Pedestals of Ash Read Free

was drawn to his favorite place – the tack room.
    Even today, isolated and unsure of his own survival there in the desert, thoughts of the tack room brought a painful smile to Bishop’s cracked, dry lips. As a small boy, that room was off-limits unless he was specifically asked by one of the men to fetch something. He remembered that smell, that glorious, intoxicating aroma of rawhide saddles balanced on rails , and bridles lining the walls. The scent was of working leather, sun cured, and sporting a history rife with toil. Some of the saddles were reserved for the 4 th of July parades in Alpha, strikingly adorned with highly- polished silver studs and buckles. Those shining emblems were like Christmas lights to Bishop - rare ornaments in an otherwise bleak and dusty world of a working west Texas ranch. The room’s real magnet for small boys was in clear view from the doorway. Along the back wall hung the men’s pistols and holsters, now mostly used for show. Bishop had intently absorbed the bunkhouse stories of daring Indian raids and brave cowboys barely holding off Comanche warriors. A young fellow with quite the vivid imagination, Bishop recreated battles using a stick rifle and firing pretend bullets at attacking savages crouched behind the barn - after his chores were done, of course. His fantasy was interrupted by his f ather’s pumping of the cast iron handle , and he knew well enough to snap to attention.
    His dad removed a sponge from the dishwashing sink and dampened it under the running well water. Saying only, “Feel this,” he handed it to Bishop . Doing as he was instructed, the boy watched as his father waved the sponge in the air a few times. His dad waited a bit, and then passed the sponge to Bishop to touch again – it was bone dry!
    Bishop had seen some of the ranch hands do card tricks and had even once watched a man dressed in black coat and tails slice his femal e assistant in half at the 4-H F air in Alpha. Bishop’s voice sounded astonished, “Dad! I didn’t know you were a magician.”
    Bishop’s father laughed, tousled the young boy’s hair, and replied in a serious tone. “Bishop, I’m going to tell you again, son, you don’t have to be hot or sweating for your body to lose water. Today, the air is sucking the water out of everything, including your very lungs as you breathe. On days like this, drink more water regardless if you feel hot, cold, sweaty, dry, or thirsty. Got it?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    That day had been over 30 years ago, and Bishop had never appreciated the lesson more than this afternoon. He knew a man could normally last a few days without water - but not today. The humidity must be below 5%, and the air was draining his body with every breath. Of all the days to be without water , he thought. If I don’t find some soon, I won’t have to worry about this sore back and dirty rifle.
    In his mind, Bishop determined he would walk a hundred more steps before he rested again. He re-slung the rifle and started counting. As he headed north, he planned to complete the majority of his journey to Fort Bliss at night. Since he was traveling through west Texas, water would be spotty. The few widely known lakes and springs would most likely attract refugees, and after what he had just experienced, he wanted to avoid people. Traveling at night would be cooler, require less water, and help him pass through unnoticed. 
    He also needed to rest and re-inventory his pack. He had been using a lot of ammo and wasn’t sure exactly how much reserve was left. His current predicament would be even more complicated if his supply of lead were as low as his water. He mentally estimated a three-day walk to Fort Bliss if he traveled from dusk to early morning light. Bishop knew he could shorten that distance if he trekked through El Paso, but the risk wasn’t worth it. Every scrap of information, rumor, and just plain old common sense screamed, “Avoid El Paso!” The few drifters passing