The Model T breaks down in the desert (sneak peek)

They had been driving for what seemed like hours, but Steve’s pocket watch said it had only been an hour and 20 minutes. Though he had done this route through the desert a couple of times before, he never remembered just how difficult it was.

Ruts across the desert sands. That was the road between Blythe and Los Angeles. Sand and gravel for almost 100 miles until one reached Coachella valley, at the north end of the Salton Sea.

*

“What was that?” Lydia said, as she nursed Stanley as best she could on the bumpy ride.

“Not sure.” Steve’s brow was furrowed. Something didn’t feel right about the automobile. He hoped it was a tire problem—easy to fix out here. But he had a bad feeling it was something mechanical.

He eased off the throttle a bit, listening closely. There was some sort of knocking sound, perhaps? Or an intermittent grinding.

He pushed down on the throttle and the engine made a strange groaning sound and coughed. He eased off and the engine died.

Lydia pulled Stanley from her breast and ignored his protestation. “Did we run out of fuel?”

“No.” He wished it were that. He had extra fuel with him, squeezed in between the three kids in the back.

Thelma wailed, “Are we going to die in the desert?”

“No, stupid,” Thurman replied, “Dad can fix anything.”

Six-year-old Herbert began to cry. Lydia turned and put her on the little boy and gave the evil eye to the two older children. “We’re fine, Herbert. Just relax.”

Steve got out. “Let’s try to re-start it.” Lydia handed Stanley to Thelma and moved over to the driver’s seat. Steve, now in front of the vehicle, began operating the crank. “Go.”

Lydia turned the ignition. The engine turned, gave a little start, and then coughed and stopped, grinding.

“Again.”

Same result. Steve raised up, took off his hat and wiped his brown. At least it was March, and the temperature was cooler. Later in the year it could get to 115 or even 120.

He let out a sigh as he walked around the automobile, scanning the ground under it. He walked to the rear. Turning slowly, he leaned down and touched the ground, bringing his hand up to his face to take a whiff. His lips turned up. “Hm.”

Thurman got out and appeared besides him. “Did you figure it out?”

Steve looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. “Get back in the car.” He then walked away from the car, in the direction they had come, crouched over, still scanning the ground between the ruts in the sand from the automobile and the many others that came this way. Though not too often.

Thurman walked back to the right rear door, but did not get back in. Soon, Steve came back and opened the bonnet. Thurman crept quietly along the side of the car, so he could peer inside the engine. Steve examined the engine compartment carefully. Then he leaned down farther and slid a hand and arm carefully down between the machinery, turned his head and feeling something far down inside. He grunted and pulled his hand back up, wincing as it brushed some hot metal.

He spotted Thurman. “I told you to get back in the car, Thurman.”

Thurman backed up, but kept watching with big eyes as Steve placed his hat on the ground, laid down on his back, and slid under the car on the hot sand and gravel. After a few moments, Steve got back up and checked the fuel tank with the dipstick. He put it back and walked to the driver’s side of the automobile. Lydia, back to nursing Stanley, searched her husband’s eyes.

“Not good, my dear,” he said with a faraway look. “Fuel line.” He smacked his lips. “Need to think a bit.”

He walked about twenty yards away and sat on a boulder, staring at sand. He certainly did not have a replacement. He thought through what he had brought. Tools. Spare tire. Fuel. But not much else. What could he fashion as a repair—even if it only lasted a little while. The leak was bad, and it was the line itself, not at a connection. It was a nasty rip, twisting the line and leaving a 3-inch-long gash with ragged sides. Probably had snagged a sharp rock back coming down the roughest part of the hill from . Fortunately, it was at the top of a bend in the line, which was higher than the tank, so it was only leaking fuel when the engine was running.

Which it would not, now that it could not get enough fuel.

He looked back in the direction they had come and pulled out his watch. They left out of Blythe three hours ago, which meant they had travelled about 30 miles and had 60 more to go (six hours!) to reach the nearest civilization—Indio and then Palm Springs.

