Wild Penance

by Sandi Ault

Frustrated, I shoved the books I wanted across the counter and put my library card on top. She took the card and swiped it in the reader, then said, “Just a minute. There’s a problem with your card.”

  “What do you mean, a problem?” Before I could get it out, she disappeared into one of the offices behind the counter and was on the phone again. I searched my memory for any stray books I might have forgotten to return, any unpaid fines I might have on my account. Nada.

  A few minutes later, she reappeared. “I don’t know what the problem was; I couldn’t find any reason for a hold on your card. I cleared it.” She zipped the scanner over my books and pushed them across the counter at me. “There you go!”

  I threw the books onto the passenger seat of my Jeep and backed out of my parking space, looking over my shoulder. Down at the end of the lane, perhaps five or six car-lengths back, a late-model Lexus sedan idled, not a typical vehicle for these parts. The car was one of those noncolors somewhere between metallic fish scale and wet sandstone. Through its smoked windshield, I could just make out the silhouette of the driver, his elbow bent as he pressed a cell phone to his ear.

  “Everyone has to be on the phone all the time these days,” I muttered, as I put my Jeep in drive and proceeded toward the exit. Living and working in remote and mountainous terrain as I did, a cell phone wouldn’t even work most of the time. The world was changing in ways that I didn’t understand.

  The drive from Santa Fe to Taos journeys through dramatically varied terrain. At one end, the Santa Fe Mountains rise up to the northeast and the City Different nestles in a seven-thousand-foot-high navel. From there, foothills roll away to the west as piñon- and juniper-covered slopes crowned with adobe palaces give way to red earth, purple mesas, and arid moonscapes marked by strange rock outcrop-pings formed centuries ago by spurts of planetary heartburn. Here, the highway travels through Tesuque, Nambé, and Pojoaque pueblos, and the descent into the Rio Grande Valley starts to level off. Wherever reservations meet the road, Indian gambling casinos sprout from the desert landscape-ranging from utilitarian temporary constructions to a mammoth casino-centered golf resort. And away to the west, high atop a precipice at the edge of the Jemez Mountains, Los Alamos stands like an android sentry, visible from as far as a hundred miles away in the clean, clear air of the cerulean New Mexico sky.

  As I drove past the turnoff to Los Alamos, I glanced in the rearview mirror and realized that the car about a quarter of a mile behind me had been there for some time. I couldn’t make out what kind it was because the bright sun reflected off its hood like a mirror, but its shape was new looking, low profile, a light color, I thought.

  I sped into Española, slowed enough to get through it without legal intervention, and then put the pedal down again across the flat land between Española and Velarde. I watched as the car behind me sped and slowed, too, always keeping the same distance between us.

  In Velarde, where the road climbed a shelf overlooking the cultivated orchards of the bottomland and the river itself, the route began to twine and curl as it wound along parallel to the Rio Grande. The sky narrowed between towering bluffs armored with chiseled sheets of stone. In the twisting turns, I lost sight of the car behind me.

  The canyon widened at Embudo and through the village of Rinconada. Chile ristras dangled from the low shed roof of a roadside fruit stand. Hand-painted signs along the road offered up a diverse menu of cultural charm: a taxidermist, home art galleries, a massage therapist, a winery, and bed-and-breakfasts. I kept checking the mirror and the shiny shadow car was always behind me in the distance, disappearing as I went around the curves and bends, reappearing on the straight stretches.

  At Pilar, the Rio Grande and the road straight through to Taos kissed and parted, and a little county road followed the river, while the highway climbed hard and fast through the mountains. I pulled over at this junction and backed my Jeep in behind a little hut that served as a rafting company in the summer, making sure the nose of my car was all the way behind the structure, out of sight. I pulled out my field glasses and got ready.

  In less than a minute, the tail sped past but the car was going too fast for me to read the plate. It was a Lexus, the same model and color as the one I’d seen in the library parking lot in Santa Fe.

