Leave the Light On: A True Story of Crime and Redemption

By Michael Martin and Legend Torrez

When my son died, he was six years old. The day we buried him, the Lord and my son came and paid for his funeral. Three months later, the Lord took me to heaven, I found my son and had a short conversation with him, and the Lord talked to me and gave me some messages to give to the world. It was not a near-death experience!

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887512983

Michael Martin

Michael Martin, a Mennonite pastor turned blacksmith, is founder and executive director of RAWtools Inc. and blogs at RAWtools.org. RAWtools turns guns into garden tools (and other lovely things), resourcing communities with nonviolent confrontation skills in an effort to turn stories of violence into stories of creation. RAWtools has been featured in the New York Times and on Inside Edition and NPR. Martin lives in Colorado Springs, Colorado.

Book preview

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Leave the Light On

A True Story of Crime and Redemption

Michael Martin and Legend Torrez

ISBN 979-8-88751-297-6 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88751-298-3 (digital)

Copyright © 2023 by Michael Martin

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

A Special Note to My Brother Rudy

Note to the Reader

The Early Years

Prologue

The Devil Is Your Only Friend

The War Within

Black Hole

The Box

The Gold Watch

Fire and Ice

Lessons in Life and Death

Jodine

Contracts and Commitments

Photo Section

Crime and Redemption

Family Man

Makin' Movies

Live Action

Stevie

Pay Up or You'll Be Seein' Me

Goin' South

Marryin' Money

Cowboys and Indians

Blind Date

Cool Joe

The Road to Vegas

Afterword

About the Author

A Special Note to My Brother Rudy

You have always been my hero. You were a fighter but not a troublemaker. You were a wonderful brother, a leader, not a ruler. I was so proud to be your little brother. I have a lot of love and respect for you. Your life has always been so troubled, but you always tried to do the right thing.

Now, in the twilight of your life, you feel forgotten by the ones you love the most. I hope someday your kids will realize what a great man you are. Don't worry, Rudy, God knows you and he has a place for you in his kingdom.

Love you,

Lee

Note to the Reader

This is a true story. Some of the names in this book have been changed to protect the identities of individuals. None of the essential facts have been changed. The chronology of certain events has been altered slightly, some dialogue recreated, and certain character descriptions modified for the purposes of narrative structure, clarity, and confidentiality.

Mike Martin was born Steven Lee Torrez and was called Lee throughout his childhood as he is in this book. Later, during his involvement in crime, he used his given name, Steve, and various aliases. His work in films was done under the name Mike Martin, while during his years in Chicago, he was known as Steve Terry. In Las Vegas, he again became Mike Martin and continues to live under that name today. Finally, his family and friends call him by his well-deserved nickname: Legend.

Book 1

The Early Years

Prologue

My name is Lee, and I'm five years old. Only five, but I know some things. I know I will never be six.

I lie in the cellar darkness. This must be what they mean by dead—like my sister Stella's baby down in the ground. Only worse 'cause I'm not dead yet. I press myself tight against the cold earth, arms and legs outstretched. As I squirm, my body makes an angel in the dirt that I'll never see. Ain't no real angels down here, that's for sure. Just the devil.

The devil lives in the dark.

I struggle not to make a sound, trying not to breathe. The devil's shadow is all around. I can even smell him. I squeeze my eyes shut real tight to make the darkness go away. I wait for tears that never come. I'm too scared now to cry.

Voices.

Mama?

No. It's him! Walking back and forth right above me. And then the loud scraping sound begins. The devil's chains. He's dragging them across the floor.

The devil's gonna getcha… The devil hears your thoughts.

I can't stop the sob bubbling up in my throat. Oh God. Oh, Mama. Please don't let him get me!

I clutch my ears to block out the chains, but the sound won't go away. And there's laughter now too. A familiar laugh. But I know it's just the devil and his tricks. Like when the sounds suddenly stop for a real long time. You think he's gone, but he's not.

Silence.

My whole body shakes. How long have I been down here? Did I fall asleep?

I see a glow of light in the distance. Maybe only twenty feet, but it might as well be miles. I inch forward on my elbows and knees, trying not to make a sound. Impossible. My body scrapes across the dirt. My heart is pounding loud enough for him to hear. I can taste blood from the gash on my lip. I don't like the taste of blood. It makes me think of darkness.

The devil lives in the dark, he said. The devil's gonna getcha, said Papa.

