Leon Uris - A God In Ruins

Scout masters hustled them. The sun went up high, quickly. Sounds of splattering urine as four hundred young men took turns over the slit trenches.

The column had been in the desert for three days, planning to reach their destination of Mexican Hat at the tip of Glen Canyon day after tomorrow.

Two other columns of Eagle Scouts traversed from different directions toward Mexican Hat. When they converged, twelve hundred, one fourth of the total national number of Eagle Scouts, would hold a jamboree: boating, rafting, a thousand contests of skill and endurance, songs, camp fires.

The President of the United States was due to fly in and address them on Monday!

Hank Skelley, a revered old scout master, sat in a circle of his

company leaders, pondering a map. Hank was a lean rod of spring steel

with dedication to the movement emanating from every move and gesture. Around him, a smell of bacon to revive any flagging spirits.

Hank looked at his watch. Five A.M.

“We didn’t pull our weight yesterday. Those trucks breaking down screwed up our entire transport. Darned if we can make it into Mexican Hat tomorrow if we skirt this row of canyons as originally planned.”

Hank’s long, thin, arthritic finger traced an alternative route. “We can cut off about nine and a half miles if we go straight up Six Shooter Canyon.”

“Where does the end of the canyon lead us?”

“Into the rear of an outfit called Hudson Mining and Cattle, a big tumbleweed ranch.”

“I heard that Hudson Mining has some Utah militia training, and they are none too friendly.”

“Well,” Hank answered, “I tried to reach them by cellular phone to get permission to pass through, but their phone didn’t answer.

“Webster,” Hank said to the chief master of Colorado. Webster Penrose inched to the front. “I don’t think anything goes up Six Shooter Canyon anymore, but I’ve flown over it constantly and had occasion to go for three miles to a wide water hole .. . right here .. . Bloody Gulch. Now, I don’t think it’s dangerous, except in a winter flash flood that sets the rocks spilling down.”

“Suppose we go in as far as the ranch and are turned away? What about that, Hank?”

“Then we go back to Bloody Gulch and pick up a goat trail out of the canyon. It will put us on the Navajo reservation, and we still will have saved several hours.”

“Possible injuries, Hank?”

“Nothing we can’t deal with,” Webster Penrose interrupted. “We have a helicopter on standby in Farmington.”

At the rear of the circle a clicking sound accompanied by bells hinging turned attention to Brad Bradley, trying to raise White Wolf on his personal computer.

“What kind of shit is this?” Hank Skelley exploded. “Trucks to carry off our bedding and kitchen, ground-control satellites, computers, evacuation helicopter. Excuse my obscenity, but we are Eagle Scouts and we aren’t ready to come in out of the cold.”

Agreed. No one had disagreed with Hank for five years, maybe longer.

They broke camp. Bedrolls, the kitchen, and dead weight were piled to be picked up by trucks. Each scout had a two canteen limit of water for the five miles through the canyon, and each hoped to find sweet water at Bloody Gulch.

Fall in! Pep-talk time. Ranging back and forth with megaphone, Hank Skelley yelled out that this column held more boys from more states than the other columns. “We will reach Mexican Hat first or croak trying!”

“Let’s hear it for Hank Skelley!”

“Hip-hip-hooray!”

“Number one to Mexican Hat!”

Chester Skelley, Hank’s grandson and one of the most decorated scouts in the West, was called front and center to take his place alongside Hank to lead them into Six Shooter Canyon a few miles past the stream.

Chester felt faint and of throbbing heart as the pride in him swelled. He knew it was probably his grandfather’s last forced march. Getting there first would take daring. Chester knew about courage. He had fought his way back from a near-crippling childhood disease with superhuman determination.

Singing stopped as they faced the sheer walls and narrow path of Six

Shooter Canyon. A huge sign read: CLOSED; DANGEROUS; DO NOT ENTER, and accordion barbed wire covered its mouth.

“You sure about this?” Brad Bradley asked.

“It’s public land and we are American citizens,” Hank responded. He knew it was his last jamboree. He knew he had to get there first even though the other columns had easier routes. This five-mile push through Six Shooter would end up in legend and song.

Fifty yards in, a boulder blocked the trail. Chester scatted up, found the footings, and extended his hand to his grandfather. As the young man pulled the old master up, it became a golden instant. Their eyes met for only a blink, and their smiles were just as quick. One generation was making, one generation was taking its passage.

And on, into the valley.

The red alert phone in Wreck Hudson’s room rang unmercifully. Wreck was flung awry onto the couch, buck naked. The phone persisted. Wreck jerked the cord from the wall, threw the phone through the window, and stood up wavering.

The girls were gone. Second time this week. He’d have to see about assigning a male orderly. Like today, he was having a difficult time with the arms and legs of his clothing.

Wreck felt better when he strapped on his pearl-handled pistol. Shiiiiuuuuut! He didn’t have pants on, and the pistols fell to the ground.

A pounding on his door. Wreck managed to put both legs in one pant leg and fell flat on his face as he reached for the doorknob.

“You dumb son of a bitch!” Wreck greeted Sergeant Floyd.

“Sorry, sir, I got a call from outpost number seven over the center of the canyon. Dust is rising at the far end.”

“Why didn’t you say so!”

“I tried to phone you, but.. . you shot up the outside phone lines last night.”

“Call all stations, a double-red alert and move all personnel to the horseshoe posts.”

“I did that, sir.”

“What the fuck—who authorized you?”

Down the corridor, Red Peterson came out of his reverie. Maud was gone, but Jesus H. Christ, did that old girl give me a time when the lude kicked in. Was there any way Maud could teach some of that screaming and cursing to Greta? Sometimes Greta acted like the statues she portrayed on the stairs in Vegas.

The continuous sound of a racket filled the hallway. Maud, showered and dressed, came in and nodded toward the sounds of confusion.

Wreck blammed open their door. “We’ve got a problem!”

“Well, Christ, let me get my pants on.”

“There’s dust blowing up the canyon.”

“Hey, Wreck, dust is always blowing through the canyons.”

“Maybe it’s a herd of buffalo,” Maud ventured.

“There ain’t no goddamn buffalos, and there ain’t no goddamn wind.”

“Esteemed Personage,” Grand Militia Sergeant Floyd said, “maybe it’s cattle rustled from Mexico and being hidden in the canyon.”

“I don’t think so,” Red said. “You can’t drive a herd of stolen cattle clear through the state of Arizona and into Utah without being spotted. You there, Sergeant, get Wreck’s vehicle warmed up. We’re right behind you.”

They halted on the steep trail fifty yards below a rock strewn summit.

Wreck shifted into compound low to scale the hill. The hill won.