  11

  Night Ride

  It was almost dark when I started riding just north of Chimayo. Redhead, the paint mare I had chosen, was my favorite from the BLM stables. She had done trail riding all her life and was strong and sure-footed. Like most mares, she had a belligerent streak, but we usually got along.

  Roy had been right: the backcountry was treacherous. Melting mountain snows had left the slopes muddy and the roads deeply rutted on each side, with perilous high rocks in the middle destined to wipe out even a high-riding vehicle’s oil pan. During the night, these ruts and puddles froze, making the raised earth ridges on either side of them as hard as concrete. We didn’t use horses that much anymore, not since four-wheel drive became the main means of transportation in the Southwest. But, unless one had the time to do it on foot, a horse was the only way to follow this fence line right now.

  Riding was one of the reasons I took this job in the first place, one of the things about my work that nourished me. In the saddle, I was someone else-half horse and half human. On a horse, there were no clocks, no stoplights, none of the rigid constraints and limitations of civilization. Instead, I felt a sense of freedom, of rugged challenge, of rightness with the world.

  My normal routine would have been to establish a base camp before dark fell and make planned forays from that point, doing the bulk of my range riding during daylight hours. In the remote country where I normally worked, I had few human interactions, and my greatest concern was survival in bad weather. In the areas I patrolled most, I buried caches of supplies and survival gear so that I could travel light. I chose the most beautiful spots for my camps because there was no reason to camp elsewhere. But for this assignment, I would try to cover the fence line first-all the way from one end to the other-so I knew the terrain. After that, I could determine where to place a base camp for the following night, in a spot where I felt it was most important to maintain an active presence. Tonight, I planned to ride just over five miles to meet the forest ranger at our appointed rendezvous site near Cañada de la Entranas, more than halfway to Cañoncito.

  There were things only a night rider could discover and report. At least half of the illegal woodcutting went on after dark, for example. A crew of men would muscle four-wheel-drive trucks into a remote area where they wouldn’t be seen or heard at night. Using a generator to power work lights, they would put their chain saws to work and quickly denude a swath of pristine forest, piling their trucks full of cut logs and vamoosing out by daylight, before being discovered. And much of the vandalism and destruction of rock art, ruins, and even fences on public lands took place in the dark, fueled by cases of beer and a lack of respect for the earth’s beauty. Poachers came to take up their positions at watering holes at night so they would be ready to bag illegal prey at first light.

  Redhead and I set out in the cold, and soon the sky became a dome of ebony pierced by the cold points of blue-white stars. A low bank of snow clouds in the east obscured the stars in that direction, while a weak quarter moon hid behind another patch of clouds directly above, leaving this isolated landscape as dark as pitch. The biting chill in the air promised to deepen as the night went on, and the dense, pungent smell of mountain sage hung like incense. There was no real trail along the fence, and occasionally a thick stand of brush or an outcropping of rock would force a wide detour from the fence line. The terrain was rugged and sloping. Surging upward to the east were the high peaks of the Sangre de Cristo mountain range. The only evidence of civilization was the ever-present barbed wire barrier that separated Carson National Forest from the BLM land I now patrolled.

  The quiet was broken only by Redhead’s steady plodding and blustering, as warm breath fogged from her nost
rils and quickly vanished into the frigid, dry air. Wherever a rock outcropping sheltered the snow from the day’s sunlight, stands of drought-stunted piñon huddled together like wolves at a watering hole ready to drink the melt. Thin tendrils of white mountain sage reached out to touch Redhead’s legs, seeking to pollinate and thrive for another season.

  My nose hurt from the cold. It was slow, tedious work, picking our way along in the dark, looking out for rocks and other hazards. My eyes had barely adjusted to the darkness. I could only make out what was immediately before me.

  Redhead was unhappy with the routine, too. She balked going down hills and tried to race going up them. She stopped abruptly several times for no apparent reason. And one of those times, like a mule, she stubbornly refused to take another step. I pushed my heels lightly into her side. “Come on, Redhead.”

  She snorted, shook her head.

  I dug a little harder with my heels and bounced my seat once on the saddle. “Getup!”

  She pawed at the ground.

