The Family at Serpiente

by Raymond Tolman

  Hidalgo knew he had to approach some family members differently than with others. Everyone is different. Hidalgo had been very polite and patiently waiting for his opportunity then finally blurted it out, “Do you know of anyone who might be able to give me some information about the fight games being staged around here?”

  Richard smiled and slowly says, “Finally we get to the point. I’m sure tired of taking a sentimental journey down memory lane, but then, you asked.”

  Hidalgo frowned and Richard grinned, then enthusiastically says, “Hang around for a few minutes; I want you to meet a friend of mine.”

  While Richard was gone, Hidalgo asked Alice questions about Estancia. She had grown up there living on the homestead several miles south of town. Hidalgo learned nothing new; he had already seen the family photographs. Stories about the valley were usually colored by the obvious fact that there was a tremendous amount of animosity between the new Anglo culture and the far older Spanish culture and if anyone wanted to construct a pecking order there, Hidalgo would come in last place, somewhere just below the devil himself. Hidalgo completely understood this but considered this notion as absurd because as an Indian, he felt that it was his ancestor’s land that everyone was squabbling over. The real war that Alice knew and talked most about was the war her family and the Riley family that lived down the road engaged in. Much like the Hatfield’s and the McCoy’s, the war had raged despite the fact that they had common ancestors and very little to actually argue over.

  After about fifteen minutes, Richard returned with a muscular Hispanic fellow who Richard had known well in high school.

  “This is Arturo Jaramillo, he was the one shinning point of light when it comes to athletics my senior year at Rio Grande High School and by the way, a great friend to have. He managed to go to the state wrestling finals four years in a row. He is now on full scholarship and is on the wrestling team for the University of New Mexico.” Hidalgo and Arturo shook hands and settled into the seats of the kitchen chairs. Alice offered the young man some coffee but he turned it down, “Don’t like that stuff, thank you anyway.”

  For a while Richard was careful not to tip Hidalgo’s hand as to the true nature of what he was trying to learn, talking about many things the two friends had in common. Then Richard casually took the lead in asking the obvious question. “Hidalgo, did you know that last year Arturo was approached by two men who offered him money if he would fight in a tournament?”

  “I’m not totally stupid,” offered Arturo. “First of all, I would win only a hundred or so dollars if I won. Can you imagine the danger of fighting in a tournament like that?” He didn’t wait for an answer, “What if I got really hurt in such a fight? A hundred dollars isn’t going to pay the doctor’s bill. Furthermore, can you imagine what would happen to my scholarship eligibility at the University if they found out? I would lose everything I have worked for. Besides I’m a wrestler, not a full contact kick boxer. But there is another, even more important reason I have a problem with those people. My cousin Alfredo Sedillo actually fought in one of those tournaments. Not once, but three times in one day! The first two bouts he won easy but on the last bout he was put up against a kid who was older and a much better fighter. The kid he fought had trained as a martial artist, an accomplished karate fighter. He took down Alfredo in only a few seconds, therefore Alfredo was denied the money from the previous fights he had already won. He came out of it with a broken nose and a concussion, and needless to say there is nobody to complain to, after all it is an illegal activity.”

  “Would your cousin help us,” asked Richard?

  “I doubt it, answered Arturo, he was beaten too badly and of course they made threats to both him as well as his little brother who happened to be with him, if either of them said anything. They don’t really care who they intimidate and threaten. I don’t know who is more horrible, the people who promote the events or the vultures who sit and watch them.” He paused, thought for a minute and said, “Give me a couple days, I need some time. I’ll talk to him. My guess is he can give you some credible leads.” With that, there was an exchange of phone numbers and contact information as well as handshakes and Hidalgo loaded himself into the Jeep Cherokee. He was at an impasse. There was nothing he could really do for the next couple of days in order to solve this problem.

  The Sanchez House

  Hidalgo’s conscience was bothering him. Deep in his gut he knew he was obligated and needed to help the family, to make a showing. On a whim, Hidalgo headed east on central avenue toward Tijeras Canyon to do some preliminary research on the cave. Thinking back to when he made his speech at the kitchen table, he was a little embarrassed and now he wanted to. Besides he thought; if he was too conspicuous he would blow his cover. By driving out to the cave site he could at least get the lay of the land. At worse, if he felt he couldn’t accomplish anything, he would have a very scenic and informative drive back to the comforts of Serpiente.

  Tijeras canyon is the only practical route through the chain of mountains that make up the Sandias, the higher northern range of mountains and the Manzanos, the longer southern chain of mountains. Both make up the eastern skyline of the Rio Grande Valley for much of the state of New Mexico. After driving though the canyon, he turned south on Route 14 driving down the side canyon past beautiful hacienda homes that lined the road. As he descended the back side of the mountain the trees got smaller until after many miles the terrain became open pastureland and farmland with rolling small hills. Hidalgo drove through the tiny farming communities of Miera, Escabosa and finally Chinle. In each small settlement he would get out and walk around just to see if there were people about. People who would talk, but unfortunately nobody seemed to want to have a conversation with him. People were xenophobic and secretive in those small communities for many reasons. They simply didn’t trust anyone they didn’t know.

