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Julie Childs
@BBWanderer13
Lubbock, Texas
Joined December 2011
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“According to the Bible, God created the heavens and the Earth. It is man’s prerogative - and woman’s - to create their own particular and private hell.”
--Rod Serling
The link to this week’s narration for ‘Cristeros’ follows below. Please click to listen and feel free to share:
https://t.co/YoDTDOICji
The attached photograph signifies some of the background to this story. These ruins are not more than forty feet from a large adobe building to my rear, once housing Army troops during the revolutionary troubles in Mexico.
To the right and just out of frame is the Rio Grande. Across that narrow ribbon of liquid gold it is known as the Rio Bravo. If the lens was shifted slightly, you could see the spot where the audio clip occurs.
The location itself is the old Jumano settlement of El Polvo, situated next to present day Redford. In March of 2023, I was honored to be invited to the 175th Anniversary of the founding of El Polvo.
But this area has a far older history than those few years. Less than a quarter of a mile away are the remnants of an old mission, reportedly dating back to the end of the seventeenth century.
The mission was for the Topacolme settlement nearby, which in turn was there due to the river crossing known as the Vado Rojo. This crossing was assuredly used by the Ancients thousands of years ago.
For miles to either side of this point, where the ground is high enough to avoid the once mighty floods are cemeteries, are pantheons, archeological sites, middens, mortars, metates and the remnants of hundreds of camps of those same ancients who lived and died here.
For those who are interested, this is where the CBP plans to build a thirty foot wall, with no concern to the damage done and history lost.
Not to mention businesses, properties and homes eradicated, and a new category of second class American citizens will be created.
Things to think about, my friends. Things to think about…
God bless to all,
Ben
BOOK EVENTS:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
ALPINE, TEXAS Friday, October 9 Big Bend Octane Fest. I will be present to sign books and visit with my readers.
HORSEHEAD CROSSING, TEXAS Saturday, October 10. (9a-5p) Signing books, selling books and generally enjoying this historical celebration!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ben H. English
Alpine, Texas
USMC: 1976-1983
THP: 1986-2008
HS Teacher: 2008-2010
Author of ‘Yonderings’
‘Destiny’s Way’
‘Out There: Essays on the Lower Big Bend’
‘The Uvalde Raider’
‘Black And White: Tales of the Texas Highway Patrol’
‘¡Cristeros!’
Facebook: Ben H. English
Webpage: https://t.co/dRL9RoJxGW
X: Ben H. English
‘Graying but still game.’
SOMEWHERE IN THE LOWER BIG BEND:
"Mine is a rugged land but good for raising sons---and I myself, I know of no sweeter sight on earth than a man's own native country."
--Homer's Odyssey
I have been writing these essays since my first book was published in 2017, sharing my enduring passion for a land that saw six generations of my family come and go. Some were well known, some little so, but each possessed that same passion I inherited from them.
My stories have ranged across the depth and breadth of the lower Big Bend, and on occasion the other side of the river. Without that river’s existence, many of those stories would have never happened. For in truth if the desert and the mountains are the flesh and bone, the river and the major watersheds feeding into it provide the heart and arteries.
All are essential, and the creation of our area parks has helped this land remain as it once was; wild, free, unfettered and unbending, a gifted portal into a not so distant past.
But today my spirit is deeply troubled, and I write on a subject that I have no desire whatsoever to address. There will be no natural beauty or tales of endurance, no relating of lasting lessons, no joy, no awe, and no mysteries enshrouded in this magical land.
It has been a tortuous path through human ignorance, greed, bureaucratic lies, obfuscations and manipulations, and so-called ‘public servants’ at every level of government who are wholly undeserving of their chosen self descriptor.
The public they are supposed to be serving has been purposely lied to repeatedly, aided and abetted by so-called ‘news’ agencies who are usually more interested in the number of clicks on their site than in actually learning the truth.
Finally there are the contractors for this massive act of unconscionable behavior, seeding deceit and distrust with massive amounts of our own taxpayer money to alienate neighbors, fellow citizens and former friends over the morality in a quick buck.
All this for a colossally stupid project of unimaginable destruction that will do more damage to the land they are trying to ‘protect,’ than has been done before in all of this region’s recorded history.
And now it is coming to pass.
Presently those contractors are inside our national park, behaving as if they have no limits nor boundaries in their butchery of what the National Park Service has been trying to protect for over eighty years.
Along with the now forgotten promises made to land owners and their descendants who were basically forced out, stating their sacrifice would benefit generations of Americans to come. It would give all a free and unfettered place to roam, and that it would remain that way for perpetuity.
Instead, we as a people get this:
-They claim there will be no physical wall inside the park, but somehow fail to mention there will be 17.3 miles of four to six foot high vehicle barriers, all for a half dozen or so disused, grown over river crossings that could be effectively blocked off with large boulders over a length of several yards.
-Nor they did not mention the road system they envision for this construction, and that the material will come from the nearby soil of the park itself, creating ghastly gravel pits and eyesores by the score.
-They also do not make mention of the fact the NPS will likely be responsible for these new networks, at a time when the park infrastructure is as bad as I can remember in my lifetime. The National Park Service presently does not have the money nor the manpower to maintain their own roads.
-On top of this is the plan to drill numerous wells inside the park for the needed water, which will likely number into millions of gallons amid a desert where there is often not a capful to spare. The irony of ironies will be when they find the only reliable water source will be from the river itself.
-No mention was made about the damage done to the park’s paved roads. They were are not made for heavy commercial traffic, have no shoulders, no bar ditches and will be ruined by the ensuing construction traffic.
- No attention is being focused on the man camps being put inside the park itself, and the lasting damage that will come from such nonsensical, freehanded ‘development.’
-Nothing about the amount of trash, garbage and assorted junk being scattered hither and yon by hundreds of people and their attending machinery, and who will not have one iota of concern for where they are and what it truly signifies.
-There is no discourse concerning the centuries upon centuries of remnants of human life along the river, including those of a culture and language now long dead. This will be their fate, obliterated by money hungry fools for no good purpose.
-Finally the final resting places and cemeteries dating back over the past hundred and twenty years or so, all lined out along the banks of the Rio Grande. It was where they lived and died, and their markers and stones will serve nothing more than where to aim the bulldozer’s blade.
This country will never be the same again.
Ever.
