|
This is a weird little short story. As I mentioned to Larry
Shannon, I don’t know where these things come from…I just write
‘em. I’m running the story in three parts.
The Saba
Chapter 1
of a short story by Claude Hall
When you're thirsty and
your horse is dry and hurting and both of you have been stumbling,
side by side, for much too many miles in a blazing hell, a cool
mountain stream is just about the most beautiful thing in the
world. The stream sings as it moves along its banks and over the
pebbles in the bottom and the birds join in the melody and breezes
in the branches of the nearby trees add to this symphony.
Today, that was especially true and Danny Dunbar was grateful more
than you could possibly realize for the music of nature! He dropped
the reins of Popper and tumbled face down in the water of the narrow
stream and drank without moving. That water was just about the best
thing his parched lips had ever tasted!
They'd told him back yonder that he shouldn't venture into the Saba
because no one had gone far on the Saba and lived and he'd crossed
many a shifting sand dune and straggly cactus inch of it just to
prove that a Dunbar was a unique and special soul.
But he knew now without question that the Saba, indeed, meant
death. Even for a Dunbar. Yet, no matter! An electric thrill
rippled through him. He'd been out there! Found, indeed,
everything that the Saba had to offer! If he was alive, of course.
He wriggled his fingers. Toes. Alive! So far as he could tell.
When he knew that he had definitely tricked the Saba out of at least
one death, he rolled over on his elbow and looked to his horse.
Popper had walked into the water and fallen on his front knees. It
appeared, too, that Popper would survive. This had not been so
obvious just a few minutes ago. For horse or man!
He was still thirsty and weak, but knew enough to stagger to his
feet, dripping water, wade to the horse, and lift his head of the
horse from the stream.
"Ease up, fellow. Not too much at once."
He took his canteen from the saddle and filled it by sinking it in
the flowing water, drank some of the water and filled it again
before hanging it back on the saddle.
Already some of his strength was coming back.
His Stetson had fallen off when he plunged into the water. He
searched for it. A rock had snagged it down stream a few yards. It
was drenched, of course. But so was he! Everything was soaked.
Felt a little good, though, in a slight breeze coming off the hills
to the west. Be chilly soon. The sun was close to dropping behind
those hills. Night would follow.
Perhaps he could build a small fire over there under a tree, heat up
a can of beans, camp here for the night. This was a fairly pretty
place. High rocks beyond that old oak tree. Some grass for
Popper. Nice view on down the slope of the hill where the stream
ventured into the prairie and eventually disappeared in the sand
amidst some willows.
"I thought you would show up here, Lee."
The voice behind him startled Danny. But he didn't make the mistake
of reaching for a wet revolver in a wet holster at his hip.
This was, unfortunately, that part of the west where a fellow had
just about as many enemies as friends. Only most of the time you
couldn't tell which was which.
Danny turned slowly around to face a rather gaunt fellow with a tin
star pinned to his shirt.
"I'm not Lee, whoever that may be," said Danny. He slowly raised
his hands. "I don't even know this Lee person."
"I had a feeling you'd say exactly that," was the reply. "By the
way, did I mention that you're under arrest?"
"And I was hoping desperately you'd say something like that,
sheriff," said Danny.
He grinned.
The gaunt figure with the tin star frowned because he didn't
understand why his captive would grin like that or make that kind of
statement. What did he mean?
"I'm a deputy marshal, not a sheriff," he said. He tried to grin
back.
"With that gun pointed at me, you can be anything you want to be,"
said Danny with a laugh. "But I'm still not Lee. My name is Danny
Dunbar."
"Afraid not," said the marshal. "To me, you're Lee Kelly. Robbed a
bank over in Sonora. There's a reward. Not much, but these days a
man must take what he can get, I suppose. And, by the way, the
reward is dead or alive."
Again that electric thrill rippled through Danny. Not only the
Saba, with all of its deadly mysteries, but this! What luck!
Surely, he didn't deserve all of this excitement. It had to be a
gift from god!
"I have a certain suspicion here, marshal," said Danny, "that in
this particular situation, this Lee Kelly is supposed to end up
dead."
The marshal nodded.
"Real intelligent of you to figure that out," said the marshal.
"My mistake," said Danny. "Big mistake."
