Widow Maker

"The Widow Maker"

"Poor Bastard." Ether Wood leaned back into his seat and drew in a ragged breath. The flutter in his stomach made his heart beat furiously against his chest, the same way it had as he had watched his friend, Ned, slowly plummet to his death. The flutter rose to a wave of nausea. Ether rubbed his sweaty brow and tried to push the echo of Ned's scream out of his mind.

The air in the cab was stifling despite the shade of the metal plate protectors added to protect the drivers from strayed quarry stones and the searing Nevada sun. He put his truck into low gear and continued the climb up the switchback road to finish the three mile drive to the sand quarry where the muck he hauled from the canyon floor was ground, washed and eventually strained for sand to make the concrete for Hoover Dam. Death did not stop the progress of construction. Only debris to be moved slowed the giant's growth.

Stretched out before and behind Ether, a line of 1930 International, GMC, and Mack trucks continued the last migration across the desert floor for the day; the ones heading east filled to capacity, streams of dust filtered away in the breeze; the others heading west, empty, bumped their way back to the rim unaware of what had just happened.

His truck empty and lined up with the other uncommonly silent engines, Ether made his way to the camp transport. He wasn't a drinking man, but he pondered over asking Joshua Tracker for some of his bootleg as he lifted himself onto the transport and looked over the dozen or so down cast eyes. From the looks of things old Josh would have an increase in profits tonight.

The transport bounced into motion jolting Ether against its side panels just as the final crack had snapped Ned back against the five foot steel support brackets. The nausea swirled again in Ether's stomach as he repeated his silent prayer to God and replayed Ned's fall. One throaty cry had shot up through the canyon before the deafening explosion erupted into a geyser of stone, sand, and scrap iron.

Ether thought of the other victims who, driven by their need to escape the Recession, had given up their lives for Hoover Dam. The same horror and desperation had gripped them all, desperate to find some way to escape death. They were compensated for their risks while they lived, but nothing saved them when the odds finally fell against them.

The transport lurched to a stop just beyond the foreman's shack. Ether stepped aside, not quite sure where he wanted to go at the moment. He waited until the other drivers had cleared away from the wash trough, then dunked his head into the tepid water, then flipped it down the back of his neck as he pulled his hands backward over his clipper-cut hair.

"Ether," a voice gargled through the water in his ears. "Ether Wood, hold up a minute." He turned to the voice and noticed the foreman striding toward him with his hand raised in greeting.

"Hello, Mr. Thaxton. What can I do for you?" Ether shoved his hands into the back of his belt.

"I want to speak to you about a new position as driver." Mr. J.C. Thaxton toed at the dirt for a moment then added, "I need a new driver...to replace Ned."

Ether drew in a deep breath, but remained silent.

"The load is coming from Cedar City, Utah, and I understand you’re from Hurricane, just a few miles away. You'd know the roads better than anyone."

"Yep." Ether let the afternoon breeze blow over his face before he answered. "I noticed drivin' dynamite is a pretty risky job these days, Mr. Thaxton. I got a family back home to think of."

"It means an extra ten dollars for you to send home to your family." He looked Ether straight in the eye. "That's more money than you'd make in a month driving muck."

Ether pulled the cap from his head and scratched at the cow lick on his crown. He didn't need the money as much as the poor bastards they convinced to hang off the edge of the cliffs by ropes notorious for breaking. Sure he had his family, but his family wasn't living in a tent in Rag Town just happy to get a good meal in their stomachs each day. And Ned, well, he had nine kids at home to feed, being a good Mormon and all. But not Ether. He only had four daughters at home and they were safe enough without him going and getting himself blown to pieces.

Still, ten dollars would be enough for a down payment on a ranch in the flat lands near Cedar City. A ranch that would make a living for him and his family after the Hoover Dam was finished and the workers were all sent home. And it would be a living he could make and still be near his family, instead of away for days or weeks at a time.

"I tell you what, Ether, make Ned's run tomorrow and I'll find someone else to take over from there." Mr. Thaxton peered sideways at Ether. "If you decide you don't want any part of it after that. Okay?"

