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paid close attention to the highway as it disappeared into the red rock formation. There was another danger my mother did not know about. This is where Indians had lived. I kept my head down away from the window because there might be an Indian ready to claim back his canyon. An arrow might be pointed our way. This was the kind of area where they filmed westerns. This fit, Indians were out there waiting for a fleeing car. My mother never watched westerns.
During this part of the trip my mother never smoked. Her cigarette was smashed in the ashtray leaving a trail of smoke drifting to the back seat. She never lit another one until we were past the mining towns of Superior, Miami and the last one, Globe. She needed all her attention and angry fuel to drive us through the canyon. The thought of becoming a highway marker in the shape of a cross was more than even she wanted to imagine.
After the drive through the canyon we were offered our last chance for refuge in a motel. The signs were still lit, Vacancy. Our heads would come up and rest on the back seat of the car. The neon lights told us we were safe and we had survived. The colors red, blue and green from the lit signs were projected on our faces. There was the El Rancho Motel, the El Coronado, and the Apache all willing to take us. I could see the playground equipment, the swimming pool without a fence, the lawn chairs, a restaurant next door so you could get breakfast. We had to keep moving and we weren't staying. We were not on a family vacation.

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