He said these words fairly low and, as hoped, it aroused the
curiosity of the marshal.
"What was that?"
"I was warned not to try to venture into the Saba. Everyone said it
couldn't be survived and there were skeletons of animals and men
scattered over the Saba to prove it. They all said bad luck waited
for the man who tried."
"You didn't cross that desert."
"Why not?" demanded Danny Dunbar. This was not a lie because he
didn't say he did and he didn't say he didn't.
"Nobody crosses the Saba and lives," said the marshal.
"I'll admit it was a tough go," said Danny. "And what they said
about those skeletons was absolutely true. But the talk about the
treasure...well...."
"Treasure?'
There had been rumors of gold in Texas even before the place was
called Texas. Rumors of Indian mines located somewhere near
present-day Fort McKavitt. Tales of the buried treasure of
Montezuma brought up out of Mexico to save it from the Spaniards.
Jim Bowie, everyone said, came to Texas searching for gold. So had
a great number of other people. But gold and treasure remained
stories that old men told, all of whom knew exactly where it was
because someone who had a map had told them with their last dying
breath. So it had to be the real thing.
Only trouble was that the rumors had outlived even the slightest
glimpse of gold. And you could forget Montezuma's treasure.
"I've been out on the desert a good piece," said the marshal.
"Dried bones. Old wagons falling apart. Once, a dying burro.
Thought a burro would be smart enough not to wander out there."
Ah, the deputy marshal was a talker. Good! This little facet could
prolong the experience. But, of course, it would only be an
experience, per se, if one had a plan. He had outwitted the deadly
Saba. Could he outwit a small-town deputy marshal? And a crooked
one at that!
"Burros are fairly intelligent. Everyone says that," said Danny.
"Hey, would you like a cup of coffee? I've got the fixings in my
saddlebags. That is, if you're not in a big hurry."
"Time enough for coffee, I guess."
"Good," said Danny. "Last meal, so to speak."
He had no intention, of course, of letting a mere cup of coffee be
his last anything. Still, conversation over a cup of coffee would
extend this little bit of pleasure somewhat.
"First, your gun belt," said the marshal. "Put it on that rock over
there. No need to warn you about funny moves, I hope."
"Certainly not," said Danny.
"And I'll fetch the fixings, of course. Some people have an extra
gun tucked in a saddlebag. Or a knife."
"That makes sense, too," said Danny. "I'll get a fire ready."
He dropped some small rocks in a half circle by the surface of a
flat rock. Into this circle, he placed some dried leaves and
twigs. Then he stepped away.
"You'll have to do the honors here, sheriff."
"I told you I was a marshal."
"Right. Forgot for a minute," said Danny with a grin.
"You don't have matches?"
Danny patted his pockets.
"Wet."
"Back off over there."
Obediently, Danny walked over to a tree and leaned against the
trunk.
"So, you've never heard of me, Danny Dunbar?"
"Can't say that I have," said the marshal.
"Well, I guess it's true what they say...that one side of the Saba
is almost a different world from the other side."
"Yeah, I've heard that," said the marshal. "Anyway, you're too
young to have built a rep. You have to hang around for a while.
But that's your problem, eh!"
The marshal stuck a match against a rock and touched it to the
leaves. The leaves began to smoke. He took off his hat and gently
waved at the smoking leaves. In a moment, the twigs had caught
fire. He added some larger branches to the flame. However, the gun
in his right hand never wavered far from the direction of Danny.
Danny didn't mind the gun pointing at him. Just added to the
excitement. First, the Saba. Now this!
"You wondered what that burro was doing out on the Saba?" said
Danny. "I think I can tell you. It was a pack mule more than
likely of some unfortunate treasure hunter. I can just see it now.
This guy finds the site, all that wealth, but then meets some kind
of horrible fate and the burro is left to wander."
"You're saying there is treasure out there?"
The marshal paused and looked back at Danny by the tree.
"Of course. Everyone says there's treasure. So there has to be
treasure."
"Not something anyone will ever find, I'll bet," said the marshal.
He turned back to his task. He filled the small pot from the
saddlebags with water, dropped in a handful of coffee, set the pot
firmly in the fire to begin to boil.
"That dying burro you found should have told you something," Danny
said.
"The dead don't talk. That burro was just as good as dead."
