Four Corners but Verily Only Two Choices

By John Russell

Replete with Southwestern spirit and humor, the story shares the entwined lives of the Cimarron family of the Four Corners region with their lifelong friends, the Rosas family of Santa Fe, New Mexico. The Nuevo Mexico Territory of 1881 serves as the colorful backdrop in which the families embark together on adventures involving fiestas, siestas,

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trilogy Christian Publishing
• Release date: Sep 29, 2020
• ISBN: 9781647735494

John Russell

John Russell has been a professional psychic for 50 years.  Internationally known, he has provided psychic readings for clients in over 40 countries.  John filmed a TV pilot for The History Channel in which he psychically explored the assassination of President Abraham Lincoln.  For over 15 years he has been a popular featured guest, heard worldwide, on many radio shows and podcasts.

Book preview

Prologue

With Friends Like This

The only light was that offered by a lone candelabrum positioned midway down the portal. The trespassers tiptoed down the dimly lit hall, stopping frequently to listen for any sounds of habitation, hearing nothing but blood surging within their pounding temples.

Having located the rear door, the chief thief bent to align the tiny key with the narrow keyhole. It required several attempts before he secured the skeleton key within the comfortable environs of the iron lock. The thief had started to wipe sweat from his brow when his sleeve caught the end of the suspended key and displaced it, sending the metal object flying against a sidewall.

The key seemed to be alive as it initiated conversations with everything in its noisy, downward, spiraling path toward the floor, dinging against a pewter cross on the wall, clanking atop an iron table, pinging against a glass vase, and ringing multiple times on the Saltillo tiles beneath the two wide-eyed ones’ tensed toes.

Although each conversation was brief, the talkative key had been quite politic, using its time wisely while introducing itself to many in the room.

Openmouthed, the two were enshrouded by oppressive, awaiting silence.

For a suspenseful interlude, neither man breathed as they heard distant shouts of Fire! and More water! coming from somewhere outside, far beyond the house. Aside from their heaving hearts, nothing stirred in the hacienda, they gleefully realized.

Quite the Haul in the Quiet Hall

The Don’s men had been in place since shortly after sunset, listening to the distant, unsuspecting fiesta revelers and musicians, biding time while awaiting their friends’ signal to start the fire. The two were confident that no one at the party was aware of them hiding behind the old barn.

The men’s cigarillos glistened in response to the gentle autumn breeze that nudged surrounding sagebrushes to and fro. Above the din of the noisy crowd, a coyote called to some friends as a sliver of the silver moon peeked above the nearby high desert hills to the east.

The silent smokers became increasingly anxious, anticipating their upcoming deeds. Aside from the raucous festivities being waged within the grand grounds of the Rosas Ranch several hundred yards from them, nothing stirred across the vast Nuevo Mexico Territory desert that stretched between horizons surrounding the two nervous shadows.

Finally, just after midnight, the indisputable orange glow from a burning torch atop a distant hill was visible to both men. The signal was there for a few seconds and then gone, extinguished by their colleagues above, who hoped none but the two arsonists below observed the cue.

The signal spurred the men into action.

Nodding to each other, they rose and secured two small jars of lamp oil that they had hidden within the depths of a large bush adjacent to the barn. The men opened the glass jars and began tossing oil toward the back side of the wooden building, taking care not to slosh any liquid on themselves.

In a matter of seconds, with the wooden structure soaked sufficiently, they lit the small piles of dead sage that they had placed strategically along the base of the structure.

A young tinsmith from Philadelphia had fashioned his unique glassware a generation earlier, in anticipation that the growing American populace might use his jars for canning and preserving fruit-stuffs and vegetables. The novel invention permitted longer shelf life of food stock, and as such, the hordes of pioneers trekking throughout the Western territories deemed the glass containers indispensable.

On this particular night, however, Mr. John Mason would have recoiled at the dispensing of flammable liquids from his products had he borne witness to the spectacle presently taking place in a secluded field of the Rosas Ranch. The growing flames ate greedily at the weathered and pitted boards, gaining elevation rapidly on the side of the barn facing away from the ranch and raging festival.

Satisfied with their handiwork, the men skulked quickly into the tall sagebrush, advancing methodically toward the fence at the back of the field, within which the old barn stood. The noise of the fiesta partiers faded, while the light produced by the fire increased steadily as the men sped toward the fence.

While clambering over the fencing, each man observed his shadow becoming increasingly more distinct on the ground before him. Through the trees ahead, the arsonists discerned the moonlit pond, where they had reined their horses earlier in the evening.

Glancing back toward the barn for a quick inspection, the two men smiled smugly. The flames had crawled halfway up the rear wall of the barn but had not advanced to sides that might be observed directly from the festival.

The night remained silent but for the crackling of the fire and distant sounds of the boisterous party revelers still unaware of the burning barn. Evidently, the bright lights of the festivities and the midnight music of the Rosas band retained the undivided attention of all at the large gathering.

By the time the men skirted the pond and grabbed horse reins, the inferno’s uppermost flames were lapping the roof of the structure. The woods around the men shimmered between flickering light and shadow.

