Incident At Rancho Alvarado

By Rick Seiwert

Socorro Alvarado doesn’t know it yet, but an unscrupulous county official has designs on her hundred-year-old house and the sacred Apache spring she has guarded all her life. Enter Kenny Lynch, a wounded Vietnam vet and his merry band of porch partiers. In the spirit of Edward Abbey’s Monkey Wrench Gang, the ragtag irregulars of 5th Street launch what is arguably the most original and unconventional fight against evil ever imagined. Set in a western town eighty years after the last gunfight, this tale examines the invisible ties that bind us, the families that we create through shared experiences and common goals. And it pays homage to the better angels in us all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 3, 2017
• ISBN: 9781635689075

Book preview

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INCIDENT

at RANCHO ALVARADO

- A Modern Day Western -

Featuring…

The 5th Street Irregulars

Rick Seiwert

Copyright © 2017 Rick Seiwert

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc. 2017

ISBN 978-1-63568-906-8 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63568-907-5 (Digital)

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever without the express written permission of the author or his legal agents.

Printed in the United States of America

Hindsight is fifty-fifty.

—D. Staskal

For Dennis

I wish we could do it all again.

Preface

Kenny Lynch died last week.

He was seventy-one years old and passed peacefully in his sleep. The certificate lists natural as the cause of death, and given his age, I suppose that’s accurate. But it wouldn’t be stretching the truth to say he’s the latest casualty of the Vietnam War as well. It just took him longer than most to succumb to his injuries.

Although only a handful of people know it, Ken was a bona fide hero during the police action known as Nam. His unsung actions and those of his partner, Pete Sanchez, saved the lives of dozens, maybe hundreds, of American troops in the mid-sixties. Now, almost fifty years later, many of those soldiers have become fathers and grandfathers, creating an indeterminate, but most impressive number of people whose very lives were made possible by those two men. It is inspiring and a bit humbling to know that my good friend, Kenny, was one of them.

And yet, except for an occasional, ghost-filled nightmare, Ken was never able to remember a thing about his service or his life before the war. You see, part of his brain was missing—surgically sublated by sizzling shrapnel in a muggy, jungle valley far from home. And as a result, his life (and memory) began in a military hospital in 1968.

I met him four years later when I moved out of my college dorm and into a duplex in the university area of Tucson. By then, Ken’s long and hard-fought recovery had enabled him to live independently, and as luck would have it, he had taken up residence in the other half of the very same house.

As co-residents of a house divided, our friendship began naturally despite the differences in age and experience. We were serendipitously placed neighbors, and it was, after all, the seventies—an unparalleled time of openness and trust among young people. But other elements were at play at the time which required the two of us to forge an understanding that belied our fledgling friendship. And while those first few months of 1973 were a blur of activity, they remain the clearest of all my memories. Kenny, with his beautifully disfigured face, was integral to it all.

As a veteran, he was entitled to a military funeral with all the pomp of a color guard and circumstance of a twenty-one gun salute, but he opted for cremation and a small, private memorial at Alvarado State Park instead. I recall his words when we discussed this matter a few months back. No bok. No ho. Do-shi-tay, Eo. Do-shi-tay. ("No box. No hole. Doo Shitaa, Leo. Doo Shitaa.")

So Doo Shitaa it was, despite the fact that spreading human cremains in a state park is generally frowned upon. But if anybody has a right to become a part of something they love, then Kenny merits eternal rest at Rancho Alvarado. Let his spirit walk with Francesco and El Jefe and La Duena—wise and noble company all. And let him sing with toothless Chemo, dance with laughing Araceli, and chase stubborn Mariposa through the valle. He deserves nothing less.

I’ll never stop missing him. He was and will always be my best friend, my brother in arms.

Banda Ho!

Leo Knofflemacher

May 23, 2015

It wasn’t your conventional fairyland—that

much was certain.

The image of lush, forest-green foliage and thick, sound-absorbing carpets of rich mulch—a childhood recollection of what served as home to elf, dwarf, and gnome—had been radically altered. Gone were the shade-draped woods of muscle-bound oak and gnarled cedar that allowed only scant streaks of yellow-gauze sunbeams to pierce the mystical haze. Gone were the round, mossy rocks stacked haphazardly beside the dew-fed stream that meandered and gurgled happily along its flower-lined course. Saxophone-throated frogs and thumperlike rabbits, vocally-carefree avians alighting peaceably beside fellow forest brethren—all were gone. In fact, all the scenic ingredients recommended by authorities such as Tolkien, Milne, and Disney were curiously and blatantly absent.