"I used to be afraid of the Saba," said Danny. "But I'm not
anymore."
"You know so much about treasure," said the marshal, "but I don't
see any treasure on you."
"Naturally not. I was quite busy just surviving at the time. But
I've great plans for going back."
"You? Go back for the treasure? After coffee, you're dead."
"Well, yes. There's that little problem, I suppose."
"Because a $200 reward for you, Lee, is treasure enough for a man
like me."
"Wife and kids, I suppose?"
"No. Not hardly. Poker."
"Ah, you play poker and I suppose you play it rather badly."
"You've got that right," said the marshal. "But a man needs a
hobby. Anyway, poker helps me to relax. And now and then, I win a
bit."
"Deputy marshals aren't paid as well as sheriffs, I've been told,"
said Danny.
"Coffee's ready," said the marshal.
He filled a tin cup from the pot.
"I'll have mine in the bowl that's in the saddlebags," said Danny.
"Go help yourself," said the marshal.
"Thanks, sheriff."
"I told you, I'm just a deputy marshal."
"Whups. Sorry. I forgot."
Danny walked casually over to Popper and reached in the right
saddlebag and fumbled for the tin bowl.
"Let me see it," said the marshal.
Danny held up the bowl.
"I'm really fond of this bowl," Danny said. "Good for beans. Chili
around a trail herd campfire. Just about anything."
"Good enough, anyway, for your last cup of coffee."
"This bowl will be around a long time after that," said Danny. "Me,
too."
The marshal was immediately alert. He raised the barrel of his
revolver. Evidently for a head shot.
Danny felt like laughing. A head shot at this distance?
(continued next week)
e-mail
claude@claudehallonline.com
|
July 14, 2008
Commentary
by Claude
Hall
It got a little nuts.
But fun! Two or three things going on at the same time. One of the
“things” started when George Wilson, Albuquerque, sent me a promo
spoof called “The Tony Richland School of Record Promotion.” He
called three times to make sure I’d not only received it, but
listened to it. So, I had to hear it…you know, orders from
headquarters, so to speak. It had been sent to him by Gary Allyn,
San Diego. The spoof was hilarious. Of course. I immediately sent
it out to a bunch of people, most of whom knew Tony, and also
informed Gary (but after the fact so that he wouldn’t be able to
stop me even if he were so inclined, which he wasn’t). Too, I
wanted to send Tony a copy via CD.
Gary Allyn, San Diego: “Hey, Claudius! Thanks for the ‘spins’ as
they say re: the Tony Richland thing. I have Tony's phone number and
have called it a few times, only to get his recorded message. I've
left messages to call me back, so far, na-da. I'll give you the
number, I'm sure it's o.k. with him to let you have it. Just please
don't publish before checking with Tony. The last address I had was
in Sierra Madre, CA. I assume he's still there. Don't know until I
hear back from him. You wanted to know who wrote the bit we did.
After checking with Neil Ross, he thought I wrote most of it, as I
knew more record guys (especially back East) than he did. It's
something I forgot all about doing until former KCBQ newsman Bill
Hatch uncovered a copy of it as he went through some old tapes.
Astounding what may lay out there in dark recesses of attics,
garages, and closets across America. Thanks for resurrecting our old
‘spoof’ ad. Haven't had so much fun since George W. fired me, then
hired me back two weeks later! Hah!! Sure miss those old record
promo guy days. They were such an integral part of the radio biz
then. Very best regards.”
Meanwhile, I heard back from several people regarding the Tony
Richland spoof. And Gary heard from Tony. A CD with the spoof
promo and a couple of Tom Russell tunes is now en route to Tony.
Yes, me and Jay Marvin and Ernie Hopseker are still promoting Tom
Russell.
Chuck Blore: “I loved the Tony Richland School thing...very clever
stuff. Tony was promoting things when I was at KFWB, he was one of
the better promo guys, never high pressure, always intelligent and
professional. I liked him very much, I'm sure he loved this
satire.”
For those who don’t know, Tony Richland is not his real name. I
think it’s Diamond. He’d been a songplugger…yeah, that’s what they
called them…back in the days of sheet music in New York, as I
recall. I didn’t know him until Billboard moved its headquarters to
Los Angeles and I went along. Tony is a great human being. I like
to consider myself lucky for having known him. He was one of the
best independent record promotion people during his day. If anyone
disliked Tony, I never met them.
