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83 Tamale Ridge by: Chuck Cusimano

“Marcelo, he no buried by hees self. I no want ju forgeet.”

I was thinking about that when I dismounted and tied my horse back up to a cottonwood. I

walked under the chimes and started looking around. I found a place that looked like it could be

a grave. I was going to try to find Marcelos grave. I wanted to see what else was buried with

him. I didn’t have a shovel or anything to dig with, so I untied the knife from up above and

began digging around in the soft sand. I must have dug in six or seven different spots before I

finally hit something. I pulled up some clothing and was real apprehensive of what I’d find next.

I knew the body had been buried less than two years. In this desert country, it may have not had

time to decompose completely. I found the body and I was right, the dry climate had kept it

pretty much intact. It was buried a little deeper than I thought it would be but it stands to reason

if it would have not been buried pretty deep, the coyotes and wolves would have dug it up where

it may be discovered. I rolled it out of my way and got down in the hole to see what else I could

find. What I found was an old oiled poncho all bundled up. I untied the strings and unrolled it.

It contained a ledger, or journal. I wanted to stay there and read it but my better judgment told

me to re-bury “Marcelo” and ride out of there as fast as I could. I got on my horse and started

out of the “Alamocitos” heading toward the United States.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I hadn’t ridden a half of a mile when I turned to look behind me and saw a cloud of dust.

Were they coming after me? I was relatively sure I could out run them for a little while at least.

I couldn’t decide weather to run or not. Who could it be? Guerra or even Raul should have no

reason to pursue me. I wasn’t going to run and make myself look guilty. I was looking for a high

spot to climb so I could get a better view of the situation. Trouble was, here, there was no high

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