Misguidedly, one of the rogues thought, It is finished.

As the man calmed his nervous horse, the image of the fiery barn burned in his mind’s eye. The flames and sparks vaulting into the starry night sky appeared as a multitude of extended hands and fingers, akin to burning souls desperately reaching out, trying to solicit help or relief from within Hades itself.

The arsonist shivered, wondering why in the world such a weird thought might plague him at this moment.

The rogues mounted and prompted their rides at an accelerated gait deep into the trees. After a few minutes, they began ascending the same sandy bedrock ledges they had descended when making their way toward the pond hours before.

The rocky sandstone should help hide their tracks—at least that was what they hoped.

Hours before, the two men had discussed their approach and departure routes, doubting that anyone would ever think to look for their tracks in such a remote corner of the leaf-covered woods. While climbing out of sight of the burning barn, the men were confident and looked eagerly to anticipated rewards from their boss and accolades from friends.

Nonetheless, with screams of Fire! out of earshot and the Rosas Ranch a mile behind them, one of the arsonists simply couldn’t shed the image of the enflamed souls with extended hands emblazoned as the fiery barn within his mind.

The rogue’s memories would become nightmares over the next few months. Plagued, sleepless nights would become increasingly more frequent, until one lonely, silent night, when he choked to death from smoke inhalation, alone in a small nondescript, mangy hovel, lying within a straw-lined feed trough, engulfed by a pristine, all-encompassing avalanche, entombed with his whipped and beaten animals and stockpiled stolen treasures, including gold and oil for his fires, gasping desperately for clear air, with flailing arms and hands extended violently outward, toward anything that might relieve the pain. A remote cabin located somewhere.

Somewhere in and of the world.

The heavenly firmament of overhead celestial bodies continued the perpetual reflecting of light above a sea of clouds that gathered atop the somewhere. No starlight penetrated the thickening cloud cover.

Following the arsonist’s final scream, a heavy snow transitioned to a dismal, myrrhic rain that saturated all below.

At the time of the initial distant screams of Fire! three men huddled within the moon shadow of an adobe wall located well away from the capacious courtyards of the Rosas’ La Casa Grande. The threesome conversed in hushed tones while kneeling on the sandy ground.

Within the past few minutes, one of the men had arrived to join the others, the latter of whom had waited for hours, idly wiling away time. Incognito, the two idlers wore dark serapes over regular Nuevo Mexican attire, while the latecomer wore a coat and tie.

Here is a map that will direct you to the key and Senor Rosas’s office, said the informant, within which you will find the safe.

He smiled contentedly, although neither of his comrades could see his face.

The monies will be there. Do not fret, my friends. Go quickly, and if anyone inquires as to who you are, or why you are where you are, you answer…somewhat drunkenly, eh…you say that you are looking for the bathrooms. There should not be anyone in this wing of the house, for all should be fighting our friends’ diversionary firing of the barn.

While placing a hand on the shoulder of the smaller of his two accomplices, the adviser leaned forward, adding, Just remember, you have maybe thirty minutes or so to get in and back out. Go, and may mother Mary protect you.

Two of the men stole stealthily from the shadows toward a large window of the house. The third man brushed sand from his knees and boots and walked in the opposite direction, along the gravel and flagstone path that he had traveled only moments before.

After stepping through the large windowsill and taking a hesitant pause behind heavy curtains, the two intruders crept into the dark room. Hearing nothing indicative of anyone within the confines of this distant wing of the casa, the men strode cautiously to a nearby flickering candelabrum and unrolled the tiny map.

This sprawling hacienda is huge, is it not? Ah, this is where we are presently…and this is the hallway through which we must first travel. Let us go, said the leader of the two as he rolled the map within fat sweaty palms.

The pair walked through what appeared to be some type of parlor room, before encountering the hallway, which was their first objective.

Quiet! Follow me and try not to touch anything. It’s good the man led us to the large window, for we would never have found this hall if we’d entered the home from the front, whispered the little taskmaster.

There was little light, only that offered by another lone candelabrum positioned midway down the portal. The trespassers tiptoed down the dimly lit hall, stopping frequently to listen for any sounds of habitation yet hearing nothing but blood surging within their pounding temples.

Near the end of the hallway, they stood before a small library of sorts, there being stocked bookshelves secured along one wall. The boss man picked a leather-bound book from a shelf and flipped it open, while his friend stood aghast, staring at his accomplice in disbelief.

Sangre de Cristo, mi amigo, what are you doing? Are you crazy? whispered the riled giant.

The reader returned the book and reached for another as he said not a word in response but began reading again, feverishly turning pages with his small fingers.

Aha, I have found it! he sneered as he extracted a tiny piece of paper from the book, while his partner looked on, rocking nervously back and forth at his side.

The tall one was still in shock, not having a clue as to why his friend would be wasting most precious time reading this rich man’s collection of books. He tried to stand still but could not, wringing his wet hands constantly and continuing a private, nervous dance.

I should have suspected. This was quick and easy, the squat one stated, replacing the book and resuming his inspection of the bindings of books stacked neatly before them, using an index finger as his inquiring prompt.

