managed to crawl off the trail and under the shade of a shale overhang, my thigh muscles twitching and jumping under the skin.
    I massaged my legs until the cramps went away, then set off again. I found I could walk okay on the level, but uphill hurt like a bastard, and downhill the weakness in my thighs made my knees buckle. Which was a problem, because due west, the direction I needed to go, was all downhill, and getting steeper with every step.
    What I needed was a decent walking staff. Just off the side of the trail I found a good straight stick, and had just finished stripping off the leaves and side branches when I heard somebody coming. I ducked down behind a bush and held my breath as Brent sauntered around the bend, sweating like a pig in a sauna. He had a blue bandanna tied around his forehead with three white feathers stuck into it, a walkie-talkie in a holster, and a canteen dangling from his belt. His nose was so buried in the map he was reading that he would have walked right by me if I hadn’t stopped him.
    “Dude,” I whispered, still crouched behind the bush. I wasn’t sure if he was alone, or how long it might be before somebody else came along.
    Brent looked around. “Luke? Dat you?”
    “Up here. Dude, am I glad to see you. I ran out of food and water hours ago.”
    He didn’t have anything to eat, Brent said, but he unsnapped his canteen and handed it over. I took a healthy slug. Brent asked me where Dusty was. I told him we’d gotten separated. Which was true enough, as far as it went. But I knew if I told Brent what really happened, it was bound to hurt my chances of getting what I wanted out of him, namely his canteen, his map, and a head start.
    When I asked him, though, Brent said no way. “This is a major deal, muhfuh,” he said in his wiggah accent. “Dere’s search parties all over da place, dey’re bringin’ in dogs and choppers. If dey find out I hepped you ’scape, Im’a be as fucked as you.”
    But I could tell from the way he said it that Brent wasn’t all that eager to turn me in. Finally he agreed to give me the canteen and the map, but only if we made it look like I had somehow surprised and overpowered him.
    If it had been up to me, I’d have given him a token tap. It was Brent who insisted I had to hit him at least hard enough to leave a mark in order to make it look good.