The majority of people living in this area want strong border security. They understand an open border is like an open sore to any sovereign nation’s continued good health. But there are far wiser, far less intrusive, monetarily sensible and effective methods to do so.
Many people understand this, but many have also decided to sit on their hands and hope for the best. To those I say let your conscience be your barometer for the rest of your days.
For the few who will benefit from their thirty pieces of silver and worship at the altar of the all-mighty dollar, I leave you with a telling verse from the First Book of Timothy: “The love of money is the root of all evil.”
And for those others, who share in my passion and love for this singular land, and continue to fight the good fight? From the bottom of my heart, I thank you. I also caution that if you want to see the river and the land as God intended it to be, come soon or it will be too late.
And please pray. Pray hard for Divine Intervention because that is about the only thing that can save what we all love so dearly.
God bless to all,
Ben
Ben H. English
Alpine, Texas
USMC: 1976-1983
THP: 1986-2008
HS Teacher: 2008-2010
Author of ‘Yonderings’
‘Destiny’s Way’
‘Out There: Essays on the Lower Big Bend’
‘The Uvalde Raider’
‘Black And White: Tales of the Texas Highway Patrol’
‘¡Cristeros!’
Facebook: Ben H. English
Webpage: https://t.co/dRL9RoK5wu
X: Ben H. English
‘Graying but still game.’
@BenHEnglish “Cristeros” is well worth the read or the listen. In fact, I would recommend reading first then listening. No matter the choice, it’s an entertaining and interesting book.
“The Spanish called it El Despoblado.”…
This week’s audio clip from ‘Cristeros’ runs five minutes in length, and occurs in the second chapter of the book. You can listen to it by clicking on the link:
https://t.co/oJGyPuATXJ
As far as the photo, it was taken about a mile and a half downriver from where Gideon crossed the night before. Looking through and over the walls of these ruins, you can see the mighty Sierra Ponce rising from the desert floor.
Near mid-frame, the cliffs rise even higher and are marked by a cleft in the sierra’s face. Here was where Gideon first camped on his way to meet Guillermo McKenna.
As described in the story, this sierra runs from dozens of miles into Mexico, terminating near the Chihuahua-Coahuila line. In doing so, it arrows into some of the most desolate, unforgiving desert country in the North American continent.
Thing is, it hasn’t changed much even these days.
I hope you enjoy mys little blurb and feel free to share with others.
God bless to all,
Ben
Ben H. English
Alpine, Texas
USMC: 1976-1983
THP: 1986-2008
HS Teacher: 2008-2010
Author of ‘Yonderings’
‘Destiny’s Way’
‘Out There: Essays on the Lower Big Bend’
‘The Uvalde Raider’
‘Black And White: Tales of the Texas Highway Patrol’
‘¡Cristeros!’
Facebook: Ben H. English
Webpage: https://t.co/dRL9RoK5wu
X: Ben H. English
‘Graying but still game.’
SOMEWHERE IN THE LOWER BIG BEND
About forty years ago the great western novelist, Louis L’Amour, wrote a book called ‘The Lonesome Gods.’ The story itself was memorable, a haunting tale of the desert much like our own. But the title sticks in the mind for more than one reason.
When I took the attached photograph, those words came to me again. We were prowling along the lower edges of a caprock that runs north from the Rosillos, angling up and beyond to where it becomes Chalk Bluff.
This area is one most never give a second glance to, those in a hurry in their modern conveyances in a mad rush to see this massive, singular land in only a few days. The same land where others struggle for lifetimes in vain to understand.
They are always looking someplace else, or thinking of being someplace else. To them this is a great dead space, a place of desert nothingness framed by far more spectacular sights such as the Rosillos, Santiago Peak, Nine Point Mesa or the Chisos far off to the south.
But the eyes of the Ancients looked about with a far different perspective; for here was not a vacation, a getaway, a temporary distraction or an afternoon jaunt at a pace they could not even begin to imagine.
For them, everything in every direction was either an advantage or a challenge, or bits and parts of both. To survive, they needed four things: Food, water, shelter and clothing. Whatever their eyes took in, their thoughts were upon those four elements.
Along this ridge extending for miles are nooks, crannies and tucked away hideouts where they once lived, because all four elements could be found. The water is provided by seeps, small springs and tinajas hidden in spots where most of modern man would not even think to look.
These forces of water, along with wind, weather and erosion, formed enclaves and overhangs to provide the shelter. Adequate shade in the summertime, warmth in the winter from a bitterly cold wind.
Food was provided by grains and whatever meat they could hunt. Grains came forth from plants near water, as well as the meat from animals who also need the same.
The necessary clothing was made from those same plants and animals, everything needed to protect their bodies and provide further improvements to their naturally formed shelters.
Once this was all accomplished the mind turned to other subjects, such as the how and the why in being here and of one’s existence itself. Somehow and some way, the spiritual side reached out toward the great unknown for a presence one could not see, feel or hear, but remained omnipresent all the same.
Those were his gods, deities shaped in mind and spirit and worshipped in whatever way he saw fit. They controlled those four basic elements of survival, and he in turn was quick to give them credit and homage as best he could.
For without them, there would be no survival.
When one wanders these forgotten places where people once lived, one cannot help but wonder what happened to those gods once the people went away. The languages, the customs, the religious rites, their representations in either good or evil, all forgotten a millennia or more ago.
But do the essence of those same gods still remain? Are they out there someplace, whispering on the wind in an unknown tongue for their worshippers to return?
These are now lonesome places, in a parched land mostly still unknown and overlooked. Secreted spots where those four essential elements remain, along with the gods that were imagined to control them.
For they are the lonesome gods…
The Lord’s blessings upon you and yours,
Ben
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
COMING EVENTS:
-ALPINE, TX, Saturday, February 7, 2026. I will be the emcee for the 33rd Pioneer Reunion sponsored by the Big Bend Natural History Association. This is an all day affair, and details can be found at the BBNHA Facebook page or website. If you have any interest at all in the history of the lower Big Bend, this is where you need to be!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ben H. English
Alpine, Texas
USMC: 1976-1983
THP: 1986-2008
HS Teacher: 2008-2010
Author of ‘Yonderings’
‘Destiny’s Way’
‘Out There: Essays on the Lower Big Bend’
‘The Uvalde Raider’
‘Black And White: Tales of the Texas Highway Patrol’
‘¡Cristeros!’