  After attempting to strike up a conversation with several people and not getting more than a casual nod, Hidalgo drove on. He was disappointed. He had always learned a lot on forays like this. When he came to the intersection of route 14 and 55, he turned right instead of driving down into the valley where the town of Estancia was located. In only a few short miles he found himself driving into Tajique to find the land owner of the cave site.

  Tajique is located in Torrance County, which comprises much of the Estancia basin. It is a very small farming community that also caters to the lumber industry. It was built on the site close to an old Piro pueblo which was one of the more northern of the Salinas pueblos. It was occupied by Salinas (or salt) Indians well before the arrival of the Spanish in the 16th century. As the Apache Indians moved south along the edge of the Rocky Mountains in the mid-17th century these missions came under attacks. The locals made every attempt to make them defensible but with little luck. Apache raids remained a serious problem until well after the Civil War.

  However, as far back as 1677 most of the original settlers to the Tajique and nearby Torreon site had left. There was just not enough surface water there to support a population. Nearby Torreon was named after defensive towers built at Manzano to the south and was resettled in the spring of 1841 by Nino Antonio Montoya and twenty six other farmers under a grant from the Prefect of the Central District of New Mexico. Except for a blacktop highway and power poles, it had not changed much since then.

  Dirt and gravel roads were cut from Tajique into the flanks of the Manzano Mountains to such secret places as Fourth of July Springs where citizens from Estancia would go during the hot summer months to enjoy the relief of the cool mountain air. Water from those tiny springs such as Fourth of July and creeks would disappear downstream into the sandy soil of the Estancia basin. Those roads would be impassible now. In the higher elevations there would be deep snow that would allow only the sturdiest of four wheel drive trucks passage. Around Tajique, the roads were still a quagmire winding through rolling hills completely covered with cedar, juniper trees and scrub brush. Hidalgo was glad for his f
our wheel drive Jeep Cherokee. He also thought to himself, how could anyone make a living there?

  The problem was he had no idea where the site was. Leslie and Don had said something about the cave being on the Sanchez farm but they hadn’t said exactly where the farm was, much less where a rusting pipe was. He pulled into the mercantile store, the only one in town with a single gas pump and went in to ask for directions.

  “Como estas, he said to the elderly and balding Hispanic fellow he found behind the counter. The clerk answered in Spanish, muy bien y tu? (Very good, and you?) Then turning to see who he was talking to he said in perfect English, what can I get for you?

  “Well, I need some directions to the Sanchez farm.

  “Which one?” answered the clerk, “There are several Sanchez farms around here.”

  “The Sanchez farm that has a well on it that broke into a natural cave,” answered Hidalgo.

  “Oh, yes, I know who you mean, but he will not want to talk to you. He sunk all of his money into that well and got nothing for it. He still owes the bankers in Estancia for it. When the cavers came out to get a look at it, it infuriated him. First of all, he really doesn’t like people from the outside, especially white people.”

  “I’m Navajo, maybe he will speak to me,” Hidalgo said.

  “I doubt it, not if it is about that infernal hole in his farm. He was friendly at first but when some of those cavers from Albuquerque left a gate open several of his cows got out. It took several days of back breaking work to round them up, and needless to say, this did not help his attitude. He lives alone out there and do you have any idea how hard it is to round up cows in this kind of country?”

  “Actually I know all too well what a job that can be. I live on a ranch down in Serpiente. I have spent many a day rounding up lost cows.”

  “Well,” the clerk screwed up his face; “Maybe he will talk to you but don’t tell him I sent you out there and don’t expect much.”

  Hidalgo bought some corn chips and a quart of milk that would suffice for his dinner and asked again for directions.

  It was getting late in the afternoon before he managed to drive up to the Sanchez house. It was an old structure with a rusting galvanized metal roof and plastered walls that were showing lathing wire where the plaster had fallen off. Across from the yard was a holding corral with a fence built from small cedar limbs all tied together with baling wire. Inside it were a few milk cows. The cows looked like they had seen better days.

  Looking down a short trail he could see chicken coups, and finally a pig pin. The stubbles were still visible from a half acre garden plot that appeared to have always been there. He thought to himself; gardening was becoming a lost art in New Mexico. It was always easier just to go to the local store and pay for your food. Those people who couldn’t afford food, usually used food stamps. Many families in Albuquerque never even cooked anymore choosing to dine out every meal except for the proverbial bowl of cereal for breakfast.

  Walking up to the front door he was met by a large growling dog that was certainly big enough to run any intruder away. He grabbed a walking stick that was leaning against the porch and put it between him and the growling, barking dog. He then pretended to ignore it while keeping careful track of it, a trick he had learned as a boy on the reservation.

  The doors, as well as the windows were trimmed in extremely faded turquoise paint, the sign of a superstitious person who wanted to keep the brujas or witches away. After some furious knocking on the wooden door, an elderly Spanish man appeared with a rifle in hand. Looking around the yard to make sure Hidalgo was alone he said, “I was hoping the dog would drive you away.”