He placed the piece of paper in his breast pocket and sighed. Here it is…of course. It is a good place to hide a key, no?

Extending his hand, ready to extract another book from the shelf, the chief thief held his hand in midair. He began tapping the binding with his fingertips while shadowing the title from his buddy’s questioning eyes. He turned his head toward his fellow thief and continued his gentle drumming of fingers against the edge of the book, drawing his breath slowly.

With pursed lips and inquisitive countenance, he asked, "My friend, if you desired to hide your valuables and wanted no one but yourself to have access to these goods, within which books in this grand library of yours might you hide your two most prized possessions, valued above all else you own?"

The little man who loved rhetorical riddles breathed deeply before continuing, "One is a special key to the lock of a door, while the other prize is a combination to a safe secured behind that door…an easy hint: the two books that contain the key and the combination have something to do with Adam and Eve."

Hurry! We have but a few minutes!

Total silence as the two gawked at each other.

The tall one had not the slightest idea as to what his capricious cohort inferred, standing with suspended, dumb-looking grin, eyes twirling slowly toward his sweaty brow.

The literate leader smiled, as if looking at an overgrown child, and said with terse, ill-concealed enthusiasm, Some may say the Alpha and the Omega, eh?

Empty, cerebral stare; cognitive candles burnt out seemingly a long time ago.

Annoyed, the mischievous savant tried a new exhortation. "Quickly! One book is old, while the other is newer, my friend," he said, eyebrows rising, hoping to elicit a response.

There was no movement behind the large dulled eyes. Ironically, sweat poured down the sides of dim-witted temples as the mute one moistened his lips.

The repartee continued with sleepy-eyed arrogance. "Come now, surely you can get this one? It is a testament to Senor Rosas’s ingenuity and forethought?" the instructor exclaimed with a deprecatory sweep of an arm.

Blank face, again, lost in the woods.

Aye, aye, aye…we have no time for this! Follow me. The boss man agonized after pulling the New Testament from the shelf, extracting a key contained therein, and slamming the good book against the stupefied one’s chest.

The little man walked to the wooden door tucked behind the last bookshelf at the very end of the hall, a doorway that few in the Rosas household knew existed. The door blended perfectly into the surrounding wall paneling such that one would be unaware of it but for close inspection.

The intruder raised the little skeleton key before his face, inspecting it as best as he could, given the lack of light, and then tried to place the delicate key slowly and deliberately into the lock of the door.

Wanting to look for any undesirables one, final time, the man looked over his shoulder, gleaning nothing but the sweaty chest of his sordid sidekick leaning hard into him.

Get out of the way, you imbecile! He was seething as he swatted his partner aside and focused down the hall.

However, as the large man recoiled from his partner’s slap, the giant accidentally knocked a book off a shelf. Catlike, the little jester tried desperately to catch the falling book, which was cascading with fluttering pages toward the hard tiled floor below.

As he clutched the tiny key for dear life, the panicky man’s fumbling hands hit the novel a couple of times as it continued its descent.

Unfortunately, he never intercepted the heavy tome. The novel crashed upon the hard Saltillos with a resounding smack!

Openmouthed, the two were enshrouded by oppressive, awaiting silence.

For a suspenseful interlude, neither man breathed as they heard distant shouts of Fire! and More water! coming from somewhere outside, far beyond the house. Aside from their heaving hearts, nothing stirred in the hacienda, they gleefully realized.

The disgruntled thief scowled at his friend and returned his attention to the lock. He leaned into the door and bent to align the tiny key with the narrow keyhole.

It required several attempts before he secured the key within the comfortable environs of the iron lock. The thief had started to wipe sweat from his brow when his sleeve caught the end of the suspended key and displaced it, sending the metal object flying against a sidewall.

The key seemed to be alive as it initiated conversations with everything in its noisy, downward-spiraling path toward the floor, dinging against a pewter cross on the wall, clanking atop an iron table, pinging against a glass vase, and ringing multiple times on the Saltillo tiles beneath the two wide-eyed ones’ tensed toes.

Although each conversation was brief, the talkative key had been quite politic, using its time wisely while introducing itself to many in the room.

Horrified, the intrepid intruder swept the key from the floor and spun toward the door yet again. He placed his ear close to the keyhole as he directed the key into the lock, praying that he might hear some movement of iron within the door.

There was a soft click, and he turned to his buddy and smiled an evil, swarthy grin while gently rubbing his corpulent hands together. His collaborator behind him was a sweaty mess of smelly filth, at this juncture. The commander shook his head and began breathing through his mouth rather than his nose.

Disgusted with the odious ouph, he turned back to the door, upon which he pushed gently. First, just an inch. Just a sliver, he thought, rigid with tenseness.

Ah! He sighed. No creaks.

He pushed a little harder, and the door was opened another couple of inches, and still no noise; he smiled with wondrous joy.

Just a little more, he thought, pushing somewhat harder now.

Creeeeeaaaakkkkkk! spoke the door loudly with humorous rankle.

