The Pot Thief Who Studied Billy the Kid (2 page)

Just the thought of that narrow
est
part of the path made me break out in a cold sweat.

2

Unless I
want
ed to
sp
end
the rest of my life in a cliff dwelling, I had to f
i
nd th
at
path and follow it.

But I wasn’t going to risk it at night. And I
wasn’t going to sleep next to a partially open
grave. So I filled the hole
and gently
packed down the soil
. I don’
t know any prayers for reinter
ment, but I said what came to mind and meant every word of it.

I had
my first aid kit,
water,
matches, a flashlight and a warm jacket with a pocket full of
chorizo
. It wasn’t everything you’d take on a wilderness c
amping trip, but it was enough.

I also had
a
large gunny sack
. I didn’t get to carry a pot or two home in it as I had hoped, but it did come in handy in several ways.
My final piece of equipment was the
rebar, one end of which
had recently poked a human hand.

I thought about tossing it over the ledge into the Rio
Doloroso
.
But the way my luck was running, it would probably imp
ale some
wilderness trekker asleep in his tent.
I didn’t need that on my conscience, so I just stuck the thing in the ground, evil end first.

I rolled the jacket up for a pillow and bedded down
behind
what remained of a rock and mud wall. Maybe the prayer had cleansed my mind because I dropped off to sleep almost immediately.

The first time I woke up,
it was because of the cold.
I put the jacket on. The gunny sack was not substantial enough to make
much of
a pillow, but at least
it saved me from
hav
ing
to sleep with
my head directly on the ground.

The second time I woke up, it was
because of the rustling sound.

There was no wind. Something was moving through the brush. And getting nearer. I pulled the rebar out of the ground. Let it be a s
kunk
/font>
, I thought, although it was
making
way too much noise
to be one
.

A skunk would be o
kay
. Even a bobcat. They seldom attac
k
humans. Just not a mountain lion. Or worse, a badger. A
b
adger would
p
robably bite through the rebar
befo
re bulldozing me off the cliff.

It was just a few feet away. I could hear it panting. I raised the r
e
bar above my head just as
it
broke into the clearing and lept at me.

I
t
would’
ve served him right if I’
d brained him with the pi
ece of iro
n
.
He didn’t bark to scare away the car thief, and he didn’t bark to
let me know he was approaching.

He’s probably a mix of Irish setter and border collie
.
I
suspect
he’s
also
part anteater. I don’t think they bark. It would also explain the long neck that sags down and sways to and fro as he walks.

Despite the start he gave me, I was glad to see him. His
feathery wagging tail and b
ig sad eyes were
part of
it. But the main reason was that
Geronimo’s
arrival confirmed
the path was still there and passable. He mpe"ssable.ay be part anteater, but he is certainly not part mountain goat. If he could make it down the path, I could make it back up.

He inhaled
t
he
chorizo
I gave him then started digging at the soft dirt I had tamp
ed
down. My explanation about the
Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act fell on deaf ears
. See what I mean about him never listening to me?

S
o I
put
a
heavy
rock
on top of the grave
.

I guess I’ve seen too many old westerns because the sight of the
rock
put
me
in mind to
construct
a crude cross
from
two limbs and
push
it
in
to
the
soft
ground
be
hind the rock.
Then it occurred to me that someone
born here five hundred years before Columbus was unl
ikely to have been a Christian.

I fell asleep thinking about what object or symbol might be appropriate for the grave.

And awoke for the third time to the sound of another critter coming down the trail.
I have only one dog, so the same thoughts
as before
ran through my head except for the bear my overwrought imagination added to the mountain lion and the badger.

It was noisy and moving slowly.

And dragging a chain.

A chain?

On a cliff over the Rio
Doloroso
in the middle of nowhere
?

I tried to imagine what it could be.
The ghost of grave robbers past? The
angry
spirit of the
corpse
I had impaled
?

Geronimo whined and scooted back against the cliff. I joined him. For all I know, I was also whining. I was giving serious consideration to taking a running leap into the
Rio
Doloroso
if a bear or mountain lion appeared
.

I figured there were two possibilities. The river would be dry, as it
frequently
is
in late summer
, and I would go splat on its rocky bed. Or I might land in water
deep enough to survive the fall.
Since I can’t swim, I would drown. Both options seemed preferable to
being eaten alive by a bear or mountain lion.

And what more appropriate place to die than one named
doloroso
?

But it was neither a bear nor
a mountain line.
It was a
young
coyote dragging a chain attached to a trap clamped on his left front foot.
I suppose he was young enough that his bones were still supple
. T
he trap had not broken his leg. But it had done major damage.
There was a lot of blood on his leg and quite a bit on his muzzle.

S
tories of coyotes chewing off a foot to escape a trap are pure myth. He
had
blood on his muzzle because he had
lick
ed
the wound, not
because he had
attempt
ed
self-
amputation. How he managed to pull the
s
take out
o
f the ground I don’t know. Maybe the id
i
ot who set the trap didn’t anchor it properly.

I tossed a
chorizo
to
him. He sniffed at
it. He looked up at me with what looked to be a quizzical expression. Then he ate the
chorizo
.

He looked down at his leg then up at me. It’s tempting to say he wanted help, but I don’t believe coyotes see humans as helpers. The Wildlife Service kills over six thousand coyotes
in New Mexico
every year by trapping, snaring, shooting,
poisoning
and aerial gunning.

Yes, aerial gunning.
They shoot them from
helicopters and small planes
. Keep that in mind the next time you see one of th
o
se highway
signs
that
read
,
“
speeding enforced by aircraft.”

One moment you
’re
motoring down the interstate. The next you’re taken out by an air-to-surface
missile
.

of
 

3

Susan
nah said, “You look like death—
”

“I know, ‘warmed over’
.
”

She shook her head.
“No. You look like death
before
it was warmed over.
While it was still cold
and clammy
.
”

The margarita in my hand was the best thin
g
I’d ever tasted. Funny ho
w
a near-death experi
ence
makes you savor even the smallest pleasures.