by Lou Bradshaw
All in all it was a peaceful little scene…Then why does it feel so damned creepy? I asked myself. The hair on the back of my neck was standing at attention. I had been riding with my rifle at the ready, but it didn’t feel like I was being watched. It felt more like I was someplace I shouldn’t be.
I splashed through the little stream and rode on to what should be the tail end of the valley. What I half expected to find was another crack leading back to the main canyon. But what I found as I took a turn to the left was a wall of rock that rose up a full three hundred feet. The valley was closed in. At the base of the wall there was a ledge roughly twenty feet above the valley floor.
One could easily see how the wall had rid itself of its weaker and softer parts through the workings of ice wind and water. The portion of the wall above and behind the ledge had been cracked and crumbled through centuries of wind, tremors, and ice. Another thing one could easily see was how the rubble was gathered and used in building cliff houses. There looked to be twenty or more individual dwellings.
Those houses were marvels of construction. Walls were pieced together with what was available. I’m sure those people of possibly a thousand or more years ago didn’t have the tools to shape stones to fit their needs. They had to use what they could find lying on the ledge and down lower on the talus slope. Many had fallen over time, but quite a few still stood as if the occupants had left earlier in the day to work their fields or hunt.
Dismounting at the base of the talus, I walked about looking for a way up and found it at the far end. It looked like someone in a more recent time had done a little work to make a path, so I took it. The ledge was nearly flat… as flat as bedrock can be. The dwellings were back away from the lip of the ledge maybe ten or fifteen yards. Most were on the ledge, but I could see several built into crevices higher up in the wall. Several on the lower level had a second story, which must have been a construction nightmare.
Looking into one of those that had fallen in, I got an idea of how they were put together. Walking on along the row of houses, I went to one of the better preserved homes. The door was tall and narrow, but it became wider at the top. The only reason I could see for that was to accommodate someone carrying a load on his shoulders. I noticed all doors which were still intact were shaped the same way.
I stuck my head through the door, and by the dim light, I could see that white men had been there. Empty cans, empty bottles, and other modern trash lay scattered around. There was evidence of a fire having been built there in recent days.
Thinking to go in and clear that rubbish out, I put a hand on each side of the door frame and lifted my foot over the threshold. That was as far as I could go. There was nothing stopping me, but I felt like I must not go in there. It wasn’t exactly a conscious thought, it more like trying to move against a strong wind. You can’t see it or touch it, but you can feel it, and yet it’s not a wind at all… not a hair was ruffled. There wasn’t a single piece of clothing blown or flapping, but I had the feeling it would take a lot of effort to go forward. And after a very few seconds, I didn’t even try.
Something didn’t want me in there, and I wasn’t one to go against the will of things I couldn’t see. I’ve never been an overly religious person, but I’ve always believed in the higher power and other thing I didn’t understand. So I took that force at face value, hoping it might be an Angel… I’ve always wanted to meet one. Of course, I’ve been married to one for a while, but she doesn’t wear her wings when I’m around.
It was getting late in the day, so I rode back to where the horses were grazing and brought them back down where I could make camp and keep an eye on them. I figured to start back in the morning. I dropped a loop on the young stallion and he came along as easy as you please. When we got back to the stream, I picketed him and Smoke to where they could get to the water. The ladies would stay close by, so I wasn’t too worried about them.
As I was stowing my saddle and getting ready to build a fire for coffee and some grub, I looked over the mares and saw more than I expected. So I counted them and came up with three extra. Sure enough, there were three there that I recognized as belonging to my good friend Juan Domingo. They were three lovely mares that Pablo and I had caught when he and I took Smoke and Prince from the wild. Whoever took these horses, sure knew what to look for.
I wondered if Juan knew these three were even missing. If not, I’d bet my saddle he’d know soon. Horses are pretty much self sufficient, and Juan had good grass and water, so they more or less took care of themselves until it came breeding time or foaling time. But I would venture to say that his vaqueros would notice if they didn’t see them every now and then.
