By the time Dad and Grandpère joined us, Ricky and I had made us a comfortable spot on a couple of sleeping bags in the back of the truck. We would ride there until we left the highway, then we’d get inside the cab to avoid eating dust the rest of the way.
“Where are we going, Grandpère?” Last night, I had asked Dad that question, but all he would say was that Grandpère had planned the whole trip and I would have to ask him.
“Our main destination is called Horseshoe Canyon,” he said, “but we’ll make other stops along the way.”
“It’s part of Canyonlands National Park,” Dad added, “but it’s a detached area to the northwest of the park. It’s pretty remote.”
“Good. I like remote. And what’s there?”
“If I were to tell you,” Grandpère answered, “that would spoil the surprise.”
“Have you been there before, Mr. LaRoche?” Ricky asked.
“Nope.” He winked at me. “But Danni’s not the only one who loves Google.”
We turned off the highway about twelve miles north of Hanksville, and Ricky and I got into the truck. Then we headed east, kicking up billowing clouds of red dust as we went. We made slower time on the gravel road, of course, but after half an hour, Dad let the truck roll to a stop. Ricky and I were playing a game on my new cell phone. We looked up in surprise, because Dad had told us we’d be at least an hour before we reached the canyon. There was a long sand dune off to our right, but nothing else in sight.
“Why are we stopping?” I asked.
Dad turned around. “Do you want to learn how to shoot that rifle or not?”
I shot up so fast I cracked my knee on the seat in front of me. “Serious?”
The next hour was one of the best ever. Dad had brought along his old Marlin bolt-action .22 so Ricky could shoot something too. Grandpère lined up the cans along the sand dune, and, after ten minutes of safety instruction and some pointers on shooting, we went at it.
It really grated my cheese that it took me almost a full magazine of shells before I hit my first can. And all the while, Rick was popping them off like they were the size of a barrel. It was all I could do to restrain myself from reminding him that this was my birthday, not his. The brat!
But after an hour, I could hit eight out of ten consistently, which helped wipe the smirk from Ricky’s face.
We tried shooting some cans while they were in the air, which only proved that Hollywood and reality are miles apart. The movies make it look so easy, but even Dad could only hit a can about half the time. And he’s good.
In fact, that was my final humiliation. As we were ready to pack up, Dad asked if he could try my rifle. When I handed it to him, he filled the magazine to the full—seventeen shots. Then he stepped out ahead of us, and surveyed our shooting range. By now, the cans were scattered everywhere. Didn’t matter. Jacking shells into the chamber as fast as he could pump the lever, he hit seventeen cans in a row, sending them skittering across the ground.
As we started off again, I made myself two promises. One, by the end of the summer, I would be a better shot than Ricky. Two, by that same time, I would duplicate that feat of Dad’s, preferably with Ricky there to see it.
About twenty minutes later, as we were bouncing along a particularly bad stretch of washboard road, Grandpère suddenly pointed to the right. “There it is,” he said. “Turn here, Mack.”
Startled, my dad slammed on the brakes and slid to a halt. Off to our right, another dirt road headed south. There were no signposts. “Uh . . . Grandpère,” Dad said, “the turnoff to Horseshoe Canyon is to the right, but not for at least another five miles or so. We’re not there yet.”
“I know. But first we go here.”
Dad glanced back at Ricky and me.
I leaned forward over the seat. “What’s down there, Grandpère?”
“The Cottrell Cabin.”
“Ah,” my father said.
Ricky and I exchanged looks. “The Cottrell Cabin?” I asked. “What’s that?”
Grandpère turned around. “You probably know it by its other name—Robbers Roost.”
“Oh,” Ricky said. “Yeah, I know about that. That’s where Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid hung out with their gang after they robbed banks or held up trains.”
“Exactly right,” Grandpère said. “Well done, Rick.”
I scowled at him. What was this? A “Let’s show Danni how much better I am than she is” contest? Had he forgotten this was my birthday party? I decided to show him I was above such petty attempts to show off. “What’s there, Grandpère?”