One of the other things going on during the week was that Ron Jacobs
ran something about me on his blog. I immediately forwarded his
comments to several people. Some of the following notes concern
that blog.
Scott St. James: “Loved your riff on heroism. To me, Senator
McCain is a guy who seems to have handled stress well. We throw
the word ‘hero’ around too easily. People who are often referred
to as being heroic are people who are simply doing what they're
being paid to do (like sports stars) and people who are looked up to
by their children because they (more often than not) ‘do the right
thing’. To me, doing something heroic, is to do something not
thought out during or after the fact. It's a reactionary kind of
thing that results in good being done. A reaction that one second
earlier or later would probably produce a different result. And
someone who has really done something heroic, is someone who never
has to be defended. When that does happen, I think it's more about
need to be recognized as opposed to ‘just doing’ or ‘having done’.
In a context much smaller than the McCain argument, I like to look
back to what Tommy Lee Jones said in his acceptance remarks after
winning a Best Supporting Oscar for his role in “The Fugitive” when
he said, ‘And to Harrison Ford, who needs no support’. Also enjoyed
your takes on Mr. Jacobs and Mr. Drake. I've never met Ron, but
we've communicated often via email. I accidentally met and then
spoke (at great length) with Bill Drake once. At Martoni's in the
early to mid 80s. A casual ‘How do you do?’ led to a drinks fueled
conversation that if taped, would probably have been regarded as
words spoken by very thoughtful people who should have been in
positions requiring a ‘higher calling’ or simply (and more likely)
an example of two guys who were better than most at ‘holding their
liquor’. I don't have ‘a dog in the hunt’ when it comes to any
argument or discussion about who brought more to the table when
Drake and Jacobs worked together, but because of the way I was and
have been treated by both, I like 'em both.”
I told Scott via personal email that while I’d more than likely
pissed Bill Drake off many times, I, too, had great respect for the
man.
Jay Blackburn, San Antonio: “I enjoyed the things you have done for
R.J. (whodaguy). I'm glad he's doing much better. I always
wondered why Ron got so much less credit for 93KHJ than Phillip
Yarbrough. Lord help us, he's good. Who else could make a union
station so tight? I know…I ran a union station in Chicago and
that's the crux of this email. As to Chuck Dunaway, well, you know
that story. When Chance and I came back from the Caribbean, the
station that we listened to most was Chuck’s Progressive Country on
our old KAFM. I told him so, but that didn't work. You know that I
had offered Dunaway the GM job at a station we had just built in
Lake Charles. The money was good and Chuck was on the beach. I was
just trying to do a good deed. He threw the gig back in my face and
in the face of the owner. Chuck was on the beach because he had
been consulting WSDM, Chicago, for Phil Chess. Unfortunately, he
started with a 1.2 and after a year he still had a 1.2. You, Art
and Chuck all recommended me. I know you and Art believed I could
do it. Chuck thought that I would fall on my face. Instead, I put
The Loop together. Of course, Artie just wanted to sell the station
for a much higher price than just the stick value ($3 mil.)…in 7
months the deal was $5.2 million. That was the second-highest price
for an FM to that date. The highest price was the beautiful music
station down in Boca. At the time we sold The Loop, it was worth $9
million, but to Phil a deal was a deal and he wouldn't back down.
So be it. Thank you again for all you are doing for Ron Jacobs.
Too soon the Greats are forgotten!”
To be quite honest with everyone…especially me…Ron Jacobs has done
more for me than I could ever think about doing for him. Ron Jacobs
and Tom Rounds…good people…and great radio men.
Ron Jacobs, Maui: “Thanks for the kind words, and remembering. You
are, and always will be, a friend and inspiration. Warmest aloha.”
Dave Williams, Los Angeles: “I had brunch with Chuck Blore this
morning, as we do every month or so, and your name came up -- not
for the first time. (He was telling me about how you're helping him
with his book.) I'm one of those guys still in radio after about 40
years. A survivor, I guess, though I was never a huge star it's
enough to still be doing what I wanted to do when I was a child. My
resume starts in 1969 at KOBO in Yuba City, through KROY in
Sacramento, KRTH in LA, WHBQ in Memphis, back to Sacramento and
eventually, now and for the foreseeable future, telling the time and
weather at KNX, Los Angeles. Just wanted to say hello. I looked
forward to your column in Billboard every week and now I'll be
looking in on your website. It's a wonderful thing to still have
one's heroes.”