The camp was set between the waterfall and the cliff houses, so if any of the horse stealing bunch should return in the night, they’d have to practically stumble on to me. I could see Smoke and the stallion from where I’d sleep. The youngster was spunky and would set up a fuss if any strange horses approached. Smoke and the mares were born in the wild, so they were naturally cautious.
After I’d eaten and got settled down to sleep, I sort of wished I’d made camp somewhere else. The spooky feeling was still there, and I knew it would be a restless sleep, if there was any sleep to be had. The moon came up and I could see better, so I felt a little less uneasy. The past few days of tracking and worry about my horses finally beat down my uneasiness and sleep took over.
To say I had a good night’s sleep, would be stretching things a might. I tossed and turned a good deal, and I had some outrageous dreams that from time to time woke me. For a few seconds, I would lay there not knowing it they were real or not. Then as soon as I laid them off as dreams… they were lost, and I had no recollection of what they were about. Well, that’s the way of dreams.
I found myself trying to drag myself awake from a dream. I knew I was asleep and I was in the middle of a dream that I wanted out of. Trying to force my eyes open and struggling with every ounce of strength I had, I finally popped them open. Looking at the sky, I could tell by the moon that it was within a few hours of dawn. I was covered with sweat, but the night air was cool bordering on chilly. I took a quick look at the horses and saw Smoke grazing contentedly.
There wouldn’t be any more sleep this night, so I rolled out of my blankets, put on my hat, and tugged on my boots. Adding a few sticks to the coals in an effort to coax it back to life, I chanced to look up.
Standing, not ten feet on the other side of the struggling fire, was an Indian. I could tell he was an Indian by his features, but he didn’t look to have come from any tribe that I knew of. He was dressed in skins. To be more specific, he was wearing a loincloth of probably rabbit hide and a bearskin cape across his shoulders and tied across his broad chest with a leather thong. His moccasins were more like sandals that laced to the ankle. His thick black hair was tied in a top knot with a piece of rawhide. The rest of his hair was stiff and coarse probably from animal fat being rubbed into it.
He stood very straight and carried only a short stout spear and a flint knife for weapons. He held the spear as if it were a scepter instead of a weapon His posture seemed to be that of a leader. He may have been a chief or village headman. I raised my hand with an open palm as a symbol of friend or peace. He did not respond… he merely looked at me. His expression showed no indication of whether he was pleased or displeased to see me.
“Friend.” I said, but again I got no response, so I said, “Amigo,” and got the same reaction. I knew very little of Navajo or Apache languages. Most of my dealings have been in Spanish, English, or a combination of both with a few of their own words in the mix. I motioned for him to sit, and I waited.
Sitting must not have been part of his plan because he didn’t act as if he wanted to. He spread his hands out from his side and said something in a language I’d never heard. The words didn’t mean anything to me, but a lot of Navajo words didn’t mean anything. But what was so unusual about it was the cadence. The accents seemed to be in the wro
ng places. It was like nothing I’d heard before, very different from either English or Spanish.
He lowered his arms to his side and then brought his right arm up again causing his cape to spread on that side. With his short spear, he motioned back toward the cliff houses and said, “Ráwta-hawné.” Then he walked over to the young stallion and walked around him like he’d never seen a horse before. The stallion acted as if the old man wasn’t even there, and my big gray ignored him completely. The old man just walked off in the dark, and he was gone.
I immediately took a tally book from my shirt pocket, and with a chewed up little pencil, I wrote down the word “Ráwta-hawné”. I could only hope at the spelling. I guess there really wasn’t a correct spelling, but I wanted to spell it like it sounded. I planned to ask Rubio about it when I got back to the ranch.
After breakfast, I packed up and got ready to head back out through that crack in the wall. I walked out into the sunshine carrying my saddle and gear. I was in the act of smoothing the blanket when I saw that we’d gained another horse… a saddled horse. The last time I’d seen that critter, it was up on a shelf with eyes rolling, and it was scared to death. I’d forgotten all about the horse guard’s cow pony. I just assumed it kept on going.
