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19 Tamale Ridge by: Chuck Cusimano

would someday change my life. It was in some cottonwood trees, by a small spring. I made a

small fire and settled back against my saddle, propped against a tree. I felt like a failure and

contemplated on some kind of a plan to buy some good mares, somewhere. I needed to sort

things out and think things through. There must be some folks around that have a couple of

decent mares I could buy, otherwise it would be a wasted trip. My own voice brought me back

to the present.

“There has to be a way to get Francisco Guerra to do some business.” I said to no one.

I added a couple of sticks to the fire and had the coffee just about to a boil when I got a

feeling that someone was nearby. Funny how I could get an itchy feeling all the way down to

my bones and when I did get that feeling, I was almost always right. Someone or something was

close. My horses picked up their ears and I thought I heard some rustling from the leaves in the

trees nearby. Although it was springtime, there were leftover fall leaves lying around under the

trees. I was near a small spring with some cottonwood trees for a canopy. I caught a quick side-

glance of movement. I grabbed my rifle, levered a live bullet into the chamber and said,

“Quien es?” Meaning, “Who is it?”

“Señor, we weesh only to talk,” came the reply.

I held the loaded rifle in my hands as I stood with my back to a larger cottonwood tree.

“It’s O K. Come on in.”

The old man that I had seen in the ranch yard, walked out of the trees and took off his Sombrero

and told me in Spanish that someone wished to speak with me.

“Bueno,” I said, “Entren me campo.”

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