by BJ Mayo
I headed to the house in my service vehicle. All I really needed was my backpack and the bare necessities for a night or so. My little note to Beatrice just said I would be gone for a couple of days. As much as I was gone, I doubt she would miss me, even if Birdie was not in the driveway.
The stop by the station on my way out was mighty short and fast, staying only long enough to pop my head into the Captain’s office. “Gonna take two days of vacation Captain.” Captain Burris, deep in conversation on the phone, acknowledged my request with a wave of the hand.
The drive to Mount Theresa was forty minutes. It was the tallest point in the country close to Spring. It was the same mountain that I climbed while investigating the kidnapping and murder of Theresa De Lagarza. There was an all-out multi-county manhunt for the deadly Mexican bandit Gato Montez. All the reports coming in on the wire said he kidnapped her in Mexico somewhere close to the border and somehow crossed into Texas with her. County roads and highways were blocked with checkpoints for several days as the chase ensued. His last reported sighting was supposedly close to Spring, and it was reported that he had taken sanctuary on top of the mountain with his hostage.
From the peak, one could command a broad view for many miles. Dust plumes brought on by vehicular traffic down dirt roads could be seen for miles without binoculars. If one had a stockpile of ammunition, food, and water, one could stay on top of the mountain for a long period of time. Of course, one could also be shot at from a helicopter.
There was no sign of Gato Montez and his hostage when I finally made my way to the top the first time on the north face trail. If he was up there on top, he truly had the tactical advantage in daylight so it took a while to get up on top without being seen.
Theresa De LaGarza was later found on the north side of the Rio Grande six days after the manhunt started. Her head had been smashed in with a rock or a gun butt, her throat slit, her body lying naked on the bank of the river. Gato Montez vaporized into thin air, most likely back into Mexico, and was not heard about again. There were a few rumors here and there that he might have been killed, but there was no way to confirm that. Merle was always quick to spread those rumors. The juicier the better. When the Spring townsfolk heard about the death of the young Mexican woman, someone started a petition to have the mountain named after her. The petition took off like wildfire, and soon there were well over five hundred or more names on it. The matter was brought to the city council and then to the mayor. Sure enough, once the county officials signed off on it, it was done. I always found it interesting that it was not named after the mayor, as much as the man thought of himself.
Making my way southeast out of Spring, I was eyeballing the mountain in the distance all the way. The closer I got, the more it loomed. It was not a big mountain, compared to the Rockies or those in the Gila. Still, it stood quite alone and impressive on the rolling plains.
As I approached the last cattle guard, the mountain stood ahead. It amazed me how much it looked like an old volcano with a flat top. All of Birdie’s gauges looked good when I stopped her to take a leak in the powdery dust on the old road.
The last mile was arduous. The two-track trail was just that. Of course, most ranch roads in this part of the country were never manicured. Ranchers seldom took time to doctor them up other than to lob cut an occasional small mesquite bush directly in the tire track. If the tree would not tear up anything under the truck, they usually centered the front tires over the bush and kept moving. The small mesquite scrub in the tire paths indicated no traffic at all for some time.
I was careful to center Birdie’s front tires over the small mesquite, like the ranchers do. Though not high, they were full of long thorns that could puncture a tire. It was the same kind of mesquite thorn that Gato Montez, the Mexican bandit, was rumored to have cleaned his teeth with. He was said to keep it in his hatband when it was not stuck between his front teeth.
It did not look like there had been any vehicle activity for a long time and I was in no mood to deal with human interruptions. That went on enough in day-to-day work: people who killed each other, ran over one another, burned, raped, or cut each other beyond recognition. The one thing I did not want or need right now was more people.
Approaching the base of the mountain, I saw the steep winding trail up the north face and the scattered large boulders off the trail. Although the mountaintop was only a few hundred feet above, it was not easy to traverse. Besides being a rattlesnake haven, there had been more than a few mountain lion sightings there, mostly thought to be young males out of Mexico that were venturing out on their own when their mamas made them leave. They usually did not leave their mother’s side for at least a year and a half. When they did, she could no longer protect them from the large males. Rather than stay in the area, they often ventured north to Texas, foraging on anything they could catch. Being hungry, these were of particular danger, always hitting from the back and usually the neck. A fella would not know they were got until they were got. Even though they only weighed about one hundred pounds, it was all muscle, claws, and teeth. Not many folks survived their attacks.
I parked Birdie and checked my backpack and limited supplies. Essentials were a full canteen of water and six bottles of drinking water. My little propane stove was no bigger than a coffee can. Dried food packs could be mixed with small amounts of water and heated in a tin kit. Then there were the sweet peppermints and several chocolate bars. Bags of dried fruit were a mainstay, being both light and easy to carry. My little nylon pup tent had a top vent with rain fly on top. With my Army Surplus rollup sleeping mat, blowup pillow, and fabric foil blanket, I could remain relatively comfortable for short periods of time.
As always, I checked my service revolver and gun belt, making sure the pistol cylinder was full and the gun belt had thirty rounds of ammunition in it. Besides the water, a rainproof, lined windbreaker was the second most important thing in my backpack. You can get by without food for a while, but you cannot do without water for very long. About the only smart thing my Pa ever said was: “During a rain, keep a warm hat on your head and a jacket that will keep the rain off of your back if you don’t want the pneumonia.”