Stripping the saddle from the newest member of our little band, I stashed the whole lot. Then I went through his saddle bags but found nothing to tell me who he was, so I just tossed it with the rest and covered it all with his slicker.
I kept a lead on the young stallion as we worked our way through the crack. It was no less uncomfortable than it was coming in, but we made it fine. The ladies all lined up in their respective places. I guess there was some kind of a pecking order because the three Domingo mares were almost at the end. The cowpony brought up the rear, but he stayed with us.
Going back through what I called Little Butte Canyon wasn’t a problem since all we could do was follow it to the mouth and out, ignoring those islands of stone. I could take my time and make sure we had enough graze and water. The little herd was in good shape, and if need be they could go on short rations of both grass and water. We’d reach the river in two days, and they’d be fine till then… even that little mustang.
The first day out of the San Juans, we were crossing the plateau near the lava beds and I spotted dust up ahead. It was a good long way off and headed our way. I was about a hundred percent sure they had seen our dust. With a bunch like this, we’d make some dust. The dust heading our way looked to be of a much smaller crowd… maybe two or three riders. So I pulled my crowd into the lava field and got them out of sight.
Taking my rifle and field glasses, I went on foot back to where I could watch their approach. It would have been best to climb up on one of those black serpents of death, but there aren’t many things more treacherous than lava. It can cut a good pair of boots to shreds in no time, and it’s hotter than blazes with the sun on it. So I found me a place among some loose black boulders and waited.
There were four sets of tracks back at the pasture, and with the horse guard accounted for; I could expect two or three coming my way. And they’d be coming ready. They wouldn’t have missed the dust we were raising. Fourteen horses can raise a lot of dust out in the open like we were. And then to have it suddenly stop, would give them plenty of cause to wonder. If they were thinking men at all, they’d have to guess that I pulled back into cover of the lava.
I waited and watched as they drew closer. Even with the glasses, I couldn’t make much of them. I was too anxious. Finally, I could see that there were only two and they had the look of Mexicans by the breadth of their hats. Hopefully, they were a couple of vaqueros out looking for strays, but they were following my trail and the trail I had followed on my way to the San Juans. I waited.
When they came closer, I was certain they were a pair of vaqueros. Nobody sat a horse like those Mexican cowboys. And damned few could sit horses like those two. Raising my glasses, I focused on their faces and I was happy I didn’t have to shoot either one. It was Enrique and Pablo from the Circle D, Juan Domingo’s ranch. Enrique was the Segundo and Pablo was a horse hunter and wrangler without peer. My own wrangler, Delgado was a good man, but Pablo was special, and Juan knew it.
I stepped out and waved my hat. They spotted me right away and rode my way. As they rode up smiling, Enrique said, “Aye, Benito. You are out for a little walk on such a fine morning?”
“I figure I know what you’re out here lookin’ for,” I told them, “but you’re not gonna get ‘em unless you give me a ride back to where they are.”
Pablo pulled a foot out of its stirrup and offered it, and I swung up. On the quarter mile ride back to the herd, I filled them in on what had taken place.
I left out the part of the Indian because I wasn’t sure I’d really seen him. I’d walked around that morning as soon as it was light enough to see and read sign. There wasn’t a track to be found. Where he’d been standing, was damp from the spray of the waterfall, but there wasn’t a single indent in the soft ground except my own. Even where he’d walked around looking at the horses, there wasn’t a blade of grass that had been matted down except by the horses.
I’d slept poorly and the place was spooky, so I began to think that it had been one of those strange dreams that can sometimes drive a person just a little bit crazy… I didn’t need any help in that department.
