Chapter 1
Washington State 1935
The big canvas-backed, bug-eyed Ford truck shook like a malaria victim in the last throes of dying as John Hardesty and the gaggle of boys behind him pushed it towards the angled steps of the general store ahead. “Almost there,” his companion on the other side of the cab called out. “Frazier straight ahead.”
Hardesty craned his neck from his stance at the open door of driver’s side, hand on the steering wheel. The sign over the steps spelled out Alford’s General Store and Mercantile in fading white capital letters. It sat on what Hardesty supposed was a corner of the village crossroad, dwarfed by the giant fir trees behind it. He aimed the trunk past the steps, putting his back into his effort.
“Friggin’ truck! Are we there yet?" “
“We better be. I gonna friggin’ kill it.”
“Cut it out, boys and push. That means you, Costello.” He felt the truck wobble as twenty hands marshaled forces to move the heavy vehicle to its last stop when suddenly it lurched so hard he had to fling into the cab and pull the brake. The truck hit the log curb, dislodging a couple of kids onto the dirt road before the front tires caught.
“Everyone okay?”
The group standing behind him didn’t look so sure. Dressed in newly-issued khaki shirts and olive drab pants of the Civilian Conservation Corps, they looked like they had been picked up by a steam shovel off the streets of New York City and dumped in the middle of the North Cascades dirt road. Their haircuts were new, their tall, laced boots were new. Some of the boys looked in awe at the hundred-foot tall Douglas fir trees lining the little village like a gigantic fort’s palisade. Others dusted themselves off and stared at the dozen weathered buildings glowing in the sunlight.
“Now what?" someone muttered.
Hardesty shut the cab door. "We'll have to wait until it cools." They’d only met a few hours before at a small town train station and he didn’t have all the names straight.
He went to the front and opened the hood. A cloud of steam escaped. A dark haired man from the passenger side of the truck joined him. “How’s it look, Park?”
Hardesty answered easily to his chosen name. “Well, maybe it’ll cool down again, Jack. I don’t know. Can I call the camp? This is ridiculous. We were expected an hour ago."
Turner gave the front tire a good kick. "Aw," he chuckled. "I know the commander. He's all right. I'll see if we can't get another truck to come down and pick you fellows up."
"Thanks. ‘Preciate it. I’ll let the boys buy sodas. They can eat their sack lunches while they wait."
"Great. I'll call, you watch the crowd."
Hardesty gathered the boys at the front. “Take a break, guys. We’ll find out about another truck. Hey -- Spinelli, where are you going?”
