Told me to meet him at a specific spot in the desert. Said I knew it, or would, somewhere in that flat barren stretch past Bisbee. We'd been there before, he told me. I knew it for sure. Told me the landmarks to watch out for–the rock he must have moved there decades ago. Who'd ever heard of Baraboo quartzite out here? Sure, other quartz intrusions, but this, alone, surrounded by scrub brush–creosote and the few mesquites that could survive–erupted on its own volition from an untouched floor. The size of the house he must have wanted to carve into it. I didn't remember any of it like he told me, but he had given his word, and here it was. I had no choice.
Facing due east to meet the soft glow of sunrise, I took hold of the chain that was affixed to the singing leaden boulder and dragged it from my cart. There was to be no assistance past the edge of town. I was alone. I had set my mule free. I would probably not see her again.
I did not worry for my wagon; they would strip it of its useful parts by sundown. I watched women eyeing me as I rode through last night in the desert chill, rushing inside to tell their families to stay inside, drunks falling out of saloons to ogle the etched zinc flourishes on the sides of my small covered coach. They paid no attention to me, I was only the driver. Fell all over their skirts to see what, passenger? Its hum disrupting the moon's still set, sonorous in the translucent dry air. Even the crickets stopped to listen to its mineral drone.
