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17 Tamale Ridge by: Chuck Cusimano

“Gracias,” I called out to the young man. The boy just ignored it without looking in my

direction. I sat there holding my hat, wiping the sweat from my brow and my hatband with my

handkerchief and enjoying the shade. The young boy came up to the veranda. Still, without

saying a word, he got a water jug down from the top of the rafters and offered a drink to me. I

thanked him once more and took a drink. I was thirsty and the water was cool and sweet. He

could tell from my expression that I enjoyed it. I thought I’d try some English out on the

youngster.

“That’s good water. Sweet and cold,” I said. He looked at me like I was stupid and never

said a word. So I said in Spanish,

“Augua dulce. Tambíen fresca,” still nothing, so I said,

“Yo tengo augua en me rancho, miso su auga, Muy dulce y tambíen fresca.” Meaning that I

also had cold sweet water on my ranch.

“And just where is your rancho?” He asked in broken English.

“Oh! So you can talk?” I said.

“Of course I can talk! Did you think I was dumb?” he asked.

“No, not really, just thought you were bashful,” I said.

“I do not like gringos! Señor!” was his reply.

“They come and take my mother and some cattle from my father’s Rancho”.

“Not all gringos are bad. I didn’t come to steal cattle or women, only to trade for some good

Lleguas,” I told him.

“My father, he have the best mares in all of Mexico! Puro Sangre!”

He said meaning, pure bloods.

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