The road into Dry Feather was roughly paved, as if the idea had been more of an afterthought. The white line ran along a pitted and crumbling edge that immediately gave way to the rocky desert. No shoulder to speak of.
Up ahead, he saw the overhang of a gas station roof, peeking above the leafless scrub trees. He pulled in, and looked for a credit card slot. There was none. The old pump had two nozzles, one on each end, but no slot for bills or a card. Smithers noted the tally numbers weren't even digital. Analog wheels spun the numbers into sight through a small window. There were three such displays. One read "This Sale." On read "gallons," and the other displayed the price.
Smithers looked at the price, then rubbed his slightly red eyes and did a double take. The price, it couldn't be right. It read in at just over a dollar per gallon. There were no octane choices. Just two identical, antiquated pumps.
Smithers wrinkled his brow and stepped out of the car. Immediately he was greeted by the hot, dry desert air. Any tears that had attempted to escape his eyes were whisked away in the desiccating breeze.
Smithers rolled down the windows for Hercules, grabbed his wallet, and headed into the store. A bell on a curved spring jingled as he walked in.
The store appeared to be empty.
Smithers grabbed a cola and peered around the counter. "Hello?" he called, mildly nervous. "I'd like to get some fuel."
He heard the sound of a screen door open with a squeal, then swing shut with a slam. A man with a face like a weatherworn road map walked over to the counter and smiled pleasantly. "How many gallons ya got?" he asked.
"Eh, I haven't pumped any yet," Smithers replied, perplexed.
The man gave a laugh, his yellow teeth matching his dark-tanned skin. "Hah, well how are ya gonna pay if ya ain't got none? There's yer problem, son." He chuckled and gestured towards the pump. "Why doncha fell that purdy car of yours, then come back and tell me whatcha got."
"Aren't you afraid people will drive off without paying?" Smithers asked, wrinkling his brow.
The man shook his head. "Ain't got much a problem with that round these parts," he replied. "Imma be out back. Yell when yer ready." He turned his back and went out the screen door, letting it slam shut behind him.
"Uhm, right then," Smithers muttered to himself.
It took Smithers a minute to figure out how to work the pump. Once the nozzle was removed, a small lever had to be pushed down across the nozzle receptacle on the pump. Only after he did that did it whir to life. The rest of the refueling was a standard process.
The Aston Martin had a twenty gallon tank. Smithers was able to fill the half-full tank to the top for less than fifteen dollars. It was practically unheard of. He hoped it was good fuel. But even if it wasn't, he'd be able to put some higher octane gasoline in when he got back to civilization. A single tank of low-grade wouldn't destroy the engine… he hoped.
Smithers let himself back into the shop, and handed a hundred dollar bill to the shopkeep. The man took it, wrinkled his face thoughtfully, then opened the till drawer. "Yer lucky I can break this," he remarked as he counted the change by hand. "Most o' these days, I cain't. But today's yer luckey day, eh?"
He dropped a fifty, a twenty, a few small bills and some coins into Smithers' hand with his arthritis-gnarled fingers. "There y'go. Don't be spending it all in one place, aright?" He gave Smithers a friendly tip of his hat, slid the bottle of pop across the counter, and headed back outside.
"Right. Thank you," Smithers called after him.
The man was already gone.
Smithers shrugged and shook his head. How strange, he thought. Interesting way of conducting business. Aside from the gas station, there was hardly anything else but desert to see.
"We're in 'god's country' now, aren't we Herc?" he assessed, sliding back into the driver's seat and buckling his seatbelt. He rolled the windows down all the way. Hercules stood up in the passenger-side seat, put his paws on the window, and looked out, panting happily.
"I guess we might as well head further into town," Smithers observed, peering through the windshield. From the parkinglot by the gas pumps, Smithers could make out what appeared to be a T-shaped intersection up ahead with a single red-blinking stop light. The road he was on continued, but there was a junction off it, and beyond Smithers thought he could make out some buildings shimmering in the heat of the afternoon sun.
Smithers turned the ignition, and the Martin started with an enthusiastic growl.
Driving slowly, Smithers came to the intersection. It hadn't been a "T" like he thought. It was actually a four-way. The road to the right was even more roughly paved, but curved into a mainstreet running between two rows of close-set wooden buildings. The road to the left appeared to go off into nothing but desert. He had no idea where the road directly in front of him went. The ground ahead rose slightly. It looked like more mountains in the distance ahead.
Smithers shrugged and turned right, heading towards town.