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If he could not figure a way to repair it, they had two options. Wait until another car came by, or he could walk back (a trip of about 10 hours or more.) The kids couldn’t do it, so he’d have to leave them all here. They did have food and canvas he could make shelter, but he would rather not leave them here. The other option was to wait until someone came by. Which could be days, and with no guarantee, they would have anything to fix it, but at least they could send help back to them.

He needed to find a solution. He cocked his hat forward on his brow, thinking.

*

If the wind isn’t blowing, the desert is an eerily quiet place. Almost unnatural. Though, of course, there is little more natural than the untrammeled desert.

A sound caught Steve’s attention, and he looked up ahead, along the rough trail through the desert. An object, far away, but moving slightly. Dark, tall. He looked at his family in the car. Lydia was sitting with her head back, resting. The kids in the back seat were talking or arguing or something. Thurman was on the ground, leaning against the front tire.

Steve stood and walked slowly to the back of the automobile, keeping his eyes on the figure moving towards them. Still watching, he opened the boot and took out his shotgun. He was a trusting man, and wanted to give every person the benefit of the doubt. But he had also seen enough—and been through enough—to know you should always be prepared for the worst. Especially out in the middle of the desert.

He walked to the front of the automobile. Thurman jumped up, eyes big. “What is it, father?”

Steve reached down and took the boy’s arm, then leaned towards him. “For the last time, Thurman, get in the automobile.”

Thurman knew when to push and when to acquiesce. He ducked his head. “Yes, sir.” He went around to the driver’s side and got in beside his mother.

Steve walked to the front of the vehicle. As he passed Lydia, she opened her eyes and saw the gun. “Steve? What’s going on?”

“Probably nothing,” he said, without looking away from the figure ahead. “In fact, maybe exactly what we need. I just want to be certain.”

The bonnet was still up, where he left it, so he took a position where it shielded him a bit from the road ahead, but he could still protect his family. Safest in the car for the moment, thought.

As the shape drew closer, it resolved itself into a man riding a burro. He had on a large-brimmed hat, and Steve could already see a long, gray beard down the man’s chest. Long strings of similarly gray hair flowed down from under the hat on either side of his face—a face quite dark and weathered. The burro had two worn saddlebags on either side. A shotgun or rifle was stuck through one of the straps of the saddlebags, sheathed.

Steve relaxed, dropped his gun to his side, and walked towards the man.

“Steve?” Lydia called out.

“Seems to be a prospector,” he called back.

The man drew up to Steve and stopped. “Howdy. Not a good place to be stopped. You got problems with your contraption.”

“I do. Broken fuel line.”

The man nodded, reached down and took a swig of water from a canteen at his side, replaced the cap, and tipped his hat.

“Don’t get many people through here. I’m Peter. Greundyke.”

“Steve Ragsdale. We’re headed to Los Angeles from Blythe. Done it before, but never had a problem.”

Greundyke nodded, and gestured towards the automobile. “That your family? Best get them out of here. I got a cabin nearby, up past Wiley’s well on Palen Dry Lake. Reckon I can help you fix that break.”

Steve didn’t know any of those places. He had heard that there were prospectors out here—Desert Rats, they were called. “Yes. My wife and four children. Would appreciate the help.”

“We depend on each other out here. Can’t trust someone, we move ‘em along or get rid of them.” He spat to the side onto the sand. “Alrighty. Reckon ol’ Betsy here can pull that contraption out of the way if’n some others try to come spiriting by.”

*

Greundyke had been in the desert prospecting for a decade, according to his story. He was a strange character. Steve figured it was because he spent so much of his time alone, his social skills were lacking.

Not to say he wasn’t kind and helpful. It was long pauses between words. He didn’t know much about the outside world. And, as Lydia later pointed out, he had apparently decided personal hygiene was not all that important.

