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racer. And I promise we won’t get lost in the desert like I almost did the time I was trying to run away, and we’ll wear lots of sunscreen and”—Lucky searched for more ways to reassure Uncle Rocky about Paloma’s safety—“and you can tell Paloma’s mom that all the tarantulas are finished crossing the road by now because I haven’t seen any in about a week.”
    “Oh, well, then,” Uncle Rocky said in a serious voice that meant, Lucky knew, that he was teasing her. “Sounds like that about covers all the possible dangers.” Lucky understood that Paloma’s uncle’s teasing wasn’t mean teasing, but she wished he understood how very, very serious the subject was,about Paloma coming back next weekend. Rocky must have read the look on Lucky’s face, because he said, “Don’t worry; I’ll do my best.” Paloma jumped up and went behind Rocky’s seat to hug him from behind, then did a little dance over to Brigitte and hugged her in a quick, shy way. Lucky saw Uncle Rocky jam his cap on his head to hide his ears, which had become red exactly as Lincoln’s did when he was embarrassed, and Lucky exchanged a secret triumphant look with Paloma.

    Sometimes certain things are so important, so vital and urgent, that they get a momentum of their own, like a force of nature. Lucky felt sure that the essentialness of Paloma coming back to Hard Pan was exactly that kind of force of nature, and one way or another, it would happen.

8. short sammy’s box
    On Monday morning, as Lucky and HMS Beagle waited with Miles and Lincoln for the school bus, a noisy white pickup crested the hill and cruised down into Hard Pan, braking at the

    SLOW:
CHILDREN
AT
PLAY

    sign. Most everyone, people and dogs, when they heard a vehicle arriving, would turn to see who it was and where it was going. HMS Beagle knew certain vehicles by sound, and by watching her dog, Lucky got a heads-up on whether or not something exciting or interesting might be about to happen.
    They saw two men in the pickup’s cab and a huge rectangular wooden crate in the bed. None of them knew the vehicle, and they hoped it would get to its destination beforethe bus arrived so they’d have a chance to figure out what was going on. HMS Beagle stood fully alert, ears forward, black nose twitching.
    When it pulled up near Short Sammy’s water tank house, Lucky was sure that each and every Hard Panner’s curiosity glands were pumping overtime. Short Sammy didn’t get too many visitors from out of town, and it would be interesting to know, if that big wooden box was being delivered to him, what was in it. He didn’t have a lot of stuff, and he didn’t want a lot of stuff. There was his guitar, his radio for listening to the traffic reports from Los Angeles, and his big black cast-iron frying pan. Short Sammy’s only other great treasure had been his dog, Roy.
    Lucky knew, from the way Short Sammy sometimes glanced at the photo of his dog in its sardine-can frame, that he missed Roy; he missed him a lot.
    The dog had survived a bite on his scrotum by a rattlesnake in the days before Short Sammy quit drinking. Sammy’s wife had left him right after that incident, and she had taken Roy with her. But whatever the pickup truck was bringing, it surely wasn’t the one thing Short Sammy wanted—Roy.
    Lucky noticed the Captain peering out from his observation tower, a three-foot-square glass-sided enclosure that stuck up from his roof like a see-through chimney. The Captain liked to keep tabs on goings-on around town. Dot and Mrs. Prender had come out of their houses, both apparently finding that they had important things to take care of outdoors, and they (like Lucky, Miles, Lincoln, and HMS Beagle) watched thetruck as it slowed at the post with Short Sammy’s address on it.
    Nine dented and rusty enamel tea-kettles were bolted to the post, which made it interesting and noticeable. Short Sammy had painted

    230 Dry Gulch Street
     
    in red letters that began at the