by Horst, John
Maria thought some more about the gaming men. When she was in Mexico, the men she’d beaten weren’t so cowardly. Of course, she’d not played for such high stakes. A man can lose a little and swallow his pride, but a man can’t lose a lot, particularly from a Mexican, and a woman, and walk away so easily. She thought hard about that. She’d have to be careful.
She evaluated her performance at The Cage. She did well, but she’d blundered twice; first, by being too greedy herself. She had her goal and should have quit when she’d reached it. And, she’d hesitated killing the severe looking gringo. She should have just shot him and been done with it. But all in all, her fighting was good. She did not shake or get scared or nervous. Her vision was clear and her aim deadly accurate. She decided that it was a grand success and resolved not to make the mistakes again.
She camped at the ruin and enjoyed it. There was good water there. The place was phenomenal as it was so intact. Just like her cave in Mexico, it looked as if the inhabitants had moved out only the day before. Someone had been mucking around it recently, though, as there were ladders of recent construction about. Maria figured it had been visited recently, probably by travelers like her, too intrigued to pass it by.
She bedded down in one of the little apartments looking west and watched the sun go down. It cooled off and she needed a blanket. She stared at the stars and thought a lot about where her life was heading. She was content to be alone; liked the adventure. She was pleased to meet the whores and was sad for them, as she possessed a primordial revulsion to prostitution. She was no prude and did not have disdain for it because of the implications of sin. She had decided that was just another of the silly rules created by the padre to keep everyone under the church’s control. No, it was the demeaning nature of it that she found so offensive. Many of the men who used whores were ugly about it. They did not treat the women with respect. There was no tenderness or love in any of it. And, added to the lack of respect and treatment of the women, she learned from Juana and the old man that many of the men brought horrible diseases to the whores. They, in turn, passed the diseases on and soon, many people were afflicted and eventually some died or were driven to madness.
She thought about the skinny woman in the cage. Who’d willingly put themselves in a cage? And she was there on display for all the world to see. Her most private part, set out like meat in a butcher’s window. It made her very sorry for the whores but she didn’t have disdain for them. She didn’t blame them. So many had to do it to survive, they had no other recourse.
But it angered her to be labeled as one of them. To Maria, being a whore was kind of like giving up, and she’d never, ever give up. She’d fight, scratch out a living, survive but she’d never resort to that. She loved making love but being a whore was not about making love. It was, to her mind, giving up a part of yourself, the most important precious part of you, the part that made babies, made life and it was just giving up and letting that part be poked and prodded and inoculated with diseases and degradation. She would never ever be a whore and she resolved that men who called her whore would pay for it one way or the other.
The Red Rocks and the Indios
Maria wandered further north with Flagstaff as her ultimate goal. She loved this land of Arizona. So often she could travel for miles and never see another human being and this suited her well. She was happy to be alone with her thoughts and was happy with how things were going in her life. As Bronagh said, she needed to get the wanderlust out of her system and this is what Maria was doing. She was a wandering Irish Mexicana and this suited her well.
She made it to a small settlement and was told that money would be paid for deer or elk. Although she didn’t need money as her bankroll was now huge, she thought it would be fun to hunt for a bit. Maria liked industry, liked to have a purpose or task and she thought a little market hunting would be a good way to pass the time as she meandered further north.
What she did not expect was the fantastic, almost mythical, land of the Red Rocks. Nothing in her life had prepared her for this. Maria was certain that the place must have some kind of special aura about it. It simply felt different, as if there was some sort of cosmic or magnetic pull on her very soul.
She decided to camp here for several days, glorying in the strangeness of the place. Oftentimes, she’d ride Alanza into a canyon or to the base of a magnificent mountain and just sit, listening to the nothingness of the desert and wondering if she had not found her final place, the place where she’d live out the rest of her days.
At one point, the wind picked up and she and Alanza took refuge in a cave system. There she found petroglyphs of elk with Indians hunting them. It was prophetic and she felt even more tied to the land. Wasn’t she an Indian, really? She was called a Mexicana, but her dark skin, the little village where she lived, the way she grew up, scratching out an existence, making baskets. It was all a very strange realization, as she’d not thought of herself as an Indian. The Indians were the Apaches and the Sioux and the others from el Norte, the ones who wore paint on their faces and feathers in their hair. But the more she thought on it, the more she wandered about, the more evidence she saw; the drawings on the rocks, the ruins in the mountains, the pottery shards on the ground, all these things led to her identifying herself as an Indian.
She looked at the stick figures stalking the elk. They had no weapons, but if they had, would they be spears or throwing sticks or bows with arrows? She considered her fancy rifle. It was really the same thing when she thought about it. They hunted to survive, and she hunted to survive. They likely hunted for pleasure, for community, just to show their gods that they could do it. Show that they could and would make it in this unforgiving land. And wasn’t that what Maria was doing? Making her way, showing her God that she could do it, that she’d survive in the most unforgiving land on the planet, without help, without a man? She’d thrive; flourish in this land or in the most horrible saloons or the most desolate mountains, wherever she found herself, she’d survive and flourish.
