| OCR Text |
Show rubies. Neither she nor Father was in any sense a drinker but she had made a little light wine from currants that she feared would go to waste. It was almost like a sacramental wine. We drank it reverently in tribute to their toil and that virtue Father had forced the desert to yield in spite of itself. Edna and I planned a vacation back in the hills west of Blue Mountain, at the south end of the Wah Wah Range. On my search for the "Old Spanish Mine" the wastrel cowboy had jollied me into joining, I'd seen a fascinating ruin of a ranch. Although abandoned, it was charming in a far wild way, and it had a spring. People called it "Jockey Myers' Ranch" because an old ex-jockey had struggled to develop a horse and cattle spread where there was plenty of free grazing around it, near White Sage Valley and the Indian Peak Paiute Reservation, All of us cooperated in gathering supplies from store and garden. I did what I could to make the Model T reliable. I stocked it with canteens and a five-gallon can of water for desert travel. Just before we left Father brought in fresh-picked vegetables. As I cranked up he called out, and hurried to contribute a carton of assorted candy bars. Then we set out, bolstered with Father's robust enthusiasm, that cancelled out Mother's misgivings. Edna had more confidence in me than I had in the car. We bumped and jostled on something like a trail that petered out sometimes but could be followed because there usually was only one way to go. We cut around the south end of Blue Mountain, into juniper-covered hills, along gravel washes, winding higher until pinyons began to appear. The trail or route for a trail was washed out badly in places, but we finally found the ranch. |
