Smoke Dreams: Journey Through the Smoke of a Cowboys Campfire

By Michael D. Chavez

Sitting at the campfire and burning pages from a diary given to him by an aged Chinese traveler, a story of their travels appears before him in the depths of a golden and yellow fire. Mustaches travels through Northern Arizona had become legendary in the cattlemens association. But as always, time marches on and life continues to change. But the chance encounter with a mystic blessed book given to two Chinese travelers will forever change the life of this aging cowboy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Nov 10, 2017
• ISBN: 9781496986085

Michael D. Chavez

Michael D. Chavez is an international business development provider for new company start-ups. He has a love of the Arizona West, mixed in with a collage of the American Indians and Old World Cartography. His travels throughout the world and his work assignments in Saudi Arabia, Qatar, Kuwait, Belgium, Belize, and Mexico have given him a unique perspective in understanding the growth periods between pioneers and modern-day processes. As a wandering Pisces, he always sees life through the prism of the Gallant Western Cowboy. A man, his horse, his friends, and a good campfire inspire the true feelings of a by-gone era when a man had to be a man, with no ribbons given for just showing up.

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© 2014 Michael D. Chavez. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 07/15/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-8607-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-8606-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-8608-5 (e)

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SMOKE DREAMS

Journey through The Smoke Of A Cowboys Campfire

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L eaning up against a weathered saddle, with a pine filled flush of wind blowing against my sun burnt face, makes ending a day almost a religious experience. The camp fire has just been lit, and our cook is throwing together some hot biscuits and canned beans for dinner. Throwing in a touch of Beef Jerky makes this repetitious ceremony enjoyable. I’ve come to enjoy a rolled agricultural product, not tobacco, which one of my Mexican hands gave me a while back on a run down to the tiny town of Nogales, Arizona on the Mexican border, and it does seem to give a person a meaningful experience, appetite and a good night’s sleep. I’ve never questioned the men on their own gear and boxes that sit inside the chuck wagon, but it does have a very distinct smell. By the smell of the wagon, I think there is still a large amount in there. As long as they wake up on time, get their work accomplished, care for the animals, and keep the herd moving then I have no real reason to question a man’s habits or lifestyle. A matter of fact, I’m getting to where I enjoy this peaceful activity.

Anyone who’s ever been around a fire in an open field can remember what it takes to prepare a nice burning bed of coals. Someone gathers up rocks for a fire break, so the fire does not jump into the grassy fields, someone starts picking up twigs, medium sized broken limbs, and someone tears into a large tree, so we can drop in some All Nighters. On a cool evening, a fire can make or break your mood. And sometimes out in the middle of nowhere where the elements are against you, it brings to you, your sense of security and strength. Fighting off the black night has been something man has been doing for many generations. The American Indians danced around these fires at night, where a mixture of dance and conviction helped to fend off demons, bring good crops to bear and prepare them for war. With a stack of plentiful wood piled high and with the fire roaring, everyone walks over for a bout of mild hypnotism. Some for moments and others for a quiet smoke, but nonetheless, everyone walks up to a fire. The heat and warmth flows through every inch of your body. But what I’ve found to be oh so interesting is the mind numbing free thoughts that accompany the blank stare seen on a person’s face. Where have they gone to and what memories are bubbling up from the history of life we all carry with us, which causes a person’s eyes to glaze over. You can see a man’s resolve pour out of his eyes while fluttering along with the deep yellow, orange and red flames of a simple campfire.

I’ve always found it fascinating how deep down the rabbit hole I can go while staring down through a fire. Happy events, terrifying events and daily dreams flow from the conscience coaxed on with dazzling colors, dancing flames, the smoke and warm embrace that brings peace to a night, an event which man has yet to conquer without the use of oil and candles. These fires somehow null out the pain from a day of hard-riding, rope burns and wayward brush slaps, which continually take a toll on a man doing a full day of work. But all in all, you get to love this part of the evening. Hook your boots in the stirrups upside down and let the air flow through the holes in my socks.

This life I share out here with the darkness, stars and causal moaning of a restless calf, is not singular but shared with six other men. The sun goes down and the night brings peace to the world. I post our guards on the perimeter of the herd, which changes nightly. Some of the men like playing harmonica’s and another likes playing guitar. During those long nights, you can hear the serenade of a poor man’s opera, soothing not only for the boss but for cowhands and edgy cattle. It’s like a ghost of your family standing close during a time when all men need something to hold onto. The men not working sit on their personalized stools while making general talk and poking banter directed at the prepared meals – all spoke in Spanish. After an hour or so of eating, the talk generally flows to low tones, as if to respect the true mother of nature, of who we are only guest parked out here on her beautiful landscape.

