Dana Rogers

Peyote and Potatoes

The night time temperature in July hovered at 75 degrees, a welcome relief from the sweltering 110 earlier in the day. The humidity was low, making it bearable. Wyatt had left his remote desert home three hours earlier to make his monthly trek into the nearest town for provisions, a Calico Print newspaper and a hot meal from the local diner there. It was 1890, and he had spent his recent days mining for silver in the nearby hills, after heading West to seek his fortune. He was still grieving the loss of his young wife, 20 years his junior. Six months ago, Tess had left him for a prosperous banker in Blythe, PA where they lived. More than anything, he missed her cooking. Her Scottish origins meant that he was treated to a steaming pan of rumbledethumps every Sunday night. It was his favorite meal of the week.