“Where you all heading’ out of? Blythe, you say?” Greundyke was heating some stew is a big pot over the fireplace. His cabin was small, consisting of one room, a bed in the corner, a table, and a few chairs, and a workbench.

“We have a cotton farm south of Blythe.”

Long silence. “Why you out this way?”

“Headed to Los Angeles for some equipment for the farm.” Steve thought he had already told him that as they were pulling the automobile.

Greundyke made a grunting noise as he dumbed another jar of stew into the pot. The jars were old, and Steve assumed the meat inside was from some animal the old prospector had shot and stored, with spices or maybe just salt. Steve didn’t ask what the animal was.

“Can’t get it shipped or by rail?” He placed the big pot over the fire, which was in the middle of the cabin. Steve looked up and saw a hole in the roof for the smoke to escape. Truly a sparse living—only what he needed and no more. It was rather intriguing.

“I could, but it’s cheaper to go get it. So far, the farm is sustaining us, but it ain’t easy.”

Greundyke nodded and sat down in a chair covered with blankets. “Not many people come by. Busy day if there are two or three. Weeks can go by with no one. You ain’t the first I pulled out of the sand.”

Steve shook his head. “Ought to be some sort of little stop here. What? You about halfway between Blythe and Indio?”

“Yup. ‘Bout fifty miles in both directions.”

“You should set up a little station.” Steve said, always brainstorming. “Fuel, automobile repair for basics, perhaps a little place for some food and drinks. Bet it would make good business.”

“Nah,” Greundyke drawled. “I’m gonna prove up on my ‘stead here and move down to Calexico in a proper house. Found a vein recently that’s promising.”

Steve nodded, still thinking. Lydia spoke up. “How do you survive out here, Mr. Greundyke?” Lydia said. “Is there enough water and food?’ She reached over to pull on Thurmans arm, who was inspecting a set of jars on a shelf with what looked like dried fruit as well as rocks.

“Indeed, young missy, there is. That well out there—you probably didn’t see it cause the dark—dug by Mr. Henry Hartman, who also dug Wiley’s Well, which we passed up back towards the road. Plenty ‘o water. Gotta scrabble for it.”

“What sort of animal and plants are here?” Steve looked over at Lydia, a bit amuse that she was grilling the old man for ideas.”

“Deer, bobcat, jackrabbits, snake. Gotta know how to find and track then, though. Not easy. Tried growing some plants, didn’t have much luck. Cactus fruit is okay, and pine and juniper can be good for some flavor. I get by other victuals from the Indians in Indio or Palm Springs.”

Stanley’s eyes were big. “You eat rattlesnake?”

Gruendyke looked at the boy as if seeing him for the first time. “It’s good meat, boy.” He got up and went over to a rough cupboard. “Got some here.”

Stanley’s smile grew big. He was the adventurous one, which worried Lydia and made Steve proud.

“Palms Springs?” Steve said. “I’ve never stopped there, Indio is usually our first stop. Heard it’s kinda fancy.”

“Yep. The Desert Inn Hotel does bang up business from the wealthy, so I’ve heard, at the sanatorium there, owned by Dr. Coffman. I’ve met him and his lady. But there’s regular people living around Palm Springs, too.”

“What about Murray’s Hotel? Didn’t the president stay there? And Robert Louis Stevenson?” Lydia asked.

“Naw, but Roosevelt’s vice president did. But Murray’s closed down ‘bout ten years ago. Talk of opening it back.”

Thelma, laying on the floor by her mother’s feet, yawned loudly.

“Ah.” Greundyke said. “Where’s my manners. I got some cushions and blankets, you all can sleep in here. Not room, but cozy and holds the cool in the morning.”

“Mighty hospitable of you, Mr. Gruendyke.”

“Eh, if’n we can’t be hospitable out here, then there’s something wrong. In any case, we’ll get your leak fixed up. I got an idea ‘bout that. Then you can get on your way tomorrow morn.”

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