I’ve spent my entire life doing this type of work, being a cowboy/cowhand/fence hand in sometimes remote cabins with no one other than myself. I’ve spent a lot of time checking fence lines, knocked down by either age, elk, deer, cows, bears, settlers or dubious ranchers. But I think I enjoy being a cattleman the most. I’m not stupid enough to think I can live this lifestyle for the rest of my life. A man can only go so far and go so long. My youth was taken away from me by situations I had very little control of. I don’t remember my mother, and I only knew my father from an early age. The folks who raised me were poor ranchers, who needed another young man helping their son with daily chores, repairing barns, fences, planting crops and picking fresh vegetables in the garden each year. They were good people, but I knew as soon as I was 16 that I needed to get out on my own and start earning money. Don’t get me wrong, I loved those whom I called my parents, but I knew from very early on that a man must take care of himself as no one was going to give you a penny for just being alive. My parents and step-brother showed me how to break horses, repair tack, drive a wagon, till a garden, repair broken fence lines and to rope from the back of a horse. And I use all of those skills once taught, to this very day.

I’ve not had the opportunity to meet many people in this lifestyle I’ve led, but I do know a lot of things about life. People talk about animals and how dumb they are, but I’ve not seen it in my world. I’ve been around horses and just about every type of farm animal you can think of and again, I’ve not seen it. I’ve seen bear caves that would make some houses look weak, I’ve watched birds create nests that Indians weavers couldn’t weave. I’ve seen Elk herds who manage themselves in strict, military type movements between trees, water and open fields while protecting the herd from attack, and I’ve heard birds sing songs nicer than the girls do in the saloons.

I’ve not had the chance to go to school, nor have I wished to. I can write my name as well as anyone, and with the help of one of my bosses’ wives, I can read the paper with news, some books on the west and of course the bible which she used to teach me. Do I understand all that I read, not really! But who really understands everything they read. I know enough about the holy book and the special men who carried its word to know that the people who attend church everyday must not understand it very well, from what I see. God fearing men and women live differently than most folks, and when you look around, you don’t see all that many and especially the ones going to Church. I’ve not had the pleasure in my life as a cow pusher to meet many folks but I know a lot of things about life and how folks should live.

I once had a women talk to me in one of the saloons up New Mexico way. She had a purple color dress which was almost blue, red hair, extremely white skin and could have given one of our prized bulls a go for it in terms of girth, fullness and the ways she bellowed. But I must say she smelled like roses mixed in with a tad of body sweat. But at the end of the evening when a man is feeling like a man, I didn’t have the donation she needed for a stage coach ride back to Texas. She wasn’t a shy woman, and I really didn’t think she was going anywhere too soon. The money was her cutting point. It was easy, and she knew it and so did the rest of us. Did she really like me? Who knows? But a moment of conversation with someone other than hard edged men was probably worth the cost of admission. I heard it-be-said and, of course I can attest, that if you were to go one day south from Tucson, the Mexican girls in the Saloons or Cantina’s beyond Nogales are quite the sight to see and they love western men.

Wouldn’t mind traveling again down there one day, maybe to find me a woman to spend the rest of my days with. In my world, I don’t get the opportunity to find families who have women of marrying age. And as I get older, my time is running out for someone who would be willing to spend time with a man who has never set roots down in one place or another. My hands are scarred and gritty, my face is weathered, my legs look like I could straddle a down pine tree without having a bit of problem walking. My eyes still have the blue haze of the morning sky with grey dots floating across them, and I still have all of my teeth. I attest to the baking soda that Ortega uses in the wagon, placed on a nice brush given to me a few years ago. It doesn’t taste so good, but it sure keeps my teeth in their place. My hair isn’t as thick as it used to be, and one of my cowhands, Lopez, steps in as a barber, so he cuts all of our hair for our group. I think the only part of my appearance that hasn’t given up is my mustache. It hangs down to the middle of my chest, and it is pure white. When the wind blows they lift off like white doves floating in the sky.

