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15 Tamale Ridge by: Chuck Cusimano

I guess he felt responsible somehow. He used to send some money to help but he never could

look my mother in the eye after my father’s death. When my mother died in 1918 with the

Swine Flu, I was still in the Marines.

I went into the Marine Corps at seventeen years of age. I found myself living in a world that

was changing fast. We saw a lot of new technology. We were still getting used to automobiles,

airplanes, electricity and telephones almost everywhere you looked. I could read the writing on

the wall and it looked like a man and his horses were in for a big change. I have always been

glad that I made at least one long ride. I sure was no stranger to long hours and even days in the

saddle. After all, the only transportation I owned was my saddle horses, a good team of work

horses and an old spring wagon.

The country where I rode was mostly a desert. Heat waves shimmered out in front of me and

my horses. You would swear sometimes you could see a big lake full of blue water but by the

time you rode to the spot where it appeared to be, there was just more desert. Mountains

appeared and disappeared, seemingly to be eaten away right before your eyes. It was dry and hot

and water was hard to find. I rode for days depending only on my water sacks tied to which ever

horse I happened to be leading at the time.

Water is the one thing most precious out there and sometimes the most elusive but if you

could find a cow trail you would eventually find water. Riding one horse and leading another

and switching back and forth every day, I kept them in pretty good shape. Following a cow trail,

I came down into a secluded spot to camp for the night on the last leg of my journey. I was

somewhere north of Coyame, probably not more than four or five miles from Francisco Guerras’

ranch.

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