there and blasts it into the air in intricate patterns for no reason. One gent even insisted he came across a replica of Camelot itself, gone to squalor and disrepair. These reports are all sun-drunk fantasy of course. Such a city would be totally unsustainable. Who would consent to live there but madmen, insatiable gamblers and the Dutch?
One evening in 1870, this blighted wasteland beheld a rare sight. As daylight faded, a tiny spot of light sprang up upon the plain. It was a campfire. Beside it huddled three dark shapes. Men. Travelers. In those days, anybody who wished to prospect in California had their choice of routes. The wise ones went north, through Oregon Territory, though it was hundreds of miles out of their way. Those foolish few who decided to hurry along the most direct route ended here. These three travelers belonged to the latter kind and were beginning to wish they’d thought better of it when they’d had the chance. They had gathered a pile of the stunted brush that overgrows the plain and set fire to it—as much out of spite as anything. This campfire provided scant relief against the encroaching darkness and the mood of the travelers was strained.
Joseph Strangerson was the youngest, most handsome, best educated, kindest, most reasonable member of the party, but the novelty of these advantages had dried out a thousand miles ago. He was worn to a nub. He sighed. “Feels like I haven’t seen a river this side of a week.”
“No. Nor no pastry shop for a good while longer,” Enoch Drebber groused, staring with unguarded greed at the dainty pink box that rested upon the lap of their companion.
Jefferson Hope’s hard eyes fixed him with a warning glare. “Let’s not have no talk like that, Enoch; you a’ready ate yers.”
Joseph shook his head and kicked a rock into the fire. Enoch, whose temper had been growing shorter and shorter over the last few days, spat, “I sure did an’ it was delicious, too! What the hell kind o’ man wouldn’t eat a donut if he got one? A fool, if y’ask me!”
“I may be a fool, Enoch Drebber, but not so much that I can’t recognize when I’m holdin’ a good thing. You kin take yer eyes off my pastry now, hear?”
Strangerson sighed again and sent another rock to the flames, saying, “He’s got a point, Mr. Hope. If you ain’t gonna eat it, you might as well share. Sharing is one of the seven cardinal virtues, you know.”
“Ain’t never heard of no seven virtues,” Jefferson Hope said, his gaze fixed at the heart of the fire, “jus’ the seven sins. One of ’em’s greed.”
“Goddamit!” shouted Drebber, springing up. “Eat it! Eat it right now or hand it over!”
Jefferson Hope’s eyes rose slowly from the flames to clasp Enoch Drebber in their fell grip. “I’ll eat it when I please, Drebber,” he said, in a voice calm and quiet, but loaded with menacing promise, “an’ there ain’t no man nor beast nor god can make me take a bite afore I’m ready. I’m savin’ it.”
“Calm down, fellers,” Joseph pleaded. “It’s just a damn donut.”
“No. It ain’t. It’s the bestest, most perfect donut what ever there was. I named her Lucy an’ I love her an’ that’s all there is to it,” Jefferson Hope insisted.
“Crazy, that’s what you are,” Enoch Drebber said, but they had reached that same familiar impasse they did every night. In the end there was nothing for it but to hunch down into their bedrolls and go to sleep.
The night was not four hours along and the moon not yet so high in the eastern sky when Joseph Strangerson awoke suddenly to find a hand clapped across his mouth. For a moment he thought to scream, but gazing up he saw the wide, earnest eyes of Enoch Drebber. He had a warning look about him and held one finger to his lips to signal silence. Drebber withdrew his hand and Joseph sat up.
“What? What’s goin’ on?”
“I mean t’ have that donut,” said Enoch.
“That ain’t nothin’ but
One evening in 1870, this blighted wasteland beheld a rare sight. As daylight faded, a tiny spot of light sprang up upon the plain. It was a campfire. Beside it huddled three dark shapes. Men. Travelers. In those days, anybody who wished to prospect in California had their choice of routes. The wise ones went north, through Oregon Territory, though it was hundreds of miles out of their way. Those foolish few who decided to hurry along the most direct route ended here. These three travelers belonged to the latter kind and were beginning to wish they’d thought better of it when they’d had the chance. They had gathered a pile of the stunted brush that overgrows the plain and set fire to it—as much out of spite as anything. This campfire provided scant relief against the encroaching darkness and the mood of the travelers was strained.
Joseph Strangerson was the youngest, most handsome, best educated, kindest, most reasonable member of the party, but the novelty of these advantages had dried out a thousand miles ago. He was worn to a nub. He sighed. “Feels like I haven’t seen a river this side of a week.”
“No. Nor no pastry shop for a good while longer,” Enoch Drebber groused, staring with unguarded greed at the dainty pink box that rested upon the lap of their companion.
Jefferson Hope’s hard eyes fixed him with a warning glare. “Let’s not have no talk like that, Enoch; you a’ready ate yers.”
Joseph shook his head and kicked a rock into the fire. Enoch, whose temper had been growing shorter and shorter over the last few days, spat, “I sure did an’ it was delicious, too! What the hell kind o’ man wouldn’t eat a donut if he got one? A fool, if y’ask me!”
“I may be a fool, Enoch Drebber, but not so much that I can’t recognize when I’m holdin’ a good thing. You kin take yer eyes off my pastry now, hear?”
Strangerson sighed again and sent another rock to the flames, saying, “He’s got a point, Mr. Hope. If you ain’t gonna eat it, you might as well share. Sharing is one of the seven cardinal virtues, you know.”
“Ain’t never heard of no seven virtues,” Jefferson Hope said, his gaze fixed at the heart of the fire, “jus’ the seven sins. One of ’em’s greed.”
“Goddamit!” shouted Drebber, springing up. “Eat it! Eat it right now or hand it over!”
Jefferson Hope’s eyes rose slowly from the flames to clasp Enoch Drebber in their fell grip. “I’ll eat it when I please, Drebber,” he said, in a voice calm and quiet, but loaded with menacing promise, “an’ there ain’t no man nor beast nor god can make me take a bite afore I’m ready. I’m savin’ it.”
“Calm down, fellers,” Joseph pleaded. “It’s just a damn donut.”
“No. It ain’t. It’s the bestest, most perfect donut what ever there was. I named her Lucy an’ I love her an’ that’s all there is to it,” Jefferson Hope insisted.
“Crazy, that’s what you are,” Enoch Drebber said, but they had reached that same familiar impasse they did every night. In the end there was nothing for it but to hunch down into their bedrolls and go to sleep.
The night was not four hours along and the moon not yet so high in the eastern sky when Joseph Strangerson awoke suddenly to find a hand clapped across his mouth. For a moment he thought to scream, but gazing up he saw the wide, earnest eyes of Enoch Drebber. He had a warning look about him and held one finger to his lips to signal silence. Drebber withdrew his hand and Joseph sat up.
“What? What’s goin’ on?”
“I mean t’ have that donut,” said Enoch.
“That ain’t nothin’ but
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