Air within lungs was vacuumed completely and abruptly then and for the next several strained seconds, leaving both men devoid of oxygen while holding their breath. The little one thought he heard drops of sweat striking the floor behind him as both men stood aghast and paralyzed, neither moving an inch.

Following a few silent moments that seemed as hours to the two thieves, the boss slipped inside the partially opened door, turning abruptly with arm and palm extended at length, indicating that his follower was not to follow or budge one foot farther.

He shook his head and motioned with his hand for the giant to turn and concentrate with eyes and ears back down the empty hall behind them.

Surely, this one can do something right, the impassioned thief silently swore to himself while spinning to investigate the interior of Senor Rosas’s office.

Immediately, he caught sight of the safe sitting next to a large mahogany desk, highlighted in part by a thin shaft of light emanating from the doorway. The only light in the room was provided by the burning candelabrum located in the hallway behind him.

I must have more light to read the combination and work the safe, he cursed under his breath, trying to peer within the dark room.

The little man reached into his pocket and produced a match, firing it with his thumb and advancing forward quickly.

No, this won’t work. He grunted as the match burned his fingers. He returned to the door and pushed it wide, heedless of the croaking noise that followed his motions.

Quickly he spun toward the safe and kneeled before it, rubbing hands together and grabbing the piece of paper bearing the combination. He went to work.

His partner tried to enter the room and was brusquely informed to get out of the way; the giant was blocking the valuable light. Get back, you fool!

A few seconds later, the safecracker whispered for his partner to join him in emptying the safe. Okay, come on in and help.

Within minutes, the excited thieves were cramming into two burlap sacks everything they could produce from every nook and cranny inside the vault, including stacks of bills, rolls of papers, and interspersed, banknotes, as well as handfuls of jewels, chains, rings, and many unknowns.

When all was removed from the safe, each bag was three-quarters full of goods. Hmm, the chief thief pondered, the bills must be very large, for this volume is not so much.

With a quick look around the room, the foreman said they must go, and with that, the two stole quickly back down the corridor, stopping periodically to listen for any movement within the house.

Delightfully, nothing was heard but hearts pounding as they hauled the sacks through the window and leaned against the exterior of the house, gasping for air. Now, with the most suspenseful work accomplished, they only needed to get to their handcart without detection, and they would be home free!

Gliding swiftly along the walkway in the garden, the two heard nothing inside the house from which they had just escaped. Distant shrieks of Fire! and It is lost! were all they discerned in the chilly night air.

Giddily they sped from the house toward the side yard in which their handcart was parked in the shadows.

Glancing across the grounds while securing the bags in the side cart compartments, the little general espied flames atop a distant barn leaping toward the starry sky.

Beautiful fireworks! he silently beamed.

He also glowed, but it was an ignition source feeding his boiling blood that none at the Rosas’s party would understand, at that late hour; it would not be until the next morning before Senor Rosas would feel a similar burning sensation, albeit attributable to a completely different source of ignition. The little thief laughed.

Off in the distance, many people were filing slowly back toward the Casa Grande, having given up hope of saving the barn and being forced by Senor Rosas and his sons to let the fire burn itself out. Undaunted, some continued the battle against the blaze.

Quietly, the two thieves pulled the cart past numerous outbuildings and small corrals, and then through a large pasture, before finally crossing a creek and leaving the tended grounds of the ranch. The exhausted smaller man relied increasingly on the brute strength of his accomplice as the two made their way undetected.

Hordes of despondent firefighters returned to the front courtyard, milling quietly in dismay and exhaustion, while the thieves made their escape. No one noted the handcart departing the grounds through the dark distant field.

Another several minutes of traveling through a thick juniper tree stand found the two men laughing and hugging each other triumphantly with a small group of friends, who helped move the cart swiftly into the night, far from the ranch and the unsuspecting Rosas family and guests.

From his sovereign command high atop a distant hillside, the Don chuckled mercilessly. He clapped his hands and jumped up and down like a young boy who, on his first day of fishing, experienced the joy of his float bobbing atop the water’s surface.

Indeed, one would have been hard-pressed to select which the skinny old man actually resembled more: the gleeful young child ecstatic on the bank of the pond with weighted fishing pole in hand or the dunking float near the end of the boy’s fishing line—both gyrating in similar, dizzying motion.

The few remaining coals within the tiny campfire at his feet no longer provided warmth to ward the chill from the cool October night. Yet the Don’s heart simmered with an inner flame as he gazed down at the blazing barn surrounded by a dwindling army of ants attempting to douse the fire.

One of his henchmen had just returned with the news of the successful safecracking and undetected getaway of his two thieves. The messenger had met the men in a wooded area and returned like the wind to hand-deliver a roll of cash and a large dark-blue sapphire ring to his field marshal, verifying that the deceitful deed had been accomplished.

The group is on their way to our planned rendezvous, sir. It will take them a day or two to get there, and then all of us will wait for your arrival in the mountains, as you proposed.

Perfect! The Don smiled. It’s time we depart. There are other things that I must set into motion in Santa Fe, and I’ve but little time. Let’s fly!