Between you and me, it’s not too practical. They get into my food, I catch them in my rope when I’m roping, and when I roll over while I sleep, they are pulled hard enough to wake me up, but a man needs to be a bit different from other men. Plus, I think it kind of scares off salesmen and young gun strapping wanna-a-be’s. On a storm ride, I can feel it tickle both sides of my neck like fingers of a woman caressing me while I stride into the breeze. Well to be honest maybe not the fingers of a woman caressing me but a pesky fly.

Since I wasn’t willing to part with my hard earned monetary reward for working two months on the trail, an aggressive young cowhand who was quite the talker and about half my age found this women to be almost as tasty as a newly opened can of peaches. He walked up the stairs to heaven, as he called it, smiling from ear to ear, holding a foul smelling bottle of whisky, hand in hand with his white freckled skinned beauty. Funny about those hard working cowboys, the stairs of heaven! I’ve never been one to think sleeping in a closed building with the smell of sweat on a large woman would be considered being close to heaven, but I’m not young anymore and following a herd of cattle all day kind of causes you to ride up wind sometimes.

Too many confounding smells emerging from under that dress that I don’t understand and only the maker above knows what that women would want with me once I got up there. Lordy-Jesus. Honestly, I must be a penguin. A rider I once rode with came in from up in the northern area where snow never melts and told me a story about penguins he learned from a tribe of Indians called Eskimos. He told me that those swimming birds only mated once a year and then found the same mate after swimming hundreds and hundreds of miles into the ocean. Well, I must say, I have a fair understanding of that part of nature. We really are not all that different from animals in the way we live our lives, or at least in the way I’ve lead mine.

A soft bed of pine needles will always be my bed of choice. But of course, I would be telling ya a lie about not sleeping in a closed room. When the winter comes, I not only collect stacks and stacks of pine, shaggy bark and oak, but I also go about collecting pine needles. But a person must take caution when sleeping on pine needles in a closed room. A spark from the fireplace can set a man running for his life. Not that it ever happened to me, but I’ve heard stories. Anyways a nice warm bed can be had by using some rocks pulled out from the fire, placed under a bit of earth and a little pine needles and a blanket placed on top of them, and you’ve got a great night’s sleep. I’ve used that technique many times when we are bundled up in a tent on a snowy and rainy night. An Indian showed me once, and if an Indian showed you something like that, you better darn be willing to pay attention. Those bucks have been sleeping on the ground since God placed man and women in his garden. I’ve learned through my short life that giving respect to these Indians was something that most people don’t pay attention to, but when you get closer to their world, everything they do makes sense.

Of course snakes also enjoy a nice warm bed, so I sleep with a rope circled around me on the ground. Indians say that a rope circled around you while you sleep on the ground will keep snakes from crossing over the rope. Heck, I don’t know if that is true, but I’ve not had one snake join me in slumber for upwards of 30 years, and I love sleeping outside on the open ground. The Mexican boys that work with me as cowhands take turns sleeping in the wagon if it’s a rainy or windy day or they’ll pitch and post a couple of tents we carry with us. They aren’t that happy to just bed down on mother-nature’s floor.

Have you ever been dumb-struck? It’s comes a bit more easily to me, but I have been given something that I at this point cannot really express in educated words. This experience I’ve been given has been with me now for more than three weeks on the trail. We’re just outside Snowflake, Arizona, and this ceremony I been tasked with has brightened up my mornings, afternoons and evenings. It has somehow given me more insight, an insight I couldn’t even imagine a few weeks ago. I’ve travelled thousands of miles, witnessed amazing human stories, crossed oceans with names I cannot pronounce, cities I have not visited, but I’ve been given a gift in a language I cannot speak or read, but somehow I understand.

Happenstance.

After a slow moving morning, I asked Ortega and the boys to set up camp, after the evening ride down to the Gila River just outside Globe, Arizona. The men have been over-due for some down time, and these next two weeks while waiting for a new contract is what the doctor ordered. The morning smell of fresh water running, fresh grass, a stream bath, soaking your Lilly white feet in a fast moving current and a cold shave brings a new meaning to waking up fresh after a long two months of working cattle every day.

Today is going to be a peaceful day, with only a two hour ride needed to get me into Globe.

I checked on the general conditions of our wagon, tack and asked the boys to pull everything out of the wagon so we could clean and dust everything for our next move, which would be taking about 400 cows down to the new Holbrook railhead outside of Horsehead. I told the boys they didn’t need to finish everything off today as we had plenty of time to organize our kit. Ortega was stammering about having the boys go fishing so I took the suggestion and smiled. Fish would be something amazing, which we haven’t had in a while, and when Ortega dropped them in flour, salt and pepper and cooked in some old grease he had, boy it makes a man’s mouth water.

