The Suburban Frontier

Prologue

Rancho Escondido, Coahuila, Mexico

It began innocently enough four years ago, on a Mexican summer night at the headwaters of the Rio Escondido. We’d built a little fire, Mom, Elena and I. Elena was eight back then, I was fourteen. Some people thought I was of sound mind in those days. Some didn’t.

I’d named the hidden limestone-surrounded swimming hole on Rancho Escondido, el Lugar del Sol y los Sueños—the Place of the Sun and Dreams. We were spending another summer on Rancho Escondido outside of Morelos, Mexico, only thirty-five miles across the border from Texas, our other home. I liked to pretend it was the wild times of the 1880s, but it was 2013. It could still be pretty wild.

We’d eaten tacos and made s’mores and drank fruit sodas. The horses grazed on the little glade behind us; frogs croaked and chirped their presence. The ultramarine sky stretched above, banded with streamers of blue-white clouds and lit by the half-hidden crescent daughter of the stars. Still waters reflected the evening sky. The little nest among the mesquite and sage, willow, and blackjack oak was my favorite-most hideaway.

I charge you with a quest, said Mom with a teasing tone, but serious too. She was speaking English, and we followed her lead.

"Like in The Lord of the Rings," I said, the idea piquing my interest. It was a family favorite.

Not that intense, I hope, she said with a chuckle, but as important, to your heart, anyway.

And? I asked with a hint of cynicism, a natural trait I’m afraid.

Solemnly, deepening her voice, she said, There are three treasures of unimaginable worth you must seek, possess, and retain at all costs.

Mom could be a little melodramática. Elena was all eyes and ears. Heat lightning rippled high across the northern sky, a false promise of rain for the parched land.

"I assign you this task Aldonsa del Campo. Only you can archive this quest." The campo was the endless rangeland I loved so deeply. Laying it on kind of thick, I thought. Any hints on what these valuable treasures might be? There was my cynicism again.

Oh yes, she muttered, tossing a stick into the fire, sending orange sparks spiraling. The first you were born with, but it must be held on to. The second will be drawn to you, and the third you possess, but must find.

How will I…

You’ll know.

That’s it for the hints? Not much to go on.

Dime con quién andas, y te diré quién eres—Tell me who you spend time with, and I will tell you who you are. That’s another hint, she added.

I had not a clue what my near future was going to throw at me or of the adventures during my quest for those three treasures. But something told me, like most of my life, it would be anything but ordinary.

1

Rancho Escondido, Coahuila State, Mexico; just another workday

Four years had passed, and I was still looking for those three treasures. Maybe they were just mythical.

I had always known where I was supposed to be. Rancho Escondido was a place of paradox. A hot, dusty, cold, wet place, far from anywhere of consequence, yet the most essential place of all. It was an unforgiving place where mistakes could be fatal, but it could offer beauty and delight in exchange for some sweat and a little blood. It was give and take…you gave a great deal and took away little, in the material sense. But you could take away so much more if you persevered and weren’t too greedy. What came back could be sweet, or at least bittersweet. It was a hard land and life, but in Mexico, cattlemen were respected, for they owned property and cattle and, most of all, they owned horses.

There was a day when I was a fifth grader. Bored, I was walking the reservoir road, watching dung beetles roll their balls of cattle poop across. Yep, I was that bored. That’s when the vequeros ran a mob of eight three-year-old horses in from the campo. Range-wild, they were there to be greenbroke. The mesteños thundered straight at me through a veil of sun-yellow dust, slow-motion in my eyes. My heart raced as loud as their hooves, their massive chest muscles working with their pounding legs. Dirt clods and gravel sprayed high like rooster tails. Their eyes held fire. I spread my arms like a cross. Parting, they galloped past as I stood mesmerized. They knew me from the campo. I swear I saw recognition in the whites of their wide-open eyes.

The caporal running them yelled at me, ¡Tu niña loca!— You crazy girl!

I never felt endangered. We understood one another, the horses and me.

I gave a clutched hand arm-pump. ¡Qué guay!—How cool! It don’t get no better than this! ¡Monta como el viento!—Ride like the wind!—I shouted vaqueas’ moto back.

Going on fifteen I managed to touch the edge of my quest. There wasn’t anything special about that particular November day. We rode out on the heels of dawn, a half-dozen vaqueros and me, trotting down the reservoir road all business-like with the day’s work on our minds. I was blonde, that month anyway, skinny and looked out of place with a bunch of hard-bitten Mexican vaqueros—cowboys. I had worked hard for them to accept me. In a few weeks, I’d turn fifteen, and in Mexico, that made me a woman, traditionally anyway. That was the way it was in my grandmother’s day, and it’s not much different in today’s millennial world. It was crazy I guess to American kids, but Dad and my uncles raised us this way. Mom had been ranch-raised too.