Facebook: Ben H. English
Webpage: https://t.co/dRL9RoJxGW
X: Ben H. English
‘Graying but still game’
BOOK EXCERPT FROM ‘¡CRISTEROS!’
….Northward they traveled, weaving among low hills so rocky and bare as to make one wonder if any insect or bird could survive on them, let alone any animal. Situated in the lower spots were more earthen dikes, some containing enough water to stop and let the horses and mules drink, or take a tug at the sunburnt tufts of tall grass.
Gideon scouted ahead now while Sabino led the group, watching for signals from the old ranger or the younger Lujans to either flank. As he pulled up to wipe the sweat from his face on a shirt sleeve, Dama Aracelia called out to him.
“Teniente Lujan,” she said. “A moment of your time, if you please.”
“Sí, coronela,” he responded, waiting for her and little Lalo to come up alongside. “How can I help you?”
“That place behind us, do you know anything of it?”
“A little, I think,” he admitted. “Though I have never been this far north of the rio.”
“And?”
“From the stories I have heard, I think it was once the rancho of El Tigre,” he nodded in the direction of Gideon. “It was raided by villistas years ago, during the revolution.”
“I thought so,” remarked Aracelia. “He said something about planting the rosas blooming by the walls.”
“Sí, coronela,” he agreed. “Rosas amarillas, a traditional symbol of death. It was as if what followed was meant to be.”
She cut her head over to him sharply, now making the connection herself. Yellow roses were favored for decorating the tombs and graves of loved ones in Mexico, usually placed during the Día de los Muertos.
“Tell me teniente,” she asked again. “What happened? My brother did not know much or would not say.”
“It was during a planned raid along the river,” he began, “on Cinco de Mayo of 1916. They say nearly 200 villistas and those claiming to be villistas took part, striking at settlements on the norteamericano side. But the rancho of El Tigre was singled out by a villista commander.”
“Seven rode there with orders to leave nothing behind. Whatever could not be taken was looted, burned or killed. He was not present but his vaquero was, an old Mexican said to be good with the horses. They started with him.
“Then the raiders took the best mounts and slit the throats of the rest,” he recalled, shaking his head in disbelief. “What they did had nothing to do with the revolution, it was only an act of la venganza on the part of their jefe. They tortured and murdered that old man and burned everything to the ground.
“No one has lived there since,” Sabino concluded. “Many say the rancho is haunted, even cursed.”
“And the seven men who did this,” the dama questioned, “what happened to them?”
“El Tigre had his horses back before they crossed the rio,” Lujan explained, “while killing two of the raiders.” Sabino’s jaw set in bleak satisfaction. “The others died under his guns in Mexico. One corpse carried a note to their camp, telling the villista jefe his days were numbered.”
“You sound as if you admired his actions, even as a villista yourself,” she observed.
“I would have done the same, if I had been him,” answered Lujan earnestly. “Or at least, I would have tried.”….
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
AUTHOR’S NOTE: In an upcoming book with a working title of ‘Ride A Dark Trail,’ I tell of Gideon’s seven year personal odyssey of vengeance following the murderous raid on his ranch north of the Alto Relex. ‘Cristeros’ occurs a few years later.
The attached photograph illustrates the immediate area where Gideon caught up with the first of the Villista marauders in the early morning hours of May 6th of 1916, in an unnamed arroyo northeast of Glenn Spring.
This incident is detailed more fully in the prologue of my first historical novel, ‘Destiny’s Way.’ Some of you might remember it.
God bless to all,
Ben
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
COMING EVENTS:
-ALPINE, TX, Saturday, February 7, 2026. I will be the emcee for the 33rd Pioneer Reunion sponsored by the Big Bend Natural History Association. This is an all day affair, and details can be found at the BBNHA Facebook page or website. If you have any interest at all in the history of the lower Big Bend, this is where you need to be!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ben H. English
Alpine, Texas
USMC: 1976-1983
THP: 1986-2008
HS Teacher: 2008-2010
Author of ‘Yonderings’
‘Destiny’s Way’
‘Out There: Essays on the Lower Big Bend’
‘The Uvalde Raider’
‘Black And White: Tales of the Texas Highway Patrol’
‘¡Cristeros!’
Facebook: Ben H. English
Webpage: https://t.co/dRL9RoJxGW
X: Ben H. English
‘Graying but still game’
@BenHEnglish Thanks for posting, Ben.
PIONEER REUNION IN ALPINE TEXAS
On February 7, 2026, we will have the 33rd Pioneer Reunion, sponsored by the Big Bend Natural History Association. The BBNHA was formed in 1956, so this will also be the 70th anniversary for this enduring organization.
When first instituted, many of our speakers and participants could remember what was here before the national park, paved roads or much of anything else. As time moved on and those first voices fell silent, their descendants have remained true to their family names in carrying on this tradition.
This year, with the blessing of the National Park Service and all others concerned, we have moved the location from Panther Junction to Alpine. Some of our speakers and guests are growing older, and this allows them a significantly shorter trip with motels and other needed facilities close by.
Plus, we have basically outgrown any available room at Panther Junction. Growth is good, but we have had to turn away folks in the past.
Those in attendance always have a grand time. The event has become an extended family reunion for those who share a common denominator; a passion for the land that nurtured them, or those of their blood who came before.
I want to extend a personal invitation to anyone with any interest in attending, you will not be disappointed.
God bless to all,
Ben H. English
Vice Chairman
Big Bend Natural History Association
USMC: 1976-1983
THP: 1986-2008
HS Teacher: 2008-2010
Author of ‘Yonderings’
‘Destiny’s Way’
‘Out There: Essays on the Lower Big Bend’
‘The Uvalde Raider’
‘Black And White: Tales of the Texas Highway Patrol’
‘¡Cristeros!’
Facebook: Ben H. English
Webpage: https://t.co/dRL9RoJxGW
X: Ben H. English
‘Graying but still game’
@BenHEnglish What a place and what a near-perfect description.
SOMEWHERE IN THE LOWER BIG BEND
Like the hull of a mighty eighteenth century man-of-war rising out of the waves of a troubled ocean, this massive boulder reaches up to a blue sky in an arid land where any water is a precious commodity.
