Danny Velasquez Land Wars

Danny Velasquez

Land Wars

The aroma of hot lard and frying bacon drifted from the open window. A string of scarlet-red chilies hung near the doorway and the chickens scratched the yellow dirt searching for missed seeds from yesterday. For the past three-months, the Rio Puerco provided life-giving water to this wild, thirsty, and promising New Mexico valley rancho. The spring sun painted spires onto the red cliffs behind their mud adobe casita, while a pair of red-tailed hawks swooped into the field grass, snatching breakfast mice. Celestino sat tall upon his chestnut stallion, proudly admiring the few white-faced cattle he recently purchased as they grazed near the streambed. Taking in the beauty and stillness of the morning, he thought that he smelled bacon frying. Beyond the river's bend, behind the cattails, hidden, down in the arroyo, four strangers looked on - the one in the pony soldier's hat muttered curses at the rancho in progress. Celestino worked the rancho. The work was backbreaking, yet rewarding, and he loved it. He was paying for it on monthly installments, using the two years' savings he acquired by working in the potato fields in Colorado's Archuleta County, as down payment, while Reducinda, his young wife, had bought the stove, blue and white speckled cookware, plates and utensils, and their wrought iron bed from her dowry. And on this day, their first wedding anniversary, they planned to celebrate their hard work. From conversations with neighboring ranchers, Celestino heard that ruthless Comanche raiders from Abiquiu Pueblo claimed this valley, yet neither he nor his neighbors on the adjacent farms had crossed paths with them. It's rumored that Reducinda's abuelo or one of her tios, was captured and placed into slave labor by raiders from Abiquiu Pueblo. However, today the aroma of the eggs gathered by his newlywed wife, accompanied the sizzling bacon in the frying pan, and it called Celestino in. The wood powder box held pinion-palitos ready to fuel the cast stove adjacent it, where

the creosoted coffee pot and fiying pan sent out their delectable aromas. Above the wood box, a matchbox holder hung on the wall, waiting to surrender another matchstick. Skillets and a wooden rolling pin decorated the wall on the right side of the stove. As he entered the casita, she poured him a strong cup of coffee while telling him to wash his hands in the basin, reminding him to use the soap or the towel gets soiled.

Their dog, a Border-collie-coyote cross, growled warily underneath the open window, giving warning of trespassers. Celestino spied the farm's landscape through the open window, saw movement across the field in the distance, called the dog in, and closed and bolted the window's heavy wooden shutters and the door. He retrieved his Winchester from above the door, and his Colt and cartridges from the cupboard drawer. They quickly moved the wrought iron bed, revealing the crawlspace access door he fashioned for emergencies such as this. Celestino ordered Reducinda to enter the crawlspace through the hinged-door floorboards. He told her to remain in there and promised her that he would see her soon. They embraced tightly, kissed, and she descended the five steps, turned, looked up at him, and sat down on the hard packed dirt floor. "Orar por mi, por favor," Celestino asked. "Si, yo orar por ti," she answered, sighing softly after she spoke. He closed the hinged door behind her and quickly pushed the bed into its original position. Living in this untamed land, Celestino knew that any day, Comanche raiders would try to take his land, his home, and try to kill him and his wife. Knowing this, he prepared for it. Living off the land he was an expert sharpshooter, if not, they would starve. But, he had never shot at another person. Arrows and bullets pelted the front door and the wooden shutters while wild Comanche screams sent chills through his veins. "Senor-Jesus, ayuda-me por favor," Celestino groaned out in nervous fear as removed the wooden plank and slid the rifle barrel through the six-inch-high rifle window, enough room to see out and shoot. Steadying himself, he took aim at a stealthy moving figure of a man, sneaking toward the casita, took a deep breath, and squeezed off a shot. He recognized the familiar thud of the bullet hitting

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flesh and bone, the same sound when he dropped a six-point elk the past winter; only now it was human flesh his bullet pierced, and a human life it took. Killing men was not easy, but it was either Comanche lives, or his and his wife's. It was an easy decision. The barrage of arrows and bullets continued pounding into the door and at his rifle window. He felt a sting on the left side of his forehead but had no time to stop and look as flaming arrows stuck into the door. It would be a matter of time before the door would burn and the enemy could enter. Celestino determined that would not happen. Taking careful aim, he shot another, and then a third Comanche. An eerie quiet echoed through the casita, while he anxiously reloaded his rifle. Sweat dripped into his eyes, and sweat mixed with blood dripped over his brow, into his left eye. Wiping it away with his sleeve, he peered out the smoke covered rifle window, as the smoke from his rifle and smoke from the doors and shutters found their way into the casita. With no other choice, he unlatched the front door and bolted out, to remove the fiery arrows.