Chapter 1

The Devil Is Your Only Friend

Las Vegas, 1999

There are shadows in this city, but they're difficult to see. The blaze of neon competing with the desert sun erases the darkness, making it easy to forget that silhouettes and shade give texture and meaning to our lives. But then, people often come here to forget.

Not Mike Martin. He remembers the darkness as he sits at the poolside, watching the children play. He is a man who bears a slight resemblance to the pro golfer Lee Traviño—a bigger, harder-edged Traviño, that is, with the rock-solid frame of a prizefighter.

Ironically, he was Lee back then, the name was given to him by his mother, a name now lost, buried under a string of aliases he found necessary to adopt throughout adulthood—his life a strange journey that has taken him from darkness to this place of invincible light.

He sits erect in his chair, executing a memory search through a maze of shadows, sifting the fragments to assemble the story of his life. It was a life shattered many times by physical, psychological, and sexual abuse by his involvement in crime which became his escape and personal tragedies which ultimately saved his life. It is a tale he must tell, a tale of courage, faith, and ultimately, survival.

There is a flicker of pain now as the memories flash before his eyes, the shrouded players in an impossible drama suddenly appear and dissolve. Faces. Strangers with masks. Devils and angels.

Searching for that original identity is, for Mike, an act of faith, an effort to recover a lost child. He squints now as if to bring distant years into focus. The carefree laughter of children splashing in the background is an obvious reminder of a childhood he never knew. His childhood was a nightmare from which there was no walking—no escape. How he arrived at this golden place in the desert, his head held high, is a peculiarly American journey, eccentric and brutal.

*****

The seventh of eleven children, Steven Lee Torrez was born in a little shack by a railroad track. He was of Spanish, French, and Italian descent—born February 5, 1936, in Mancos, Colorado—the son of Rudolph Sr. and Marie Torrez. Lee spent his early years in the town of Dolores, a desolate hamlet poised at the end of the ten-mile-long McPhee Reservoir in rural Colorado—lush and mountainous, dense with timber, rivers, and ruins of abandoned stone villages.

The family's shack was damp and vulnerable to the extremes of weather common to the region: hail and snowstorms, twisters, and blistering heat blown in off the mesas, turning the valleys into dust bowls throughout long, merciless summers. It was terrain befitting a survivor.

His earliest memory is of a line of figures climbing the pine-dotted hill behind the shack, silhouettes formed by a funeral procession for his oldest sister Stella's baby. Off in the distance behind the mourners rose Sleeping Ute Mountain, its prominent slopes revealing a sleeping Indian with folded arms—strong and defiant, even at rest. Legend claims this warrior god fought a fierce battle with the powers of evil.

It was a beautiful day, yet they were going to bury Lee's niece Anna, who had died at just four weeks old due to complications from pneumonia.

A thick mist—known to the locals as Cheyenne Fog—hugged the highest peaks, even as spectacular sunlight streaked the hill where the mourners had gathered for the burial. The highway curled around the mountain like a snake, winding its way down and across a bridge at the bottom. Looking up above the pines, the sky was the bluest the boy had ever seen. The contrast left him bewildered.

<>

for the relief truck with its rations of dried pinto beans and potatoes. Those were the sugarplums that danced in their heads, for there was little else to Christmas for them. Still, they all knew it was an important day.

They amused themselves by telling fanciful stories. When it was Lee's turn. He made up one about Brother Philip, a close friend of his mother, who helped the family out from time to time. He told them that Brother Philip was actually Papa Noel and would appear on Christmas morning and bring them gifts. Then Sammy jumped in to add a spicy detail, saying that because Brother Philip was handsome—that was the real reason Mama was tan amiga de el (so friendly with him).

The girls giggled and nudged one another. The boys all smirked and shoved. Emboldened by the reaction his brother received, Lee tried to top Sammy with his own bit of wishful thinking.

Brother Philip is really our papa! he shouted cheerfully.

Everyone was laughing now—everyone except Rudolph Sr., who had been eavesdropping. He appeared suddenly, and the laughter stopped at once. He grabbed Lee by the hair and dragged him away from the others. Knowing what was coming, his brothers started making excuses for the boy while his sisters started to cry.

Twisting his son's arm behind his back, Rudolph Sr. growled in his ear, "Not so big now, are you! He jerked the arm up harder until Lee howled for his mama. Your mama ain't around, little bastard! What you gonna do?" He kicked Lee with all his might, knocking him into the storm door.

