David Golemon - Event

"Damnedest thing I ever saw, Buck boy. What d' you say?" he asked, pulling the dust-caked bandanna down from his face.

The mule just looked at his owner and then showed his teeth, all eight of them. But before he could comment further, a loud explosion roared across the desert, and at that moment the old-timer was suddenly thrown off his feet and onto his back, landing on small rocks and scrub, knocking the breath from his old body. He rolled over and placed his hands over his head. The rumble that followed took what little air remained in his lungs. Buck tried to spread his strong legs for better support, then suddenly lost his balance and collapsed. Going down first to its knees, the animal then rolled over, smashing the carefully loaded pack. The ground shook, rolled, and then settled, and finally all was still again.

The old man gasped for air and tried willing himself to breathe. He rolled over onto his aching back and peered up and saw the low foothills and then the mountains. They were the same as they had been the last half century of his life. Quiet and still. But he felt a strangeness within him that hadn't been there a few moments before. He swallowed and propped himself on his elbows, then rolled back over and gained his feet. He had never given the mountains a second thought, but now he was afraid to look at them too closely. As the old man looked on, several jackrabbits sprang from their holes and sprinted out into the desert, away from the mountains. A coyote then bounded across his vision, heading the same way as the rabbits, although it was not in pursuit. The coyote looked back at the rocky-faced mountains, then swung its head forward and sped along even faster, tongue lolling from its mouth.

The mule's reins were still clutched in Gus's strong hand, and he numbly watched as Buck first rolled to the right and then went to his knees, then to his feet, as items fell from the pack. The mule looked at the old man accusingly as if he were responsible for this embarrassing episode.

Gus shook his head to clear it. "Son of a bitch, things are gettin' a mite strange out here, and don't go lookin' at me, I didn't knock you off your feet."

But Buck wasn't listening; he pulled the reins free of the old man's grip, and like the rabbits and the coyote, he ran from the mountains as fast as his heavy load would allow. Gus could only watch in astonishment as the mule sped into the desert. He slowly turned and looked at the now quiet and, for a reason he didn't understand, menacing Superstition Mountains.

It had taken Gus over an hour to find Buck. He had followed the trail of pots, pans, and shovels until he came across his companion chewing some sagebrush down by an old washout. The mule casually munched away as if the blow that had happened upon them earlier was nothing but a distant memory. The tarp was hanging loose at the mule's side, and the old man's few possessions that hadn't fallen out during Buck's furious romp were dangling from the damaged pack. The old man cussed the mule as he tried to put everything back in and repack. The huge animal was outright ignoring Gus.

"Go ahead and act like it wasn't you running like a scared jackrabbit," he grumbled. He walked around and looked the mule in the eyes. "You could have broken your leg running across this hardpan like that!" Gus scratched his four-day-old growth of beard and softened his voice. "Well, that wind had me spooked a little myself, old boy, don't feel too bad." He stroked the animal's nose. Buck twitched his right eye and flicked his ears, but kept chewing.

"Okay, ignore me then, you old bastard. See if I talk to you any more today. Now let's get back up there and get to work." He grabbed the reins and started to tug. The mule, after some initial resistance, started forward, still chewing.

The old man adjusted the fedora he wore high on his head and wiped a line of sweat from the side of his face.

"But, Lord, it sure is gonna be a scorcher," he mumbled, looking at the sun. "Let's get movin', boy, gold's awaitin'," he said without much enthusiasm as he once again started his now reluctant trek to the mountain.

Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.

--GEORGE SANTAYANA

Welcome back, my friends to the show that never ends, so glad you could attend, come inside, come inside...

--EMERSON, LAKE, & PALMER

Major Jack Collins walked into the Gold City Pawnshop at the appointed time. He placed his carryall on the floor and wiped the sweat from his forehead. The air-conditioned shop was a break from the relentless heat outside. With his last ten years in and out of deserts around the globe, heat was something the major was used to, but never really embraced.

Collins stood six foot two inches tall and his close-cropped hair was dark. His features were chiseled from thousands of hours in suns not unlike the Nevada one. He removed the sunglasses from his eyes and let his vision adjust to the dimness of the old shop. He glanced around at several of the items on display, sad treasures people had parted with in order to stay in Vegas, or to get the hell out, depending upon their disposition. Collins himself gambled with items a little more precious than money, usually the lives of men, including his own.

A man stood silent in the back room of the pawnshop. Six cameras arranged throughout the large shop area were motion-sensitive, capturing the new arrival in every detail, from the line of sweat that coursed down the man's temple to the expensive sunglasses he held in his right hand, the nice sport jacket and light blue shirt he wore. The observer turned to a computer screen and cross-matched the image of the stranger with one that had been programmed earlier. A red chicken-wire laser charted the man's body, cutting his head and body into reference points for the computer to match. At the same time another invisible laser read the small glass area that blended nicely with the antique thumb-depression plate on the door handle he had used to enter the shop. On another high-definition computer screen a large, detailed print appeared; this one read the minute swirls and valleys of his thumbprint. A print, perfect in every detail, flashed onto the screen, then the computer broke the print down to eighteen different points; lines indicating matches went from the computer-stored print to the one just taken from the door handle. Only seven points of match were used to convict people in a court of law, but this print matchup called for a minimum of ten. A name appeared in the lower right-hand corner of the screen, followed seconds later by an image of the man himself. In this picture he wore a green beret and sat unsmiling for the camera. The scroll beneath the picture read, Major Jack Samuel Collins, United States Army Special Operations. Last duty station Kuwait City, 5th Special Forces Group, TDA this date to Department 5656. The man behind the door snickered to himself as he read the screen. Temporary duty assignment my ass , the old man thought, not if the senator and Doc Compton have anything to say about it.

Collins looked around again and tapped one of the glass-topped counters twice with the ring that was embossed with the United States Military Academy logo. "Who's minding the store?"

"You break that counter, friend, you're buying it," a voice stated flatly from the back of the store.

The major looked into the gloom of the dingy, dusty pawnshop. Back among the hanging musical instruments and amplifiers, he saw a smallish man appear and lower his bifocals down upon his nose from where they had been resting, propped on his forehead. He had cruelly cut gray hair that showed his scalp.