There were sweet green grass pastures to the south and west of the willow-lined reservoir, and in the south fence, there was a gate. The dirt road split to bear southwest, south, and southeast. Passing through the gate put a person on the campo—open rangeland, another place, another time. I tended to selfishly think of it as my world. I’d rather be there than anyplace else.

We split up, finding our own paths, following trails, arroyos, wood lines, whatever fancied us. Through the morning, I brought in two cows with a baying calf following one. On the afternoon ride, I found nothing and kept riding with persistence, determined to find one more stray. I didn’t want to waste the afternoon and bring in nothing. The vaqueros, they’d all find a stray or three.

The clouds were thick, but with big holes drifting over. It was comfortably cool, the breeze mind-settling and the air smelled of the second growing season, an aromatherapy. I lost track of time. I’d wandered far into the southwest tracts. Recognizing it was late and I was really hungry, I turned back. It was a long way home and would be way dark when I rode in. A pale white disinterested sun was resting amid far trees.

In the brush a soccer field’s length away I saw movement, a spot of black and white. I angled toward the cow. Dang! It bolted and went crashing through the mesquite. It was a challenge to lasso a runner in the brush. I lashed with the cuarta and dug in my heels. We smashed through the slapping limbs. I had to hand it to the horse, he was a chaser, and I gave him the reins. The cow curved to the right, leaving a horizontal dust cloud, and we followed her blazed path. Limbs thrashed us. Leaves and twigs were spraying away from us, a gray-green blur. We crashed through a wall of mesquite, ripping limbs off and thundered down the brush and cactus-strewn arroyo’s side. I threw my right arm back over my shoulder and leaned way to the rear, compensating for the steep plunge. I was breathless. Slamming into the bottom, we charged across the rocks with great bounding strides and galloped up the far side without slowing. Steep-sided, too steep. The power and fortitude of the horse amazed me. Horses can achieve a state of crazed determination. Brush lashed us. I never considered reining the animal in. We kept going full tilt, not to be outdone by a mere cow. Leaning hard on his stretched neck, I could hear and feel his heavy breaths, smelled them.

Suddenly, I was sliding back. My small frame didn’t seat well in the broad stock saddle. I was on the cantle. Grabbing the saddle horn, I yanked for all I was worth. The strange sensation startled the horse. I lost the reins. I kicked my boots from the stirrups so I’d not be dragged if I fell. Fall! Oh God, don’t let me fall! The horse was making great loping bounds up the rough slope. I flipped over his flanks. I saw an iron-shod hoof flashing at me. Blackness.

I thought I was blind when I awoke, but it was just night. There was still a thin yellow line across the indigo horizon. I went up in flames; my entire left side blazed from hip to head. My eyes were hot coals, and I was sure my head was split open. I felt like a plaster statue half soaked with gasoline and set alight. I was crumbling away as the flames ate into me. At the same time, I was bone-shaking cold.

Pushing myself up, the nausea hit, and I threw up, burning puke splattering into my lap. Everything went yellow, and I dropped onto my right side, gagging up bile until there was nothing left, but I kept heaving and quivering. I screamed. I’ve no idea what it must have sounded like, screeching through the darkness. This dwindled into crying, crying like I’d never cried in my life. Pain, anguish, and fear. I knew I was going to die. I cried until there were no tears left. I cried until the nausea drowned it out. I passed out again.

Coming to, all I could see was blurry yellow edged by blackness. It was full dark. I couldn’t see my chaps-covered legs, formless yellow and black. I wanted to throw up, but there was nothing. I was freezing on the ground-side and burning on the other. If I lay perfectly still maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much. Breathing hurt, a stabbing pain. The slightest movement sent searing fire through me. I felt as if I moved too much, even a little, I would fall apart. I knew I was broken up. I could feel bones grinding. The burning flared up, and I released a long teeth-chattering groan. It sounded so mournful it made me want to start crying again.

I tried to control my breathing. My side, arm, and shoulder burned. Long, very slow shallow breaths. Every breath was like a branding iron jammed into my left side. The pain then eased away just enough to be bearable.

The shaking started again. I was freezing. My hat was gone. Dad taught me you lose most of your body heat through the head. I had to stay warm, had to move to make myself warm. I tried to sit up. The pain shot through me, and I eased back down.

The horse. I listened. Not a sound of him. More often than not, a horse would stop and hang around after losing a rider, even return in shame. Maybe he’d be standing there at daylight. I doubted if I could even get on him. If I could still walk, I might be able to hang on to the saddle, and we could walk out. Once a vaquero, mi amigo, Miguel, with a broken leg came in hanging on to his horse half hobbling, half dragged.