The boy's outstretched hand didn't break his fall. It broke the glass instead, blood suddenly spurting from his left hand, spattering the snow along the doorstep.

Donald and the others rushed to his side. Virginia wrapped his hand in a cloth, while Josie wiped away his tears. He was gasping in panic, looking around to make sure his father wasn't coming back to get him, when the children started shouting for joy.

He found himself alone on the floor. The children, in their excitement, had all raced outside to meet the relief truck rumbling up the road.

*****

A good memory struggles to break through.

One cold night, it was snowing again, a swirling storm that blanketed the pines. He shut the outhouse door and started to make his way back to the shack. Gusts of icy air whipped at his face, and every few steps, he had to brush clumps of snow from his clothing. The wind howled as it came down off the mountain and hurled itself against the structure. Then, like a beacon, he could see slivers of light coming through the cracks in the side, warm light that grew warmer as he neared. A little closer, and he paused. He could see his mother standing by the stove, cooking tortillas, surrounded by her hungry children. The younger ones played on the floor while the others helped Marie—stirring, pounding, pouring—his brothers and sisters, his family drawing him back to the light.

He stood there in the storm, hugging the moment to his heart, afraid to let the feeling pass, somehow sensing he would lose it in the years ahead. For now, he would try as hard as he could to save it. The longer he looked, the longer the warmth would remain. As fleeting as a snowflake.

*****

In the Torrez household, normal childhood accidents were an excuse for severe beatings. One time, Lee opened the icebox, looking for milk. It was something he would never have dared do had his father been there. He took out the bottle and dropped it on the floor where it shattered, just as his father came in.

Without a word, he just lunged at Lee, grabbed him by the collar with one hand, and snatched Daniel's wooden baseball bat with the other. He started swinging, smacking him on his back and legs. Lee wriggled from his grasp, and he took off in time to avoid a big swing. This only made Rudolph Sr. madder. He caught up with the boy and swung again, hitting him behind the ear.

Lee wailed and ran wildly in circles. He felt the blood trickling down his neck and thought he was dying. He made it to his mother's side. Seeing the blood, Marie gasped, then made him kneel down with her and pray.

Please, God, make him stop, she whispered.

At the time, Marie Torrez's savior seemed a remote god to her young son and far less real than el diablo, the devil—for his father had convinced him that Satan was going to get him. It became a malevolent mantra—"The devil's gonna getcha!"—filling his mind with visions of fiery torments and eternal damnation.

Rudolph Sr.'s unholy curse terrified Marie as well. Deeply religious, the very mention of the devil sent her scurrying to the safety of the bedroom to pray, further confirming her son's belief in his father's dark admonitions.

As a result, Lee constantly wet his bed. Too ashamed to tell his mother, he just slept on the soiled sheet. Though he shared a room with his brothers and sisters, he begged them to leave the light on. But sooner or later, off it went. He'd lie awake in the darkness, wrapped in his urine-soaked sheet, shivering with fear, waiting to feel the cold clutch of Satan who would steal him away to face unimaginable horrors. He knew that no one in his family could save him, and each night's rising moon brought his fate a little closer.

Rudolph Sr.'s favorite form of punishment was locking his son in the closet for hours. The idea had come to him when he overheard Lee plead with the other children to leave on the light. He would sit in his chair and listen to the screams coming from the closet as if listening to a radio drama.

At other times, his father stood outside the door and rattled chains, pretending to be Satan. At those moments, Lee's worst nightmare came true. Eventually, the sound of the chains would stop, but the echo in his ears would haunt him for years.

*****

Occasionally, Rudolph Sr.'s bizarre cruelty extended to other members of the family. Lee's sister Stella suffered from chronic asthma. During one particularly severe attack, while confined to her bed, her skin began to turn purple. Struggling to breathe, she made deep wheezing sounds that terrified Marie and the children.

The family went to church to pray for her and, later that night in a scene reminiscent of Stephen King's Carrie, encircled her bed with candles to ward off evil spirits. They gathered around the stricken girl as she twisted and gasped for breath. As Lee huddled beside his mother, he felt certain his sister would die before his eyes, at any moment expecting a piercing cry, followed by silence.