The despotic mastermind ambled to his awaiting carriage with crew of guards, and then all were gone from the slope, scattered into the dark with overhead twinkling stars winking in silent acknowledgment of the night’s clandestine activities.

Final Fiesta Preparations

If only the Rosas and their party revelers had foreseen what the Don had planned as a blazing surprise for all that night, perhaps not as many lives would have been changed forever. However, life is unpredictable, and disrupting change is inevitable, many times for the good, but many times for the worse, unfortunately. And depending on one’s attitude.

Actions have consequences, whether one considers them or not.

Things were no different in the wild Western United States in the grand year of 1881 anno Domini.

Earlier on that fateful October day, the Rosas family prepared for their grand fiesta, which was not scheduled to start officially until after the late-afternoon arrival of their good friends and guests of honor from the Ute Territory, the Cimarrons.

During the heat of midday, while organizing tables in the shade of one of the several large sprawling cottonwood trees in the courtyard, Senora Rosas laughed with her youngest daughter, Cerise. The two ladies reminisced about the last time they had seen the Cimarron group, specifically including Maximus Cimarron and his only sibling, younger sister Sage.

It will be so nice seeing Sage and Max again! exclaimed Cerise.

Si, I do so hope that your sister Bernadita gets to spend a lot of time with her old friend Max. He is such a wonderful young man, and they have not seen each other in such a long while, unfortunately…and her new acquaintance? Well, as you know, I’m not so sure about him, my dear.

Yes, Mother, it’s a shame that sis and Max haven’t seen each other for…for what? Perhaps at least two years? the daughter responded while assisting with the spreading of a tablecloth.

Poor Max will be surprised when he learns of Bernadita’s new suitor, and the man’s recent proposal in particular, I’m afraid, the young woman mused out loud.

The women moved as a team among the numerous tables, spreading and rearranging tablecloths, while chatting excitedly about the pending arrival of their friends from the Four Corners region.

Several Rosas staff members busied themselves with similar endeavors, moving chairs and stacks of cloths and napkins about the vast courtyard, within which dozens of tables were being positioned in preparation for a grand celebration and dining extravaganza.

Max has been so busy with the Cimarron ranch and buying mustangs over in the Navajo Nation, Senora Rosas continued.

She motioned for two nearby men to reposition a table closer to a shade tree, noting to Cerise, I wish that we had visited the Cimarrons this past year, but such is life. Yes, it will be interesting when Max meets this new suitor from Santa Fe, Senor Roger Van Clief.

Mother, who knows? Bernadita hasn’t provided Roger with an answer. I truly believe that she’s waiting to see Max before making her final decision.

Cerise flashed a coy smile and whispered so that only her mom might hear, Roger is quite a man though, too, is he not?

The wise woman eyed her daughter suspiciously before turning to direct three older members of the staff toward the front courtyard, where they should partake of spring water and rest in the shade. She knew tonight’s celebration would require a rested and welcoming staff and family.

All needs to be perfect tonight, the hostess thought.

Senora Rosas had known Max since he was a boy. He was as a son to her, and she had always hoped in her heart that the handsome young man and her beautiful Bernadita might marry someday.

But alas, who knows how Bernadita will respond when she sees Maximus again? she deliberated. For that matter, who knows Max’s sentiments toward Bernadita? These days…he’s probably seeing someone, I’m sure.

The elder Rosas pictured Max the last time he had visited, remembering a soft-spoken prayer the young man shared, a prayer and follow-on words that had identified the Cimarron man as a born-from-above Christian. It was the first time the senora learned that Max’s heart and spirit were aligned with God’s will and His Holy Spirit, and it heartened her so!

After the prayer, she thanked God for the boy’s transition, amazed and overjoyed, considering Maximus’s past reputation.

The young man and woman had been alone, sitting in the shade within one of the Rosas’s courtyards, one afternoon when Max and his dad were visiting. Bernadita was off in Taos with her grandmother, delivering goods to local Pueblo tribe friends.

Senora Rosas’s husband and Max’s dad were discussing business matters in her spouse’s office, so the two friends were enjoying each other’s company and cups of chilled juniper tea.

After his little prayer, Max had beamed in acknowledgment of his being a new man in Christ, for he knew the senora was unaware of his new outlook and relationship with the Trinity and that she had known their Savior, Yeshua, the Anointed One, the Messiah, for years. Previously, as most people, he had not inclined his ears or eyes toward anything associated with God. But now, every minute of every day, his actions were led through dialogue with His Holy Spirit.

Max related how he had studied the Bible methodically, every day, during the past two years, growing spiritually and in his understanding as to God’s true purpose for his life, as well as what all of us should actually be focusing on. He found that he continually sought scripture deemed pertinent to everyday concerns, thereby allowing God’s Words and His Holy Spirit to guide him. The young man also admitted that he had recently started reading from the Bible to his cowboys during their nightly dinners and confided that he now looked for opportunities, such as this wonderful meeting with the senora, to testify how God’s revelation and grace had changed his life.

The senora was all smiles as her friend related how he would apprise those who were familiar with his past reputation as a quick draw or a gunslinger.

