The Family at Serpiente

by Raymond Tolman

  However, there was one other possibility that could be pursued. My father Tim had a brother who lived in Serpiente, New Mexico, and he and his wife June had invited me to come out to visit many times. Of course I never could actually afford such a trip, but the thought intrigued me. When I approached my mother with the possibility of going to West Texas to visit my dad, the conversation always ended up in a screaming argument, but visiting Ken and June in Serpiente, New Mexico was another question altogether; mom simply got quiet and said, “We’ll see.”

  My father thought the move was a great idea and even thought of sending me some money for the bus trip, but my mother seemed to always nix the idea. She actually loved me very much, but the idea of not having a teenage girl to support and discipline was enticing to her. She was still a relatively young woman, and she had frequently gone on dates with some of the men who came into the café. But as I grew older the responsibility of taking care of me had become a heavy burden to her. As I grew older my mother did not like the way some of her dates looked at me. She never went out with those men again, keeping me safe became more and more difficult.

  Turner

  I always felt very uncomfortable when mother started dating a new man. Most of them were nice, but I felt like a third wheel when they were around and I resented the time mother spent with strangers rather than going to the sports and honors events at school. In my heart I knew it was time to leave, even if it meant giving up my senior year with friends and moving to a place that could have just as well been on the other side of the planet.

  The final straw that broke the impasse was when my grandparents, Nick and Nora hired a hand to help around the farm. Turner was a local boy who was eight years younger than Mom. Typical in many ways, he was proud of himself. A good worker, he knew how to operate a small farm and made life much easier for Nick and Nora, however he had one characteristic that made him stand out; he thought he was God’s answer to women. He fancied himself irresistible to women. In only a short time he began spending time with mother, literally hanging around the house when he should have been out in the fields. Mom basically ignored his advances, knowing that all he wanted was a one night stand, then he would lose all interest in her and probably move on to another job leaving the grandparents to find another worker.

  The problem that Mom could never grasp is that Turner was far more interested in pursuing me than her. It had all started out so innocently. Most southern boys use flirting as a polite way of getting through life. It would not seem uncommon for a boy to flirt with a girl, it happened all the time. Flirting was a way of life with many of the prominent boys in the high school. But after a while, I noticed that Turner wanted to single me out. I always felt like I was being herded to a deserted place where he could be in charge. Invariably anytime he could find himself alone with me he would start some serious flirting.

  I made it perfectly clear that I didn’t like him at all, but that never seemed to slow him down. Every time mom left to go to work Turner would show up. Many other girls would have given in to him, and had, but I refused to play his game. I belittled him which only made him angry. He became determined to conquer me even if he had to force himself upon me.

  Then it all began in earnest, I began to fear for my safety one evening when everyone was gone. He literally chased me around the house tackling me and holding me down while attempting to French kiss me which I thought was disgusting. I rolled him off after a while and then ducked into the bedroom and soundly smacked him in the shins with a softball bat as he charged in. Turner rolled over grabbing his shins and letting out a profanity. Running past him while he was in agony, I darted out the front door and then immediately changed direction heading to the trail so I could lose him in the woods.

  Turner appeared at the back door of the house and slowly started up the trail but it was obvious he was still smarting from the baseball bat to his shins. He slowly followed me up about fifty feet then put his hands on his hips, turned and returned to the house.

  I hid deep under a cedar tree with my thoughts focused upon an escape to Serpiente. I had never lived on a western ranch before, but I certainly knew how to take care of farm animals. The rural community of Camp Creek had allowed me an ample education in dealing with livestock and most of my friends were county students living on small farms. I could ride horses, milk cows, and buck bales of hay with the best of the boys.

  Two hours later I watched as Mom returned from the café. Thinking that Turner had left the house I returned but as I entered the front door I was shocked to find Turner sitting on the couch with a smug look on his face and his arm wrapped over Mom’s shoulder. Immediately, I knew it was time to go. I returned to my room, braced a chair under the door and made plans.

  The Greyhound Bus

  On a sunny June day in 1966, I snuck out of the house and caught a ride to Knoxville with a friend. In Knoxville I boarded a Greyhound bus which slowly poked its way to New Mexico. I couldn’t afford the direct bus so every little town required a stop with an exchange of passengers. It had taken me over a week before the bus finally pulled into the Tucumcari bus depot.

  Looking over I was surprised to find the mysterious lady who had been sitting beside me had now vanished. I could not remember her getting up to leave. The only boarding passenger was an Indian, who for some reason insisted upon sitting directly beside me, again trapping me away from the aisle in a single seat. All I could do was sit there and wonder about his intentions. Suddenly I felt like I had escaped one bad situation only to find myself in another.

  “Excuse me!” I said, as the large Indian slid into the seat next to me. “I’ve come nearly the whole way from Tennessee with this seat to myself.”

  Usually strangers simply got up and moved to another seat when I asked them, but as the bus filled up with passengers the Indian just stared ahead without saying anything. But he also propped his feet up in front of him, making it impossible for me to get out without crawling over him.