When the wind died she was able to hunt. She would recreate the act that was played out over the past many hundreds, perhaps thousands, of years. She leaned forward and patted Alanza. “They didn’t have you back then, my darling.” Alanza snorted and tossed her head.
She settled on a young mule deer and in short order, was dressing it out. She sensed a presence and retreated, hid and waited and was surprised by the diminutive figures standing around the deer carcass. The children could not have been more than four or five, alone in the middle of nowhere. Maria approached them and nodded. They nodded back and then regarded the deer on the ground.
They had no Spanish and Maria did not speak the language of these Indians. They knew a few English words and through some rudimentary speaking and much sign language, Maria learned that they wanted the offal, which she happily gave up.
They all worked together and Maria resolved to bone the animal outright and gave the skin, head, everything but the meat, heart and liver to the children. They were pleased. They were so excited to bring something better than a rodent or rabbit or hare back to their families. This would make a feast.
Maria watched them. They were getting everything red with dirt and she imagined what a mess it would be by the time they got back home. She signaled to them to bring her along and soon they were amongst a group of lowly hovels made of natural materials and a few sheets of discarded corrugated metal. This is where the children lived.
There were only women here and they regarded Maria with a solemn nod of the head. They were guarded, strangers invariably caused some sort of stress and trauma. No one with good intentions, it seemed, ever visited the Indians.
But soon they were disarmed by the pretty woman’s charm and Maria resolved to give them the entire beast. She was rewarded with a bed in one of the Hogans and a festive dinner that evening. Maria was humbled and thrilled by these acts of kindness.
By sundown all the children were around her with the smalles
t ones resting in her lap. She kissed them on the head and sang and spoke to them in Spanish. They loved the queer language and mimicked most everything she said. One came out with Maria’s things and this she found quite astonishing. They did not seem to have a concept of ownership or privacy of things.
The child found Maria’s old mirror and was looking it over. Maria called her over, pulled her down onto her lap and held it up so the child could see herself. Maria smiled and looked, pointed at the image in the mirror, “This is the only one in the world you can truly rely on, little one. The only one in the world. You remember that.”
The child looked at herself and smiled. She did not know what the pretty woman had said but it didn’t matter. To her it sounded like magical birds singing in her ear.
The next morning, she was up first. Everyone was tired from the late night celebration and gorging on the fresh venison. They were not accustomed to eating so much, nor so well. Maria got Alanza tacked up and rode out again. She’d kill them an elk this time.
She rode out onto a plateau that opened up to a surreal view; red sky and red land. This morning the sky was the color of the rocks all around and she had difficulty determining where one ended and the other began. It was beyond comprehension and she waited and watched as the day unfolded. She patted Alanza again. “Is this the most wondrous thing you’ve ever seen, my darling? It is, for me.”
And then, as if her whole body had been consumed by a tidal wave of emotion, she realized she was happy and filled with contentment. She felt the familiar flutter deep down in the pit of her stomach. She was truly happy and nothing, no matter what, could happen to her in the future that would ever compare to this feeling, this emotion of being in the moment, here and now, taking in all the natural beauty of this desert. It was one of the happiest moments of her life.
They had good luck and Maria killed a young cow. She marked the spot and rode back to the little settlement. Her band of helpers would soon have it broken down and back home. They all worked diligently and the youngest ones, the ones too young to really work with any level of effectiveness, played and sang and kept everyone entertained. Maria watched the workers to make certain they did a good job. She did not want red dust in the meat this time.
She stayed with the Indians a long time, every morning when she’d awaken, resolving to move on, the children would do something to keep her. One day slid into the next and before she knew it, weeks had passed. This did not bother her one bit.
The women loved her. They fussed over her constantly and Maria was like a princess. She could do nothing for herself as she was the huntress and kept their bellies full. The least they could do for her was keep her clothes clean and her Hogan in order. She was beginning to like this kind of living and it reminded her of the Germans.
In the evenings the women worked on the hides and Maria entertained the children. She taught them games, how to play cards, singing songs in Spanish and they taught her words in their tongue. They’d laugh when she spoke with her native accent and then mimic her and run away.
The end of the day was always the same. Three or four of them would cram into her Hogan and comb her hair. Maria had to count out three hundred strokes or they would never stop and she’d ultimately have to shoo them from her little room. Invariably, one or two would end up back with her and she’d awaken in the morning with a child pressed tightly against her back.
Eventually the wanderlust once again took hold of Maria and she headed north. Everyone stood in line and bid her farewell the morning of her departure. The children laughed and waved and some of the women cried. Maria would not forget them. They were on her list, the list of good people who’d done her a kindness and she’d be back with prizes and gifts, toys and candy and things to make their lives a little easier. She turned and smiled, “Adios, my lovelies, adios.”