“Not much. Just the remains of the old cabin.”
“You’re the boss, Grandpère,” Dad said as he put the truck in gear and we started rolling again.
When I thought Grandpère wasn’t looking, I caught Ricky’s eyes and mouthed, “Boring!” But when I turned back, Grandpère was staring at me, and it was clear he was disappointed.
“Danni,” he said, “in this life, there are no uninteresting things, only uninterested people.”
Face flaming, I started to mumble an apology, but then suddenly a strange, eerie feeling came over me. My skin started to crawl. I jerked around, expecting to see someone coming up behind us. But there was nothing. Yet the feeling only deepened. For a moment, I wondered if we were in some kind of danger.
“I don’t want to go,” I blurted.
Dad hit the brakes, and we came to a stop. He turned around. “Why not?”
“Something’s wrong. I don’t want to go there.”
Grandpère turned around fully to look at me. “What are you feeling, Danni?”
A little shiver ran up and down my back. “I don’t know. Something spooky all of a sudden, and it’s creeping me out. It has something to do that cabin.”
For a long moment, Grandpère peered into my eyes, then he slowly nodded. “Okay, Mack. I’ve learned what I wanted to know. Let’s skip Robbers Roost and head for Horseshoe Canyon.”
Chapter 4
On the rim of Horseshoe Canyon, San Rafael Desert
Saturday, June 14, 2008
It is 7:35 p.m. We’re setting up camp near the trailhead to Horseshoe Canyon, which is our destination tomorrow. I’m writing in my journal now because Dad says that since it’s my birthday, I don’t have to help. We’re about a million miles from nowhere. We haven’t seen another vehicle or person since we turned off the highway. The only thing out here that isn’t a natural part of this barren, empty landscape is one of those dark brown, smelly National Park Service toilets, and a small wooden sign confirming that we were now in the Horseshoe Canyon Unit of Canyonlands National Park. That’s it. No trees, no shade, no water. No nothing. You bring what you need, or you do without. Sweet!
I don’t have a lot of time because Grandpère says there’s no overnight camping in Horseshoe Canyon, so we have to leave early tomorrow so we can get in and out in one day.
It’s been a fun day. My birthday party was good, and the shooting practice was awesome. But one weird thing happened. After we finished shooting, Grandpère wanted to go to this place called Robbers Roost, but as soon as we turned off the road, I had this awful feeling that something was wrong. Weird, right? I’m getting as bad as Mom, I guess. Later, I asked Ricky if he had felt anything, but he said no. But the minute we turned around and left, the feeling was gone again. So I—
“May I join you, ma chérie?”
I looked up in surprise. I had been concentrating so intently on my writing that I hadn’t even heard Grandpère come up beside me. Without waiting for my answer, he sat down on the sleeping bag. I looked around. Dad and Ricky were by the truck, talking about something.
“Is supper ready, Grandpère?”
“Not for a few more minutes.” He looked at my journal and smiled. “So you’ve started writing in it already.”
“Actually last night.” I grinned. “Under the covers. Mom caught me at it.”
“Yeah, she told me. Said I was a corrupting inf
luence on you.”
“She’s always known that, Grandpère.”
“You’re right about that. Good thing she loves me.”
“You look tired, Grandpère.”
“Oui. I am feeling my age.”
“You’re not old, Grandpère,” I said gallantly. “You’re only seventy-four.”
He laughed softly as he touched my shoulder, pulling me closer.
Scooting a little on the bag, I slipped my arm through his. “Thank you for all this, Grandpère. It’s been the best birthday ever.”
He leaned back on his elbows and closed his eyes. I watched him for a moment, studying the lines of his face, the neatness of his goatee, the wrinkles around his mouth and eyes. There might be sixty years’ difference in our ages, but I felt closer to him than I did to any of my friends. Even Ricky. Crazy—but totally cool as far as I was concerned.
“Grandpère?”
His eyes opened.