Ether shoved his hands deeper into his belt and studied Mr. Thaxton. Six Companies took care of their men, but at the same time they had the power to ask the men to do some damn stupid things for wages since the depression began. "All right, but on one condition. I take my International. I ain't gonna make the run with no other truck but my Maggie."

Mr. Thaxton brightened considerably. "Done. I'll have some men meet you first thing in the morning to rig her up for the load." He grew more serious. "You'd better get some rest. You'll need it."

A day later, Ether stretched his arms out to each side and appraised the familiar switchbacks of Utah’s Dutton Gorge. Two years now he had worked as a driver for Merritt, Chapman, and Scott since the start of the Hoover Dam Project in 1931 and this route from Cedar City through St. George on down to Santa Clara, Arizona, and through the desert via Las Vegas to the Dam was a journey he knew all too well. Maggie's brakes moaned as he released the standing pressure he had on them and she rolled over the crest and down into the ravine.

At forty-five years old he was considered an old timer within the select group of drivers and given his due respect. But he had never experienced the ride to the canyon floor by cable way. He drove switchback roads so frequently he wondered if he couldn't drive them in his sleep. But the sound of Ned Bishop's horror as he plummeted to the canyon floor left him wondering if he could ride the cable way with the load he drove now.

Maggie lurched, jarring Ether away from his thoughts as the ground under the right rear axle gave way and gravel clattered down the canyon's wall. Ether gapped the steering wheel with all his strength and pulled Maggie away from the edge. He quickly shifted to first gear in an attempt to level her out. His heart raced and his hands slipped back over the steering column. He struggled to guide the truck back onto the road and maintain a quiet ride for the dynamite which jostled precariously about on springs in the back of the truck.

"You'd better start paying attention to the present, Ether, or you won’t have a future to worry about." Maggie's left side-view mirror scrapped along the clay and dirt of the gorge's wall.

Ether eased the truck to a stop on the bridge crossing at the bottom of the gorge and pulled the brim of his wool cap further down over his brow to shield the eastern sun from his eyes as he stared up along the graveled road. He released the air in his lungs slowly. The dynamite swayed gently in its cradle.

"Okay, Maggie, let's get out of this wash," he rubbed his hands off on his denim jeans, "and take you home." He sat quiet for a moment. "And no more of that funny business to get my attention, you hear?"

Maggie's gears whined steadily up the opposite side of the canyon. Ether carefully managed around pot holes and rocked Maggie through small washed out crevices in the road until they reached the top of highway Ninety-one and looked down the distance of cedar pines that stretched out to Santa Clara.

"The rest is smooth ridin' from here on, Maggie." Ether eased the truck into second gear to speed their way over the rest of the one hundred and fifty-nine miles to the cable way.

At Black Canyon's ridge three men guided Ether and Maggie onto two pairs of cables, instead of the platform used for Ned's load. The two days it took to make the run hadn't been enough time to make all the repairs needed to restore the tram. Instead, Maggie's front tires were deflated and the black rubber conformed snugly around the three inch steel cables. The rear, dual axle tires were not as easily managed. The International was a Hard Tail, the rear tires made of solid rubber as most haulers were. Those tires were removed from the truck and bare rims replaced to cradle the cables on the journey down to the canyon floor. The cables ran from under the tires and rims upward to two massive sets of pulleys that guided along cable way eleven.

Ether walked slowly around the International and studied closely every cable, checked every wheel mount, and finally traced every support cable to the pulleys overhead. He would have preferred the platform method used before the accident.

Thaxton appeared on the walkway alongside the entrance of the stilted shack. "You ready to ride her down, Ether?" He leaned his weight into the railing.

Ether froze. It wasn't the question that made him stop and think, because the driver always went down with his truck. It was the flash of Ned Bishop clinging to his truck, the last truck lowered into the canyon.

"All you have to do is keep the front wheels straight on the cables." Thaxton's voice seemed meant to reassure.

"I'm ready." Ether pulled his cap snugly down over his head and gave a nod.

Thaxton turned and signaled the cable way engineer. "Go ahead Matt...nice and easy."