Chapter 3
Waking up in my own bed made me appreciate my own bed and all that went with it. But there was something to be said for sleeping in the open, except for the rain, cold, heat, wind, scorpions, snakes, and… well there’s a pretty long list of exceptions. Let’s just say, it was good to be home, but I’ll hit the wild trail when there’s a reason.
When Pablo and Enrique turned off to go to the Circle D the dead man’s pony stayed with the MB bunch and followed us on home to the ranch. Delgado looked him over and declared him sound, so I told him to put him with the rest of the working stock. I figured if anyone came around to claim him they’d have to be wearing a halo or carrying a pitchfork. Until such a thing happened, that little bronc would earn his keep.
The working stock was mostly cow ponies with a few heavy draft horses mixed in. He also kept the retired horses like old Bob and my brother, Andy’s old horse with the working stock. Delgado didn’t fence them in. They were kept on a large pasture area with plenty of grass and water to keep them busy. Bob and Andy’s horse had more than earned a soft retirement.*
*See “Hickory Jack”… first of the Ben Blue series.
A few days later, Delgado told me, “Hefi, I put the stray with the other caballos, I look for heem this morning, but he’s no there. I find heem standing outside the new pasture. Quarto mares on the other side talking to heem.
I told him to go ahead and put him in with the stallion and the mares. Horses will often take up with smaller animals and kinda make a pet of them. I’ve seen it with dogs, donkies, and even goats, so I guess they sort of took to the little fella. If he kept them calm and contented, what more could I ask?
Sheriff Nelson came out, on some sheriffin’ business the next afternoon. It was strange how he seemed to arrive at either breakfast or supper time. I assumed it was because of my home smoked bacon and ham. But that could have been caused by just about anything Patty Anne and Maria conjured up on that big wood burning stove. I didn’t mind having Nels put his feet under the MB table. We’d become good friends through the years, and a home cooked meal was a small price to pay for his company. He’d been widowed for better than twenty years, and I’m sure he got the lonesomes now and then.
I’ve told him a hundred times that he didn’t need to wait for a reason to come out… he was welcome anytime. But the stubborn old goat couldn’t seem to walk through the door without a piece of official paper in his hand. He and I had been through too much together to stand on any formalities.
His business this time concerned stolen and missing horses. It seemed that Juan Domingo and I weren’t the only
ones to lose horses. Several other Taos County ranchers had misplaced some pretty nice stock.
He told me, “Glenn Battles up northwest of here, lost a couple of good mares about a month ago. He says they were Thoroughbreds…I wouldn’t know about that… I ain’t never seen a Thoroughbred. And Frank Peabody of the Diamond P lost a Morgan mare.”
“I don’t know Battles, and I wouldn’t know a Thoroughbred if it was wearin’ feathers and dancing the jig. But I know that Morgan mare of Frank’s. I tried to dicker him out of it, but he wasn’t having any of it… He must be pretty put out.”
“Yeah… he’s broke up over it… he had big plans for that mare. He was planning to breed her to some good mustang stock. I’m surprised he hasn’t talked to you about it.”
“We talked,” I told him, “but I’m not letting the Prince do any outside work… I keep close records on his activities, and I don’t want things to get all tangled up.”
“What I really wanted to do was to tell you about it, so you can keep a close eye on things… and pass the word on to Domingo. He’s got some nice animals up there too.”
I got serious and looked him in the eye and said, “Nels, you’re a good friend of mine, so I hope you don’t take this wrong… But I think it would be a good gesture if you’d go tell Juan yourself. Many of the New Mexican ranchers feel like they’re outsiders.”
He looked down at his hands for a minute and then said, “You know… you’re right, boy. I often forget that they’re taxpayers and voters… I’ll ride up there in the morning.”
“Don’t bother… he already knows about the horse stealin’.” Then it was my turn to examine my hands. “I guess I should have sent word to you, but I took care of it myself.” I told him the story and how I found three of the Circle D mares running with mine. I also told him about the horse guard and his stupidity. “I couldn’t find anything on him to give me a name or anything else, so I just buried him.”