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~*~
Randall drove his grandfather to the small, neat prefab home near where Snow Canyon intersected highway 70 a few miles from Ruidoso and parked on the cleared area in front. Randall got the suitcase from the trunk and followed his grandfather, who was striding right along at a good clip.
He stopped at the steps, and then began looking around. Randall asked, “What is it, Grandfather?”
“The keys. I kinda tossed them at the steps when I left the other day.”
Randall wanted to keep it light, “In a hurry, huh?”
“They were calling from Whitetail, and said for me to come fast, they couldn’t stay around long.” He turned to look at Randall, “I know you’re not big on this, but things are different here on the rez, and you’ve been gone a lot of years.”
“I’m listening, Grandfather, I’m not doubting you.” He put down the suitcase, “Let’s both look. They’ll turn up.”
Grandfather bent down by the dirt at the lower edge of the step. He reached into a coffee cup-sized clump of brown grass, and then stood holding the small ring of keys. “Here we go. Come on.” He opened the door and Randall followed him inside.
“You haven’t been in this one, have you, Grandson.”
“No Grandfather, first time.”
“What do you think?”
“It’s nice. Neat as a pin, too. You hire a housekeeper?”
“Haha. I keep it this way.” He pointed at a space by the sofa, “Leave the suitcase there. I’ll put my things away later.”
Randall did, then his grandfather said, “Come back here, I want to show you something first, before we talk a lot.” He led Randall to a bedroom and opened the door. Indian artifacts – Apache artifacts, lay scattered around the room and on a small desk. In the center of the floor was an old saddle.
“That saddle? It was your ancestor’s.” Randall looked at Grandfather, wanting him to continue. He did. “It was Victorio’s. When the Mexicans killed him and seventy-seven others at Tres Castillos, the Mexican scout, Juan Mata Ortiz, the devil who led the Mexican forces to them, took Victorio’s saddle and other items as prizes for himself.”
“How did you get it?”
“There you are, rushing the story like a white man.” Grandfather had a twinkle in his eye when he said it. “I will continue now.”
He walked to the saddle, knelt and touched the saddle horn. “Juan Mata Ortiz was proud of himself, and put the saddle on his own horse. Nana and the others, who were not at Tres Castillos at the time of the battle, later walked the scene and read the tracks to learn each individual story of the fight. They knew Juan Mata, and followed his sign. The Apaches dodged the military, took revenge on everyone in their path, and caught up with Ortiz months later. They forced him to dismount and escape on foot up a small hill, which was Nana’s plan all along. The warriors surrounded the hill, and then crawled up it on their stomachs, rolling large rocks in front of them so Juan Mata Ortiz couldn’t target them. He fired many, many times, but only hit rock. When the Apaches got close enough, they rushed and captured hi
m.”
Grandfather patted the saddle and stood erect, “In the end they left small parts of Juan Mata Ortiz scattered across the hilltop like so many pieces of confetti. They took his horse and the saddle with them and then it kinda got lost in the big surrender and leaving Arizona.”
“But you tracked it down.”
“Not me, but some people I know. They’re good at that kind of thing. It took them a while. You can see a couple of bullet holes in the leather, and some faded markings that are Apache.”
“Are you sure it isn’t fake? People do that for money, Grandfather.”
“People do, but not this time. Come here,” Grandfather motioned Randall to the saddle and lifted the leather blevins above the right stirrup and pointed high up underneath where it joined the saddle. There were three smears of a faded ocher color.
Randall said, “What is it?”
“What’s the name of our people? Our Apache name?”
“Chihinne.”
“What does it mean?”
“The Red Clay People.”
Grandfather continued like a teacher asking a student, “Why?”
