Читать книгу The Land - Robert K. Swisher Jr. - Страница 7

PROLOGUE

THE BANDIT

Manuel Saavedra spurred his tired and sweating horse on. The three mules tethered together and tied to his saddle looked like they would drop from exhaustion at any moment. Manuel for the first time did not care about his animals. There had been too many years, too many lost chances for thoughts such as these. He buried his sharp silver spurs into the sides of the horse once again. “Run, you bastards,” he grunted between dust coated lips, “Run for your life and mine.”

In his haste Manuel did not watch the land he galloped over but kept his eyes darting from the pointed peak on the horizon back in the direction of the mountains and the Ortiz gold mine. “Another twenty minutes and it will be dark,” he hollered to the passing cactus and sharp jagged rocks surrounding him and his sweating animals. “Dark, and we will be safe for awhile.”

Once again he dug his spurs into the horse, and once again the animal pulled from deep within himself the power to go on. Manuel stared at the distant peak that was his landmark. Devil’s Peak, he thought. Rising like a ghost straight up out of the rolling land.

For miles around the land stretched. Hard clay-based alkaline soil filled with granite and sandstone. Gnarled and twisted cactus rose from between the rocks and salt-corroded dirt. Cactus looking like witches and demons reaching out trying to grab one as they passed. The horse’s legs were covered with the sharp painful quills. Manuel’s well-worn and dirty chaps were blanketed with hundreds of the tiny daggers.

“Sheepers,” Manuel murmured. Sheepers had destroyed the land. The sheep cutting the grass that used to grow between the cactus. Until now the rain would not soak into the earth but only run off in rushing torrents to fill the eroded washes and gulleys.

The sheepers were long gone now. Gone with the Indians and Spaniards before them. Moved to new lands and grasses, destroying as they went. Taking from the land all she would give and moving one. They were peons to Manuel, only peasants, bowing and serving their masters, content to watch their women wear rags and their children walk barefooted over the terrible hard crust of the earth. Content to eat mutton and goat and pray to their Virgin Mary. Believing in God and hope. Trusting their lives to souls and redemption. They were no better than dogs digging and fighting for the scraps one threw into the garbage.

But not Manuel — he was not a peon. He did not grovel in the garbage or put his trust in communion or gods. There were no gods, no life beyond today or yesterday. There were only memories and hates and dreams of money. Dreams of pretty dresses with many petticoats for his wife. Dreams of shoes for his children and fine horses with saddles inlaid with silver for himself. Dreams of lassos made from the best leather and a carriage he could take his family into town with. He could hear the people speaking: That is Manuel; he is a very rich man.

But now these were no longer dreams. The dreams would become real. He would ride all the way back to Mexico. Back to Mexico and his wife. Back to hold his head high. Back to the dancing eyes of his children with their new clothes. His family would eat beef, not mutton or goat, and he would be free of the world. Free because he was a man, not a peon. He had risked his life and won. After all the years, he had won. In one last desperate move he had escaped the bonds of the poor.

As the sun began to set, Manuel stopped the horse. The three mules with the large bouncing packs skidded to a stop and bumped into the rear of the horse. The horse was too tired to kick but only stood, its nose almost touching the ground, and gasped for air. Manuel jumped from the saddle and in the same motion pulled his rifle out of the scabbard. Letting the reins fall to the ground he stepped away from the exhausted animals and stood gazing behind him into the growing darkness. There was nothing — no telltale dust cloud, no sound of clattering hooves, no cussing of angered men. But he knew they were there. Somewhere in the distance they gathered. Patient, cunning men, checking pistols and rifles, preparing bedrolls and provisions, talking softly to themselves. The manhunters, the enforcers for rich owners of the gold mine. The men who lived off of other men’s misery and told tales of dead bandits and outlaws.

Manuel breathed deeply of the cooling evening air. In the distance a pack of coyotes howled. My brothers, he thought, my brothers in life. From childhood Manuel had loved the coyotes. The ones too proud to be tamed. Too proud to beg or borrow. Stealing in with the night to survive. Hiding with the days. They are like me, he thought. They were free, untamed, friends to only their own.