The buildings had a very classic western style to them. For all he knew, Smithers might as well have driven back into the pages of one of his cowboy novels. The road was flanked by the traditional square buildings of a wild west town.
The road itself was hard-packed gravel, with cobble lined gutters, and sidewalks leading up to the buildings. Though once brightly painted, time and the relentless sun had muted the colours down to washed out ghosts of their former glory. The red false-fronted hotel had faded to a dusty rose hue.
There wasn't much space to park. A few alleys here and there, but mostly it appeared people just parked their cars at the street edge, out of the way as much as possible. Not that there were many cars. A few pick-up trucks here and there; and one ancient El Camino, paint looking as faded as the rest of the landscape.
Several of the buildings had the traditional "bat-wing" doors he'd seen in spaghetti westerns.
The El Camino was parked beside one building labeled "Dry Feather Eatery" He pulled the Martin in behind the El Camino, and was debating what to do about Hercules when he saw a patron exit through the swinging doors, and rangy cattle-dog following at his heel. Perhaps they were informal here.
Smithers rolled up the windows, locked the car, scooped Hercules up under an arm, and made his way in.
A few people looked up as he entered, but no one paid him or the dog much mind. The place was set up similar to a classic diner, which, Smithers had to admit, was a bit at odds with the western feel of the building's front. A few people, men and women, sat around at small tabled eating soups, sandwiches, and the occasional salad. The sign by the door said "seat yourself." Smithers sat himself down at a table for two, and put Hercules in the chair across from him.
A server came over, gave a menu to Smithers, and placed a dish with a dog biscuit in front of Hercules.
The terrier wagged his stub tail happily, and snatched the treat.
"I hope you don't mind the dog," Smithers began.
"We get 'em all the time," the server replied. "What'll you two want to drink?"
"Just water to start with, for both of us."
The woman nodded, and left.
Smithers took a moment to read through the menu. It was pretty standard sandwich-shop fare. The grilled cheese and tomato soup combo looked good. Comfort food, he thought. He was in the mood for comforting. He ordered the combo, and read a newspaper that had been left on the table while he waited.
All the stories were small town news. There wasn't much interesting. He sat back, stared out the window, and waited for his meal.
"You staying the night?" the server asked him as she set his plate down.
"I wasn't planning on it," he admitted. "I was just going to fuel up and keep going."
She nodded thoughtfully. "Well, if I were you, I'd rethink that. You don't want to get caught out there after dark, you know."
Smithers almost laughed inspite of himself. "Why not?" he asked. "What's the worst that could happen? A few ornery coyotes?" He smiled.
The server pursed her lips. "You shouldn't joke about stuff like that," she replied. "Some folk might take it as gospel. Well, regardless, by sunset you'd better be yourself square and tucked in for the night." She glanced at a clock on the wall.
Smithers followed her gaze. It was already late afternoon! Almost five. How did that even happen? He shook his head. "Is that clock right?" he asked, a hint of concern in his voice.
The server gave him a curt smile. "Is yours?" she asked, gesturing to his left side.
Smithers always kept his pocket watch in his left hip pocket. He fished it out, and opened the cover. The clock on the wall was right. If anything, it might've even been a few minutes slow. Ordinarily, Smithers would've laughed about the idea of staying out past dark, but something in the woman's eyes gave him pause for thought.
"Well," she began, her dark eyes looking at him without a hint of jest. "No one can make you stay. But if I were you, I'd strongly consider it. There's a boarding house down the road, a short walk. And just beyond that Casey's General Store. You can get some food for your dog if you haven't packed any. A little dish too." She reached over and held her hand out for Hercules to sniff.
Hercules looked her hand up and down, gave a discriminating sniff, and appeared to decide she was okay. He wagged his tail, then looked back to his Smithers as if to ask: are we staying here?
Smithers thought about Burns back at the manor. The man would probably be getting ready to launch a massive search party in a few hours. Let him, Smithers thought angrily. He deserves it. He nodded thoughtfully and looked up at the server. "You know, I might just stay here tonight. That could be nice."
She smiled primly. "I'm glad. It's better for the two of you."
Smithers had a sudden and peculiar feeling that when she said "two," she wasn't talking about Hercules. In the back of his mind, Smithers almost felt like he'd done this before. It was like deja-vu. A strange yet familiar sensation; but the moment he tried to recall it exactly, everything vanished again, leaving him bound to the present. He glanced at his watch again. Time moved on, relentless and impatient.