In their place were the drab, near-barren foothills of a desert mountain bearing a laughably-sparse forest of assorted cacti. The hulking saguaro, like faceless giants in a child-drawn pose—one arm up, one arm down—were sprinkled amid the bare, crumbly-rock stretches, haughtily assuming their role as silent sentinels. Creeping lines of prickly pear and explosions of spiny-tendrilled ocotillo were present in lesser numbers, as were the squat, bulging barrels with their long, fish-hook barbs. All were surrounded and entangled with sinewy, grasslike weeds that bore either thorn, thistle, or burr. In low lying areas, the shrubbery thrived, enriched not only by the lion’s share of infrequent runoff, but by its own fallen comrades—a dead and decaying mass of rotting cactus ribs, dried tumbleweed, and other indistinguishable fauna. It was a scene from a hundred old westerns—and one not usually associated with mystical occurrences.

This morning was different. This morning was Christmas, and magic, in the form of a frigid, arctic blast, had paid a rare visit to the area. Coming in the night, its moisture-laden air had dusted the rocky terrain—cactus, boulder, and dirt alike—with a fine mantle of glistening ice. Now, as the first, slanting rays of sun peeked from distant mountains, its light was captured, bounced, and reflected in a copious scattering of snowy prisms. Like frolicking fairies, the rainbow sparkles danced and twinkled in ostentatious exuberance while nothing else stirred—not a weed swayed.

The saguaro festooned with pixie lights, boulders and barrels bedecked with holiday enchantment—all had changed. This hard and dry land had been transformed by a rare convergence of elements, and though it didn’t conform to any traditional fairyland formula, it was truly magical just the same.

—Leo Knofflemacher-Christmas ’72

Introduction

My name is Leo Knofflemacher.

That’s Knofflemacher with a silent K and a hard ch, and yes, it’s German. My dad used to say it sounded like a sack of puppies tumbling down the stairs. My mom always hated when he said that.

In my hometown of Milwaukee, however, the name rarely raised an eyebrow due to the city’s large German and Polish base and the commonality of surnames like Korpenhagen, Neuschwander, and Wocezinski. As a kid growing up where oral knucklebusters were commonplace, I never made fun of other kid’s names—with the exception of Georgie Hockenslob and Owen Frankenstein. Some things are irresistible.

My first name is a recent invention. Born Leonard Francis Knofflemacher, I spent my first twenty years answering to Leonard, Len, and Lenny. It was tolerable, but I always yearned for a cool nickname like Smokey or Kip or Jet. The closest I ever got was in junior high when the football coach characterized my blocking skills as awful! That’s just awful, Knofflemacher! Thankfully, it fell out of popular usage once the season (and my gridiron career) was over, and I resolved to be more careful about wishing.

It wasn’t until I was on my way to Tucson last August that I decided the timing was perfect for a nom de guerre; on official paperwork I would remain Leonard, but to my new friends and classmates, I would simply introduce myself as Leo.

I came to Tucson to attend the University of Arizona after completing a two-year degree in mechanical design at Milwaukee Institute of Applied Science (nicknamed MI-AS by the inmates). In my quest to continue my education (and retain my student deferment), I’d been accepted at Michigan State, Wisconsin, and Arizona. I chose Arizona for two reasons: it was cheaper, even with additional out-of-state fees, and it was almost two thousand miles away from Milwaukee.

Don’t get me wrong—I love my family, I love my home—but a restless yearning had been building within me for some time. A promise of unfamiliar places and fresh experiences was calling to me, and even though this feeling wasn’t anywhere near original, it was genuine. Tucson, in the heart of the Great Sonoran Desert and just fifty miles from the Mexican border, offered the exotic, the mysterious, the unusual.

Convinced by my mother that dormitory living was the most frugal of all options (at least temporarily), I checked into Apache Hall on the western edge of campus. Next stop was a visit with a counselor who informed me of the differences between a junior college and a major university. A few of the courses I’d completed were simply not recognized (therefore not accepted) by the university. Four other full-semester classes were combined, so I only received half credit for those. Then it was explained that a four-year degree is intended to produce a well-rounded human being, and this could only be accomplished by non-core study of sundry arts and sciences. Welcome to Anthropology 101 in a huge auditorium with four hundred eager freshmen and me. Ditto for Humanities 101 and Psych 101. So even though I was starting my third year of college, I was classified as a second semester sophomore with at least five, possibly six semesters to graduate.