If you look closely enough, you can discern a stylized figurehead on the prow, much like the carved wooden images that decorated those fighting ships of long ago. And therein lies the tale of a spot not more than an acre or so, but outsized in natural creations that trigger one’s curiosity and imagination.
Years ago I named this place ‘The Rockpile,’ for no truer description exists to describe what has existed here through the ages. It is a veritable natural junkyard of stone, where nothing hardly grows save for the occasional ocotillo, greasewood, or prickly pear.
Roughly speaking, this supremely odd conglomeration can be divided into two categories, volcanic and an almost endless variety of petrified wood. Please study that imagined figurehead again, that is an impressive chunk of the stuff seemingly growing out of the volcanic.
Now begin to study the surrounding boulders, some of which dwarf what we have been speaking of. In sum, this is the most comprehensive display as far as size of any place I am aware of in this country.
There are the frozen-in-time trunks of trees six feet and more in diameter. But step a few yards over to another spot and you will find heaps upon heaps of splinters and fist sized remnants of the same.
In fact, you cannot see a bit of soil in spots owing to this covering. It litters the ground in layers as you walk and sometimes scramble about. Solid footing is always a premium, because there is no way known to man to fall here without getting yourself hurt. Wood is pliable and gives on impact, but what remains now has not really been wood for eons.
Each time I pass through, the complexity of the terrain leads me along a different route. Each journey wanders into a heretofore unknown personal discovery, causing both awe as well as consternation in how all this came to be.
There are landmarks to be sure, such as the one in the photograph. However, the landmarks change and reassemble themselves depending upon the heading.
This is a desert Straits of Magellan, or the icebergs off the coast of Greenland, or a moisture-starved example of the Grecian islands scattered hither and yon in the Aegean Sea. All scaled down to a miniscule few hundred yards in any direction, ready to challenge as well as to amaze.
To paraphrase Churchill in attempting to describe Russia; ‘a riddle wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma…’
That was basically his depiction of a people; the riddle, the mystery and the enigma here remains so as a result of time and natural circumstance itself and far outstrips any conceivable duration of mankind.
God bless to all,
Ben
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
COMING EVENTS:
-ALPINE, TX, Saturday, February 7, 2026. I will be the emcee for the 33rd Pioneer Reunion sponsored by the Big Bend Natural History Association. This is an all day affair, and details can be found at the BBNHA Facebook page or website. If you have any interest at all in the history of the lower Big Bend, this is where you need to be!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ben H. English
Alpine, Texas
USMC: 1976-1983
THP: 1986-2008
HS Teacher: 2008-2010
Author of ‘Yonderings’
‘Destiny’s Way’
‘Out There: Essays on the Lower Big Bend’
‘The Uvalde Raider’
‘Black And White: Tales of the Texas Highway Patrol’
‘¡Cristeros!’
Facebook: Ben H. English
Webpage: https://t.co/dRL9RoJxGW
X: Ben H. English
‘Graying but still game’
BOOKS, SIGNINGS AND TALKS
I want to thank the Annie Riggs Memorial Museum for inviting me to their 70th year anniversary this past Saturday, as well as everyone who came for this special event.
More so, I want to thank those who stopped by for a book, an autograph or just to visit. It was a time to reconnect, and to thank a few folks for their continuing support and encouragement.
A special mention in that would have to be Jonette Jeter, an enduring friend of my family. Her older brother, Cliff, was a high school classmate and I was in their home on occasion.
Jonette walked up to the table with a large handbag and plopped it down. Inside was a copy of every book I’ve written and she wanted them all signed. It was my sincere pleasure to do so, and I added a little inscription to each for good measure.
But the true belle of the ball on this day was Betty Hickman, who showed up to see how one of her long-ago projects managed to turn out. You see, Mrs. Hickman was one of my high school counselors, and worked hard to get me to apply myself in getting a military academy appointment.
However, the old adage of leading a horse to water was in full effect here, especially a young, recalcitrant, mule stubborn one. I enlisted in the Marine Corps instead, and turned eighteen near the end of boot camp.
Now 92 years old and still sparkling brightly with a God-given inner light, we sat together in the shade and talked it all over again. I thanked her for never giving up on me, and for sharing that light time and again when needed most during those trying years.
Though her wish for me never came true, the seed was planted. In the next generation, both of my sons graduated the Naval Academy at Annapolis. One went on to fly fighters for the Marine Corps and the other was a skipper on a Mark VI patrol boat in the Persian Gulf.
What they managed to do and how my own life turned out came from a spark, a spark once provided by this incredibly caring and always positive lady.
Again, thanks to everyone for coming, for sharing, for your encouragement and for the memories.
But most of all, thank you Betty Hickman.
(Photos courtesy of Julie B Childs. I appreciate all your help, Julie.)
God bless to all,
Ben
Ben H. English
Alpine, Texas
USMC: 1976-1983
THP: 1986-2008
HS Teacher: 2008-2010
Author of ‘Yonderings’
‘Destiny’s Way’
‘Out There: Essays on the Lower Big Bend’
‘The Uvalde Raider’
‘Black And White: Tales of the Texas Highway Patrol’
‘¡Cristeros!’
Facebook: Ben H. English
Webpage: https://t.co/dRL9RoJxGW
X: Ben H. English
‘Graying but still game’
Annie Riggs Memorial
Fort Stockton HS
BOOK EXCERPT FROM ‘¡CRISTEROS!’
….Beyond the pass, Cicatriz called for a short break to check saddle girths and gear. He needed to make certain everything was accounted for, as one missing piece of equipment could be their undoing. Satisfied, he allowed Rábagon to hear what they would be doing next.
“I will go ahead, to a place known as Stink Spring,” he explained. “In the northernmost part of Burro Mesa. I do not think anyone will be there, but it is best to scout first.”
“Do you want us to wait here?” asked Rábagon.
“No, keep moving slowly north,” he replied. “When you come into the large plano ahead, pick a creek bed and travel toward the mesa. You will come across a fence line. Follow it, and I will find you along the way.”
The capitán simply could not help himself. “Then we will cut the fence line, to allow us to move more directly.”
Cicatriz fell silent for a long moment before speaking again. His tone was calm and reassuring. “Patience, capitán. Much like the telephone line, if you cut the fence by tomorrow’s setting sun someone will know we are here.”
“Then we will kill whoever comes looking,” the officer replied stubbornly.