  I kicked a little harder, not wanting to hurt her, but determined to give her the message that I was in control. “Come on, Redhead!” I said.

  She’d grown deaf. And apparently immobile.

  Damn, it was cold! “Okay, all right. Fine. We’ll rest a little.” I slid off the saddle.

  Redhead blew steam out of her nostrils, flicked her ears. She turned to look back at me, then, catching my mood, quickly faced forward again.

  “You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” I told her as I worked the strap of my canteen out from under where my rifle was holstered beside the saddle. My butt felt like it had been pounded flat and put in a freezer. I walked around a little, leaving Redhead’s reins wrapped around the saddle horn. She followed me like a dog.

  “Oh, you can move now, can you?” I challenged, spinning around to confront her.

  She turned her head away but her eyes watched me. I pulled off my glove and held my hand out low, palm up. She pressed her warm muzzle into it and felt with her lips for a treat. “Oh, all right.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a carrot, broke it in half, and offered it to her. She took it, and as she chewed it, I stroked her cheek, then her neck. She pushed at me with her nose, almost knocking me over, her way of showing affection.

  My joints were stiff, my muscles nearly asleep from the cold. I drank a little water, my lips freeze-burning as they touched the steel mouth of my canteen.

  After a few minutes, the chill was unbearable. “Do you think we might get on with it now, Your Highness?” I tied my canteen back on the saddle strap, then tightened her girth strap.

  Redhead nosed the ground, threw her head back, and whinnied.

  I climbed aboard. “Well, let’s go then.” She broke into an easy trot.

  As morning drew near, I had to cross a narrow, steep-sided stream. I eased Redhead down the bank into a cold cloud of mist and through the ice along the edge, and then the fetlock-deep water. As we crossed, the fog grew thicker and rose to encompass and obscure the horse’s legs, as if her massive torso were floating on a thick pool of steam. I felt her feet striking ground but I could see nothing beneath the tops of my boots. I saw the opposite bank rising sharply ahead of us and thought we had made it across without incident. But as we started back up the slope on the other side, a figure suddenly loomed up like a ghost out of the mist right in front of us, a dark cape or blanket obscuring both face and form. A man’s voice cried out in a horrible scream, “Aaaaaaghhh!” Redhead reared and bolted before I knew what was happening, and she threw me flailing into the fog as she charged up the slope. I landed hard, a stone smacking so violently against my right buttock that I could hear the jarring impact ringing in my ears along with the thud of Redhead’s hooves and the sound of someone scrambling up the slope in the opposite direction on foot and then running away. I was stunned for a moment, and when I tried to get up, I felt like I might faint. I sat groaning and rolled my weight off of my right side. The smarting emanated from a strong, tight epicenter out in recurring, circular, throbbing waves-growing more diffuse as they got farther away from the point of impact. I gave myself a minute or two before I tried to get up again, muttering under my breath, “Great, Jamaica. That’s twice you’ve landed on your backside in just two days!”

  I listened for any sign of the specter. He was long gone by now. I limped around on the icy bank of the stream a bit, testing my weight on my right side. It hurt when I walked, but I was pretty sure it would be better if I kept moving. Redhead whistled from above me and shook her head as if to say, “Let’s go!”

  “You did this!” I griped at her. “Don’t tell me to hurry up!” I groped around among the thin willow reeds looking for a limb to use for a cane. The bank was too steep for me to climb without support.

  I whistled. “Come here, Redhead.”

  She pawed at the ground and snorted. She didn’t like the slope any better than I did.

  I whistled again. She looked at me. I made a gesture, waving her toward me. “Come on, Redhead! Come here!” I was calling her like a dog trainer, in that fake-happy voice, trying to make my tone pleasant while my buttock ached unbearably.

  Redhead wasn’t buying it. She lowered her head and looked at me. She reached down and pulled with her lips at the vegetation on the ground, feigning interest.

  There was a stand of cottonwoods downstream a bit, so I staggered along the frozen water’s edge, wincing as my butt throbbed with each step. I almost stumbled over some whitened, weathered limbs lying at the edge of the water. I picked one of the limbs up and tried it-it would do in a pinch.