Obviously, I was disappointed at first, but soon reasoned that there was no hurry to finish school and join the workforce for the rest of my life. Besides, this damn war could easily last a few more years, and then where would I be? Me and my degree getting shot at in Nam? No, thanks. So I decided to kick back and enjoy the ride.

As for dorm life, it had a lot of advantages; a warm and dry place for my stuff, easy access to classes, the library, and a revamped student union with cafeteria, rec room, and movie theater. Furthermore, off-campus watering holes were just a short walk away (and a slightly longer stagger home). It also provided me with my first new friends in the form of roommates Paul, a wide-eyed, skinny kid from Des Moines, and Joel, a tobacco-chewing cowpoke from Tyler, Texas. In between classes and studying, the three of us scoured the university area, finding the best and worst of Tucson’s nightlife.

The downside of dorm living was in the details. Privacy was almost nonexistent, especially in the bathrooms where communal showers and doorless stalls were the norm. Curfew was another sore point. I was old enough to vote, drink, and get drafted but couldn’t risk being out past midnight without incurring the wrath of Mrs. Sullivan, the dorm mother. My search for independence was being compromised by rules and regulations enacted to protect young and eager high school grads as they acclimated to college life. Though the dormitory was convenient, it was too stifling for my tastes, so I swore to change residences as soon as possible.

This discontent over living arrangements actually coincided with my long range goal of establishing residency in the state of Arizona, thereby eliminating the need to pay out-of-state tuition. The savings would be considerable—almost two-thirds of the cost—and would allow me to finance my own education without any help from home.

The rules of residency were simple enough: get an Arizona driver’s license, have your car registered and licensed in the state of Arizona, and maintain a residence within the state for twelve consecutive months. If I could start renting before the spring semester started in January and managed to stay in Tucson and work during the summer, I could officially become an Arizonan by this time next year.

In the last month of the calendar year, my plans started to become reality:

December 2–I posted an ad at the student union and waited all of three days before a freshman from Minnesota took over my dorm contract for the spring semester.

December 13–I found a house—half a house actually—on 5th Street less than a mile from campus. The landlord, an amiable man named Madrid, let me move in before Christmas even though my first rent wasn’t due until January 1.

December 23–I was hired as a cook and night manager trainee at Frankie’s Pizza on 4th Avenue—approximately one hundred yards from my new front door.

With these carefully considered and logically executed steps complete, my western adventure was finally ready to begin.

Giddy-up!

December 25

Wednesday

The headline will read Bizarre Trampling Kills College Student or perhaps Donkey Rampage Results in Foothills Fatality. Either way, I’ll be the unfortunate object of the article, so it won’t really matter what anyone writes—at least not to me.

Of the few friends I’d made so far, all will find the ridiculous aspect of my demise more noteworthy than the actual loss of a possible lifelong friend and potential godfather for their kids. They’ll say, Poor Leo. He was a good guy. And then they’ll guffaw at the absurdity of being annihilated by an actual jackass. Heck! I’d laugh too.

My mom will miss me—that’s a consolation. And yeah, my brothers will too, although you’d need a team of wild donkeys to get either of them to express fraternal love. As for aunts, uncles, and friends back home, they’ll all show for my closed-casket funeral. It will be a simple yet tasteful gathering followed by coffee and cake at Mom’s house.

If I seem a bit pessimistic, it’s because I’ve got my arms around the serape-covered head of a very distressed and unpredictable donkey at the moment. And although I’ve got both feet on the ground, most of my weight is leaning on the beast’s brow, and I’m hanging on for dear life. The man, Chemo, told me not to move or let the donkey’s head rise up. At least that’s what I think he said. I can’t understand a word he’s saying.

I’m not worried so much about my instructions though. I’m more concerned with the donkey understanding her job…because no matter what I do, the animal is ten times stronger than me. We’re going to do whatever she wants… and that’s what scares me.

How did I get in this mess? What was my first mistake? Was it by coming to this old man’s aid? That was instinctive. I saw him knocked to the ground and tried to help.