“And more will follow,” counseled the Yaqui. “Remember your mission, capitán? They would surely find us on our way back, with prisoners and tired horses to slow us down. Perhaps even a wounded man or two.”
“I do not think that will happen. Their army units will not be able to respond that quickly,” remarked El Russo brazenly.
“You forget the well-armed civilians here, capitán,” easily responded the man tracker. “Who know this land and know how to fight. All they have to do is slow us down, their army will arrive quickly enough.”
“We should have cut those telephone lines!” growled Rábagon.
Cicatriz kept a confidential tone, reassuring and measured in his choice of words. “And give ourselves away so early on? No, capitán. We may have to fight our way back to Mexico as it is, and I do not enjoy the thought.”
He paused briefly before adding, “If that happens you will not enjoy it, either. Believe me.” He looked at both Rábagon and Alvarez. “There is a trail on our side of the fence line. Use it to move more quietly.”….
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
AUTHOR’S NOTE: As seen in the accompanying photo, the fenceline described by Cicatriz still exists, running straight and true to what was once Stink Spring.
The spring is dry now and has been for several decades. It sits at the foot of the small mesa ahead, empty troughs and tanks waiting forlornly for water. Whatever moisture remaining below is lapped up by the encroaching mesquite. Soon enough, no human memory will remain as to what was once here.
But the old fenceline still serves a purpose. When newcomers ask me how to get to Apache Canyon, I explain how to use the remaining posts to guide them in.
And someday they will be gone, also.
God bless to all,
Ben
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
COMING BOOK EVENTS:
-FORT STOCKTON, TX, Saturday, November 22 10a-5p at the Annie Riggs Memorial Museum Seventieth Anniversary
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ben H. English
Alpine, Texas
USMC: 1976-1983
THP: 1986-2008
HS Teacher: 2008-2010
Author of ‘Yonderings’
‘Destiny’s Way’
‘Out There: Essays on the Lower Big Bend’
‘The Uvalde Raider’
‘Black And White: Tales of the Texas Highway Patrol’
‘¡Cristeros!’
Facebook: Ben H. English
Webpage: https://t.co/dRL9RoJxGW
X: Ben H. English
‘Graying but still game’
SOMEWHERE IN THE LOWER BIG BEND
It was a lonely, desolate spot along one of the many washes and small runs feeding into the Tornillo. Nothing in particular to draw someone to such a place; one can think of a thousand others just like it, cast about this lonesome country like stars in a moonless night sky.
But as the eye begins to work itself out, down the draw towards Roy’s Peak and the Dead Horse range beyond, an unusual sight stops the scan and the eye refocuses. A rough circle of rocks, some six to eight feet in diameter, amid the clumps of greasewood and mesquite.
Instinctively, one begins moving to one side, aiming to skirt the spectacle while still looking for other fragments to a long ago story. Then you see it, crumpled and cast aside.
The shell casing for a .38-40 cartridge. You can see the blade of my Benchmade pointing to it in the bottom of the photograph. The circle is above in the upper center of the frame.
Easing along and looking hard, one spies another casing, followed by others in a line, running either toward or away from the circle of rocks. The .38-40 was once a popular load in this part of Texas, rivaling that of the better known .44-40.
First released in 1874, the chambering was found in both handguns and long arms, most famously the Colt Single Action Army and the Winchester ’73. An examination of one of the casings reveals a shouldered primer dating back to that era.
A check of the headstamp reads ‘.38 WCF,’ the original designation for this now antique caliber.
The mind begins to speculate, joined by both experience as well as imagination. Most likely these were fired from a repeater rifle, by someone now long dead either moving toward or away from something else.
Or somebody.
Standing there, you can almost hear the shots echoing down and away, reverberating down the creek and across the McKinney Hills. The odor of black powder lingers, along with the drifting white smoke marking its use.
Not much else is found. But there are enough .38-40 casings to make one think the shooter was not much of a marksman if out hunting, or engaged in a sure enough gunfight where one is moving as well as firing.
This along with a rush of adrenaline the size of Niagara Falls, and a madly beating heart feeling like it’s about to burst. One wonders somewhat morbidly how long that heart managed to keep meeting.
The speculation continues, thinking of trails, camps, ruins and wagon roads that once proliferated the nearby area. Where was the shooter from, where was he going to, and why here?
From memory comes the story of the Petty Family massacre, which occurred somewhere along the Tornillo in November of 1884. They said Mr. Petty had a brand new rifle at that time, a Winchester ’73.
But to my recollection, no mention was ever made of the caliber.
As usual, a bunch of questions with most all the answers likely lost to eternity. Perhaps that is as it should be, for the mind needs possibilities to ponder like the body requires hard exercise to stay strong.
And I reshouldered my pack and gear and moved on, given ample opportunity to strengthen both.
God bless to all,
Ben
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
COMING BOOK EVENTS:
-FORT STOCKTON, TX, Saturday, November 22 10a-5p at the Annie Riggs Memorial Museum Seventieth Anniversary Celebration
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ben H. English
Alpine, Texas
USMC: 1976-1983
THP: 1986-2008
HS Teacher: 2008-2010
Author of ‘Yonderings’
‘Destiny’s Way’
‘Out There: Essays on the Lower Big Bend’
‘The Uvalde Raider’
‘Black And White: Tales of the Texas Highway Patrol’
‘¡Cristeros!’
Facebook: Ben H. English
Webpage: https://t.co/dRL9RoJxGW
X: Ben H. English
‘Graying but still game’
"Body and spirit I surrendered whole to harsh instructors, and received a soul."...
--Rudyard Kipling
Today, November 10th, 2025, marks the 250th Anniversary Birthday for the United States Marine Corps.
Much will be said about this during the week; fading photos will be shown, old memories stirred, and displayed mementos from far away and long ago will be re-examined.
Perhaps in the privacy of solitude, a tear will be shed for those lost along the way, both those who died far too young and the grizzled veterans taken by age and illness who once filled the ranks.
In all my years on this earth, in everything accomplished in my life and the achievements I have managed in my different fields of endeavor, one thing remains the same:
The United States Marine Corps is my one and only true alma mater. For there resides my people; past, present and future. There lies my youth, my coming of age, my foundational principles and my treasured mentors who taught me so much that can never be learned in any classroom.
So here’s to you, Mother Green. You’re a spry old gal who corrected the path of many a wayward soul, gave them purpose and turned out men that will stand in the breach.