This gets around to one of the other things I was doing during the
week. I’ve mentioned before that Chuck Blore, one of the major
radio legends, was working on a book. I was honored when he asked
if I’d look at it. Wow! Even during my days at Billboard, Chuck
Blore was a radio god. Absolutely a radio god. At 75, I’m just a
dab too old to do the kind of editing job that almost every book
needs. Doesn’t matter who wrote it. You think Hemingway was
perfect? There’s a major mistake in “The Killers.” Few people
notice. I took an English course under a professor at The
University of Texas who discovered it. Think that’s how he got his
Ph.D., but I’m not quite sure about that.
But I might help by noticing things now and then and so I wanted to
get my hands on Chuck’s manuscript. I have it on my laptop and I’ve
been going over it. Great book! There is some discussion between
Larry Shannon and myself now whether it should be an audio book or a
printed book. I’m old and old-fashioned. I opt for the printed
version. Regardless, this is a book that every radio man worth
turning down a pod will love! And every university in the United
States, Brazil, Australia, England, and maybe a very other countries
will need for their libraries. I just hope that if there is an
audio version, there is also a printed version. I mean this book,
which details Chuck’s life and KFWB and his advertising world, is
not only entertaining, but fascinating!
One segment in the book deals with Snuffy Garrett, the record
producer responsible for millionselling singles by such as Bobby Vee,
Cher, Tanya Tucker, and Gary Lewis and the Playboys. I’d like to
state that Snuffy is a friend. That’s not exactly true. But I know
him, admire him, like him, and I’ve been grateful that I’ve known
him. Been at his home once when he lived in Beverly Hills, Los
Angeles. I immediately emailed that segment, sans permission from
Chuck, to Bobby Vee who stays in touch with Snuffy.
Bobby Vee: “Claude, out on the road this week. I'll call you soon.
I will forward the 'Snuffy' piece to him. Great stuff!! He will
love being remembered by his buddy.”
Just FYI, I came very close to printing the segment here. But
decided that I’m basically an ethical hombre and it wouldn’t be fair
to Chuck. I will tell you this, though: The Pearl Bailey segment,
wow! The Roger Miller segment, double wow! At one point, and I’ve
just emailed Chuck about this, my eyes started watering…okay, so I
was crying…and I had to get up and walk away from this laptop for a
while. You’re going to love this book. You’re going to treasure
this book. It’s extremely well written. But who would expect
anything else from Chuck Blore?
A week ago, I stated that I felt four living national treasures in
radio were Chuck Blore, Kent Burkhart, Ron Jacobs, and George
Wilson. This came back from Kent:
Kent Burkhart, Florida: “Thanks, Claude, for the recognition in
your recent column. Standing with those other three radio guys
makes me feel like I am in tall cotton!”
Just FYI: I mentioned to Chuck Blore that George Wilson had said if
Chuck could write a book, he could write a book.
Chuck Blore, Los Angeles: “George Wilson, Kent Burkhart and Ron
Jacobs are all guys I know and admire. I have, or have had, a
personal relationship with each of them. I have an interview I did
with George featured on my website, I did some commercials for a
friend of Kent's last year. Kent had recommended me to the guy and
we were all able to spend a couple of fun days in LA together. And
Ron and I are in constant and continuous email communication. Years
ago, I fell in love with a dramatic old poem called, 'The Face On
The Barroom Floor’. When I saw your mention of my name with the
others in that group today, the first thing that came to mind was a
line from that old poem...’To be in such good company would make a
deacon proud’. True. And I thank you for the way you have honored
me, not just today, but also with the poem that hangs on my wall
about five feet from where I am sitting, ‘When they speak of radio,
quietly over toast and tea....’ Thank you again, Claude, I m so
proud to know you and call you my friend. As for George writing a
book. I'm sure he could write a beauty although I'm not sure if
he's up to the editing task. Thanks again.”