  I was perplexed; not wanting to look arrogant and say something really rude, but I sure didn’t like being boxed in. I stood up and looked down the rows of seats but couldn’t see an empty seat. I decided to pretend to be indifferent to the Indian by looking out the window but soon I couldn’t help but glance at him every few minutes. He was dressed roughly, in old jeans with cowboy boots that looked completely worn out. But from his waist up he appeared to have on a new plaid shirt. He was wearing no Indian jewelry, rare I was to later learn. Many southwestern Indians carried much of their wealth in the form of turquoise and silver jewelry. His hair was cut short like a business man allowing me to think to myself that maybe he wasn’t entirely wild. Never the less, I was a little nervous, having never been around a real Indian before, not even the local Cherokee Indians that were indigenous to East Tennessee. This fellow was distinctly Native American. I was trapped and I knew it, so I did the next logical thing and slid over to the window and fell into a nervous sleep as the bus pulled out for Santa Rosa.

  After a quick stop in Cuervo, New Mexico, I awoke as the bus pulled into Santa Rosa. It was lunch and bathroom time, and a chance to change seats. But just as I stood to get out, the Indian glanced over to me and said, “Penny Anderson?”

  In amazement I replied, “Yes?”

  “When you come back I have to talk to you about your uncle,” he said. Blankly I stared back at him wondering what to say. How did he know my name? How did he know my uncle? He finally stood up allowing me to gently ease past him.

  Away to the restrooms I ran, looking for the elderly lady with the serpentine cane but she had indeed vanished. I decided it was time to eat. Unfortunately, by the time I had arrived in Santa Rosa, I was for all practical purposes dead broke, having used up all but two quarters from my stash of lunch money, saving those to make phone calls.

  Inside the bright bus counter the smell of hamburgers being grilled made my stomach growl, having not eaten for two days. I noticed the mysterious Indian sitting at the count
er, eating a hamburger while watching the tourists pick at the trinkets in the curio shop adjoining the lunch counter. To the Navajo Indian it was a curious sight, watching people from faraway places like Chicago or New York poke through aisles of Indian trinkets that most likely were made in China or Mexico, certainly not made by Navajo artisans. It must have struck him as curious how people were fascinated by Indian trinkets but were afraid to speak to a real live Indian. Real Indians, he knew, would never use any of the toys that the tourists cherished. Most Navajo Indians couldn’t afford such toys and certainly had better things to spend their money on, like food, gas and electricity, when it was available.

  I stood behind him trying to figure the man out. Then he turned, without looking back at me and quietly signaled with two upturned fingers for me to come and join him. He then pointed to the empty chair next to him, just as if he knew that I had been watching him. Well, somehow he knew my name and the fact that my uncle lived in Serpiente, but he seemed so imposing and mysterious. Now that I really had a good look at him, I realized that he wasn’t as old as my first impression had given me, perhaps five years older than me. He was just weathered, as if he had spent a lot of time outdoors.

  Deciding to confront him I walked up to him in front of the many people eating in the café and blurted out, “How did you know my name, and what do you know about my uncle?”

  He casually glanced up and stuffed another French fry into his mouth while ignoring me. Looking straight ahead I could see his eyes in the reflection from the counter mirror. I recognized those eyes and suddenly felt at ease. I sat down next to him looking into his reflection. He looked straight ahead and said nothing at first. He seemed completely uninterested.

  After another slow chew followed by a slow swallow, followed by an even longer sip of his cola, he finally said, “June received a phone call from your mother. Evidently, after searching everywhere the police finally ran into your friend from the high school who gave you the ride to Knoxville. She was brought in as an accessory to a crime. Everyone thought maybe you had been kidnapped. Your friend explained to your mother what had actually happened which caused a confrontation with your friend Turner. Your mother found out what was really going on and called the police and had him arrested. Since then, we have been watching for you to show up. By the way, my truck is in Albuquerque at the bus stop. I’m supposed to, maybe,” he said hesitantly with a frown on his face, help you return home.”

  I stared at him, not saying anything. “OK,” the Native American continued, “your uncle, Ken Anderson sent me, but you have to understand that we have a problem out at the ranch.”

  A problem, out at the ranch, I had never imagined that possibility.

  “There are some things...funny things happening out at the ranch, and so he sent me here to talk you out of coming out to Serpiente. By the way, my name is Naalyehe Ya Sidahi.” He looked over at me. I’m sure I had a frown on my face and he followed his name with; “That is my birth name, which most people have no idea how to pronounce or what it means. By the way, it means one who is a trader but all my friends just call me Hidalgo, like the horse or the county in southern New Mexico. I’ve been called Hidalgo ever since I was a little kid growing up on the reservation, the name just stuck to me.” Looking at his reflection in the lunch counter he said slowly, “I don’t know how I got that name; it’s the name I’ve been called all my life.” And with a flip of his wrist he ordered the waitress over.

  Hidalgo

  During my last two years I would eat very little at school. Lunch was often the main meal and sometimes the only meal of the day for many of the local students. My conditioning didn’t matter, I was starving. I had run out of money somewhere in Oklahoma and I was already worried about what was going to happen if I didn’t make connections with Uncle Ken. But Hidalgo had already ordered a plate of cheeseburgers with fries and large cheery malt. In just a moment the food would be delivered. It was just what I wanted, and immediately I was grateful for the generosity of the mysterious Indian called Hidalgo.

