As the sunset gave way to evening, the two travelers passed through the majestic Monument Valley. It was situated on the boarder of New Mexico, and Blake and Russel witnessed the array of colors rolling across the rock spires, rising hundreds of meters off the desert floor, a sight so iconic to the area. Blake could not help wondering while driving what his father was searching for out in this remote wonderland of nature. All the years he had spent living some twenty-five miles away on Native American land and then commuting over to this dreamscape to spend so much of his life, was perplexing. Yet it gave Blake a new image in his mind to hang onto, where there was always such a blank when it came to his non-existent father.

"This place is crazy awesome," Russel said, staring outside the car and speaking for the first time since they left the small town of Kayenta.

"Yeah, Russ. So what do you think William was looking for out there? The place is pretty trippy if you ask me."

"The sheriff said it might be gold."

"OK. Possible. The southwest did have that. Spaniards ripping off the Indians for their gold and silver. This key I found . . . to some place in Farmington?  It just may lead us to some answers out here, Russ."

"Or like everything else the man had, it may be just worthless. A key to nothing. I just want to go to this place for a couple of cold beers . . . and a good night's sleep."

"Yeah, I hear you, Rusty.  Come on . . . this is our time away from school to enjoy ourselves. I promise. We'll get down to San Diego for the rest of the week. Talk was, a lot of students will be chill'n down there. Super bars and beaches, buddy."

"And a few beauties, I hope."

"San Diego?  The beaches are full of them! It's like bikini heaven  down there! And a great bar scene."

"So, what are we doing here in the desert, pal?"

"Look, Russ. You said you need sleep. We'll do that in Farmington. An hour or so away. I'll check out this key address in the morning . . . and then its . . . San Diego here we come!

"I hear you, pal." Russel was now smiling, watching the dark, lonely highway stretch out up ahead.

There was no smile on Blake's face as he became pensive.

"I just can't understand why anyone would want to shoot the guy," he finally said quietly. "Out where he wasn't bothering anyone."

"Yeah, that's harsh, Blake. Hard to let go of, I know."

After a full hour driving in the dark, the bright lights of Farmington appeared, sometime after they passed a sign that read: Entering New Mexico—Land of Enchantment.

* * *

Farmington was a good-sized city—a brightly lit strip mall with many shops along the main boulevard. A McDonalds and a Starbucks told the two they had reached civilization at last. Tired from the road and the emotionally-draining day, Blake pulled into the first road stop they came too, a Best Western Hotel.

Entering the lobby, the two carried their light bags in and registered at the counter.

"You guys planning on staying a while," the middle-age woman with tattooed arms asked them.

"Naw, just one night," Blake replied. "We get a breakfast with that?" he added, putting away his credit card.

"Absolutely. It's the best around town . . . for the money," she told him. "You two here for the rock show tomorrow?"

"The what?"

"Semi-precious gems. A lapidary show. We hold it here each year. People come to buy and sell stones. For jewelry. Collectors mostly."

"That's a big draw here?"

"One of them. There's also the Rodeo over in Kayenta next month. There's also an agricultural fair, and a car show. Drag racing is big out here. You boys into cars?"

"Just as long as they get me where I'm going," Russel said, making light of the offer.

"Well, then there's always the UFO museum here in town. Now that's something to see."

"The . . . what?"

"Most people never heard of what happened in this area back in the forties and fifties. First over in the town Aztec in 1948. And then here in 1950. It all started to the east, you know. Over at Roswell in 1947."

"OK," Blake responded, smiling and putting the receipt in his pocket. "You've got me hooked. So, what happened here?"

"Well, it's a bigger story than I can tell. But practicaly the whole town of Farmington in those days saw a lot of . . . you know . . . flying saucers. For two, three days. Hundreds of them. Filling up the skies. It was like some kind of invasion. All of Farmington was panicked back then. For a full week."

"Seriously?"

"Take a drive over to the museum tomorrow and see. They also call the little town of Aztec, about thrity minues from here . . . the  'Second Roswell.  I'm not going to even spoil for you what they say happened over there two years before Farmington. Creepy stuff."