If the horse was gone, then he would have headed to the stable. They’d know I was in trouble. They wouldn’t be too worried if I simply didn’t come home, I’d stayed out before. The horse showing up without me was a different matter.

I anguished over what was going on at the ranch house. I felt so bad. They’d be out on horseback, pickups, and SUVs looking for me. It was a big 14,500 hectares, and I was so small.

I didn’t know what would kill me first—the pain or the cold. Probably the cold, I thought. I cried some more, from pain and worry.

Time to get over it. Put on your big girl panties, I told myself. What’s wrong with me, how bad am I hurt? I gingerly touched my left side. Pain. Broken ribs, I couldn’t tell how many, my whole side as far as I knew.

My arm. I lightly probed with my finger. Pain zinged through me. It was broken for sure near the shoulder and above my wrist. My whole left arm was inflamed, as was my collarbone. Little wonder, there were rocks all about. It was almost five feet from saddle to ground. From my head to the ground, it was about eight feet. I may have taken a hoof too. Sticky blood with dirt and twigs made a mess of my hair. There was a gummy, burning cut. It didn’t feel deep, but the whole left side of my head ached, even my jaw and ear.

I decided not to move. It was so dark I’d only stumble around and surely fall on my face. I wanted my hat, but pain kept me from looking for it. I kept thinking of the bedroll tied to my saddle, a wool sarape and hoodie rolled up in a poncho.

I knew someone had to be looking for me. You guys can rescue me any time now. Let’s not mess around talking about where I might be.

A desire for someone to talk to surged through me. Anyone. I thought of Mom and Dad, Joaquin, and Elena. Chapis, Esperanza, and Elvia. I’d give anything to speak to my closest amigas.

Whooo?

I rolled my head to the right. It hurt. Who indeed? My voice grated.

Whooo? From close by.

¿Cuál es tu nombre, amigo?—What is your name, friend?

No answer. Owls are shy about revealing their true names, but there was an answering, Who-who, some distance away.

The pair of owls who-whoed each another or said Cú, Cú since they were Mexican owls. The mated pair would fly about, each on their own, decimating the mouse population, but constantly stayed in reassuring touch with their quiet hoots. On my nights out on the campo and in Texas forests, I’d always been at ease with their soft voices.

¿Señor Búho, puedo hablar con usted…por favor?—Mr. Owl, can I talk to you…please?

A short Who. He’d tolerate a bit of conversation.

Thanks, Owl. I’m Aldonza Krause, and I’m from Texas, like my dad. My mom’s from here, Morelos. You got time for my life story? I spoke Spanish so he’d understand.

No answer. I guessed I’d better not bore Owl. What can we talk about? I was laying there on a piece of ground I truly loved, the campo. By any rational thought, I should hate everything about it. But I didn’t, not that I wanted to be there all busted up and freezing. Pain lanced through me, and then it reluctantly crept away. The owl an inhabitant of this wondrous land. I figured he’d understand if I talked about it.

"I may love this place, Owl, but you can get hurt out here. ¡Híjole!—Holly smokes! I’m living proof. Anyway, there’s only one physical thing you’re allowed to keep that a cattle ranch gives you. More often you take away a little pain. A day’s work gives you cuts, jabs, pokes, burns, blisters, bruises, and soreness. Everything on the campo bites, stings, sticks, or itches."

No answer. I wondered if he’d left, bored. Owls’ wings are as quiet as a whisper.

For us kids, it’s one big adventure on Rancho Escondido, but I guess you know that, you’ve probably watched us. Well, once I learned to ride, I mean really ride like the vaqueros, showed I didn’t mind getting dirty, and wouldn’t get all weepy eyed ‘cause I was kicked or knocked on my butt, they accepted me.

Whooo.

Great, you’re still here! Well, the vaqueros accepted me, but I’ve cried a river of tears now. I hope they’ll forgive me. It was hard work, and they didn’t cut me much slack, even when I was eight and knew this is what I wanted. That’s when they took me under their wings. You know what I mean. They’d give me simple jobs and expected me to do them, and I had better do them right. I learned so much, not only about how to do things but about people…and owls and things, I hurriedly added. Most of all I learned to do the best job I could and not make excuses.

Talking hurt my throat, but I needed to hear a voice, even if it was only mine.

"The muchachos—lads—are tough. They work hard, and it’s a point of honor to be on time and stay until the job’s done. They play too, and hard. We’ll be working, and they’ll start cutting up. They’ll stop work and hold a mini-rodeo, and then it’s back to work. On weekends and the summer, their kids are out here too, working and playing along with us. They’re always teaching us kids something."

I thought about it for a while, what we’d learned.

Whooo!

I guessed I needed to keep talking. Maybe Owl was interested now.