May you have at least two hundred and fifty more!
Semper Fi ‘Til The Day I Die,
Ben H. English
USMC: 1976-1983
BOOK EXCERPT FROM ‘¡CRISTEROS!’
…“Thank you, Señor Templar.” Changing the subject she asked, “Tell me about the mirage. I have seen at sea where another ship seems to float above the horizon or disappears completely. But never anything like that.”
“You mean a fata morgana? Same basic concept, ma’am. When a cool night follows a warming day, you’ll see ‘em occasionally in this country.”
She rotated her head to him sharply. “How do you know about a fata morgana?”
“I come from seafaring folk of long ago, dama. My Uncle Nathan was a sailor before the War Between the States. He said they’d scare the wits out of some of the ship’s company. Those stories sparked my interest, so I read up on ‘em.”
“A man of the desert who thinks of the sea,” she commented, “and a student of varied subjects. You never cease to surprise me, Señor Gideon.”
“Knowledge is what the mind’s made for, ma’am,” he responded. “For me, I’ve always been interested in history. Santayana wrote that people who don’t remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”
“You have read The Life of Reason?” she questioned with real curiosity.
“Not all the volumes,” Gideon confessed. “Still have to work my way through a couple.”
“I find it interesting you can quote an atheist philosopher who manages to hold the ideals of Catholicism close to heart,” proffered Aracelia.
“Two trails can converge when coming from opposite directions ma’am, and for a while take the same way. I think Santayana appreciates the need for faith, as well as the wisdom in concentrating on common ground rather than what separates.”
“Very true, Señor Gideon. You speak not only as a learned man, but also as a wise one.”
“Don’t know about that, dama,” he confided. “Far from either, I’m afraid. But I do thank you for the compliment.”
They continued to ride beside each other, the quiet of the surrounding desert mixing with the innermost thoughts of each. It was Aracelia Mackenna who finally broke the self-imposed silence.
“You mentioned other optical illusions in this land. What else should I be looking for?”
“Well, at times you’ll know certain mountains are fifteen or twenty miles out, like the Chisos are now. But when it’s just right, that same mountain looks so close you think you could reach out and touch it.”
“What causes that?” she asked.
“Ain’t exactly certain,” he admitted. “Maybe something in the air acting like a giant magnifying glass. But whenever it happens, it’ll sure play hob with your mind and sense of distance.”
He paused reflectively, “That’s led to more than one death in this desert. I’ve seen it happen, especially when someone gets fooled and then goes into a panic.”…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
AUTHOR’S NOTE: In this part of the story, Gideon and Aracelia would have passed within mere feet of where the photograph was taken.
Many years ago, the valley was once called the Valverde. But after Max Ernst fell victim to an unsolved murder, it was renamed Ernst Basin. Running parallel to the west is the Cuesta Carlota.
To the east is the Dead Horse range. These mountains are not particularly high in elevation nor much inviting to the eye, and in the summertime can be as fearsome as any landscape found.
Study those canyons and the folds in the terrain for a moment, and you will begin to realize why.
God bless to all,
Ben
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
COMING BOOK EVENTS:
-FORT STOCKTON, TX, Saturday, November 22 10a-5p at the Annie Riggs Memorial Museum Seventieth Anniversary
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ben H. English
Alpine, Texas
USMC: 1976-1983
THP: 1986-2008
HS Teacher: 2008-2010
Author of ‘Yonderings’
‘Destiny’s Way’
‘Out There: Essays on the Lower Big Bend’
‘The Uvalde Raider’
‘Black And White: Tales of the Texas Highway Patrol’
‘¡Cristeros!’
Facebook: Ben H. English
Webpage: https://t.co/dRL9RoJxGW
X: Ben H. English
‘Graying but still game’
BOOKS, SIGNINGS AND TALKS
FORT STOCKTON, TEXAS
On Saturday, November 22nd I will be at the Annie Riggs Museum for their Seventieth Anniversary.
West Texas is full of history, and Fort Stockton has more than its fair share. An excellent place to start learning begins here. Built in 1899 as the Koehler Hotel, the structure was purchased by Annie Riggs in 1904. She operated it as a boarding house called the Riggs Hotel.
The building was donated to the Fort Stockton Historical Society in 1955 and ultimately became the Annie Riggs Memorial Museum. In 1973 it was listed in the National Historic Registry, when I was a sophomore at Fort Stockton High School.
Returning to Fort Stockton and the Annie Riggs has special significance for me, and I was honored to be asked to come.
As you can see from the schedule, we are going to have a fine time. I will be there all day long.
Hope to see and have to chance to visit with you!
God bless to all,
Ben
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
COMING BOOK EVENTS:
-FORT STOCKTON, TX, Saturday, November 22 10a-5p at the Annie Riggs Memorial Museum Seventieth Anniversary Celebration
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ben H. English
Alpine, Texas
USMC: 1976-1983
THP: 1986-2008
HS Teacher: 2008-2010
Author of ‘Yonderings’
‘Destiny’s Way’
‘Out There: Essays on the Lower Big Bend’
‘The Uvalde Raider’
‘Black And White: Tales of the Texas Highway Patrol’
‘¡Cristeros!’
Facebook: Ben H. English
Webpage: https://t.co/dRL9RoK5wu
X: Ben H. English
‘Graying but still game’
BOOK EXCERPT FROM ‘¡CRISTEROS!’
.…Less than an hour later, the detail had dismounted and to a man were staring into a high shouldered, narrow chasm forming the mouth for Slickrock Canyon. The pale light of the half moon gave up only a small portion of its secrets, the others lurking in the surrounding shadows.
But what could be seen was not good. Patches of sand and gravel and greenery were interspersed leading into the opening, where the bottom changed abruptly to match the reason for the naming of this place. A solid sheet of rock extended back and upward into those shadows, polished by eons of rushing water when the big rains came.
The narrow mouth looked more like a rounded chute, with no definite edge between the bottom and walls of the gorge. Holes in the rock for the grinding of seeds and grains as used by the old ones dotted the entrance way.
There were also uneven low spots scattered about. These were nature’s cisterns known as tinajas, which kept small reservoirs of water when those same rains came. Now they were dry, yet still as slick and treacherous to the misplaced foot or hoof as any double-edged sword of this desert could be.