I’ve made a lot of bad choices in my past, but that’s changed…rather, I’ve changed. I’ve learned that it always comes down to two choices: you either trust in God, the spirit of love, and align your will with His will and make the right, loving choice…oooor you veer to the selfish, prideful, egotistical choice, thinking about yourself, how you can do it alone, with no thought or discipline as regards to how your actions might affect those around you…and in many instances to their detriment, unfortunately.

Back in the day, Maximus Cimarron allowed his passions, emotions, and pistols to solve too many trials and tribulations. Those days are over, as I’m now aware of a different path: His path, my path.

The senora’s twinkling eye and nodding head had prompted Max to continue, "It was the same choice faced in the garden of Eden as it is today. It’s a constant choice between ‘Do I trust the Lord wholeheartedly and at all times and do the right thing by humbling myself and relying on His trusted wisdom so that the ultimate good will result?’ or ‘Do I lean the other way, generally toward the more selfish, prideful, less-loving choice?’ It’s a dividing line, ’bout as definite as day versus night, light versus dark. It’s always between these two choices, every single minute of every day. You cannot serve both God and mammon, and thank God for His grace and His helping us understand the distinct difference between being led by His spiritual wisdom versus carnal, emotional feelings!"

The senora recalled that as she and Max had shared tea that afternoon two years prior, she had held the young man’s hand between hers, amazed at how Max’s huge hand dwarfed her two tiny brown hands. She had rubbed his hand gently, admiring its muscular and calloused texture, before responding slowly, taking time to share her heart.

Maximus, I believe that it is up to each of us to mimic Jesus’s lifestyle of unconditional love in every circumstance we encounter. Remember he always said, ‘Follow me.’ She grinned.

She continued, "I thank Him every day for His wonderful grace that we really don’t deserve, and I agree with your assertion. In all instances, it always comes down, really, to two options: either choose eternal life and have a relationship with God, as Jesus related in the gospel of John, or choose to go it alone via your own prideful, self-reliant means. The latter choice is the reason they wandered in the Wilderness of Zin for forty years, as opposed to securing what He had already provided, the land of Canaan, the Promised Land, as anticipated initially by Joshua and Caleb. Thank God for Jesus, for we’d never be righteous without Him, His gift, and His sacrifice. I try to be a living sacrifice myself, though, my son, it can be very difficult, as you well know."

The senora emphasized that she and her husband had been blessed, such that they had been fortunate to travel the four corners of the world over the years. However, she always reminded their kids that it didn’t matter where in the world they were, even if standing at the intersection of the nearby Four Corners of the Western Territories, when faced with numerous options before you and different courses that you might undertake. In reality, one always has but two choices, regardless of which direction you pursue.

Maximus, as I travel through life, I try to remind myself, continually, ‘Will I live love for God and others or live love for myself?’ The answers to this recurrent choice determine everything.

Cerise’s call of Mom, where are you? prompted the senora back from her reminiscing. You were daydreaming, again, Mother.

Regaining perspective as to the party preparations before her, Senora Rosas prodded her daughter with an elbow, smiling. Remember when Max joked with us when he was last here about how the name of our friends the Navajo actually came about?

Cerise beamed with joy, recalling. "Ha! Yes, Mother, it was such a hilarious story. I’ll never forget it, for I’ve repeated it many times! We were sitting before the fire in the side yard. He was so funny his last night with us. As I recall, his story went along these lines:

When the Spaniards first encountered this particular tribe, they called the Navajo the Apaches de Nabajo. However, as an increasing swarm of white men encroached upon their lands, and as time passed and weathered the great sandstone slabs surrounding their hallowed grounds, so, too, was this peoples’ name eroded to the colloquial Navajo.

Cerise continued, trying to mimic Max’s intonations and inflexions, "In actuality, of course, the shortening of the name was attributable to nature’s selection processes. There were times, for example, when one had just enough time to scream ‘Navajo!’ before ducking behind a log wall to avoid a painful spearing arrow.

Those who tried to yell the windier ‘Apaches de Nabajo!’ before seeking protection behind a wall were eliminated in most instances, effectively eroding certain genetic pools and surnames through environmental circumstances.

Upon conclusion of Cerise’s recitation of Max’s old story, the two Rosas women laughed heartily as they waved to newly arriving friends who were streaming into the Rosas’s yards for the evening’s fiesta.

As the day wore on, increasing numbers of wagons and buckboards filled the pastures that surrounded the resplendent Casa Grande.

We better keep moving. The swarms are gathering, Mom! Cerise sighed.

The Rosas Ranch comprised a vast spread encompassing lands whose breadth required days of horseback riding to cross. The property included low-lying basin lands located west and north of Santa Fe, extending in various contiguous and segregated parcels toward the confluence of the Rio Grande and Rio Chama and into the high desert and mountainous ranges beyond.

Rosas family members were predominantly from Santa Fe and the Nuevo Mexico Territory, and they had expanded their property holdings and wealth extensively over the decades. Four generations of Rosas had lived on the ranch before the present-day family rode herd this fine fall afternoon.