Sparse bullets peppered the door; a sharp pain in his left side spun him around, facing outward, toward the enemy fire. Lifting his rifle, he quickly aimed and shot at a fleeing Comanche. The savage fell to the ground, rolled several times, leaving his pony soldier's hat behind, and then scurried back up, holding his side while limping to his lone horse. He leaped atop his paint yelling curses, as he rode off. Celestino hurriedly removed the remaining flaming arrows from the casita door and shutters. Remembering his wife, he felt his adrenaline push aside the heavy bed; he opened the hinged door and called to Reducinda. With tears rolling down her rosy cheeks, she came to him. Fear and concern weighed heavily upon her face as she saw blood dripping down his forehead and from his side. She caringly wiped the blood from his forehead with the hem of her long skirt, and examined the wound on his side. The smell of smoke filled their home, wood smoke and burned bacon and eggs.

That day they would celebrate a victory, but Celestino knew their adversaries would return, someday.

The aroma of fried eggs and bacon captured the attention of Uvaldo, the second-born son of Celestino and Reducinda, as his wife Cecilia, prepared his breakfast. The open south window lent itself to the sights and sounds of the farm: stringed chilies swayed in the breeze, their dog barked at strangers in the bordering field, the cat c1ied for her morning milk while the chickens scratched the yellow dirt searching for missed seeds from yesterday. Life on the rancho was hard, it had always been hard, yet rewarding, and Uvaldo determined to keep it that way. After chores, he spent the morning, like so many mornings, searching intently, filing, and sorting, and he stacked, and re-stacked papers from the lawyers, onto their rarely used dining room table. It had become the central location for legal papers regarding the valley's settlers and the Northern New Mexico Federal Land Grant of 1857. Across the table were stacks of the opposition's legalese: papers that presented the claims of their ruthless, wealthy clients from Abiquiu Heights, who had claimed the valley for their own personal gain. Neighboring ranchos have been taken over in expensive legal disputes, subdivided, and developed into one and two-acre lots by anxious developers desiring to please their greedy bosses. And this morning, like so many others, Cecelia poured his strong coffee, told her husband of 70 years to put down the fight, at least for the moment, and come eat breakfast before his bacon and eggs burned. He agreed, and took off his glasses, folding the temple pieces in, one over the other, and slid them in his shirt pocket. He sat down to the table, and reached for his coffee. He steadied his shaking hand with his good one, and lifted his cup to his weathered lips. A wisp of steam rose up his face, curled over the bridge of his nose, misted his left eyelash, and made him blink. He paused, and looked out the window, across the field to where their dog barked - like his father, Uvaldo knew ...

Leo Dolan

In My Day

In my day, we got jobs when we were ten. The depression was three at the time, same age as my new baby brother. My job wasn't too bad. The newspapers were heavy and smelled of ink, and the presses screamed like banshees. They'd ruin your ears if you let them. The first stop on my route was Walter's Bakery. They got up at three too, and always gave you a free donut. Donut for your little brother too, if he was along. Too bad about that war with the Germans. My town closed the bakery down just because Walter was from Germany. He was a mce guy.

In my day a little sister and brother were fun except that she was bossy at times, and Bub, he had enough devil in him for all three of us. Sometimes I'd tell mama I did something bad that Bub did just so mama' d leave him alone for a change. Sis, too. That's what big brothers were for.

Me, I had dreams. I dreamed of schools that were not so hard, teachers that were not so mean, and subjects I could understand. Bub and Sis were smart in school, but I had dreams. Sometimes I dreamed about being the guy that

ran the printing presses. I dreamed that my country was better than all those other countries that wanted to kill us. I dreamed of being a soldier and helping.

In my day there was a war in Pearl Harbor and lots of us quit high school to help our country win. I joined the U. S. Navy, and got sent to more schools that I didn't understand, but I loved the uniform and the hat. I didn't get to wear them in the submarine. I found out that war meant a lot more than war bonds, flags, and stuff. War meant torpedoes and bombs aimed right at you and your buddies _and your dead buddies.

In my day, when the war was over, you went to college even if you didn't have to, and without paying for it. Someone charged it to the G. I. bills. Me, I still liked newspapers so I studied what they called journalism. You had to study English too, which was silly since I already spoke it. Ha Ha. Get it? The hometown newspaper loved the old paperboy who was a hero and a writer now, and so they made him a reporter. Where was I? What was I going to say?

One day, Mama and the pastor said they thought it was high time for me to settle down. Start thinking about a wife and babies. Railroads. Brakemen got paid more than reporters, but it didn't last all year. We could follow the crops to the south. They had to have railroads and brakemen down there, didn't they? They hired Yankees during crop season. We had to eat. We had to get set up for something ... Was it to migrate? Or get seniority, or permanent or what? That seems to be a Jot of moving around for a family. Did I have a family?

My dreams and my days got better at times. I married my wonderful Betty. She moved to our town to teach school. She taught me a lot. Was it then she got pregnant? One time I got a new job in California. It paid good, and had something to do with rockets. That doesn't sound like me, but I think it's true. Ask Betty. We had four sons. I used to be able to tell you their names and birthdays. I think some of them got married. That's it! Grandkids! Betty, what were their names, again?

In my day, things weren't so confusing and didn't changing. I don't remember them.

You're what? How can you sit there and give me that crap about being my brother? I never had a brother.

I need to go rest.