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67 Tamale Ridge by: Chuck Cusimano

“You are not welcome here.”

“Papa! Do not be rude to my guests. I have invited them to come,” said Rosemarie.

“I will do as you wish jita but I will not allow them to spend much time,” he said.

“Señor Guerra,” I spoke up, “por favor. I have brought you an example of the kind of horses

that I can raise. Please accept him as a gift of good will.”

You could hear the low mutterings of the group of his workers gathered around us. He walked

up to the horse and looked him over. It was easy to see, he was impressed.

“He is a very strong potro. Señor, can he run?”

“Oh yes! Señor. He can run fast enough to bring tears to your eyes,” I said.

“Then we will see who raises the fastest horses! You or Francisco Guerra,” he said.

“Con su permiso,” I said.

“Gilberto. Put your saddle on “Handy”.

Francisco called for his prized racehorse and his son, Ramon to ride him.

“But father,” Rosemarie spoke up, “This potro has walked many miles today and your caballo

has been resting.”

“It’s all right, Señorita, this horse is in very good health. The walking did him no harm.”

They love to race horses in Mexico and most ranches have a track of sorts. This ranch was no

exception. They had a track just two hundred yards from the big corral. The race was to be a

short one. I guessed it to be less than four hundred yards. For that distance, I never knew a

horse as fast as Handy. Gilberto and Ramon sat side by side. The race was started with a shot

from Francisco Guerras pistol. The buckskin, jumped out half a horses length ahead of the bay.

It was over quick with Handy winning the race with little trouble. Guerra looked sick to his

stomach then he smiled and said,

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