Maybe I shouldn’t have climbed the rocks, just started the car and headed home this morning. I’d be there now, sitting by the wall heater eating breakfast with the stereo playing Pink Floyd.

No, the error happened last night. I should have never gone out. I should have stayed home, listened to Floyd, and drank my wine in the safety and warmth of my own place. But that didn’t happen.

This is what happened.

It was midafternoon yesterday when I proclaimed the move complete. I’d actually transported the last of my stuff to 5th Street two days earlier, but living out of cardboard boxes wasn’t moved-in. Using them for end tables and lamp stands? Now that was acceptable, at least until I could commandeer some used furniture. Forced frugality is the mother of adaptation.

Living without a television (my choice) and without a telephone (budget restraints), my home entertainment options are limited to books and my stereo. Generally, this is fine by me. Put a stack of LPs on the changer, hand me some good fiction, and I’ll while away the hours happy as John Wayne on D-Day. And that’s exactly what I did, pausing only to cook my own supper in my own kitchen on my own schedule. It’s great to be the boss!

Early evening brought a restlessness that begged for activity in spite of limited options due to the holiday. I wasn’t eager for company after four months of dorm life; a little solitude was a welcome treat. This realization eliminated any of the saloons on 4th Avenue where loud music and artificial good cheer were no doubt in abundance. Even the slim possibility of meeting a lonely co-ed in search of Christmas companionship didn’t sway me. I simply wasn’t up for operating at a level high enough to attract a college cutie’s attention. Besides, I’d have to shave, shower, and dig out some clean clothes. So I tossed a bottle of wine in a knapsack instead, added half a joint I’d gotten from my ex-roommate, grabbed a blanket, and headed for the foothills.

In geological terms, the Tucson Valley is an amphitheater, which means that it’s rimmed on three sides by mountains. To the north are the massive Santa Catalinas with their rocky peaks and folding canyons that stretch across the city like a frozen tidal wave. The Rincons to the east are more like rolling hills than mountains, but they rise almost as high as their northern sibling. I suppose when a hill gets big enough, you have to call it a mountain. Finally to the west are the picturesque mini mountains named after the town they border. These mere foothills are small in comparison to the others but boast an abundance of desert fauna and wildlife that make exploring them a joy.

What’s this mean to me? Twenty minutes by car in any direction and I’m out of town amid rolling hills, foothills, and finally mountains—free of city noise and clutter—smack dab in the middle of an old cowboy movie. Pretty cool scenery for a Wisconsin kid.

It really doesn’t matter if it’s day or night, either. Got daylight? I’ll hike the hills, give the cacti a wide berth, and maybe do some easy climbing. Nighttime? No problem. Give me a warm car, a starry night, and a little refreshment, and I’m a happy guy.

Stargazing is a private thing for me. Being alone beneath nature’s nocturnal canopy soothes the spirit and slows the mind to a state somewhere between meditating and zoning out. Concentrating on the vast astral ocean, my surroundings fade, and all becomes energy without stress or conscious thought. As far as I know, it’s not transcendental, tantric, or any other form of meditation that I do. It’s more like what a little kid would experience by looking up at night during a snowstorm. Therapy is what I call it, and Southern Arizona is probably one of the best places in the world to do it.

I headed north then east, skirting the base of the Santa Catalinas and aimed at Sabino Canyon, where I’d spent an afternoon hiking a few weeks earlier. I recalled several dirt roads off the main drag—all suitable for my purpose—and picked one at random, weaving through the rising hills amid midnight shrub and chaparral. Topping a small rise, I found myself in a bowl-like depression surrounded by hills on three sides and sheer mountain wall on the fourth, a perfect shield against city lights and prying eyes.

Note for novice stargazers: positioning the car with the front wheels slightly higher than the rear and having good reclining seats not only improves the experience but also prevents sore neck.

Turning off the car lights and settling back for the show, I lit the doobie and opened the wine, figuring to commune with the cosmos for a few hours before the cold mountain air invaded my toasty cocoon. Thankfully, the moon was down, the sky was a cloudless black, and the stars were brilliant.

I don’t know how long I stared into space or when I fell asleep, but the moon was casting shadows when the frigid air finally penetrated my refuge and interrupted my slumber. Despite an urgent need to pee, I started the engine and flipped on the heater before exiting the car, shivering and dancing until I realized one place was as good as another for watering the ground.

