Emmett had to admit he was feeling a little anxious. He was never the sort to enjoy being cooped up for very long—something that would lead to a particularly humorous conversation some years later, when he was sentenced to Leavenworth federal prison and the guards had to continually remind him to keep his cell door closed after the evening meal.
The inmates were locked in at night, of course, but during their limited free time, they were allowed to come and go with permission, as long as they closed the cell doors when they were in their bunks and had no behavioral problems.
This was for their own protection as much as anything else, since inmates were known to have conflicts from time to time. Emmett was written up several times for leaving the door of his cell open while he napped.
“How can you sleep when somebody could sneak in there with murder on their mind?” the warden asked after hearing of his habit.
“Never met a man who scared me,” Emmett answered, “but take away my freedom, and that’s another matter.”
The warden laughed. “But Emmett, you’re in prison!”
“Maybe so, but I don’t have to act like it.”
Emmett thanked the man at the bus station and picked up a magazine almost at random. He waited until he was on the bus to take a better look at his purchase.
As he leafed through the pages, a particularly striking ad caught his eye. The bright red and orange colors reminded him of Oklahoma sunsets, but even more exciting to Emmett was a picture of a motorcycle and its description:
The New Indian Scout
Power! Stamina! Swiftness!
Emmett could relate to that.
If you want a mount that idles smoothly, easily, like a high-powered motorcar . . .
That gave Emmett pause. Maybe he could return home with a fistful of cash and a brand-new Indian.
. . . a machine that shoots away like the wind on an open stretch . . .
It almost sounded like one of the mustangs he’d been breaking since he was eight years old.
. . . rides as comfortably as a Pullman . . . takes the roughest roads without a murmur and the roughest use without a sign of wear . . .
That almost sounded better than a horse.
. . . then yours is the new Indian Scout 45! Go to an Indian dealer and climb aboard for a trial run and get ready for the thrill of your life!
That settled it. Everything in that ad appealed to a sixteen-year-old with money in his pocket and a hankering for adventure. Emmett couldn’t wait to get to San Diego and buy himself an Indian.
As soon as he arrived in San Diego, Emmett checked into a hotel not far from the beach. It was an incredible thing to feel the Pacific breeze through the open window and smell the ocean a block or two away. He loved the plains, but he could see the allure of the coast as well.
Emmett went downstairs, and the desk clerk told him there was an Indian dealer within walking distance, which he took as a good sign. He rushed right over and stopped when he saw the motorcycle in the window, exactly as it looked in the magazine.
The salesman’s eyes lit up when he saw the excited young man staring at the brand new Indian Scout, so he went over to introduce himself.
“Side-valve V-twin, six hundred and six cc displacement.”
Emmett looked up at the salesman, who was grinning from ear to ear. He obviously had seen the advertisement Emmett had torn from the magazine and was still holding in his hand. Emmett calmly pocketed the page and waited for the rest of the sales pitch.
“Transmission’s bolted right to the engine case, you know.”
“That right?”
“Less rattle. Bert Roosevelt, no relation, I’m sorry to say, and this here motorized vehicle will move faster than goose crap through a cane break. It’s a go-getting, wear-defying, record-setting machine you have to feel to believe, and I just know a man like you would want to climb on top and feel that power. What’d you say your name was?”
Emmett took Bert’s outstretched hand. “Emmett Long.”
“Well, Emmett, are you a man with a little money to spend?”
“I got me a little bit.”
“How about a test ride?”
Emmett smiled. “Read my mind, Bert.”
“I’ll get us a couple of helmets.”
When Bert returned with the headgear, Emmett was already astride the Indian. “I better sit in front, Emmett.”
Emmett took off his Stetson and handed it to Bert, who shrugged and put it back inside the office. While he was inside, he heard Emmett start the motorcycle.
Bert rushed outside, and Emmett had already put on his helmet and was motioning the salesman to hop on the back. “Ever ride one of these?” Bert asked, but Emmett revved the engine and shook his head as if he couldn’t hear the question.
“Let’s go, Bert!” he yelled.
Emmett looked as if he were going to take off without him, so Bert quickly put on his helmet and climbed on the back.
As soon as Bert’s backside hit the seat, Emmett took off like a bat out of hell, expertly navigating into traffic as Bert hung on for dear life.
“Take a left turn at the corner!” Bert screamed, but Emmett had other ideas. He sped up and swung wide around a slow-moving tin lizzie, then roared to the right, toward the ocean.
He’d been in such a hurry to find the motorcycle dealer that he hadn’t even seen the water yet.
“I said left!” Bert screamed, and Emmett just nodded.
“Right!”
Emmett sped through traffic, weaving in and out of the slower-moving automobiles. Bert continued to hang on, screaming into the wind and trying desperately to get Emmett to slow down, but Emmett pretended not to hear. Emmett was having too good a time to pay attention to the man in the back.
Just as they crested a hill and the bright-blue expanse of the Pacific came into view, the sun’s reflection nearly blinding, an old Model A lurched into the street from an alleyway right in front of them.
Emmett swerved into opposing traffic to avoid the collision, then hopped a curb, briefly terrorizing several pedestrians before managing to find his way back to the street in a gap between moving vehicles just as the road arrived at a cross-street dead end at the water’s edge.
Emmett pulled to the side of the road and killed the engine, looking out at the wondrous Pacific Ocean for the very first time. He took off his helmet and just watched the waves for a couple of minutes before realizing his passenger had gone completely quiet.
“You can turn loose now, Bert,” he said.
Bert looked down and realized he still had his arms around Emmett’s waist. He peeled his hands apart and got off the Scout, his legs wobbly. “Guess you’ve driven one of these before.”
Emmett shook his head. “First time.”
Once they were back at the dealership, the negotiations went fairly smoothly. Emmett’s wild ride seemed to have taken all the fight out of the salesman, and the result was a pretty good deal on the price.
After the transaction was complete, Emmett shook hands with Bert, put on his Stetson, and climbed back on the motorcycle. “How fast did you say this thing