Manuel walked back to his horse and picked up the reins. He slid the rifle back into the scabbard and gently patted the neck of his horse. “My friend,” he spoke, “I am sorry for being so rough, but such is life.” He took the bridle from the horse’s head and un-cinched the saddle. Taking a rope he tied one end to the horse’s front leg and let the horse go. It would not go far but would spend the night searching for the brittle clumps of grass it could scavenge between the pointed rocks and cactus. Manuel untied the mules and took the heavy packs from their sides. “Follow your friend,” he spoke.

The mules stepped gingerly behind the horse and shook, relieved to be free from their heavy loads. Manuel sat down on his saddle and opened one of the packs and gently pulled out a heavy bar of gold. Lighting a match he gazed deep into the luster of it. In his fingers it was like a woman’s skin. Soft and warm, the ticket to many pleasures. He had thirty bars, each weighing twenty pounds. Six hundred pounds of gold all stamped ORTIZ GOLD MINE. Manuel looked back into the darkness towards the pinon covered mountain miles behind him. Back to the mountain where the Mexicans like him picked out the precious gold. Picked for nothing but bread crumbs. Day after day, hour after hour until they dropped dead like some lizard or bug. Too tired — too used up to continue.

Manuel placed the bar of gold back into the pack and took from his saddlebags several pieces of jerky, and began to eat. Soon, a few weeks, he would no longer eat jerky. He would be in the arms of his wife, slowly running his hands over her soft warm body. Caressing the dark crescent of her breasts, breathing deep within himself the smell of her thighs. There would be no more lonely nights, no more hard rocks to sleep on — soon it would be over. Manuel lay back on the saddle. “I will sleep and before the sun rises I will be off. Home, Mexico, my little ones and my wife,” he thought as the dark engulfed him.

Manuel awoke stiff and tired — the stars, like gold dust above him. He gathered the mules and horse and loaded the heavy packs on the animals. His stomach growled for food but there was no time. He must make it to the Rio Grande. Once to the river he could follow it south to El Paso and then across the border to his home not far away. His horse would need water badly by the end of the day, but even if it was in bad shape, beside the river there would be poor Mexican families who would help him with another horse. Only the white man hated the bandits. But the white man was not poor.

Manuel did not gallop his horse, but walked the animals slowly, trying to watch the ground directly in front of them. The land was filled with gulleys and sinkholes. Traveling in the dark was dangerous but there was nothing else he could do. Around him the cactus loomed in the blackness and in the distance the coyotes howled.

Manuel stopped the horse on the edge of a large ridge that sloped downward and out into an open expanse of land devoid of cactus. At the bottom of the ridge one could see the ancient remains of an Indian pueblo and the four crumbling walls of an old adobe church. Beyond the open plain stood Devil’s Peak. The sun was red on the horizon when the earth gave way.

The last sight of the world Manuel and his animals saw was the alkaline soil and rocks of the ridge as the ridge gave way beneath his horse and mules. Laying twisted under the earth, his nostrils filled with dirt, Manuel felt the life leaving his body. “So close, my little ones,” he murmured. So very close, were his last thoughts as the land reclaimed a son.

Several hours later it rained, sealing the hard dry soil of the slope tightly over Manuel and his gold.

In Mexico, Manuels’s wife stoked the morning fire. The children ran around the front of the small adobe home waiting for the sound of their mother’s voice calling them in for beans and tortillas. Manuel’s wife walked and stood by the small lone window of the house and looked out upon the dry windswept earth that surrounded the poor house. Her heart was heavy and deep inside her breast she knew she would never see Manuel again. Slowly making the sign of the cross she bowed her head and prayed, Take him, dear God, for the love in my heart, he only did what he had to do.

The six men lost the trail after the rain. They had been in no hurry to chase after the crazy Mexican who robbed the mine. He could only ride out into the dry land and then turn back towards the river. Others had tried to rob the mine. Many had gotten away with the gold for awhile, but they were always caught. Caught and cornered in some dry dusty crevice of the earth. Cornered and shot, their bodies thrown over a saddle and brought back to town for all to see one does not rob the Ortiz mine. But with the rain they had lost the trail, and after two weeks along the river they did not find anyone who had seen the man with the mules.

But the men did not care — it was only a job. A dry hard lifeless job. “Lucky bastard,” one man spoke, turning his horse back toward the long ride to the gold mine, “lucky Mexican bastard. Six hundred pounds of gold — his … all his.”

The wind blew over the earth, moving the fine brown dust over all traces of Manuel. And the earth did not care, or feel, love or hate: it was only the earth, and for the land there is no memory.

But this is not the beginning.