I returned to the car, reclaiming my abandoned blanket while leaning toward the still-blowing-cold heater vents to stifle my quaking. As the cobwebs left my brain and the forced air turned lukewarm, the view through my windshield revealed discernible shapes—hills, rocks, and vegetation beneath star-dappled sky. To the east, the sky was noticeably lighter, indicating I’d taken a longer nap than I’d imagined. It was almost dawn and feeling was returning to my limbs. Tense muscles relaxed as the warm air thawed my bones, and I realized it was Christmas morning.

Most people’s thoughts turn homeward during the holidays, and I’m certainly no exception. Milwaukee, pimpled with steeples and cornered with bars, was more than the place of my birth. It was the venue of all my memories and the locale of all the people I’ve ever loved. It was, in a word, home.

Considering the two-hour time difference, I knew Mom was up by now; the kitchen alive with the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee, the furnace rumbling warmth from below, and she, robed and slippered, skittering about. After church, she’d be busy all day cooking and serving, greeting neighbors who stopped by, and playing hostess to her extended horde. When it came to the holidays, Adele Knofflemacher was the keeper of tradition.

This would be the third Christmas without my father, Gordon, a plumber for the city of Milwaukee and the love of Mom’s life. He died in the sewers beneath W. Walnut Street on a June day when a steel bolt failed, dropping an electric cable into a puddle where he was standing. It was quick and tragic, but the loss of this happy and gentle man remained with us, especially during the holidays. Since his death, we’d made a point of rallying ’round Mom to keep her spirits bright.

This was a particular source of guilt for me this year since I’d chosen to stay in Tucson for the holiday. Her horde was even smaller, thanks to me, but I’d just been back for Thanksgiving, and financing a second trip home was impossible. I wasn’t about to let Mom pay for it, and besides, I had a new place and a new job. I couldn’t leave town. Mom understood that. But I still knew my absence saddened her.

At least my younger brother, Tommy, still lived at home. A high school senior who plays several musical instruments (and plays them well), he is the most talented and challenging of the three sons. I call him the vampire because of his late nights playing with any group that’ll have him, from rock to country to soul to bluegrass. Due to his fanatical obsession with the audible art, however, his inattention to mundane matters such as school and studies are a constant source of conflict between our mother and him. Fortunately, day-to-day bickering is put aside at Christmas, and I was sure Tommy’s presence would be a comfort today. My only concern was the possibility of him sleeping through the entire day. No, Alex wouldn’t let that happen.

My older brother, Alex, lives across the street from Mom with his family, and that alone has been a great boon during Mom’s grieving process. Alex is so like Dad—the same build, the same disarming smile, the same deep concern for others. On his return from Nam, he’d even got hired as a plumber with Milwaukee Municipal Water just like his old man. After that, he married his high school sweetheart, Rose, bought the house, and had darling twin girls they named Lily and Violet.

Aside from his choice in flowery names, Alex is the sensible son, helping Mom with gutter cleaning, snow shoveling, or whatever time and weather brings. Mom would be hard-pressed to attend to the needs of that old house without his assistance, and it’s reassuring to know he’s there for her. Besides, he’s brought two new babies into the family. What grandmother doesn’t love the distraction of little girls?

I missed them all. And I missed Christmas at home, the only setting I’d ever known.

I suppose I could have put off the move, held off on the job, and found a way home for the holidays. True, I’d be unemployed and still living in the dorm, but I could have enjoyed one last Christmas with the family.

Then I thought of Dad and what he used to say: Change is a part of life, and those who can’t accept it will have it forced on them anyway. No, I’d made my choices; second-guessing only caused regrets. For this year at least, I’d have to be content with joining the festivities via Ma Bell.

The car was finally warm. I reached to put the engine in gear and noticed the encroaching day had revealed a light topping on the landscape. Could that be?

Wow, snow in the desert. I turned off the engine and exited the car for a closer look.

Sure enough, splotches of frost, like throw rugs scattered randomly, covered the area. There wasn’t much of it—barely enough for a decent snowball—and it wouldn’t last long once the sun came up, but there it was. I inspected a barrel-shaped cactus and its temporary toupee of white and tested the frosted soil for slipperiness and crunchiness. Gazing at the mountain’s higher elevations, I figured there was plenty of snow up there and spied an incline on my right. It seemed climbable, even for a tenderfoot, and led to a ridge beyond the nearest hill, suggesting a possible unobstructed view of the rising sun. I’d seen my share of sunsets since being in Arizona, mostly from Gates Pass in the Tucson Mountains. This would be my first sunrise.