"That's right," Russel chimed in, half interested. "The original Roswell  story . . . you know, alien bodies, UFO wreckage . . .  it all happened somewhere over here in New Mexico."

"Well, thanks for the tip," Blake said to the woman, while taking the room key from her.

Carrying their bags up to the second floor, Blake entered first and immediately opened the curtains and windows. The warm, desert air blew in, sanitizing he room. 

"Jesus. Why didn't we ask for a non-smoking room?"

"Take it easy, Captain. We'll go out and have a few beers. Let the place air out." Russel called him Captain referring to their days of playing basketball together in high school.

"You're still up for that beer, huh?"

"Maybe three?"

"OK, Ace. Let's roll."

* * *

Walking down the main street toward the center of town, they chose a nearby bar called Silver Spur. The clientele was mostly men, wearing cowboy hats and boots. And their women seemed to fit the stereotype of 'cowgirls"—ratted up, beauty-queen hair, short skirts and cowboy boots themselves. The two could see there was not another person of color in the dim room and Blake turned sensitively to Russel, standing in the doorway.

"You OK with this place, man? We can go find something else if . . ."

"Naw, come on, man. A beer is a beer. I can deal with it."

As the two took bar stools across from a huge mirror with a string of mounted deer antlers above it, the fifty-something bartender looked them over critically and then glanced out at the tables to see who else was watching.

"What can I get you dudes?" he asked, offering no smile.

"Couple of beers?" Blake asked.

"Draft OK?"

"Sure."

"Comin up."

He took his time bringing over two enormous glass mugs of sudsy beer and provided a bowl of peanuts still in the shells. Blake looked down and could see the floor was covered with peanut shells.

"Thanks," Russel said, cordially.

"No prob," the barman answered. "You guys from out of town?"

Both just nodded at the obvious question.

"California," Blake said, under his breath.

The bartender smiled an ironic smile under his greying moustache. "So, what brings you out west?"

Neither could think of what to say.

"We're here on some family business," Blake finally answered.

"And to go check out . . . Aztec . . . and the UFO  museum here," Russel added, smiling at Blake after a long drink of his beer.

"Aztec, huh?"

"Yeah. So . . . is it for real?" Blake asked, also after a hefty drink.

"What, all that UFO stuff?"

"Yeah. We're just kind of curious. Sounds pretty far out. Maybe a little  . . . over the top?"

"So, then I guess you're are not  . . . ufologists?"

"What . . . you mean? No way, man! Just looking for something to do out here."

"Well you know, we do get them . . . all the time, com'in through here."

"Who?"

"Ufologists. People chasing UFO's"

"Seriously?"

Both Brad and Russel were now feeling a little more comfortable, cracking the peanuts and throwing the shells indiscriminately under their barstools.

"Oh yeah. All the time. Ever since the Roswell thing happened back in forty-seven."

"So, what do you think . . . "

"Marty. Name's Marty."

"OK, Marty . . . Blake, Russel."

He nodded but made no eye contact. 

"Well people round here come in two types. Those that think its total bullshit. And those who have . . . let's say their reasons to believe those things are real."

"So, what do you  think, Marty? What side are you  on?"

He smiled and began polishing his row of clean beer mugs with a towel.

"Well, to be honest? I'm still on the fence about it . . . until I see one of those damn things or get pulled up into one."

Blake laughed. "Fair enough . . ."

"But, you know, boys . . . I should be one of them believers." His face became serious.

"Yeah?  How so?" Russel had almost finished his first beer and was getting more talkative.

"Because my daddy saw them."

"Yeah?"

"Yup. March of 1950, he had a gas station over on the other side of town. Told many people what he saw . . . all them flying discs . . . in formation and such. He also told a few newspaper reporters that got things stirred up. Lots of others saw them too, but it wasn't reported much outside New Mexico. Not in those days."

"Wow,"  Blake said, also downing his first beer. "But . . . you've got to believe your old man. Right?"

"Yeah. And it's always pained me when I didn't."

For a moment all three were quiet.

"So . . . you two ready for a second?"

Russel and Blake looked closely at each other. The exhausted face that stared back at them was all the reason they chose to decline the offer and navigate back slowly to their motel for the night.

* * *