Riding out of the camp, I looked over my shoulder and watched the men work, never a fight, never a word in anger in over eight years of riding with them. But I could see the excitement in the manner of their body movement while walking over to that heavy moving river and knowing that there was a trout or catfish in there waiting for them for dinner. I’ll remember to buy the men some goodies like stick candy, canned peaches or fresh meat. The general store and apothecaries will be interesting to visit when I wander into Globe. I haven’t been in a town for a month or so, and none of the boys wanted to ride into town with me. They would much rather walk the river banks fishing and soaking their feet. Of course Ortega was kicking their butts early this morning, saying he wanted five pounds of fresh fish by lunch time. And something along the lines, that not one of them could catch their old graying mothers in a running race. But I’m sure I missed it, in my broken Spanish.

The ride into town was uneventful other than the fact that there were so many wagons moving on the road. I never travel/ride on the hard packed dirt roads, as I rather walk in soft dirt for my horse. Plus who wants to ride in a dust cloud; I do that every day! I’ve always walked off the trail by eight to ten horse lengths. The young ones in the wagons wave as I ride by, and the adults would just monitor my movements with long gazing stares through squinted eyes. I don’t blame them, as I would do the same thing. A man riding by himself, with long chaps, a rifle and a short gun would give a family something to worry about. I’ve seen so many poor settlers who haven’t made it to their destinations.

Discarded wagons, burnt out camps, dead men, women and children sleeping peacefully on the soiled dirt in body fluids and open wounds. In some cases, I don’t have the time to bury a family or a person, but I try to find something to cover up their bodies with as I’ve never carried a shovel as part of my riding pack. I have spent some time when I am not moving a large herd, pulling their bodies together and placing rocks over them, with a quick prayer for respect. I feel people need to have some type of dignity in death. Ortega and I have done it on more occasions than I want to think of. I’ve come across men hanging by their stretched necks, swollen tongues and pants stained with dry body fluids on strong tree limbs, who look like they had been robbers or horse thieves, and sadly I’ve never blinked an eye as to cutting them down. If you live your life that way, then God will have to take you that way. It’s not an ending I would look forward to out here. A bird sitting on your shoulder picking at your eyeball is a very gut wrenching thought and a deterrent for young men thinking that their fortunes will come from the point of a gun or off someone’s livestock.

But then again, so many things out here around the desert and small towns of the west where the new territories have opened up have really never been fair – just about anything can kill ya. If you find a nice flat field with fresh water and think that you can back your wagon up to it, start building a home with no other water in the area, then you better be smart enough to know that other folks are going to find it, need it and be drawn to it. And believe me not everyone you come across are God fearing people. There are raiders, drifters, poor Indians, poor white folks and just plain mean individuals who wouldn’t blink an eye while taking your food, blankets, horses and the life of your wife and children.

Nope, nice people who don’t understand, don’t last long out here in the Arizona Territories. It’s not a forgiving place. God takes care of those who take care of them-selves, as my parents used to tell me. The flicker of life which is so precious can get snuffed out quicker than the jump of a scared horse, and no one would hear the screams, the pleas for help and the report of an ignited powder pack throwing a ball of metal or the thumping noise associated with the repeated movement of a Indians hatchet as it/they steal the life out of a person. I’ve learned that a quiet tongue doesn’t get cut off, paying attention to folks around me, how to use a short gun, how to use a long gun and having the will to kill someone treating you badly is a very important part of living in the Arizona Territories. The weak and meek are used up faster than water rolling down a steep hill.

Being a quiet man goes a long way in keeping people away from you. Look people in the eye, look like you know where you’re going and pay no respect to carpetbaggers or people trying to sell you something. But if something does go terribly wrong with another man, then hurt bad enough that he won’t want to cross your path again. Does killing come easy, no, but killing does stop a lot of nonsense. Never do it with pleasure and understand that small things can get out of hand quicker than the stroke of a bell tower. I was told once, Just because you can see my teeth, doesn’t mean I’m smiling.

Wandering closer to Globe I noted a lot of men digging for their fortunes in the side of hills, trails leading up to secret stakes, men walking with picks and axes walking in directions known only to them through rolling hills and mountains. Wagons, noise, horses tied to hitching post, colorful people walking around, men in grey uniforms, men in blue uniforms and Indians just sitting in the shadows watching everything going on around them. Everyone watches everyone in a town like this. An outsider was easily seen with hundreds of glances to both your hip and long gun. I think long chaps indicated a long hard trail-riding cowboy, and most cowboys who come to town like to blow off steam, looking for women, booze and a good card game.