The bunny slope proved to be more difficult than expected due to the rare presence of moisture on the ground. I slipped twice, skinning a knee and scraping my palm but skillfully avoided any cactus or long slides to the bottom. I may not get any points for style, but I get the job done.

Near the top of my climb, the first of daylight’s rays peeked over the distant range, instantly brightening everything in sight. Frozen crystals on the nearby landscape caught the light, entrancing and entertaining me with their dancing exuberance so that I briefly forgot the ridge and the sunrise.

Moments later, I crested my personal summit and rested as Sol’s flames radiated from the jagged silhouettes of the far horizon to introduce a new day to the land. Below, cactus-studded hills rolled out to a flat, unbroken plain where dwindling shapes became mere splashes of color before merging to become an ocean of infinite tan. Somehow, harsh elements and rugged components had combined to produce a panorama of peace that was every bit as glorious as any sunset I’d seen.

I craned my head to the right, trying to see the city from my perch, but a jutting rock face obscured all but its eastern edge from view. Tucson, what I’d once considered a jewel in the desert, was, in reality, a man-made blight interrupting the tranquility and continuity of the Sonoran Desert. Its squared buildings and straight-lined streets corrupted nature’s haphazard design with ugly monuments to honor man’s brief stay in a timeless land.

Then I realized my thoughts were a bit critical of my newly adopted town when the same could be said for Anywhere, USA. Who was I to criticize? I was just as citified and reliant on creature comforts as the next clown. When I could function without flipping on lights or flushing toilets, then maybe I’d have the right to condemn. For now, I wished my new home a Merry Christmas, hoping for a bright and exciting new year to come.

The sun was now completely disconnected from the faraway peaks, beginning its daily chariot run across the sky while we mortals toil pointlessly below. Time to go, I thought. A warm shower and a big breakfast waited at home, and I was anxious for both.

Before I could begin, however, a tremendous hornlike noise blasted the air. It was unlike any sound I’d heard… no, that wasn’t true. It reminded me of that day years ago when Dad had taken us to Lake Michigan, to a commercial harbor in the cove. There’d been a tired old freighter docking at the time and the huge water-soaked timbers of the pier had groaned like dying mastodons. This sounded like that. But freighters docking in the desert? Hardly. Dying mastodons? A little late in the eon for those critters.

I turned in the general direction of the sound and discovered, by scooting down a bit, I could see into a miniature valley squeezed between walls of rock. Coarse grass, yellowed by the season, sprouted among the scattered cacti and bare-earth patches, implying an enriched fertility unequaled by the surrounding desert. A tiny bird, brown and nondescript, swept into the basin, followed by two more; all testing the aerodynamics of the glorious, new day. From behind a green-barked tree, a covey of quail emerged, skittering in wobbly, single-file fashion—a smile-inducing procession of mama and her chicks. Nearby a rabbit enjoyed a puddled sip of melted frost. Teaming with wildlife, the oblong depression seemed completely cut off from the rest of the world like a petite Shangri-La.

The mysterious noise erupted again, followed by a series of distorted echoes. I saw movement at the far end of the valley; a large animal in obvious distress was angrily airing its grievances. Initially, I thought it was a horse; but after listening to the boisterous brays and honks, I revised my appraisal. It was a donkey—a very pissed-off donkey—and there was a man approaching it.

His skin was sun-baked ebony, and he wore jeans, denim jacket, and a cowboy hat of straw. Walking cautiously on stiff, bowed legs, he grasped a frayed rope attached to the animal’s muzzle and appeared to be talking to the beast, trying to quell its agitation with soothing words and calming gestures.

The four-footed brute stilled, accepting the wrangler’s attention with bored stupidity. Using the time to rest, the man turned his gaze to the risen sun, and I saw the wrinkled face, the tufts of white beneath his hat. He’s a relic, I thought. Probably been roaming these hills for decades.

Turning back to his task, the old cowboy bent over, using the rope to force the donkey’s head down. Easing himself toward the rear of the creature, he knelt and carefully reached underneath.

Seconds later, the animal erupted, emitting a brash, insolent bray while kicking and thrashing wildly in