Us kids have a blast, Owl. On trail rides, during the roundups, and hunting trips, we’re treated pretty much as equals. Around campfires, we learned to tell tales and cuss…politely, I quickly added. "We’d drink ranch coffee, play Pokar, take part in grownup conversations, and learn a rough etiquette. It all may sound rough and ready, but we learned about being as good as our word, trusting family and friends, and owning up to our deeds, good or bad. We also did all the camp chores, but it’s part of the deal."

A combination of cold and pain twisted through me, making me pause. I didn’t have to think about it as much if I was talking.

Something right beside me snarled, low and fearless. Oh God, no!

2

The worst night just got longer

My jackknife. It was in my belt pouch. I gritted my teeth, rolled onto my back, and screamed. The dog shuffled away and growled again. I was in so much pain I couldn’t get to the knife. Another dog growled. As painful as it was, I groped for a rock. There was a snarl and the scuffing of paws, a snap and then another snap latched on to my gloved hand. I didn’t pull away. It would have given me a torn wound. He released. I kicked with both legs and shrieked from pain and anger. I was gasping for breath. I felt a rock. Another rush and it had my wrist through the jacket. I couldn’t see it. I smelled it. It was as though disembodied teeth were snapping out of the blackness. I yanked back and punched with a scream. Another snap, more growls behind him. He had me again, this time higher up the forearm. I screamed and kicked. He released, and I threw the rock. Another dog nipped my boots. I kicked and shrieked as much in pain and panic as in defense.

Nothing more happened. I heard little yelps some distance away. I could hear them on the gravel of the arroyo bottom. I lay on my back, gasping, trembling, and whimpering. My heart hammered. Feral dogs were the most dangerous critters out there.

When I touched myself, I realized my right hand hurt. Great, the dog had bitten through the glove. I could tell he’d also bitten through the denim jacket and shirt on my arm. It didn’t seem too bad, just punctures. This means rabies shots! This just gets better and better. It’s winter. Maybe they’ll say shots aren’t necessary. Rabies scared me. We shot wild dogs, coyotes, and skunks on sight because of rabies. I pulled a few rocks into a pile.

Owl! ¿Está usted todavía aquí, amigo?—Are you still here, buddy? Only silence answered. It made me sadder if that could be. I guess the dog ruckus scared you off.

Whooo?

Oh, thank God! I thought you’d left me. I really need someone to talk to.

Owl’s mate answered from another direction. She was still hunting, but Owl had stayed. I was cold, and it hurt to talk, but I needed to. I was not much of a talker, but it helped.

So I came here every summer since I was eight and usually spent Thanksgiving, Christmas, and spring break weeks. I learned all the talents of the vaqueros. I thought I was tough. At school back in Cypress outside of Houston, I felt different. The other kids talked about what they’d done during the summer.

Whooo?

Those kids. Why don’t they get out and do something, learn something about life, Owl? Anyway, out on the campo someone tells me what to do and I do it. They don’t tell me how anymore. The November roundup, it’s what we’re doing now, collects up most cattle and calves in big swoops, and then we go after strays. That’s when I explore, seeing parts of the ranch I’d never seen. There is always something new on these 14,500 hectares—36,000 acres for the metrically challenged. It made me pause as I thought about in what abstract way owls might measure distances. Probably something humans couldn’t comprehend. And so here I am, I thought. Laying out there all busted up and freezing and scared.

The campo, it’s my world, and I wanted to be alone in it, although I could use some company now. The wind and I both rove across the mesquite and through the blackjack oaks, but I have an advantage. The wind can only blow one way, and I can go anywhere I wish, like you, Owl. Who has the greater freedom?

Whooo?

Are you playing head games with me? You’d better not.

Whooo?

Me silly, I have the greater freedom. You have even more because you can also fly over what gets in your way…like steep-sided arroyos. It must be awesome. Dogs don’t bother you either.

Owl became bored with me. He hooted softly. I sensed him sweeping over me low, the faintest whisper of wings. It was okay that he left. He needed to hunt, and I was used to being alone out there.

Okay, what do I have? I’m bad hurt, but I’m tough. Yeah, at fourteen, going on fifteen, I thought I was hardnosed. Heck, the muchachos—boys told me so, even if they said I was as skinny as a stream of horse piss. I cut a dashing figure, crowned by a too big John B. Stetson with chopped short, mangy fake blonde hair hanging out from under it. Being winter, I wore a sweatshirt, western-cut shirt, a way too big blanket-lined denim jacket, tattered jeans, leather riding gloves, Wellington boots, and old leather chaps cut down to my size. Yeah, I probably wouldn’t be on Cosmo’s annual cowgirl issue cover…if they had one. I had a pocketknife. It was all I had.