None of that sparked any interest for me, as my original Father spent a major part of his adult life pouring out the liquid of forgiveness for unaccomplished dreams, unknown stories and the power of taking a full man and having him live in the confines of a tall bottle of glass. Whatever memories brought him happiness, then so be it. If that is what he needed with all of the poverty that surrounded us, then who was I to say that he was wasting away. His wife was gone, and I moved away because of his terrible habit of wanting to extract revenge on a young boy who had his whole life in front of him while his was slowly melting away. I’ve tried sending money home via pony express or on Brich’s stagecoach line hoping that a few dollars would help him ease the problems of daily life.

I’ve had pony express riders pull up into the camp, and we would feed him, let him sleep for a couple of safe hours and then away he would go, just the noise of hoofs and wind against his shirt and hat. Now those are some brave young men.

My real Father died a few years back, mostly due to drinking rot gut whiskey and loneliness. What can a man do after years of digging in the dirt, slopping hogs, feeding chickens, repairing used equipment and never seeing a way out. When the snare is closed around your leg, the only way out is to cut your leg off and then try to survive the best way you can. Your once beautiful wife cooks, washes your clothes and then you do it again the next day and the next day and the next day. It’s no wonder I jumped at the chance of leaving home when I did. A sad story of man, which is duplicated hundreds of times in these new Territories. No matter how we end up, a person should respect the uneven roads that some of us walk on. It was at this time that I moved in with the Holidays. Doc, as he would become to be known because he studied to be a dentist, was my only friend, and his family took me in and helped raised this lost boy.

So I’ve never really had the need to drown my mind with alcohol. I drink a beer or two sometimes, but the tastes doesn’t suit me, and whiskey makes me someone I don’t like. So if it killed my Father in a melting type of way, then what is there to enjoy! It’s probably the biggest reason I’m still alive today. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had the sense to walk away when my life hasn’t been challenged in a ruthless way. Nothing said, just a long look and a slow walk has given me time to measure a situation because I stay sober, I have all of my instincts, clear thoughts, strong heart beat, watching and feeling for something that needs to be dealt with in a simple but measured lethal movement.

After about an hour of walking around town just being curious, I came to the conclusion, as did one women I over-heard saying, that there is something wrong with the people who live here, their minds are filled with crazy thoughts, men throwing money away on booze, gambling away chunks of rocks that they’ve spent weeks and blood pulling out of the earth for a quick moment of pleasure. A person could get killed walking by those saloons where men are willing to fight and die for no reason. I stayed in many towns and have done business in bigger towns, but my view point when visiting Globe is that it’s probably the water that those folks are drinking. Too many minerals and chemicals in the water, yup that’s what it must be, because these folks are just plumb crazy.

Across from the saloon was the general store and next to the store was the apothecary. I walked across the dirt road, dodging wagons, riders on horses and horse droppings that littered the streets. On the back street you could see pens used for holding cattle and cowboys moving them around. As I was getting ready to jump up to the first wooden steps to the store, I noticed an aged couple wearing clothes not used by locals, Indians or Mexicans. A small black cap covered the old guy’s head, sporting a long thin ponytail centered down the back of his loosely fitted shirt. He and his wife were busy loading some supplies and looked in a hurry to get away from all of the activity generated by horses, men, loose women, wagons and cure-all carpetbaggers peddling oil pulled out of the ground and placed in bottles. The couple seemed to look around with their heads instead of their eyes. If they looked left the entire body moved in that direction and when they walked they took small steps. The women’s feet were no longer than the width of the palm of my hand, which made her feet so very small. I noted this all while getting ready to walk into the general store.

I walked in asking a long tall skinny man with a pencil thin mustache, fitted out with a nice long sleeved white shirt, black garter on his left arm and black pants with brown shoes. He was quite the sight for a town like this. I asked him in a matter of fact type of way, where do you think those two old folks come from. He answered almost immediately, saying that they come from a country called China and drove in from California on that last wagon train that hit town yesterday. He was twirling his thin mustache, probably wondering why in God’s earth would a man grow his mustache so long, when the lady from China walked up to the counter and paid for her purchases. I walked away from the counter looking for canned peaches, candy sticks and a couple of slabs of bacon. I told myself to not forget a large bag of coffee and another bag of sugar and flour, so Ortega could make some sweet tasting sugar cookies while we hung out down at the river. That way we wouldn’t have to shift the weevils out of the flour for a possible fish dinner tonight. We still had a lot of cinnamon in one of the cans in the wagons, and sugar cookies went over well with the boys.

