group arrived. It was warming up. She
pointed at her hiking boots and ball
cap. “Do you want to climb Bighorn
Hill with me?” she asked Chuy. He
followed about 50 yards behind until
his knowledge of the ranch overcame
his reticence. He quickened his pace,
passed Cook and took a sharp left onto
an animal path. She followed him for
two hours up a scenic route to the
ridge. It was warm at the top. He
climbed a boulder, his ribcage rose and
fell, and he took in the view.
“Do you want some of my water?”
Cook said. The sun burned her skin, it
was hot on the mesa. He considered
the offer but scrambled down a trail
and out of sight. When she caught up
with him, he was drinking from a seep
in the rock, his face all the way into a
crevice surrounded by horse-crippler
cactus.
Then Cook realized she had only
followed her guide and not taken any
bearings of her own. She had no idea
how to get home. The bunkhouse did
not exist in her line of sight. Chuy
seemed content to stay on the hill.
“Crap, I have to go right now, I’m
going to be late,” she said, wishing in a
desperate way that he understood. She
descended a path that looked familiar.
Chuy stayed behind. After about 30
minutes, the familiar signs were gone; it
was not the same path. She was lost.
Chuy appeared on a rock a hundred
yards to her right and signaled for her
to follow. She hoped this was not yet
another adventure hike. They followed
a sheep track down a steep face and
suddenly the bunkhouse appeared.
Chuy had taken a shortcut. They were
home.
Chuy liked the arrival of the hunters
because he liked guns and shooting.
His eyes lit up at the sound of a nearby
shot and sometimes he walked off in
the direction of the kill. Few of the
hunters cared for him; they thought he
was simple and they could not commu-
nicate with him. Chuy was generally
distrustful of strangers and it was obvi-
ous. They did not like him showing up
at kills and hanging around wordlessly.
Most of the hunters wished him away,
yet they were civil.
The ranch manager stopped into
the kitchen to say she was driving to
town and would be back in five hours.
“Do you need anything?”
“Five pounds of flour, thank you so
much,” Cook said.
“Border Patrol found trace on the
road and they’re sending a chopper.
Do you want me to leave you a gun?”
the ranch manager said.
“Chuy’s in the barn or around here
somewhere, right? He’ll look after me,
I think,” Cook said.
“I’m taking my dog with me and she
would alert, but yes, Chuy will step up
if anything goes wrong. He will look
out.”
“Aren’t these illegals mostly trying to
cross and not about drugs?” Cook said.
“Yeah, I don’t think they’re danger-
ous either. Just wanted to see if you’re
okay with today,” the ranch manager
said.
“Thanks. We’ll hide in the cellar if
we have to. Seriously, we’ll be fine.
Have fun in town,” Cook said.
Cook worried once home what
would happen if Chuy were to get sick
or be injured; if anyone would seek
Cenizo
medical attention for him; if it was
given that he would die the way he
lived – respected and admired by few
for his solitary nature and ability to
abide the elements.
When Cook returned to work for
the hunters the next year Chuy was
gone.
The ranch manager said there had
been a spate of rattlesnakes sleeping in
the sun around the back porch of the
kitchen. She’d killed several with shov-
els after almost walking over them.
The third rattlesnake she killed in as
many days was a Mojave, a rare species
which possess two kinds of venom and
are fatal if medical assistance isn’t pro-
vided quickly. The ranch manager
shot at the Mojave with a pistol. Chuy
heard the shot and ran to her.
continued on page 27
Fourth Quarter 2015
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