“Ja, we are feeling it,” Herman did his part, patting away another yawn as if doing a war whoop. “South Dakota is a long ride,” he borrowed the jackrabbit territory of the day before.
If the Reverend Mac was disappointed in not pinning us down about whether we were with the Lord, he did not show it. “By all means, go to your rest.” He could not have been more gracious about excusing us to slumber. “Bus travel takes it out of a person.”
He said a mouthful there. Naturally Herman was asleep almost the instant he shut his eyelids, and I was more than ready to doze off as well, with the bus heading due west through the Yellowstone valley into a sunset of colored clouds and shafts of sunlight that had the driver pulling his windshield visor all the way down. The dainty minister sat back, smiling to himself, one more Bible inflicted on potential sinners or proven ones, to his evident satisfaction. The last thing I remember before sleep claimed me, he was humming to himself, more than likely a hymn.
? ? ?
“OLD FAITHFUL INN, the Waldorf Astoria of Yellowstone National Park. You may disembark if you so wish—”
Herman and I alit in the dim parking lot after the driver’s done-it-a-hundred-times announcement with a cluster of tourists already exclaiming over this and that. Still trying to yawn ourselves fully awake as we waited for our baggage to be dug from their mountain of suitcases, I looked around for the talkative minister, suspicious that he would hop off to stretch his legs and have another go at us. But there remained no sign of the soul-hunting demon, to mix terms in an unholy way. The little Bible-pusher had disappeared from the seat across from us whenever I cracked an eye open from my series of naps as the bus traveled through the dark, probably to farther back in the aisle where religious pickings might be better, and I figured he must be staying aboard to work on some poor Salt Lake City–bound soul who needed directions to the Lord.
Hallellujah, brother, now the Reverend Mac was digested into the memory book, and that was enough of him for me. Quickly putting aside the churchy bus experience, Herman and I turned to our much-awaited surroundings. Smell that piney air, feel that high altitude! We had made it to glorious Yellowstone, free as knights and Apaches and other roaming spirits, and in silent agreement we grinned at each other and took a minute to marvel at it all.
Some distance away, with black forest as a backdrop, floodlights picked out a mound of earth, nearly as white as salt, which we divined must be where the famous geyser would make its appearance. Out and around in what looked like a geyser kitchen, steaming water bubbled out of the ground as if from gigantic boiling pots. Oh man, nature was really cooking here, in all senses of the phrase. And magically, a star brighter than all the others—probably the planet Venus, I now realize—was pinned right there over the geyser site, as Mae Schneider’s ditty in the autograph book promised. Yellowstone already was putting on a show for us, as Herman’s mile-wide grin attested. Nearly as splendid as the natural wonders for our current purpose was the colossal Old Faithful Inn overlooking all this, several stories high like an elaborate fortress made of logs, with gables everywhere and a sloping roof as long as a ski jump. By now it was long past suppertime and a place as grand as that surely would have a menu fit for the gods, or at least us, and then a nice warm room for the night.
“Notcheral wonders and fancy eats and feathery beds, hah, Donny?” Herman exulted as he shouldered his duffel bag and I hefted my suitcase.
“Yeah, finger-spit knew what it was doing, didn’t it,” I crowed happily as we started off after everbody else to check in to the fancy Inn and head for supper.
“Donny, wait!”
What I heard in Herman’s voice stopped me cold. When I glanced back, he had dropped the duffel bag and was clutching his chest. Having never seen a heart attack, I nearly had one myself at this sight.
“Herman!” In a stumbling panic, I rushed to him. “Y-you’re not gonna die on me, are you?”
“No, not that. My wallet.” He kept searching his coat pockets over and over. “Is gone.”
“How can it be? Didn’t you put it down the front of your pants when you were sleeping?”
“I didn’t think.”
I could barely squeak out the next. “Was all our money—?”
“Ja.”
“Fuck and phooey, Herman!” my voice came back. “You mean we’re skunk broke?”
“Hah?” He looked so anguished I was afraid he really might have a heart attack. “If that means all gone, ja again.” He slapped his pants pocket, which did not jingle one bit. “Spent the chickenfeed on candy bars, even,” he moaned.
I still was in shock. This was a hundred times worse than the ex-convict trying to steal my suitcase at that Minnesota Palookaville. “Who—how—” We needed to do something, but what? “Let’s ask on the bus, maybe Reverend Mac saw somebody—”