“Why did you want to take us to Robbers Roost anyway? If it’s important, we can stop there on the way home tomorrow.”
He sat up again, turning to face me more squarely. “A question first. What do you think it was that you were feeling out there?”
“Umm . . .” I chewed on my lower lip for a moment, something I always did when I was thinking hard. “I’m not sure. But I didn’t like it.”
What he said next caught me off guard, because it seemed like he’d forgotten his question. “Hollywood, with their usual gift for playing loose with the truth, glorified Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. They turned them into these fun-loving guys who never hurt people if they could help it. But that isn’t true, Danni. The men that came out here to hide were vicious outlaws and cold-blooded killers.”
His expression was suddenly far away. “One of the realities of life, Danni, is that there is evil in the world—evil men, evil women, evil influences. To think otherwise would be to leave ourselves vulnerable.”
I still wasn’t sure what he was trying to say, and he evidently saw that in my eyes.
“I wanted to see if you would feel anything out there.” A slow, almost sad, smile followed. “But I didn’t expect you to while we were still miles away.”
“That’s why you wanted to go there?” I blurted in dismay. “To see if it spooked me?”
“Danni, yesterday you turned thirteen years old. In the Old Country, that means you are no longer a child. You are a young woman. It is time that you begin preparing for that.”
I liked the idea that I was no longer a little girl, but Grandpère’s words were still bugging me. “Did you want to take me there specifically to see if I felt something?”
“I wanted to go there to see if you have the gift, Danni.”
I rocked back a little. “The gift? What gift?” I suddenly felt like I had ants crawling over my skin again.
“I believe that what you sensed today was a lingering presence of the evil that once was here.” He leaned closer, peering into my eyes. “Not everyone can feel that, Danni. Especially not from such a distance.”
The ants were joined by goose bumps on my arms. But strangely, it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling, like before. It was more of a tingle of excitement, a thrill of wonder.
“It is a gift, Carruthers, and you must learn to trust those feelings when they come.”
I looked up, surprised. He never called me Carruthers. “Did you feel it too, Grandpère?” I finally asked.
He nodded. “Not nearly as clearly as you did, but, yes, I felt it too.” He reached out and gently touched my cheek with the back of his hand. “Don’t ever dismiss such feelings as meaningless. Give heed to them, and they will be a protection to you in your life.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. Or how to respond.
“Remember the rattlesnake?” he asked softly.
It took me a moment to remember. I hadn’t thought of it for a long time. Two or three years ago, our family was coming home from a camping trip after celebrating my birthday. As we pulled up in front of the house and got out of the car, I stopped dead in my tracks. “We can’t go in, Daddy,” I said. “Something’s wrong.”
At first, he laughed it off, but Grandpère took it seriously. Me and Mom and Code stayed outside while they went inside to look. Someone—probably me—had left the back door open a crack. Inside the house, under Cody’s bed, they found a four-foot-long rattlesnake.
“Are you saying . . . ?” I stopped, not sure how to ask my question. But just then, Dad and Ricky came back to join us.
“Hey, you two,” Dad said. “Dinner’s almost ready. Let’s eat.”
“I’m famished,” I cried. I started to get up, but he shook his head, glancing at the journal. “No, today we serve you. Go ahead and finish writing. We’ll be just a few more minutes.”
I have to quit now. Supper will be ready in a few minutes. Just had a long conversation with Grandpère. Much to think about. Some of it leaves me feeling uneasy. But what I thought was weird before makes more sense now. Can’t explain now. Will try to write later.
But one good thing. I am thirteen years old as of yesterday, so I am no longer a child. I am a young woman. And I have a gift. No, not a gift—THE gift!!! (I wonder what it is.)
With supper done and cleaned up, we sat around the fire for a while, talking and laughing. Dad has a whole string of what me and Cody call “daddy jokes” which, for some reason, he feels compelled to drag out whenever he gets around a campfire. Mom calls them “groaners.” They are so dumb that you can’t help laughing at them, even as you groan.
