Page 47 - Tamale Ridge_113017

45 Tamale Ridge by: Chuck Cusimano

I slammed him right into the big metal drinking tank that sat out in the street, clothes and all! A

small crowd had started gathering around and I noticed that Gilberto reached for my belongings.

He pulled the .30-30 Winchester out of my scabbard. I knew then I could depend on him to help.

“It’s time for you to clean up and cool off,” I told the hotel man, after dunking him in the

almost frozen water. Once, then twice. The second time, the man was sputtering,

“Da - damn you! I’ll kk kil,” and down he went again. I held him under a little longer this

time and I think he really thought I was going to drown him. When I did let him up that time, he

kept his mouth shut.

“Now does my very good friend get to stay in the hotel, or do you want some more?” I asked.

“He can stay,” he chattered.

I let him go and he ran as fast as he could to the warmth of the hotel, dripping water all the way.

By the time we got back inside, we found a key on the register book. I signed it and we put

Gilberto’s gear in the livery.

We didn’t have a lot of baggage, just a small bedroll each with an extra change of clothes, the

regular camping equipment necessary and Gilberto’s Mexican saddle. We spotted some

youngsters hanging around, making a few comments to each other about that Mexican saddle. I

guess they’d never seen one before.

We took our bedrolls and my rifle into the restaurant and sat down at the first table we found.

We were eating when a medium built man came up and asked if he could sit down.

“Sure”, I said, “Have a cup of coffee?”

“I will,” he said, “Thanks!”

He introduced himself as Sheriff Joe Andry. He said he only heard one side of the story from a

local concerned citizen that I might be a troublemaker and wanted to hear my side of it.

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