With my back turned, the little woman walked up to me, touched my lower arm and, in almost perfect English, asked if I knew of a place where they could pull up their wagon for a few days. I mentioned that me and the boys were camped about an hour and a half outside town by wagon, taking the road south and then cutting off to a side road leading to the Gila River. The exit was clearly marked and you could see the cliff faces jutting up about 100 feet where the Gila ran deep, near a turn in the river. No one down there and my hands were trying to catch a couple of cat-fish out of the deep slow running river. She smiled and scooted across the wooden floor, picked up some more of her purchases and exited the store.

She slowly jumped back into a wagon with the long grey haired man smoking a long thin pipe with smoke fading off behind him and holding the reins of the wagon. I watched them pull away. They never looked left or right as they moved their team of horses through the crowded streets of Globe. I felt as if I knew this couple. The wagon was nothing special – no outward markings with the steel belt wearing down on its wooden circular frames of the wheels. I watched until they were out of sight of the window. Something about that wagon felt familiar, but wagons are wagons. I never gave it much thought after they left. I had business to do, and I better get back to doing it.

I had to send a telegraphic message to the cattle agent in Phoenix, letting him know I had just pulled into Globe. The team is here and awaiting the next shipment of cattle, which he wanted moved to Holbrook. I didn’t understand why he hadn’t moved them via the new rail-head straight to Holbrook, but it wasn’t up to me to understand. It was my job to take custody of the herd they needed pushed, to wherever they wanted them moved to. I’m just a deliveryman. The day was coming to an end, and I really didn’t want to get back to camp after dark, so I headed back to our Gila River Camp after sending my message. I could always come back to town in a couple of days to see when the agent slotted the next shipment. It would have to be at least two weeks before the train made its way back up the winding pass through Miami and into Globe.

The ride back was nothing special, just a lot of dried mesquite trees, bushes, some shaggy bark trees, indicating that we were in the 2 to 3 thousand foot level where vegetation starts changing. A couple of Indians were walking back to the San Carlos Indian Reservation with some heavy packs carried over their shoulders. A few wagons were moving to the many different roads heading into the hills where men were looking for their fortunes and a few homes that settlers had set up with stoves and wooden frame cabins. A slight breeze was pushing, so I pulled down the brim of my hat a bit and walked directly into the chapped lip cutting wind. I was hoping for a little bit of rain while we were held up. It would clean up the air and help us dust off all of our canvas tents. And a nice cool breeze follows a nice rain in this area.

We have bush tents that Ortega puts up when he needs to cook inside away from the wind and rain, but we also use them to sleep in, work on gear, store, separate our provisions and just to get away from prying eyes in case settlers or others hook up with us during our travels, which has happened more than once.

As I rode up to our Gila camp, I could see another wagon pulled off about 50 yards away from our wagon. Ortega must have anticipated rain or anticipated the fact that we would be out here for a week or two, but the tent was up and the boys had the camp squared away. The second wagon was just sitting there, a fire started, their horses grazing near the water and their harnesses and tack were hanging from a large mesquite tree. A rope had been pulled across from the tree to the hand-break on the wagon front, and the old woman was hanging out her blankets and such.

Ortega walked up to me before I dismounted to tell me what the women said, that I had given them permission to pull up next to our camp, which I guess was ok with me. Heck it was only two old people from a country my boys had not even heard of. This must have been the reason Ortega put up the tents and such. I think he feels a bit naked with someone so close to our camp. In all of our days in the open and even when we got close to towns, we never pull up near other folks. The Mexican boys really don’t like it and neither do I. You can never be too sure as to who or what is going to happen when you meet settlers or people moving from one place to another.