“Did you hear about the man whose sister gave birth to twins—a boy and a girl?” Dad began. “She asked her brother to name them, so he called them Denise . . . and Denephew.”
Ricky didn’t help, because he thought that was hilarious. His laughter only encouraged Dad. “Did you hear what happened to the cat that crossed the desert on Christmas day?”
I groaned. How many times had I heard that one? Rick, trying to smother his laughter, said, “No. What?”
“He got Sandy Claws.” Dad was trying to keep a straight face, but he couldn’t. He was like a little kid telling knock-knock jokes. Once he got started, he never ended. He was actually snorting as he laughed. “One more. A man and his wife were visiting Hawaii. On the beach, they noticed an older gentleman who looked like a native. The man went up to him. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘I was wondering if you could tell us the correct way to pronounce the name of your state. Is it Hawaii, or Havaii?’ ‘Havaii,’ the man said without hesitation. ‘Thank you,’ the tourist said. ‘You’re velcome,’ came the reply.”
“Please, Dad,” I cried, making a gagging motion with my finger. “No more. I can’t stand it.” But Rick was holding his stomach he was laughing so hard. I gave him a hard poke. “Come on,” I said. “It wasn’t that funny.”
Grandpère stood up. “I think you just passed my limit too,” he drawled. He yawned. “I think it’s time to turn in. We’ve got a long day tomorrow. The Grand Gallery is about three hours in, and it will be hot by afternoon, so we’ll want to get an early start.”
“You’re not going to tell us what the Grand Gallery is, are you?” I asked.
He smiled. “Discovery is one of the greatest joys of the human mind.”
I had expected nothing less.
“Okay,” Dad said. “Let’s turn in. Danni, you want first shot at the toilet?”
My face flamed. “I’m in no hurry,” I lied. I was actually getting pretty desperate. It had been a long time since our last stop. “Ricky can go first.”
To my surprise, Ricky dropped to one knee, bowed low, and then did one of those little rolling motions with his hand, like people do when they’re greeting royalty. “You first, m’lady,” he said gallantly.
“Chill it, Ramirez,” I sniffed haughtily. Royalty indeed. But my body was shouting at me to stop being an idiot. So I stuck my nose in the air and proceeded toward the small brown building, walking with as much dignity as possible under the ci
rcumstances.
Chapter 5
Horseshoe Canyon, Canyonlands National Park
Sunday, June 15, 2008
We left the trailhead just after sunup and descended about eight hundred feet into Horseshoe Canyon. There, the canyon was pretty wide, but as we moved south, going deeper into the canyon, things improved. Great red cliffs began to close in on us, towering above us like fifty- or sixty-story buildings.
When we came around a bend in the wash, the canyon straightened out for a stretch about the length of a football field. And there it was, the biggest and longest set of rock art I had ever seen. This had to be the Grand Gallery. For almost the entire length of the right side of the cliff, the whole rock face had sheared off millennia ago, leaving what looked like a gigantic, nearly smooth “white board” on which the ancients had come to paint.
As we gazed in hushed amazement, Grandpère spoke. “I would suggest we explore what is before us individually and at our own pace. Afterward, we can get together and discuss it as you wish.” He immediately set off, waiting neither for an answer nor compliance.
I chose to walk swiftly along the whole length of the Grand Gallery, not waiting for the others. I wanted to get an overview of the place before trying to take in the details. At first, I took out my cell phone and snapped a couple of pictures, but as I moved along the Gallery’s length, photography was quickly forgotten and I shoved my phone back in my pocket.
Our family loved to find Native American rock art sites—and there were hundreds of them in our area. But the vastness of this collection was unlike anything I had ever seen, not only in size but in scale. As I walked the length of the cliff face, I counted nearly sixty humanlike figures, most of which were bigger than life, seven or eight feet tall. One monster high up on the wall had to be twenty or twenty-five feet tall. And the “canvas” itself was immense, at least two hundred feet long and forty or fifty feet high, ten times bigger than anything I had ever seen before.