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37 Tamale Ridge by: Chuck Cusimano

I stood there listening to this old compadre of my late uncle. I asked all around the question

that still nagged me but still I didn’t ask any more about my uncles death. I wanted to ask what

he meant by saying that Marcello wasn’t buried by himself but I thought I’d wait on that

question also.

“What ever happened to Tamale?” I asked Juan.

“Ju ancle, he sell it. He needit the mohney, to pay for thees place. Taxis or sampthink,” he

said.

“Where did Tamale end up? Is he still alive?”

I suddenly became very interested in trying to get him back.

“Some man gots heem. Ju know, La Plaza Barela?” he asked.

“I’ve never been there but I’ve heard of it. It’s east of Trinidad, I think,” I said.

“Juan he never go there too but Ju ancle take Tamale to a reech man.”

“Juan, do know the mans name?” I asked.

“No Señor, I hear it sometimes, but I forgeet it.”

That needed checking into. On the third morning after the storm, it warmed a little and we rode

into Newberry to send the money for the mares. I wrote up the bank draft and Juan took it

himself to the bank to make the transfer. Then Juan found me in the small café.

“I tink La Señorita che ver happy to geet the mohney for las lleguas.” .

“Well, I’m grateful to get the mares too, Juan,” I said.

We ate dinner in town and picked up some fresh supplies and the mail.

The post master handed me a letter from Big Jim’s mother. I didn’t open it until we got back to

the ranch.

After Juan went to his bunk, I opened the letter:

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