The ranch traded in all kinds of animals, including thoroughbred horses representing breeds from many different states, territories, and Native nations, as well as Mexico and Spain. Fruits, vegetables, and several different types of grains and grasses were grown and sold throughout the region also.

Wealth brought fame and fortune to the family, but as was sometimes the case in this particular region of the developing Nuevo Mexico Territory, trouble shadowed, but rarely actually affected, the family as a result.

The Rosas had known the Cimarrons for many years. The families had traded with each other and supported each other when requested during difficult times. The family bonds and allegiances ran true and deep.

Thus, the Rosas were welcoming their old friends, as only they knew how—by throwing a grand celebration in honor of the arrivals—and it was also a fortuitous time for celebrating the fruit harvests, which were just beginning throughout the land.

The staff of the ranch included dozens of Nuevo Mexican and Mexican families, including many from the nearby agrarian Tesuque community in particular. Numerous Navajo and Pueblo natives also lived and worked on Rosas properties. Most staff were as family to the Rosas.

All the large farms and ranches throughout the Santa Fe vicinity were celebrating the upcoming harvests. The word spread that the Rosas were throwing a party. None wished to miss such a grand fiesta!

Another reason for the celebration was the fact that the Rosas’s wrangling bunch, which included some of the most splendid vaqueros and cowboys in the Southwest, had returned recently from the Santa Fe rail depot with the new herd of horses that were to be sold to the Cimarrons.

The wranglers deserved to celebrate their hard work, having labored for four consecutive weeks gathering the wild horses throughout northern Mexico and then working the local rail systems to get the horses to Santa Fe and on to the ranch in a timely manner.

The Cimarrons were to visit with the Rosas for several days, perhaps a week or more, and then return with their newly purchased horses back to the land of the Utes. Knowing that the herd would be led by hoof to the Cimarrons’ ranch by way of circuitous and laborious trails, old man Rosas decided to ship most of the horses to Santa Fe via new railroad tracks leading from the Border.

Senor Rosas anticipated that the rails would help save horseflesh, including energy and weight in particular. The lines were owned in part by business partners of his, so Rosas had no trouble calling in a favor or two to satisfy his crew’s preferred hauling schedules.

The transplanted horses were corralled at the Rosas Ranch presently, preliminary harvesting had begun, the Cimarrons were on their way, and the day of the great fiesta was here!

People began arriving before noon, even though the actual party was not to begin until late afternoon. At least no sooner than a couple of hours following the arrival of the Cimarron party. Our friends will need some rest from their long journey today, advised Senora Rosas to her staff and large family.

Two green pastures adjacent to the Casa Grande were packed with traveling bands of friends and neighbors by the time the Rosas ladies had set the final tablecloth. Wagons and buckboards of various sizes, makes, and colors dotted the landscape, with horses and burros secured in an adjoining fenced area. Dogs and children ran amok throughout the grounds, chasing one another with barks, laughs, and the occasional yelp and cry.

Scattered caravans of guests advanced toward the Rosas’s drive, along the dirt and cobblestone road that led from Santa Fe. Closer to the house, the Rosas’s river-rock-lined driveway coursed through rolling pastures before circling under an enormous covered coach portal south of the main house. Passengers could disembark under the portal, protected from the elements, with the vehicles then circling around and out into the side fields for more permanent parking.

Many of the carriages’ seats were covered in whole or part by beautiful Navajo and Plateau rugs displaying vibrant and discordant colored patterns. Viewed from the top of the final hill that one must traverse before plunging down the driveway into the front courtyard, the scene exemplified a patchwork of spectral sensations.

The smell and smoke associated with numerous rows of cooking fires and roasting meats located northeast of the main house and the large kitchen building emanated throughout the grounds. Most of the cooking preparations had begun two days prior.

The entire Rosas staff was out in force and uniform today, scurrying about this way and that like a squadron of yellow jackets dive-bombing a picnic table.

Surrounding the sprawling double-adobe hacienda was an intertwined network of long red-brick-lined walkways and larger Saltillo-lined plazas covered by thatched or tiled roofs. One could walk from the front coach portal to many of the numerous outbuildings, as well as the main house, without being exposed to the elements.

The roofs were supported by thick whitewashed log poles, upon which some of the local Pueblo painters had splashed bright pastel colors, including orange, green, yellow, purple, crimson, and indigo, displayed in native designs and pictographs.

Most of the roofs covering the walkways were shielded from the incessant, baking sun and infrequent but dangerous thunderstorm downpours by a hodgepodge of stacked red-clay tiles. On a sunny day, as the day of the fiesta, splintered sunbeam shafts slanted here and there through the broken and disheveled roof tiles, effecting long slivers of lightened ground surface along the covered walkways.

Surely, at some point in the distant past, no one remembered—was it decades or decades of decades?—when the row upon row of neatly stacked clay tiles had been arranged in perfect, uniform array.

Years of children’s climbing antics, wintry and wanton windstorms, and perennial nesting of birds had effectively rearranged many of the roof tiles, such that no roof was completely watertight anymore.

