Alone for the evening, I went to Leonard Selph’s
”
Kitchen
”
for dinner. Sitting at a table, Louie Ghione beckoned me with a
fork and said,
”
Grab a chair.
”
As I did so, a hand pulled the third chair back and Johnny Rey,
the constable from Panoche Valley, plunked himself down and
said,
”
Wouldn’t be wise to leave you guys alone.
”
A pleasant evening it was. We discussed the demeanor of our
small town and enjoyed chicken-fried steaks with mushrooms. While
waiting for our tabs, Johnny Rey asked me if I still wanted his
eye-view of Panoche Valley.
Alone for the evening, I went to Leonard Selph’s “Kitchen” for dinner. Sitting at a table, Louie Ghione beckoned me with a fork and said, “Grab a chair.” As I did so, a hand pulled the third chair back and Johnny Rey, the constable from Panoche Valley, plunked himself down and said, “Wouldn’t be wise to leave you guys alone.”
A pleasant evening it was. We discussed the demeanor of our small town and enjoyed chicken-fried steaks with mushrooms. While waiting for our tabs, Johnny Rey asked me if I still wanted his eye-view of Panoche Valley.
“Have an agenda for Thursday,” he said. “Could use another hand. Wanna come? Meet at the Inn about eight?”
“Thursday is open for me, you smooth talker. I’ll be there.”
The Inn at the gateway to the bleak, disheveled valley was owned by Swenn Severenson, brother of Hans, the carpenter. He had a restaurant and bar with a pool table and gas pump.
The constable pulled in just ahead of me. While we were having coffee, Johnny asked Swenn if he had seen old man Howser and received a negative reply.
The narrow road to the New Idria mines curved along the eastern hills trending upward. Slow going it was and slower still when we were surrounded by a herd of sheep.
Nothing to do but wait. They passed and riding shotgun on horseback was Mrs. Velasquez smiling broadly.
“Good morning, men. Sorry – they had to be moved.”
“No problem at all, maam. Catch you later.”
Rumbling along we came to the Juniper Mine, a Cinnebar claim held by Louie Schioccetti. Rust colored soil had been crisscrossed by heavy machines. Against a distant hill were living quarters and a retort for refining ore. Smoke from the retort was the only sign of activity.
Some miles later, Johnny turned into the Ashurst Ranch where foreman Bud Helmer and his wife were appraising a group of cattle.
Mrs. Helmer, a handsome lady in ranchwear said, “Bud, look! Two guys in bad company.”
He laughed and said, “Danged if they ain’t.”
Johnny Rey looked serious. “Before you give us too much hell, let me ask if you’ve seen or heard anything of old man Howser? The sheriff says he’s very late coming home from his cabin.”
They shook their heads.
Johnny looked at me. “Nothing to do but go up there. Be back by mid-afternoon.”
Bud Helmer said, “Stop at the mailbox when you return. They’ll be two bags of mushrooms, ‘Agaricus campestris.'”
“The finest,” I yelled.
Arriving at New Idria about mid-morning, we went to the office of Superintendent Lewis, who was busy with papers on a long oakwood counter. Looking over his glasses, the old grouch said, “Well, Constable Rey armed and dangerous with a sidekick. Got a problem?”
When Johnny explained our mission, Mr. Lewis said, “Saw him go through a number of days ago. Never saw him come back.”
“That means we have to go up. Damn it! Can we get a bite to eat?”
“Sure, the Mark-Hopkins is serving now. Good to see you.”
For lunch we had lamb chops, lima beans, salad, bread and coffee – on the Mines – free of Mercury!
The road rose westerly through a deep canyon, made a wide turn and progressed easterly until we arrived at a deep blue lake which was Idria’s water supply. Turning south, a narrow road wound into a forest, passed Mexican Lake and curved toward Santa Rita Peak, beneath which was Mr. Howser’s cabin.
Santa Rita Peak, which has an elevation of 5,164 ft., provides a clear and noisy stream that flows east into Cantua Canyon. Its source is the Sierras. Mr. Howser’s cabin was at the base of the Peak, next to the creek, and surveyed a stunning panorama of Fresno County.
Mr. Howser was not to be found. His car was gone. No evidence of a recent visit. No sign of evil visitors.
Removing his hat, Johnny Rey wiped his brow and said, “What the hell! Let’s check the nooks and crannies of the mountain top and head back. I have one hunch left – Mercy Hot Springs.”
Before entering Idria, he stopped to say he would drive at an even pace without gestures to see if we would be noticed. After going down the Tex Hunter ramp of rock to the road out, he asked if we drew attention.
I told him nothing obvious. Old Man Howser could easily have done the same.
We picked up the mushrooms at Ashurst’s and headed on.
Turning onto “Little Panoche Road,” we drove through shimmering heat to Mercy Hot Springs. The lady in charge greeted us. When asked if Mr. Howser was a guest, she pointed to a small cabin.
Johnny’s rap brought immediate response. The tenant stood in wonder then indicated some yard chairs.
When Johnny told him the purpose of our visit, his eyes glazed and he said, “You don’t know how lonely I feel. Not from being alone but by being inappropriate, valueless, seldom called. I look down the tunnel of hope and see no light at the end.”
Johnny said, “I understand the feeling. My Dad suffered from it until he found that his people just wanted him around. Your loved ones are worried, Mr. Howser. They want you around.”
While having a couple of Irish tranquilizers at Swen’s, Johnny asked me to give his bag of Agaricus campestras to George Kincaid and give the sheriff the news.
Heading out I said, “You’re a hell of a nice guy, John Rey.”
An echo came back, “So are you.”
Believe it, Kincaid was speechless over the mushrooms.
I phoned the sheriff and said, “Old man Howser is coming home.”