Tom Campbell: “It has been soooooooo long hearing from you. Hope
all is well. Would like to catch up with you soon. I enjoyed Ron’s
blog, especially about you! My very best to you my friend.”
John Alexander Hall, esq., Los Angeles: “Dad, I thought that you
might get a kick out of the fact that while driving I am currently
listening to Tom Campbell from KYA in 1968. Man, he was good back
then.”
One of those to whom I forwarded Ron Jacob’s blog was Raul Cardenas,
Ph.D., a fellow teasipper from a hell of a long time ago.
Raul Cardenas, New York City: “You are famous and even a legend.
I'll merely add my bit since in my mind you are clearly the same
recognizable red-headed, dude in the thick beer-bottomed glasses
that I first met in a shady, shabby (and dangerous) broken down
Mexican two-step beer joint on East 6th way back in Austin, Texas,
back in the mid to late fifties. Everyone was dancing the border
two-step (also known as shit-kickers). A fight had been quelled at
the bar by the simple expedient that the bartender shoved a 45
automatic into one of the gladiator’s mouth, quickly taking any
combativeness out of him. But then it came time for a piss relief
and I lined up with the rest of the dark-haired bloods in the
filthy, smelly crapper. I, a recently returned infantryman from the
war (Korea), getting my civilian legs back (getting back from the
war now has a fancier name), who had recently discovered
bull-fighting, slumming, and looking for interesting
company and low brow adventure in the middle of Texas in the
Mexican and Black part of town. As I looked over my shoulder in the
dingy pissoir, I found myself looking into the face of a tall,
yeast-pale, freckled-faced, an out-of-place Anglo, obviously a
non-Spanish speaker staring back at me through thick glasses, who
suddenly decided to smile. I was arrogant even then: ‘What the
hell you doin' here?’ ‘I'm with a bull fighter’. I, two weeks into
bull-fighting, but fully indoctrinated by Hemingway, Franklin,
Conrad and probably carrying Bull Fever, flatly told him: ‘There
ain't no bull-fighters in Austin’. His reply came easily ‘I'm with
one…if you don't believe it come with me. and I'll introduce you’.
We finished our business, left the smelly crapper for the sweaty
bar, and I followed him to the table where I met Fernando Corral,
who really had been a childhood ‘fenomeno’ or ‘spontaneo’ (one who
leaps into the bull-ring and literally steals the bull from the
bull-fighter), who, at the age of 10 or 11 had already been dubbed
as ‘Corralito’ by the press. It turned out that Corralito's cousin,
Gaston Santos, was also a famous ‘rejoneador’, and his uncle was
governor of San Luis Potosi and his father had been lined up and
shot by a firing squad during the Mexican revolution (he once showed
us the scars in his chest). And this would be my first connection
to the real world of bull-fighting, Fernando and Claude Hall, both
of whom have remained close friends full of young man's memories of
when we were young and counted.”
The place was Papa Gallo on Sixth Street and it was not the most
dangerous place I’ve been…that has to be the adobe cantina in the
50s backstreets of Juarez I described quite aptly in my western
novel “Huecos.” That place? Whew! You could get killed by
accident as well as design…and fast! They called me El Colorado
Grande back then. Hey, when in Rome, do as Romans do! But perhaps
you’ve heard that line before, eh! Funny thing is that I’ve never
had any problems with Mexicans. One night in another cantina, three
gringos told me they were going to wait outside to kill me and so I
bought a 90-cent quart of tequila (what a great weapon Jose Cuervo
Gold was in those days!) and went out to meet them.
Earle, Bruce Miller, south of the border: “As for Whodaguy, I am
often sorry that I never had the chance to meet Ron Jacobs. I do
not know if we would have hit it off or not, but nonetheless I truly
respect the guy for what he has brought to the table as far as radio
programming goes. No doubt eccentric but nonetheless a true
genius. I hope this brief note find you and Los Hall all well. You
take care. Saludos.”
Vince Cosgrave, Las Vegas: “Many thanks for the material you sent.
Don’t know how I would have held up in enemy hands either during my
four-year Korean War service – spent entirely in the war zones of
San Antonio and Sacramento. But when my kids got old enough to ask,
I told them that I kept those two fine American cities safe for
Democracy and they seemed reasonably impressed.”
e-mail
claude@claudehallonline.com |