Throughout the night, the children took turns holding Stella's hand, stroking her forehead. They whispered words of comfort while Rudolph Sr. kept his distance, his shadow flickering on the barren wall as he stood in the doorway, passively observing. His only comment sent a chill through the room. Looks like Stella's about to meet the devil.

*****

It's Brother Phillip! shouted Ruth.

Marie dropped her knitting and ran to the door. Everyone stopped what they were doing. Donald, Rudy, and five-year-old Lee abandoned their game of marbles and ran out to greet the rickety old pickup truck coming up the drive.

Brother Phillip took off his straw hat and stuck it on Donald. He lifted him high in the air and laughed. Then all the kids descended on him in a pack, hugging his legs and pulling at his pockets.

They chanted, Whatcha bring us this time?

Brother Philip was lean and tan, and he towered over the children, smiling as he passed out sweets. He was the Pied Piper, and they'd have followed him anywhere. He wrestled and played with them until his legs grew weary. Then he asked them where their father was.

In town! cried Lee happily.

Brother Phillip told the kids he had a special treat for them.

They whooped for joy.

Look under the tarp in the back of my truck.

They made a mad dash for it and discovered a large crate crammed with luscious fruits. While they bickered over who got what, Brother Philip joined Marie on the porch. Lee pocketed a ripe mango, then turned to watch Marie smoothing her hair as she talked to Brother Philip. When he saw his mother laughing, he started doing somersaults.

*****

All winter long, the boys cut logs for the fire—there was never enough. The fire burned day and night. It was like feeding a dragon.

Donald, Rudy, and Lee would saddle their horse, a twenty-year-old gelding that a neighbor had given them. The boys had jokingly named the horse Peppy because he was always tired. They'd turn him loose, and he'd just stand there. While Donald and Rudy rolled logs down the hill to the house, Lee got to sit on Peppy, keeping watch for mountain lions and bears. The most exciting part of all, Lee got to hold his father's loaded .22. He'd pretend he was a cowboy, waiting for the Ute Indians to attack. He couldn't see them, but he knew they were out there hiding behind the trees. He would listen closely for the muffled sound of footsteps in the snow.

When the gun got too heavy, Lee rested it on the saddle, still looking all around, scanning the hill for movement. Out of the corner of his eye, he'd see the blur of an Indian brave darting behind a rock. He'd raise the gun, take aim, and wait for the Indian to appear again. "Bang!"

Then he'd swing the gun to the other side and pick off the war party one by one. "Bang, bang, bang!"

Once, when Rudolph Sr. was on the hill, standing with his back to the boy, Lee found himself pointing the rifle at him. He raised the barrel and aimed right at his head. Had Lee known what lay in store for him, he might have pulled the trigger. Bang!

Chapter 2

The War Within

In 1942, the Torrez family moved to the rugged frontier town of Gallup, New Mexico, huddled at the northwestern edge of the state on the Puerco River, eighty miles from Albuquerque. This was the heart of Navajo country, with its jutting rock terraces and vast silent skies, mesas, plateaus, and shallow canyons. The town itself was right out of the wild west, although no longer surrounded by hostile Indians but by abundant coalfields and uranium mines.

Had it not been for the arrival of the railroad sixty years earlier, Gallup would surely have been a ghost town, with only the shadows of clouds drifting down its dusty main street. Indeed, the itinerant Rudolph Sr. had brought his family here so he could work for the railroad. During the week, he drove his wagon through town, picking up migrants and transporting them to an ammunition depot at Fort Wingate.

There was certainly nothing about the sleepy streets of Gallup to suggest that the fate of the world was being decided by the savage violence in Europe and the Pacific. Only the troop trains passing through provided Lee with his first clue that the country was at war.

He stood on the platform, wide-eyed as the magnificent Santa Fe pulled into the station, its coal-powered engine painted bright red with yellow stripes, looking like the face of a Navajo warrior. The block cars were packed with young men in uniforms, en route to distant barracks. Dwarfed by the huge cars, the five-year-old stared up at the soldiers and wondered where they were going.

If Lee did not understand what World War II was about, he certainly understood what the word guerra meant, for his father had declared war on him. The beatings and humiliation continued unabated on the new home front, a cramped adobe house with a roof of red clay mission tiles about a mile from the train station. The only peace Lee found was when his father was at work. On the days when Rudolph Sr. was home, his son did his best to avoid him, going off in search of odd jobs in the neighborhood.