  Hidalgo says, “All I want to do is talk to you, then I promise I will leave.”

  “What are you selling?” asked Sanchez.

  “Nothing, Hidalgo answered, “But if you let me in to talk, you might be very glad.” They looked at each other for a moment then the elderly fellow opened the door wider to allow Hidalgo in.

  Lowering the gun the elderly man said, “I don’t have any shells for the gun anyway.”

  It was a one room house with different areas dedicated to sleeping, eating and just plain loafing. There was trash piled everywhere, even along the edge of the homemade bed that was butted up against a wall. There was no electricity, nor indoor plumbing. Hidalgo set down on a homemade couch that had a Mexican serape blanket over it. “What do you want?” demanded the old man?

  Hidalgo answered, “I would like to talk to you about your well.”

  This brought a look of distain from the old man. In a fiery display of pent up emotion Sanchez talked all about how he had sunk all the money he had into the well for nothing, then to top it off, some gringos from Albuquerque showed up to let all his cows loose.

  Hidalgo looked at him, and quietly said, “What if someone was willing to help you, make your troubles go away? What if the people I work with would be willing to pay for that well, and maybe even pay for another well that will produce water a little further down the slope? We might even pay for the cost of your cows, and any other expenses you may have acquired?”

  This brought about a long moment of silence from the old man. Finally, with a scrawl on his face he said, “What kind of a lying Indian are you?”

  Hidalgo answered his question, “I am a Navajo and I have never told a lie in my life.” This produced another long moment of silence.

  Finally Sanchez had to admit that, “It’s true, everyone I know will lie when it’s convenient for them but I have never had an Indian lie to me.”

  Finally he answered, “I’m just tired of dealing with lying gringos. That banker knew there was no water down there. He stole all my money; and those hombres from Albuquerque let my cows out on purpose, I’m sure of it.”

  Hidalgo thought about this for a minute then answered him, “Perhaps the banker and the drilling company really didn’t know there was no water down there. I understand there is a cave down there that would naturally drain away any groundwater that might be there.”

  Sanchez pondered this for a moment then said, “Why did those gringos let my cows loose? I’m an old man. I have better things to do than to chase cows on my neighbors’ land.”

  Hidalgo answered, “Maybe they just made a stupid mistake. Everyone makes stupid mistakes, even you did, or you wouldn’t be in the situation that you are in.”

  “Perhaps”, answered Sanchez, but I don’t want anyone else bothering me or my cows.”

  Hidalgo thought about this for a minute then said, “What if we built a fence that would keep your cattle in the pasture even if the gate was left down?”

  Sanchez pondered this a moment, then ask a simple question. “Why in the world would these gringos be interested in that old well anyway? What is down there? Is there gold or something?”

  “No,” answered Hidalgo, “But they did drop a cable with a camera down the well and discovered some interesting things down there. They want to cut a shaft down alongside it so they can look around down there. There may be some important scientific discoveries to be made down there.”

  “I don’t give a hoot about scientific discoveries. All I care about is getting out from under the thumb of that infernal banker from Estancia. Mr. McDowell, he doesn’t seem to understand that I can’t make money unless I can grow grain and hay to raise more cows and that requires water, and lots of it.”

  Hidalgo was perplexed, “Where are you going to grow that grain and hay, I didn’t see anything but scrub trees all the way here.”

  “Yes,” answered Sanchez, “But if I have water, I can then get my good friend Enrique Archeletta who owns a small bull dozer to clear the land for me. He already said he would, all I have to do is pay for the diesel fuel. But right now I can’t even afford the fuel.”

  Hidalgo pondered this for a moment then asked, “Where is your tractor that it will take to till the pastureland in order to plant the grass seeds? Where is your machinery that you use to mow it with? Where is yo
ur baler to bale the hay with?”

  Sanchez looked a little perplexed at these questions; he hadn’t thought that far ahead. Then he answered the question with, “I do have friends around here, we all help each other.”

  “Here on the foothills of the Manzano Mountains is no place to do that kind of farming,” said Hidalgo, you need to do that kind of farming further down in the Estancia basin where everyone else is farming. Maybe there is another way to solve your problem. Besides, this is poor land; you can only put, maybe one cow on an acre of land here. I suspect that the banker knew that your plan was impractical well before he agreed to loan you the money to drill a well. How much money did you put into the well?”

  Sanchez answered, “Every cent that I had in my savings.” He walked over to a counter where he prepared his meager meals and reached up to a shelf and opened a brown ceramic bowl. Turning it upside down to show that there was nothing in it he said sadly, “The bank is empty, but at one time I had over three hundred dollars in there, the banker got it all.”

  “Sounds just like them bankers,” Hidalgo sympathized.

  “Yeah, they wanted me to fail. Many of us can’t pay the taxes on this land. I don’t understand why I have to pay money just for the right to live on my own land. I don’t ask anything from those people.” Mr. Sanchez was getting animated if not downright feisty. I don’t have electricity, sewage, or any of those things that I’m paying taxes for.