Shoulder-height, straw-baled adobe walls skirted many of the outer walkways, providing some protection from the elements and the dozens of chickens and peacocks that had free roam across the grounds. A series of outbuildings completed the grounds proper of the Casa Grande, including a blacksmith shop, three large stables, an equestrian arena, multiple storage sheds, silos, corrals, and hay barns, as well as the kitchen building with accompanying staff dining facilities.

The living quarters of Rosas staff members who stayed on the premises were comprised of a series of low-lying bunkhouses and small adobe homes scattered along the lee side of one of the nearby sage- and juniper-covered hills.

In totem, the complex was exceedingly large and fully capable of hosting one of the most memorable fiestas the area would ever experience.

Colorful autumn foliage bedecked the landscape, encircling the ranch as far as the eye could wander. Last month, the first high-country snows had draped the highest peaks during the first week of September. Then, during the next several weeks, colors cascaded down the mountainsides from the tops down toward the valleys as topographic elevations and evening temperatures declined in tandem.

Vibrant reds, oranges, and yellows, associated with the high-desert terrain, and interspersed evergreens flowed in great waves down the hills to the warm valleys below.

Today’s setting could have not been more appropriate for an outdoor celebration.

The sun was slowly making its trek toward the distant mountains west of the ranch. Actual sunset would not occur for a while; thus, there would be sufficient natural light for a few more hours before any gas lamps were necessary.

The Rosas’s staff was busy, indeed. People were scurrying to and from the kitchen building and cooking fires located behind the great hacienda, carrying baskets of all size and color. Long wooden tables were laden with foodstuffs throughout the courtyard gardens in front and to the sides of the house. Brightly colored rugs served as tablecloths for the foods that were being displayed presently.

Senora Rosas and her two daughters directed staff to ensure that designated food items were spread on specific tables so that there was some order to the apparent chaos.

Cerise, por favor, would you help your sister carry those baskets of bread over there? the senora asked of her youngest child. She could tell Bernadita’s arms were too overloaded across the way.

A child no longer, the mother mused, looking at her departing daughter Cerise’s beautiful skirt, which clung tightly to the developing young lady’s attractive waist.

Hmm, she’s done a rather-nice job of preparing herself this afternoon. I wonder if young Miguel will be able to concentrate on the fiesta. The senora laughed, turning to help someone with some items falling from an overflowing basket. And where is that young man with my musicians, speaking of the handsome devil?

Tables were stacked high with sumptuous delights. Row upon row of baskets filled with steaming husks of late-summer corncobs, which had only recently been extracted from holes in the ground, topped with blazing coals lay warm beneath colorful Plateau blankets.

Nestled nearby were rows of clay Pueblo pots brimming with both hot and cold offerings. Pile upon pile of hot and cold tortillas and enchiladas were laid across one particularly long and narrow table. Frijoles, moles, sauces, vegetables, and fruits of every imaginable variety were also presented before the gathering guests.

It was clear to Senora Rosas that it was becoming increasingly more difficult to keep the hungry ones back from the tables. She was tired of slapping hands that reached from sleeves representing all walks of life. The dam would break anytime now, and then there was little she could do.

With hands folded at her waist, she looked about and felt confident that her well-groomed staff was ready to replenish the tables when required, and as long as supplies held, and hopefully, she thought as she gazed up through the ambling cottonwood branches to the blue sky overhead.

No hoping. Dear Lord, I ask in Your Son’s name that Miguel rally those rascally musicians and they arrive soon. Gracias, I know he will. Gracias for all You provide us, and may all travel to and from here safely.

The music should help ease the taxing of our kitchen, she considered as she sighed and turned to assist Bernadita with the spreading of the last table setting.

So, my darling daughter, when will your new Santa Fean friend Senor Van Clief arrive? Surely, he won’t want to miss tonight’s events? I believe he intends to stay for several days, si?

Bernadita replied, I’m not sure when he’ll arrive, but yes, Roger plans to visit with us through at least next week, I believe. Yesterday, Father was told by a courier that Roger should arrive late this afternoon or early this evening. Reportedly, he had some pressing business to take care of on his way here.

It will be interesting when Roger and Maximus Cimarron meet, will it not, my sweet one? The beautiful senora smiled as she wrapped her long black-and-gray-streaked hair into a large bun behind her head.

As Bernadita gazed pointedly at the table, envisioning the meeting of which her mom intimated, the elder began stroking her daughter’s arm, continuing gently, Sweetheart, do not fret. Everything will turn out just fine. I trust your judgment.

Mrs. Rosas pulled a small badger-haired silver brush from her skirt pocket and began combing Bernadita’s long dark-brown hair, which covered much of her daughter’s back, extending practically to her waist. She smiled, recalling that Bernadita had actually fashioned the brush herself when a few years younger and with a little help from her dad.

Bernadita had always been good with her hands and creative skill sets. Of course, most young women of the time were adept at sewing, crocheting, and doing similar needlework. These traits were simply mandatory on the front range and in mountainous locations at great length from the large cities back East.

The Rosas women hand-fashioned most of the family members’ clothing, including the sturdy leather chaps worn by the ranch hands and cowboys. Bernadita’s survival skills were very mature for her age