One lucky day, Lee discovered a bundle of newspapers tied with twine abandoned on the street corner. A banner headline read German U-Boat Sinks Ship Off Coast. He hauled the bundle to the railway station and waited for the troop train. When it arrived, he tossed the papers up to the soldiers who threw coins to him in return. The GIs were greatly amused by this little figure standing on the platform, clutching the huge stack of newspapers in his arms. They waved and teased the boy.

The Japs are comin' to get you, one soldier taunted.

Such teasing was a welcome change from the cruel epithets the boy's father uttered, branding him inferior, stupid, and wicked. More often than not, what began as verbal abuse quickly escalated into physical attacks. One of Rudolph Sr.'s favorite weapons was a branch from a cottonwood tree. Lee froze with fear whenever he heard the harsh snap of the limb, for Rudolph Sr. wielded his whip with uncanny accuracy, able to extract the maximum pain, leaving huge welts on his arms and legs.

The boy was so ashamed of these beatings that he could barely bring himself to take off his shirt at night. After one particularly bad whipping, Lee's brother Donald came into the room while Lee was undressing. One look at the wounds, and Donald told him they looked like a road map.

A map was exactly what the boy dreamed of, a secret map that would lead him not to a buried treasure but to safety. The few odd jobs he was able to find provided only temporary escape, since he always had to return to the front lines to face the enemy.

Where've you been, little bastard?

Working, Papa.

Oh, yes, working, said Rudolph Sr. in a mocking tone. Come over here and let me see your ugly face.

Lee approached cautiously. His father looked at him, smirking. Yes, you're a worker, all right. A big man now. So where's your money, eh?

Lee was trembling, unsure whether to smile or cry. Perhaps, today, he would get off easy with just a tongue-lashing. He took the coins from his pocket and handed them to his father.

"Ahh, I see he pays you well."

Who, Papa?

"Your boss, the devil. You do the devil's work, don't you?" Rudolph Sr. slapped his face, and the boy ran outside and hid.

Despite the stinging pain, he was thankful he wasn't bleeding. This had only been a skirmish, not an all-out assault. That, he realized, would probably come later, after dark, after his father had a few drinks at the saloon in town. That was when the real battles began, either sneak attacks or direct invasions. For Lee, the nights were always the worst.

*****

In the spring, Marie gave birth to a son, Richard, and there was great excitement in the Torrez house, despite the obvious burdens resulting from another mouth to feed and the limited space of the family's shelter. The children clustered around their mother to see the new baby. Lee, too, was excited but also sad, for it meant his mother would have even less time for him now. He often felt like a lost child in a crowd, as if he were slowly becoming invisible. It seemed the only one who noticed him was Rudolph Sr. Whatever comfort or love Lee longed for would have to come from inside himself. It was a scary realization for a six-year-old, especially when he felt so empty inside. Crying was his only release, but when he stopped, there was still a dull, lingering pain.

Lee found himself drifting steadily away from the family, spending more and more time wandering the streets of Gallup. Sometimes he would accidentally bump into a stranger and experience a flash of panic, thinking it was his father. He would run as fast as he could from the startled pedestrian, as if the devil were pursuing him, right on his heels, breathing down his neck with a fiery tongue. The faster he ran, the stronger he felt. Something inside him told him to run, and running made him feel strong.

*****

Selling newspapers gave Lee an opportunity to confront the strange hieroglyphic headlines: Jap Citizens Rounded Up in San Francisco; Rommel's Tanks Battle in North Africa; Nazis Attack Stalingrad. Since he only knew how to speak Spanish, English words were completely foreign to him. He was baffled by the bold letters and wondered how anyone could make sense of them. Maybe, like him, they just looked at the pictures. Lee was fascinated by the grainy photographs that appeared on the front page, pictures of US planes dropping bombs, wounded ships sinking amid billowing black smoke, and soldiers wearing funny helmets, holding guns—fierce-looking men, unlike the recruits who gave him coins.

All the cameras seemed to be focused on the war. And with things so disturbing at home, Lee easily became convinced that the war would soon break out in Gallup. He imagined enemy tanks rumbling through the town with their long barrels blasting. Or snipers aiming at him from the cottonwood trees, men in strange costumes trying to kill him.

Blackouts terrified Lee. At night, families kept black shades on all the windows so enemy planes couldn't see their houses. He was sure the bombs would start falling any minute. At first, Lee believed their little house was the enemy's main target, though he couldn't understand why people he didn't know wanted to harm him. It made no more sense than his father's anger. The world, he was learning, was a very mixed-up place.