To Sergeant Alvarez the gorge looked like a sure way to break an animal’s leg, or worse. Even El Russo appeared cautious, fearful of trying to go into such a place with horses. From time to time he would venture forward, examine the entrance and then step away from the lurking shadows, muttering to himself.
The capitán was moving forward again when a figure abruptly popped out of the umbra, startling the Mexican officer and causing him to jump back involuntarily. Annoyed at his own nervousness in front of his men, he decided the approaching Yaqui had probably done so on purpose.
“It is good,” said Cicatriz. “There is no sign of anyone here, including the well at the head of the cañón. We can water and rest a bit there.”
Putting his personal dislike for the man aside for the moment, Rábagon posed a question. “Is there any way around this?”
“Yes,” replied the Yaqui breed. “A wagon road detours about two kilometers to the east, along the western slope of Croton Peak.”
“Why then are we going into this…this horse killer?” retorted Rábagon, the askance in tone sounding more like a demand.
“The wagon route is best avoided,” explained Cicatriz, as if addressing a petulant child. “We would be on high ground and easier to spot. The other way is longer and dawn is not far away.”
“Through here,” he pointed into the solid rock entrance, “it is shorter, we leave no tracks and go someplace most would not expect.”….
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
AUTHOR’S NOTE: When on foot, Slickrock Canyon offers a short cut from the Burro Mesa area to Onion Flat and all points north. On horseback, it is better to take the wagon road mentioned, its remnants still running through the pass along the western slopes of Croton Peak.
Especially at night, which is when this part of the story is being told.
The attached photographs show the canyon entrance from the southern side, and why it would be a challenge in the circumstances described.
God bless to all,
Ben
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
COMING BOOK EVENTS:
-FORT STOCKTON, TX, Saturday, November 22 10a-5p at the Annie Riggs Memorial Museum Seventieth Anniversary
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ben H. English
Alpine, Texas
USMC: 1976-1983
THP: 1986-2008
HS Teacher: 2008-2010
Author of ‘Yonderings’
‘Destiny’s Way’
‘Out There: Essays on the Lower Big Bend’
‘The Uvalde Raider’
‘Black And White: Tales of the Texas Highway Patrol’
‘¡Cristeros!’
Facebook: Ben H. English
Webpage: https://t.co/dRL9RoJxGW
X: Ben H. English
‘Graying but still game’
BOOK EXCERPT FROM ‘¡CRISTEROS!’
….Rábagon was instinctively offended by the Yaqui’s high handedness in giving such an order, more so to him as an officer. But as they began their descent, he immediately understood why. The stone-strewn path became even trickier as both horse and man partially slid their way down. It was more the domain of burros and goats than anything else, and as good a place to throw a shoe or cripple an animal as they had journeyed to so far.
After gaining firmer ground Cicatriz remounted, angling to the east again while the rest of the detail followed behind. He would slow on occasion and wave his hand as a signal to pay attention to what was before him. The wave was passed down from rider to rider as they reached the same spot.
Gradually the trail improved and with that the Yaqui picked up the pace. Clearing a ridge knifing in from the left, he abruptly turned north and started up a small run paralleling the ridge. Reaching a point where the run ended, he rode forward a bit more and dropped into another.
The small wash gathered with those coming off the high ground. The man tracker reined in, waiting for Sergeant Alvarez who was riding behind El Russo. Nodding politely as the capitán passed by, he began speaking to the sargento.
“Go to the front and keep traveling along this wash, it will continue to join with others. I am going to those boulders,” he pointed to some dark, uneven shadows above. “It is a good location to observe anything that might be in front of us.”
Rábagon had stopped to listen. Reversing direction, he rode back and confronted the Yaqui. “Why are you not telling me these things?” he demanded. “I am the one in command of this detail, not Sergeant Alvarez. He is not an officer!”
Cicatriz half turned the grulla to face the capitán. “I tell him such things as he has the most knowledge of the desert, and the most time as a soldier. He also has the best eye for the terrain. If something were to happen to me, he would be your only chance in getting back to Mexico.”
Rábagon was insulted, and he was angry. His mouth opened to speak in the harshest way found in words but he suddenly stopped. It had dawned on him what the Yaqui said, and his thoughts focused on the ‘if something should happen to me’ part. This information gave him comfort in more than one way, and the chance for an extra bit of leverage when the time came.
“Yes, I understand.” El Russo smiled obligingly into the night. But even while unable to see Rábagon’s face, Cicatriz sensed there was no warmth in the expression. Only coldness and cunning.
“Do you mind if I listen in?” the officer continued in an amicable tone.
“Did you hear everything I told the sargento?” inquired the Yaqui.
“I believe so,” replied Rábagon.
“Then you have listened in,” responded Cicatriz, turning the grulla around and for the stand of boulders….
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
AUTHOR’S NOTE: The trail where both man and horse slid down still exists, though in almost indiscernible form. The lagging remnants lead north out of Stink Spring, and up and around until coming off the north face of Burro Mesa in what is now Big Bend National Park.
While scouting for the way down, I must have found a half dozen thrown horseshoes along the way. This gives one an idea of just how rough the route used to be, even a hundred years ago.
In the photograph, I am standing on what is left of the trail, trying hard to keep from sliding down myself. It has long since felt its last burro or goat imprint and now is utilized exclusively by area wildlife.
Or an errant crazy man in the desert, trying to get the story right.
God bless to all,
Ben
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
COMING BOOK EVENTS:
-TERLINGUA, TX Saturday, November 1 9a-5p at the Tolbert Terlingua Chili Cookoff
-FORT STOCKTON, TX, Saturday, November 22 10a-5p at the Annie Riggs Memorial Museum Seventieth Anniversary
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ben H. English
Alpine, Texas
USMC: 1976-1983
THP: 1986-2008
HS Teacher: 2008-2010
Author of ‘Yonderings’
‘Destiny’s Way’
‘Out There: Essays on the Lower Big Bend’
‘The Uvalde Raider’
‘Black And White: Tales of the Texas Highway Patrol’
‘¡Cristeros!’
Facebook: Ben H. English
Webpage: https://t.co/dRL9RoJxGW
X: Ben H. English
‘Graying but still game’
SOMEWHERE IN THE LOWER BIG BEND
I have said many times this desert is never your friend, more like a disinterested observer who views a human being as if they were some sort of lab rat in a real world experiment gone mad.