The truck lurched, the dynamite jostled about on its springs, the cab of the truck cleared the rim of the canyon. Ether took a firm hold on the steering wheel and drew in a deep breath as he avoided looking down at the set of cables running underneath where the ground used to be. He pulled himself tighter against the side of the truck and dug his heels into the running board to steady himself. "It's just you and me, Maggie... no funny business now." He gave the truck an affectionate pat on the front window shield.

A third of the way down he started to relax. The ride was going very smoothly. The cables held firm, no slack, and the truck rode evenly along its path. The front tires shifted from time to time with the weight of the truck as it rocked in the breeze.

Ether gaped up at the spectators lined up on the north rim. Better than fifty people crowded along the canyon's edge to mark the success of a second load of dynamite. A chill ran down his spine with the memory of these same people watching Ned's ride down the canyon. He scanned the south rim and realized that the ant procession had stopped progress up and down the switchback road. Everyone marked his journey down the cable way. Only the wind rushed past his ears.

Past the High Scalers, the north rim became a looming granite wall. The truck continued it's inching progress moment by moment. Ether stared down at the front wheel for reassurance.

A rebellious wail cut through the wind and the truck lurched to a stop. Ether grasped tighter on the steering column, but was thrown forward, his weight slammed into the steering wheel as the front tires jumped off their cables. The truck fell to the right, the right front tire off its cable. Ether’s heart bounced, rose and fell in his throat, with the truck still held by the left front axle on the cable way. He waited. Slowly, cautiously he looked over his shoulder toward the rear axle. Air filled his lungs as he realized the rims still sat on the dual cables, lopsided, but steadfast.

"What the hell happened!" Thaxton's voice cracked overhead. "Well, fix it, damn it!" His voice, tinny from the megaphone, boomed down through the canyon. "Ether? You all right down there?"

Air rasped along Ether's wind pipe, but the truck seemed steady enough under his trembling body. He tipped his ear upward, not daring to shift his weight to look overhead, and nodded though he knew no one could see it.

"The pulley jammed. Hold on! Matt's working on it."

A breeze brushed along the length of the truck, the breath of the earth, and with every sigh the truck swayed on its high wires. Ether held fast, leaned close to the warm steel of Maggie. He listened for any sound, a moan, creak, sigh. Maggie remained silent. He listened for a clue to point him to a course of action. Nothing changed; the gentle rush of wind whispered along the truck's steel plates and sang across the cables. Sweat trickled down from under his cap.

"We got it, Ether!" Mr. Thaxton's voice was stretched as tight as the cables he threw his voice down. "Hold on. It may be a little bumpy at the start."

Ether pulled Maggie's door closer, pinning himself in her heavy wing. Her armrest dug into his hip, lending a strange comfort.

Maggie trembled with the reluctant pulleys. Metal screeched against metal. The front axle held its position. Ether leaned with all his strength into the steering column to keep Maggie from slipping further as she dangled precariously.

Ether stared into the white caliche earth. The crater three hundred feet below at the end of the cable way swirled and distorted. Sound mixed with motion an inch at a time. Sweat stung at the corner of his eyes. The sandy ground twisted into mist, churned into a chilled breeze that turned the moisture from his skin to a clammy sweat. Dust exploded into ripples as rubber met earth, solid ground.

The steering wheel jerked and Maggie leveled out. Her wing swung open as she sighed her weight onto the ground. Ether jumped inside and turned over her engine. The cables released and first gear moved Maggie away from the tram, level and smooth.

"We made it ole gal!" Ether ran a callused hand over the trucks gear shift. "We did it." He lifted his cap and wiped the sweat away, oblivious to the cheers and applause that echoed from every direction.

"The odds were in our favor this morning, Maggie. What do you say we don't go for double or nothing?"

Samarie Mercereau was born in Cedar City, Utah and rejoined her family in the Las Vegas Valley seven years ago. "Widow Maker" is her first published story. While she enjoys writing remembrances of her families' history, her primary focus of expression is through the graphic arts. Her most recent illustrations appear in the children's book "Lonny Llama, Go of Stay" by Jerry B. Holmes, (unpublished). Samarie works as an administrative assistant for CBIN, Inc., and shares her home with her daughter, a dog, and a hamster named Wilbur, who still remains at large.

Email: Samarie Mercereau

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