The enforced blackouts provided Rudolph Sr. additional opportunities to torment the boy. For instance, a visit by Lee to the outhouse after dark was fraught with danger. He would nervously search the skies for enemy aircraft; then, returning to the unlighted house, he would open the front door, and Rudolph Sr. would leap out to scare him.

It was an odd game his father loved to play—lurking in the shadows during blackouts. And Lee was the perfect victim since he never failed to jump like a jackrabbit. This reaction usually produced a belly laugh at Lee's expense. At times, he frightened the boy so badly Lee would have to return to the outhouse, risking another surprise attack.

The rules of the game could change without notice. What might one minute reduce his father to guffaws could the next trigger a slap, a kick, or a painful squeeze. Rudolph Sr. didn't cut his fingernails but kept them long and sharp. He would grab Lee by the arm and dig his nails into his skin until he screamed, leaving scratches up and down his arms.

The visible injuries, however, were nothing compared to the unseen scars.

*****

Wandering around Gallup one sizzling hot day, Lee sought relief by standing in the shade of a movie marquee:

Now Playing

Red Ryder & Little Beaver

in

Cheyenne Wildcat

Starring Wild Bill Elliott as Red Ryder with Bobby Blake as Little Beaver

He had never seen a motion picture, although he'd heard about them. The pictures were bigger than real life, he'd been told, and they moved. He couldn't imagine a picture moving. His father told him it was a trick of the devil.

Lee glanced at the black-and-white photographs in the glass display case, a handsome cowboy atop a black horse named Thunder. And in another photo, there was a young boy—not much older than himself—riding with the cowboy. And there were pretty ladies too. From inside the theater, Lee heard the muffled soundtrack, galloping horses, and gunshots. The commotion was exhilarating. He was desperately curious to see the actual pictures come to life and move.

A glance at the ticket booth revealed a sour-faced old woman counting coins. Lee watched as she deposited them into a green tin box. Then the door to the booth opened, and she stepped out. She stared down the street into the sunlight, sighed, and wiped her brow before turning and disappearing through a side door. The woman hadn't even noticed him. Lee saw his opportunity. The theater doors were wide open, guarded only by a thick, tasseled rope draped across the entrance.

He slipped easily beneath the rope and crept down the dimly lit corridor. Hearing a noise, he ducked into a tiny alcove by the restroom, just in time to avoid an usher with a broom. As soon as he passed, Lee continued in a half-crouch down the hall, enjoying the alien feel of the carpeting, having never before walked on anything but bare floors. The cushioning of his footsteps thrilled him—made him almost giddy. He took a deep breath and inhaled the odor of the theater—thick and heavy like a dusty, old blanket, a wonderful smell mingling with that of fresh popcorn. He knew he'd found a very special place, like somewhere in a dream.

His journey ended at a dark-paneled door with a small, rectangular window near the top. A fiery light flickered through the glass, which was too high up, even on tiptoes, to look through. He held his breath as he opened the door a crack, unleashing a blast of gunfire into the silent lobby. Heart pounding, he dashed inside and took the nearest aisle seat. He was safe now.

The theater was nearly empty, maybe ten people sitting down near the front. Above the heads of the audience lay a mammoth movie screen with its shimmering light and, yes, actual moving figures. There was a giant cowboy with a big black hat and shiny holster—Red Ryder on his horse Thunder, kicking up clouds of dust that, like magic, drifted up into the beam of light from the projection booth. He ducked as the horse reared. Although the film's landscape looked remarkably like Gallup, the scale made it seem fantastic. He sank down deeper into his seat, letting the light and magic wash over his body like a healing wave.

Although Gallup was a small town, it had three movie theaters at the time. The Navajo provided Lee's introduction. It was like he'd fallen down a tunnel into Wonderland. All the popular westerns played there, featuring Wild Bill Elliot and Robert Blake, Tex Ritter, Sunset Carson, the Durango Kid., etc.

Once he'd found it, he couldn't stay away, sneaking inside almost every day, switching theaters, enjoying double bills. Sometimes he gained admission by telling the usher he was there to pick up his brother. Once inside, he always chose a seat next to someone so it looked like they were together.

Lee watched the images unfold on the screen, wanting to memorize every action, every sound. He felt the first pangs of a growing desire—he desperately wanted