Locking Birdie, I patted her on the hood as I swung my backpack. “Guard the trail, girl, and don’t get ate by the coyotes. I will be back in a day or so. If I don’t, come looking for me.”
The best I could remember, the first time up took over an hour. Of course I was moving slowly hiding behind those rocks and all. It was not my desire to be shot from above by a fugitive.
The early fall was always my favorite time of year. It was a familiar saying in these parts that there is summer and then there is winter. Blistering hot summers with barely a breath of spring. The sultry hot summers rarely faded into a pleasant fall. You looked up one day and the sky was dark blue in the north, with wind and sand blowing in. I have seen it come as a dust storm, sprinkle, sleet, and snow, all in the same day. The storm turned the snow a brown tinge to it next to the cotton fields. Most of the time, the winters were long and hard. Cotton and I had investigated many black sleet deaths, with rain turning to a killer layer of thin ice on the blacktops. You could not see it until you were on it. Once you were on it, it was too late if you were traveling fast, which most folks do. The best place to be when they hit is by a nice, warm fire.
I could hear the wonderful sound of the sandhill cranes that were migrating back into the area. Shielding my eyes from under my hat brim, I paused to see if I could spot them. Finally, I was able to make out several formations coming in from the west. They were heading to fields of recently harvested hay grazer or sorghum. Cotton had always admired the tall, gray birds when they were in flight and occasionally stopped to glance them over with his binoculars. He often commented how they knew to come to this part of the world from a place as far as Siberia. The timing had to be just right, to leave Siberia before the brutal winters set in, and arrive here, where by their definition winters were mild. It always amaze
d him see them and the journey they just made and would continue to make for millennia.
I smiled at the birds and thought about Cotton. “Them things are not good to eat,” he would always say, when they began to appear in the early fall. “One of the boys shot one, you know, and Maude chicken-fried the thing. We were able to eat the breast, but them legs was like eating a piece of sinew. You know she will cook any and all things them boys hunt. Always had. Why, she chicken-fried up some of those African guineas a fella was selling for grasshopper and insect control.”
I had heard the same story many times, sitting on the side of the road with Cotton, windows down, drinking thermos coffee. As soon as the cranes flew over, out would come the same story, Cotton’s jowls jiggling and his smiling, warm eyes. Alfie could imagine Maude’s willingness to cook anything the boys brought in. Cotton said she drew the line on a possum or an armadillo. “Them things are nasty and the armadillos have leprosy. We are not having none of those two, so don’t bring them to my house because I am not cooking them,” she told the boys.
About halfway up the mountain, I stopped to rest on a flat outcrop. Birdie was easily visible sitting below to the north, holding down the fort. To the east, I caught movement. A coyote was chasing a dove fluttering on the ground. You could see the distinctive white undercarriage feathers prominent on the white-wing doves that were in the area. She was playing an age-old game of deceit. Feigning injury, she would draw the coyote away from her nesting area. She would have to be careful, as the coyote was cunning and quick. Finally the dove took to the air, with the coyote looking somewhat hapless. Undeterred, he continued in his search for food heading east. Perhaps utilizing the west sun to his advantage while traveling and hunting east. Sometimes a pile of dove feathers indicated the feinting did not work. I always wondered how the doves learned this trick to protect their young. Taking a quick sip from my canteen. I wiped the sweat off of my forehead under my hat brim.
The last half of the trek upward was not eventful, with no more rest stops. One step in front of the other, my burning calves crying out, but the workout felt good. The last fifteen feet funneled up through a crack in the top boundary of the plateau. The gap was much narrower than I recalled. Cautiously making my way upward, I pulled myself along on the cracks in the sidewall. It looked like a mighty good place for a rattlesnake to hide, but they they might not be up this high. There was a tale about some rancher finding a snake den close to the top, but that never put much faith in that.
Finally, I pulled my way to the top. The view from the top of the flat plateau was breathtaking. Remembering the stories I had heard since I was a boy about how by the Comanche used it because they could see for miles in all directions, and it was easy to defend from on top. But once you were on top, you would be in a strictly defensive position, and without plenty food, water, and ammunition, the adversary could simply wait you out. As far as I could tell, there was no wood to burn up there. It did not matter how well-provisioned you might be on top. Whoever controlled the bottom would be victorious.
Supplies could always be relayed in. On top, no such hope. There was not enough vegetation to set fire to the bottom and burn someone out on top. If you did not want to try and take them by force, the only option was to wait.
With only an hour or so of daylight left, it was time to set about getting camp set up. There was no firewood on the top of the mountain, so a fire was out of the question. It would not take long to set up my small pup tent.
The telescoping tent poles were usually easy to stick into the ground, but the ground on top was mostly rock. I made do by gathering four rocks for each corner, and placed the tent poles in the center. Once the tent was erected, I wedged a rock on top and against each corner tent-pole stake. Even though it was small, it looked like a good temporary home away from the elements. I unzipped the door and placed his backpack inside. Untying the bed mat, I laid out the small, quilted, foil blanket that Bea gave me one Christmas to take on my yearly trip to the mountains. “Don’t want you freezing up there,” the card said.
