By dawn, O'Leary had crossed the fertile miles of plain west of the capital, passing tiny villages and lonely farmhouses sleeping in the night. Far ahead, he could see a smoky-blue line of rocky peaks catching the first light of morning. The verdant green of tilled fields had given way to dry-looking pasture spotted with scrubby trees, under which a few lean cattle stood listlessly. He rode up a final slope, the dust of the road rising like stirred talcum powder now, leaned aside from the taking branches of thorn trees beside the trail, and looked out across an arid expanse of pale terra cotta colored clay. He halted, frowning.
Somehow he had expected to encounter some sort of warning before reaching the desert—a saloon with a sign reading "Last Chance Charlie's," or something of the sort, where he could buy some supplies for the long ride still ahead. Instead, here he was, already worn out from an unaccustomed night in the saddle—the book hadn't mentioned blisters on the thighs—facing the desert.
And he was getting hungry again. He jogged on, thinking of food. Taffy, now; that was nourishing, compact, durable. O'Leary felt the glands at the side of his jaws ache at the thought. Beautiful, tawny, delicious taffy. Funny how he'd never really gotten enough taffy. Back in Colby Corners you could buy it in any desired amount at Schrumph's Confectionary, but somehow he'd always felt a little foolish walking in and asking for it. That was one thing he'd correct as soon as he got back—he'd lay in a larger stock of taffy and eat it whenever he felt like it.
He squinted across the hazy flat ahead, concentrating on the idea of saddlebags well stocked with good, mouth-watering, nourishing food. All he had to do was dismount, open them up, and there it would be. Concentrated rations that wouldn't suffer from the desert heat, enough to last him for—oh, say, a week.
There was a tiny jar—the familiar sense of a slipped gear in the cosmic machinery. O'Leary smiled. OK, he was set now. He'd ride on a mile or so into the desert, just to give himself a clear view of the trail behind so that no one could sneak up on him, and then he'd enjoy a long-delayed meal.
* * *
It was hot out here. O'Leary twisted, riding in a semi-sidesaddle position to ease the pain in his seat. The early sun was beating on his back, reflecting into his eyes from every projecting rock and desert plant. Too bad he hadn't thought to equip himself with a pair of Ray-Bans—and a hat would have helped, too; a wide-brimmed cowboy model. He reined in, turned in the saddle and looked back, squinting into the sun. Aside from his own trail of hoofprints and the settling dust of his passage, no sign of human life marred the expanse of dusty sand. It was as though the world ended a mile or two behind, where the low plateau met the dazzle of the morning sky. Not a very choice spot for a picnic, but the pangs were getting bothersome.
He swung stiffly down from the saddle, unbuckled the strap securing the flap on the left-hand saddlebag, groped inside and brought out a cardboard box. A bright wrapper showed a plate of golden-brown goodies. Aunt Hooty's Best Salt Water Taffy, O'Leary read delightedly. Well, that would make a fine dessert but, first, the more staple portions of the feast. He dropped it back in, came out with a familiar-shaped tin. Sailo Sam's Salt Water Sardines, the purple print announced, and beneath in small red letters: Finest Pure Taffy Confections. The next container was a square box containing Old-Fashioned Taffy, a Treat for Young and Old. O'Leary swallowed hard, dropped the box, probed for another; came up with a dozen eggs—chocolate-covered, taffy inside.
The other saddle bag produced a five-pound tin of taffy—a large gob of taffy artfully shaped to resemble a small ham, three square cans of Old Style Taffy Like Mother Used to Make, a flat plug of Country Taffy—Pulled by Contented Clods, and a handful of loose taffies wrapped in cellophane lettered Taffy Kisses: Sweet as a Lover's Lips.
O'Leary looked over the loot ruefully. Not what you'd call a balanced diet; still, it could have been worse. After all, he did like taffy. He sat down in the shade of the horse and started in.
It was worse after that, riding on in the later morning sun. His soreness stiffened into pain that made him wince at every jolt of the animal's hoofs. His mouth puckered with the cloying taste of candy, his stomach feeling as though a dollop of warm mud had been dropped into it. His fingers were sticky with taffy, and the corners of his mouth were gummed with it. Ye Gods! Why hadn't he dwelt on the idea of ham sandwiches or fried chicken, or even good old Tend-R Nood-L! And it would have been clever of him to have supplied himself with a canteen while he had the chance.
Well, he was committed to the venture, ill-prepared though he was. There was no turning back now; the cops would be out in force after the fiasco in the alley. Nicodaeus had shown his colors; he could reduce the tally of his friends here in Artesia from one to zero. Still, when he came riding back with Adoranne before him, all would be forgiven. That part of the trip would be a little more fun than this. She'd have to sit snuggled up close, of course, and naturally he'd have to have at least one arm around her—to steady her. Her golden hair would nestle just under his chin, and he'd ride slowly, so as not to fatigue her Highness. It would take all day, and maybe they'd have to spend a night, rolled up in a blanket—if he had a blanket—by a little campfire, miles from anywhere . . .
But right now it was hot, dusty, itchy and exceedingly uncomfortable. Ahead, the line of peaks showed as a sawtoothed ridge, angling in from the left, marching on without a break to the horizon. Keep going until he reached the pass, the fellow had said back in the alley—not that he could depend on his directions. But there was nothing to do now but keep going and hope for the best.
The sun was low over the mountains to the west, a ball of dusty red in a sky of gaudy purple and pink, against which a clump of skinny palm trees stood out in stark silhouette. O'Leary rode the last few yards to the oasis and reined in under the parched trees. The horse moved impatiently under him, stepped on past a low, half-fallen wall, dropped his head to a dark pool, and drank thirstily. O'Leary eased an aching leg over the saddle and lowered himself to the ground. He felt, he decided, like an Egyptian mummy buried astride his favorite charger, and just now unearthed by nosy archaeologists. He hobbled to a spot on the bank of the pond, got awkwardly to his knees and plunged his head under the surface. The water was warm, a little brackish and not without a liberal sprinkling of foreign particles, but these trifles detracted hardly at all from the exquisite pleasure of the moment. He scrubbed his face, soaked his hair, swallowed a few gulps, then rose and tugged the horse away from the water.
"Can't have you foundering, old boy, whatever that is," he told the patient beast. "Too bad you can't enjoy taffy—or can you?" He rooted in the bag and unwrapped a Taffy Kiss; the horse nuzzled it from his palm.
"Bad for your teeth," O'Leary warned. "Still, since it's all there is, old fellow, it'll have to do."
He turned to the rolled bundle behind the saddle, unstrapped it, found that it consisted of a thin blanket with holes and a weather-beaten tent with four battered pegs and a jointed pole; the Red Bull's equipage left much to be desired. Fifteen minutes later, with the patched canvas erected and a final taffy eaten, O'Leary crawled inside, shaped a hollow in the sand for his hip, curled up on his side and was instantly asleep.
He awoke with a sudden sense of the ground sinking under him, a blip! as though a giant bubble had burst, followed by an abrupt silence broken only by a distant carrump! and the lonely skriii of a bird. O'Leary's eyes snapped open.
He was sitting alone on a tiny island with one palm tree in the center of a vast ocean.