  I noticed a ring of stones demarking a campfire site. I pulled a small flashlight out of my coat pocket and examined the area. The mysterious stranger had evidently camped under these cottonwoods; the ashes looked fresh but no longer warm, no more than a day old. There was no sign of litter or debris, and it was a poor choice for a camp as there was no dry, flat ground for a sleeping bag. The site of the fire was the only dry spot. A downed tree trunk probably served as a seat near the fire, but other than that, the steep ascent up the bank and the close proximity of the water to that slope ruled out camping. So, why would anyone build a fire where they couldn’t camp? Especially back here where the nearest dirt track was still miles off, and the only way in was to hike or ride.

  Sweeping the area with my penlight, I spotted a canvas backpack. I picked it up and straightened, looking around, wishing I could see farther in the dark. My rifle was in the scabbard on Redhead’s saddle. I had no idea where the pack’s owner had gone, nor if he might have doubled back and was now watching me. I pressed the button, switching off the flashlight, and stood quietly for almost a minute, listening and looking for any sign of the illegal camper. I put an arm through one of the backpack straps and, using the limb for support, scrambled up the slope to my horse.

  An hour later, as I listed to my left in the saddle, I tried not to grimace when I rode up to the Forest Service truck at the rendezvous point. The ranger was leaning against the hood of the truck watching me approach. His narrow hips were pressed against the front quarter panel and one long leg was crossed at the ankle over the other. He wore a uniform coat, his hands thrust casually in the pockets. Beneath his ranger hat I saw a shadow of stubble on his handsome face. Rosa had been right!

  I leaned over Redhead’s neck and whispered in her ear as I drew her to a halt. “You be sweet and hold real still, okay, girl?” I had lashed my cottonwood “cane” behind my saddle, and I untied this and used the staff to support myself as I gingerly stepped off the left stirrup and onto the soft ground. I could not suppress the contortion of my face as I felt the anguish that came with standing upright.

  The forester came toward me in long strides. He wore a worried expression. “What happened?” he asked, arms reaching to help, moving as if to gather me up.

  “Crossing that little stream back in the valley, my horse threw me,” I said, embarrassed to admit it.

  He took charge, ex
tending his right arm around my waist and holding my left forearm with the other. We walked toward his truck, almost as if we were promenading in a square dance, two by two, except that I limped on the offbeat. Redhead followed us, a few paces behind. At the truck, he opened the door and then watched as I awkwardly tried to turn around. He startled me when he reached out with both hands and lifted me by the waist. Our eyes met as he gently eased me into the seat. “I’m sorry,” he said, his face full of concern. “I probably shouldn’t have…” His eyes were a warm green-flecked brown color, with small crinkly lines at the corners.

  “It’s okay, “I said. “But my horse-”

  “I’ll get her in the trailer with mine. You just make yourself comfortable.”

  I felt my poor backside throbbing and I was cold and tired. It had been a wretched night. I was too numb and sore to protest, so I just watched with pleasant surprise as he took a blanket from behind the seat and began tucking it in around me. Redhead looked at me over the ranger’s back as he bent over. She was flicking her ears, which usually meant she was excited. That made me grin.

  The man had a healthy look about him. His face was roughened a little by wind and sun, and his prominent brow was dressed with thick eyebrows that almost met over the bridge of his slender nose. His eyes were deep-set beneath that brow, and his long, thin face was set off by a strong jaw. There was a small white scar on his chin, and another narrow one under the outer corner of his right eye, adding some masculine character to what otherwise might have been called a pretty face. He was too good-looking for me not to notice, no matter how much my bottom hurt.

  “You sure there’s nothing I can do?” he asked. “Maybe you’d let me take you someplace warm where we could get some breakfast while we exchange reports.”

  “Okay,” I said, “I could use a decent meal and something hot to drink.”

  “Let me just see to your horse,” he said, “and we’ll get on the road.” He grabbed Redhead’s reins.