It had indeed been a mountain treasure I had used for many years. The nighttime temperatures in the mountains would drop into the teens, and sometimes when a front blew in it was close to zero. This foil blanket was not only durable, but it trapped your body heat between layers. You could basically sandwich yourself between it and sleep comfortably. Finally, I pulled the small blowup pillow out of its little sack. It was always amazing how quick a tent could become home and an instant refuge. The setting west sun could still be seen through the thin nylon tent wall. With the sun setting, I had about thirty minutes until it was too dark to see. The air was beginning to chill as I exited the tent and zipped it back up.
On the south side, I could still see the small lake house to the south where Jenna Couch’s body was found hanged. The investigation had led me to suspect that the Spring High School cheerleaders may have been involved in her death in some way. All of their parents had agreed to allow me to interview them as a group within the next two weeks. If they were involved, as I suspected, why would they hang the Couch girl? How could high school students participate in such a crime? Looking down there was of a red-tailed hawk circling below the plateau, utilizing the last light of the day for a possible quick meal of field rat. It was always amazing, watching the birds of prey float about on the upper thermals with so little movement of their wings. I remembered the conversation with a local farmer that told me when he went to running his tandem plow on the hayfield stubble getting ready to plant wheat, there might be as many as twenty or thirty hawks on the ground, waiting and watching for him to plow up a field rat or flush out a cottontail.
He said the hawks always win because of their superior eyesight. “I imagine God might have made their eyesight like the scope on my .30-06. I ain’t never seen them miss a mouse from my vantage point. Sometimes they spot ’em and flutter silently above ’em, you know. Then they tuck them wings and drop like a torpedo. It is a sight to see. Sometimes they hit them on the fly. Never seen the mouse or the rabbit win. Them hawks is awesome birds, there, Alfie. And another amazing thing, they is all kinds of hawks. I seen solid gray ones, speckled breast ones, and all kinds of colors. I used to think there was only red-tail ones, but they ain’t the only uns out there. I never knew God could make so many hawks.”
I followed the flight of the red-tail and watched as he began to hover. Suddenly the bird dropped and caught something on the ground. The shadows were getting to the point where you could make out the bird, wings outspread with her deadly claws clasped around some unfortunate creature.
The hawk took flight with something small in tow. Heading to feed her nestlings. It was good to get on top of a mountain. I was always able to clear my brain when I was up in the high country. This was not it but it would do for now. Sometimes, without all of the clutter I would remember things that popped out of nowhere.
Somehow remembering how I started to read the leather-bound Bible that Bea had stuck into my backpack before I left on my last mountain trip. That really made me angry that she did that. Ever since she started going to church. She knows how I feel about those folks, with my father and all.
I did read it a little at the campfire one night and managed to get through the first chapter of Genesis, about how God created the earth. It seemed so far out there, I just put the small Bible into my suitcase and never looked at it again.
The hawk finally flew away and I sat to watch what remained of the sunset and tried to remember the sequence of events about God creating the world in Genesis. From what I could recall, God created the heavens and the earth and the birds and animals before he created man. Why would he create animals before he created man? I had a lot more respect for the sandhill cranes and the hawk than I did for some folks. When Pa took me and ma to church as a young boy, I paid attention to the good people of the small church we attended. It was mighty easy to lose your appetite for religion, watching and listening to Pa sing in church on Su
nday and beat my mama during the week. He drank away nearly all of our food money. Then God took away Patricia.
Everything that had religion attached to it seemed to be affiliated with something bad. I saw the way them good churchwomen looked at my mama, especially when she had a bruise under her eye where Pa had backhanded her in a drunken rage. Yet he would drag us to church the next morning, after coming in drunk the night before. There were many times that I would have killed him if I’d had the courage.
The autumn moon was bright and beautiful. It was as if you could reach out and touch it. The man in the moon was as vivid as I had ever seen him. I walked back to the rock outcrop and sat, looking up into the heavens and stared intently at the bright orb. The brightness of the moon lit up the landscape below. Down below, you could see the old mesquites. They were easily defined with their craggy and sprawling limbs. Some of their green foliage still clung after the first light frost a week or so before. The first big frost would kill the rest, and the wind would blow them off the limbs soon enough. Some of these big trees were old enough to have seen an Indian or two. Now their limbs were big and long. High winds sometimes split them and sent them to the ground. They were still beautiful to behold at sundown, dark against the sky like an old man hardened over time. The cedar trees cast a remarkable shadow in the light of the moon. It was in those shadows that the night hunters found their retreat. Although I could not see any wildlife, I knew they were there. The coyote and the bobcat, with their nighttime eyes, were surely already stalking their prey, especially with the better-than-average light conditions. The mighty horned owls, anxious for a tasty field mouse, had surely taken wing. With their outstanding telescopic vision, head rotation, and gliding wings, the smaller, ever-vigilant field mice were at a severe disadvantage. Tonight, the owls used the excessive moonlight to their advantage. Straying too far from the burrow could prove fatal.