  “Let me explain how this works,” Hidalgo said, “I had business in Tucumcari so I left my truck in Albuquerque and took the bus to Tucumcari so I could ride back with you and explain the situation to you.”

  “What situation?” I asked. At this the Navajo wrinkled his forehead and looked off past the tourists.

  “This may not be the best time for you come out to the ranch; we are having serious problems with the livestock. I’m afraid that we may have to send you back to Tennessee,” Hidalgo said bluntly.

  Hearing that, my eyes started to tear up, flowing down my cheeks; nobody seemed to want me around.

  Hidalgo continued with his story, “Several summers ago we noticed around the ranch house that all the small animals were disappearing, you know, like rabbits and chickens. We didn’t think much about it because it only happened in the summertime, but after a while we started noticing larger animals disappearing. Even John Luna, our neighbor, reported to us that some of his cattle were disappearing.”

  He stopped talking when the waitress set down a plate with a large cheeseburger and a pile of French fries in front of me. My mouth began to water at the smell of the food, but I knew that I did not have any money to pay for the food.

  “I did not order this,” I said quickly.

  Hidalgo chuckled softly and replied,” I thought you might be a little hungry since your mother told June that the only way you could have gotten the money to make this trip was by saving up your lunch money. I didn’t figure that amount of money would go very far on a long trip like you have been on.”

  Softly I whispered, “Thanks,” and dug into the pile of food.

  While I was eating, Hidalgo continued with his story. “The chickens disappeared from the henhouse, and Uncle Ken and Aunt June had to drive all the way into Los Lunas and buy new baby chicks.” Hidalgo held up his hand with two fingers sticking out, “Twice they bought new chicks before we started locking them up at night to keep them from disappearing.”

  “Your uncle has decided that he needs to send you back to Tennessee for your own safety. He doesn’t want to be responsible for you. What if you disappeared, too?”

  The Ride to Albuquerque

  I was flustered, but had learned in high school to stand on my own. “Face your fears and they will go away,” my wrestling coach would say. I was determined to see my uncle; besides, he was my ticket to freedom, including the freedom to eventually get to live with my father. Hidalgo was stoic at first, he wanted to avoid a scene and he was already receiving curious looks from some of the older ladies, but as soon as tears started pouring down my face, he softened. Within minutes we were climbing back into the bus. Hidalgo had no choice but to be kind, it could be dangerous to a young Indian or anyone else accused of trying to hurt a defenseless young girl.

  Returning to the Greyhound bus, I stared out of the window at the strange scenery around me. In the distance were huge mountains, but unlike in Tennessee, where they would be covered with trees, there was only a sprinkling of small cedars and juniper. Brilliant blood red bluffs capped the flat mountains looking like they had been stained with the blood of ages. They were timeless and mysterious, not inviting as the hills of East Tennessee had been. The few small creeks we drove past, arroyos as they were called in the West; were bone dry.

  The ride to Albuquerque was filled with descriptions of what the local ranchers were dealing with. At all the ranches the pattern was basically the same; first the chickens disappeared and so the ranch hands found themselves taking turns, staying up all night watching for coyotes. But not a single coyote was ever seen. Then small calves were found scattered around the range, dead, with bloated bodies. The ranch hands found themselves on night patrols after that, looking for evidence of poachers; not a single thief was ever found, and not a single shot from a rifle was ever fired.

  “Tempers were on edge, neighboring ranchers were under suspicion, even though they were losing livestock too. Th
en winter came and it all mysteriously stopped. But as the heat of summer returned, so did the disappearances. Needless to say, we all have our hands full,” said Hidalgo.

  “We would prefer not to deal with another responsibility. Your uncle is going broke despite years of hard work to build up one of the best ranches in New Mexico. He would never forgive himself if anything happened to you.”

  I listened patiently, but my decision was firm. I had to be patient, I didn’t have any choice. To return to Tennessee would be a disaster. Now I was seriously worried about my future.

  A billboard sign appeared alongside the road; “Mountains ahead, better gas up!” But that last part of the trip through Tijeras canyon where the northern, upper end of the mountains called the Sandias and the lower, southern part called the Manzanos were dissected, seemed to take only a short while. My mind was in overdrive as we arrived at the terminal in Albuquerque and as Hidalgo had said, there was his old Ford truck parked in a nearby parking lot. Hidalgo continued pleading with me, even pulling out a large roll of money and forcing it into my hand. Handing it back forcefully into Hidalgo’s hand, I was defiant; I wasn’t going to back down without a fight. We both looked down to the ground for an instant and quickly I opened the door to the pickup truck and climbed in.

  Hidalgo stood with his hands on his hips and just watched for a spell, He was amazed at my stubbornness, but also my strength of will. Hidalgo looked at me sitting in the cab of his truck with my arms folded in defiance, a complete turnaround from a few hours before.

  Hidalgo playfully walked around to the window on my side of the truck and said, “How do you know that I have not been lying to you? Maybe I’m not really a hired hand out to rescue a young lady, maybe I’m the boogieman out to get you?”