Some of them need tools, some of them need guides, some of them are dirt poor, some of them need help in repairing their wagons and tack and some of them just need physical conversations and interaction, so it’s best that we stay to ourselves and help out folks on the trail, if needed. This was our down time, and I wanted my men to spend it in their own way. If they wanted to sleep all day, so be it. If they wanted to follow the river and go hunting for a mule deer, then so be it. Heck, they really didn’t want to visit the town when we passed near it. They were happy in their own way. They would throw a rope on Ortega, since he was about six foot and about 250 pounds, and tie him up, never to hurt, only to play. I’ve spent about eight years with these men, and I’ve never seen them fight each other. I’ve heard some pretty strong conversations about what they did or didn’t do on the range that day but really never a bad word while living together. I had a lot of respect for Lopez, Chavez, Fernandez, Rubio and Sanchez. Each one of them has their strengths, and some of them have big weaknesses but are offset by the group. I hope they never decide to break up the team. Each one of them could do my job, but they sure don’t want it.

I dismounted, pulled my flank strap, unhooked my cinch and pulled my saddle. The blanket was moistened, so I hung it over the side of the wagon wheel. I brushed my mare down and walked her over to an area where she could enjoy a cool drink of water from the Gila, chew on some grass and walk among the rest of her horse family. The day was turning from bright to gray in a slow but deliberate march to chase the light away.

I walked over to the tent to talk to Ortega to make sure he had everything he needed and to go over the purchases of flour, sugar, canned peaches and the candy sticks, which were a major hit once the boys heard they were in the wagon. I glanced over to the other wagon and just watched as they both went about boiling water and looked like they were making tea. Their meal was simmering, and the old man was just sitting there on a nicely carved stool watching the lady make tea. I decided I better get it over with and introduced myself again. As I got close the man stood up, and the women turned, and they both bowed in unison. You talk about disarming a person. I didn’t know what to do but to extend my hand to them. I held it there for what seemed minutes, but they really didn’t see the extended hand cause their eyes were focused on the ground. But the moment passed, and they both popped up and took my hand with a light but firm handshake. The old man pulled and placed me on his stool, and the women walked over bringing another, placed it near me and sat down. I couldn’t understand the English at first. It sounded pushed or rounded off when he talked. After a few minutes of listening, I used the same technique as I did with Ortega and the boys when we first met. My mind had to slow everything down while listening to the old man, but the women spoke excellent English. They had driven their wagon from San Francisco where they both worked for 5 hard years. He worked as some type of manager for a railroad company, taking care of new employees, and she was working in a laundry taking care of military uniforms and such. I guess they saved enough money to buy this wagon and enough to buy food for the trip. They’ve been on the trail for months, following along with other groups moving in different directions. They decided before they hit Globe that they would move out in two weeks with a group heading south through Safford, Benson and then on to Tombstone. Their eyes sparkled when they said they wanted to live in a town that was too tough to die, and if it didn’t work out, they would keep going south into the Mexican Territories to view the Hispanic culture. I guess that is why they parked their wagon so close to our camp. She talked to Ortega, and he told her that he was from Mexico City and the other boys came from Chetumal and Cancun. I’m sure she had no clue as to where Mexico City was, let alone Chetumal. But she seemed pretty excited to make the journey if Tombstone didn’t pan out.

From what I understood, they had be thrown on a boat, locked up and made to work in the shipyards doing heavy work in the Xián area of their country. I guess the Leader is some type of Emperor, and they referred to this time in China as the Ming Dynasty. They met over 15 years ago. Mrs. Lin lived in Kaifeng, and Mr Chin was born in Luoyang. They ran into each other trying to find shelter one evening in Canton. She said the rain was so terrible they thought the river they called Pearl was going to crest over the banks and sweep them away. Their living area, they said, was no larger than their wagon, if not smaller. But the water was flowing through their living area, and they had to crawl up on the roof of a rich landowner home to escape the rising water. After two days of clinging onto a roof, they felt that their lives had been sealed together, and they decided to leave the area to find a better life for themselves.

The time flew by listening, watching and feeling their expressions, as the light flickered across their faces. I smoked a rolled up mixture the boys gave me when I rode in and the old man smoked his pipe with a mixture of tobacco and a black tar substance. He would place a very tiny stick into a small bottle and dip it into his pipe. His movements were almost unnoticeable, and if you hadn’t been watching, you would have never picked up on the action of his small weathered hands. The moves were of a man who has done this for a very long time, very precise and much practiced. On the other hand, she never missed a lick while trying to explain to an old hick like me the stories and background of their travels and experiences, and from an age not too much older than I they probably have a treasure chest full of adventures. I’ve seen this before when I’ve come across lone riders or lone settlers living away or being away from human interaction. People want so badly to tell their stories, and sometimes I find it’s a great gift to give to people, so I just sit there and just listen. Even though I don’t have all that much to say when I’m around folks, it doesn’t mean that I am the same as them or even that I am a normal example of the human race. We all have different experiences and those experiences are very seldom shared or expressed in full detail. I often imagine how many stories are buried under the dirt and locked away in pine boxes buried under tombstones that say Hear Lies Old Woody our Carpenter who never told a true story in his life. I know my stories will get locked away. As the good book says, we will rise again at the end of times and then maybe we will be able to express ourselves to the end of time. I probably missed half of what they were saying, but they must have seen some pretty amazing things in their journey, right up to the point of meeting me in Globe, Arizona. Who guides these stray arrows that fly across our path unexpected.

