by RLB Hartmann

Chapter One

Sonora, Mexico, 1893.

     Leaving Los Pobres for the first time in his life, Ramon settled his mother's worn satchel more comfortably between his feet and looked back.

     His village of adobe and thatch, and a few red-tiled roofs, seemed to move away from them.  The deserted mission, screened by a fringe of yellow-blossomed paloverdes, grew small.  In the bend of the wide, dusty road rose a sloping hillside.  In a niche on the hillside was his house, also growing small.

     To his left, beyond the village set in its well-watered valley, rose great brown hills.  Past the hills, there were low purple mountains with jagged ridges.  To his right beyond the house lay the other half of the plain, and beyond that lay more distant, more rugged, blue peaks.

     One wheel of the ox cart rolled over some rock, jouncing him against Mama, and he clung to the wooden crate on which they sat.  Clutching her corner, she turned to him, smiling, gray eyes bright with excitement.  She wore her best dress and the dark blue rebozo that Francisco had bought her for the trip.

     The broad back of the driver blocked Ramon's view ahead, though on either side, desert reached into more hills followed by other mountains.  "How far to Cucurpe?" he asked.  It was their first stopover.  From there a stage would take them to Nogales, which Mama had said was his father's boyhood tierra.

     She tucked a wisp of her fair hair under the edge of the rebozo.  "We should be there two days after tomorrow."

     He stretched one leg, finding room for his foot beneath the driver's bench, and admired his new black boots.  Highly polished this morning, they were already marred by the fine dry dust.  He reached down and attempted to brush it off.  Uncomfortable in the May heat, he took off the short jacket to his black linen suit and laid it across his knees.  They had put on their best clothes for the departure, in case, Mama said, villagers had gotten word of their leaving and came out to watch.  As he'd never met anyone from the town which he could see from their front door, he had been eager for that; but the cart with three outriders for safety had picked them up at the base of the hill and no one bid them buen viaje.