Canyon del Muertos
Maria arrived at the settlement of Canyon del Muertos early one evening. It was the worst place she’d ever visited in her life. The place was like a deadly mushroom, doomed, slated for disaster from the time the first tent was erected. Like a festering disease, it spread its malice and depravity over several acres.
It was named after a canyon that had to be spanned by the railroad and it seemed that one incompetent act, one blunder followed another. This was how Canyon del Muertos came to be. Even before the white man came, it seemed to be cursed. Legend had it that hundreds of years before, a tribe of Indians was caught at the bottom of the canyon as a flash flood swept through, wiping them all out. An enterprising settler with a Spanish flair gave it the name and that is how the place became known as Canyon del Muertos.
The reason this place was doomed was that there was no reason for a town to exist here at all. The place was the result of a comedy of errors, yet there was nothing comedic or funny about it. The railroad was being built and progress was swift, except for a mathematical miscalculation. The bridge built in Chicago and shipped down was short by just enough to cause a delay. While everyone waited for a replacement bridge to be built and shipped, little shacks were thrown together. As if by invitation, all the miscreants in the territory were drawn to the place.
In a normal town there was some reason for it to exist: mining, or ranching, lumber, or some sort of commerce. But there was nothing in this godforsaken place to attract normal, hardworking people. It was just the opposite; it was a place for the morally bankrupt, lazy and deceitful. It was simply doomed. Like carrion drawn to a rotten corpse, all came to Canyon del Muertos.
Maria was excited. Shots were fired up and down the street. Bad men walked up on her and leered, looking for an opportunity. Nearly every stranger who came to town offered some promise of capital. No one was safe and the town was known for devouring lawmen. More than twenty had been appointed in the first year and were all retired by gunplay.
She rode and calculated. Alanza was not safe, nor was her saddle or traps. She certainly couldn’t ride her pony into a saloon. She thought about what to do when a boy caught her eye. He was a little vagrant, not more than ten, and he reminded Maria of Juana a little. He was quite fat for a boy living on the street. She called for him to come over to her and the lad complied.
“Little boy, where can I keep my horse safe?”
He nodded. Maria could see that she was casting her spell. The boy grinned. “Not at the livery stable, all thieves there.” He spit tobacco juice at Alanza’s feet.
“Okay, you are a clever boy. You have told me where not to put her, tell me where to put her, boy.” She picked through a pocket, found a coin and tossed it to him.
“Follow me.”
He ran through an alley and Alanza followed, past a small row of shotgun houses. They eventually ended up at the back of a brothel where a big woman was squatting, having a pee. She did not stand up as the boy approached, but eyed Maria indifferently.
“This lady needs to keep her horse somewheres that it won’t get stole.”
The prostitute shook herself a little and pulled up her bloomers. She was agile for a big woman. “A dollar a day.”
Maria handed her five. The prostitute stuck this in her bosom. “For another dollar, I’ll give ya a room, long as you don’t mind the banging.” She nodded with her head at the bordello behind her. “Some of these boys try to drive us right through the wall.” She was warming up to Maria as she watched her dismount and take her fancy rifle and Winchester from Alanza’s saddle. “You ain’t lookin’ for work I guess, honey?”
Maria didn’t respond. She did not take it as an insult but she nonetheless didn’t respond. The woman continued. “Don’t get many Mexican gals up this way. You’re sure a good ways from home, honey.” She took the fancy rifle in hand, looked it over doubtfully.
“Where is the best gaming, lady?”
The whore pointed her in the right direction and Maria started walking. She decided to carry her Winchester as everyone in the little settlement seemed to be armed. She’d have better luck with the extra bullets
and long barrel of the rifle in the event there was a shooting. Maria was counting on it. She looked back and smiled. “You take good care of my things, lady and I’ll make you rich.”
The whore shrugged and looked down at the boy, his mouth full of tobacco. She then spoke to no one. “If you live through the night.”
The place was lively, as decadent as The Cage but not nearly so polished or rich. Maria knew she would not find thousand dollar tables here. She looked around and several men ogled her. Suddenly a giant of a man loomed over her. He was a Negro, the first Maria had ever seen and she was fascinated by him.
“He fancies you.” Maria looked on at a scrawny man with rotten teeth, not much older than she was and she wondered how anyone could destroy teeth in such a short time. She looked at the man as she lit a cigar and the big Negro stared down at her.
The Negro was a powerful man; he’d spent his life working on the railroad. He stood well over six feet tall and had very dark skin, darker than any Mexican she’d ever seen. He wore an eye patch over his left eye but it wasn’t big enough to cover the hideous wounds he’d received. Around it could be seen significant scars. He wore a green plaid work shirt with a large checkered pattern, accentuating his impressive mass. Maria could tell that he was not fully in control of his mental faculties and she smiled at him. “Hello, Mister.”