Now isn’t it most amazing that people you have virtually no interest in can carry such interesting and incredible stories. I think this next week will be an interesting experience. I don’t know what it was like to go to school, but as attentive as I was, I’m sure it was something like this. I asked to be excused and then wandered back to the camp as I was dead dog tired. Getting back to the chuck wagon, I noted some beans, some fish fillets and some warm muffins set to the side of the fire. I picked up a pan and threw in some beans and started to soak my muffins in the juice. It tasted great. I walked over to my unrolled blanket which was already laid out for me by the boys. Pull my gun off my hip, placed it under my canvas pillow and never moved again until day break. I remember trying to focus on all of the events of the day, the colors and the stories that the little woman talked about. They were so very seeable right up to the point of nothingness.

In the morning I popped up and wandered over to the fire and kicked on some more wood. I enjoyed a strong cup of coffee in the morning offered by Ortega – no sugar, no milk, just black as the eye of a desert ground squirrel. I sat there just thinking while I watched the two old folks from China move around the wagon. With a little bit of money and a wagon full of food, they made their exit from the hilly landscape of San Francisco bound for a town too tough to die. Both were lucky enough to jump a wagon train heading east. This city they worked in, I’ve heard about. People there build homes on top of gold, and the streets were lined with it. Not sure why these folks would run away from someplace like that, but I’ve learned to realize that everyone carries their own saddle, and every story needs to be cut in half.

As the next few days slowly moved on, I found them to be very curious and actually very friendly. I shared time with them, and we had a very wonderful time exchanging fairly funny topics such as stories about white people. I guess since I didn’t consider myself anything, I just went along with their stories. These folks I must say were kind of pushy but not in a bad way. The lady, Lin, really made a nice soup and made rice which was a tad better than eating canned beans every day, and the boys almost fell over themselves getting a hold of some. I will have to replace a few bags for them when I get into town. As we sat on the edges of the chuck wagon on a flat slope, sitting on boxes the boys found in some abandoned house ten days back, we had a good old time eating, and somehow that food tasted like it came from Mother Earth herself. Chicken soup, beef, fish and rice mixed in a shallow pan called a wok. Now these folks really know how to eat.

Mr. Chin seemed like a peaceful man who was always smoking out of his long pipe. It was very slim at the top and not much of a bowl for tobacco. I left him to his own pleasures, as my belly was pushing up over my belt, and Mrs. Lin ran over to the stream and cleaned the dishes in a walk that reminded me of a shackled pony. She kicked up a bit of dust, rolled over some stones but never lost her footing wearing those wooden bridge type shoes. I don’t see how they could be comfortable and were probably the biggest reason she walked around like a shackled horse. But it’s their way and who am I to say anything. I also noted that their clothes were always clean and seemed like someone smoothed them out somehow. Mrs. Lin kept pestering me about my clothes and pulled out my long johns and pants out of the back of the wagon and was happy about carrying them off to the slow winding river. I’m surprised they didn’t kill her with all of the smells and stains on those hard canvassed Levis I like wearing. Those pants are very popular in the mining communities, and I must admit, you could wear them for many a week before you had to wash them. Some German guy makes them but I found my pair hung over a washing line at a camp that had been raided by Indians up near Red Rock. The Indians stole just about everything those folks had. My men picked up a couple of stools, and I saw these pants just blowing in the breeze. My size and looked as if they had hardly been used. The boys and I buried him, his wife and two small children. They didn’t have any marks on them, which means they probably just stayed around and died of thirst and lack of food. Another dream washed away to reality out here in no man’s land. The Mexican boys walked down to the river with her to make sure nothing happened but after about half way through the day they were back taking all of their tatter pants and shirts down to the river. That woman was making a pretty big impression with the boys. It was a nice afternoon mixed in