But there are times and locales that go beyond such expressed disinterest, and one can wonder if this parched, roughhewn land is actually plotting against you.
Such is the case of the Deadhorse range, running on a roughly north-south axis and bridging the gap between the mighty Sierra Del Carmen and the Santiago Mountains arcing down from Santiago Peak.
Officially, they are the Sierra Del Caballo Muerto, but the average Anglo tongue has trouble stumbling through that stretch of Mexican. So, since the time of the first ranching pioneers, they have been more commonly called ‘The Dead Horse.’
This range forms a natural barrier across the far eastern side of Big Bend National Park, and actually touches the park boundaries in spots. Confusion reigns among the map makers as to its precise parameters, the markings shift depending on which map and from which era.
In fact, no one has ever found complete agreement in where the name originated, and I can think of at least three different stories as to how that supposedly came about. This is probably as it should be; as this rough, remote area is the least traveled and explored by park visitors.
Or for that matter, most anyone else in any epoch of man’s history here.
There is nothing found here anywhere akin to the definition of the word ‘easy.’ Invariably, I return to my starting points after dark, sometimes sliding off sheets of bare rock covered by fields of loose patches of stone, and festooned by acres upon acres of needle sharp lechuguilla.
Sometimes it is with a banged up knee and too often on ankles and feet that ache beyond any relief, victims of the steep inclines, that loose rock, and miles upon miles of pack and gear filled with waterbags and items for ‘just in case.’
Upon the completion of these sorties, I think back upon what occurred as well as how. Determined to do better, I usually wander off into other locales for a length of time, while laying plans for another stab into the heretofore unknown.
Thing is, the Dead Horse seems to be doing its own planning and plotting concerning my return, and drawing from an unimaginably vast pool of knowledge, shaped by eons of existence as well as experience.
Again, the lab rat and experiment analogy, but with a really bad attitude on the part of the overseer for the experiment.
Yet as MacArthur once said famously, “I shall return.’ One good look at the attached photograph explains exactly why.
God bless to all,
Ben
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
COMING BOOK EVENTS:
-TERLINGUA, TX Saturday, November 1 9a-5p at the Tolbert Terlingua Chili
Cookoff
-FORT STOCKTON, TX, Saturday, November 22 10a-5p at the Annie Riggs Memorial Museum Seventieth Anniversary
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ben H. English
Alpine, Texas
USMC: 1976-1983
THP: 1986-2008
HS Teacher: 2008-2010
Author of ‘Yonderings’
‘Destiny’s Way’
‘Out There: Essays on the Lower Big Bend’
‘The Uvalde Raider’
‘Black And White: Tales of the Texas Highway Patrol’
‘¡Cristeros!’
Facebook: Ben H. English
Webpage: https://t.co/dRL9RoJxGW
X: Ben H. English
‘Graying but still game’
BOOK EXCERPT FROM ‘¡CRISTEROS!’
…Working their way up the chosen branch of Blue Creek, Rábagon’s unit eased along in the darkness. Their colors were securely cased, there was no talking, and only the sound of horses interrupted the quietude of the desert. Every once and again one could hear the creak of saddle leather, an occasional low murmur and the movement of the creatures of the night.
Now firmly pointed north and within the steep-walled confines of the narrowing arroyo, Cicatriz had the men in single file to dampen the noise of their passing. There were still isolated jacals and line shacks about, mostly belonging to the area ranchers. Some were likely occupied.
Under the direction of the Yaqui, Sargento Alvarez led the column with Rábagon trailing a few mounts behind. Ostensibly the reason was to have the capitán better positioned to ensure his men stayed quiet, but the reality was the man tracker was so disgusted he did not want to have to talk to him. Sensing this, Rábagon kept his distance and left matters where they were.
Much of the time the mestizo was somewhere ahead in the darkness, scouting their route. From time to time he would ride back or wait for the column to come along, where he would talk briefly with the sergeant as to what was ahead or point out landmarks discernable under the moonlight.
A few kilometers more, Cicatriz brought them out of the creek bed and on adjacent high ground to the east. As he did so, he explained to the sergeant it would be easier on the horses as the creek had a sizeable length of rough, rocky bottom ahead.
Alvarez could hear a soft, rhythmic thump, and under the half-moon was the darkened outline of a windmill and an assortment of corrals. Some meters away stood a small rock casa, apparently abandoned. The trough below the windmill was full and the water was good, so the detail took time to drink their fill and top off canteens.
Then they were moving again. In the dimness the sergeant could see a primitive road running the same direction, but Cicatriz steered clear of it and paralleled to the right side. Some distance more, the flat ground tapered into broken country before dropping into the arroyo. Cicatriz led them through, snaking along a narrow path that must have been sourced by a memory.
In the bottom, the mantracker weaved his way along until topping out the other side. As Alvarez followed he found himself on more flat-featured high ground, much like the terrain near the windmill where they rested. The Yaqui pulled up and waited for the sergeant to come alongside.
Gesturing at a blackened mass to their front, Cicatriz spoke low and said “Black Mesa.” Twisting in his saddle, he pointed to the outline of a mountain behind them. “Bee Mountain.” Finally he pointed to yet another to their right and muttered, “Kit Mountain.” A short pause came before he added, “Remember, Sargento. These mark your way home.”...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
AUTHOR’S NOTE:
The small rock casa, windmill and rock corrals mentioned here no longer exist, save for some uneven piles of native stone, pieces of rotting wood and other castoff debris.
To one side is the rusting hulk of a Continental four cylinder engine, manufactured for a Star automobile. The Star was a division of the Durant Motor Company, headquartered in New York City and existed during the 1920s.
The site was basically flattened by the National Park Service, during their ill conceived ‘Back To Nature’ campaign several decades ago. This bureaucratic blight led to many such incidents on federally-owned land across our nation.
And now, helped along by a bulldozer’s blade from long ago, the desert slowly reclaims its own.
God bless to all,
Ben
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
COMING BOOK EVENTS:
-TERLINGUA, TX Saturday, November 1 9a-5p at the Tolbert Terlingua Chili
Cookoff
-FORT STOCKTON, TX, Saturday, November 22 10a-5p at the Annie Riggs Memorial Museum Seventieth Anniversary
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ben H. English
Alpine, Texas
USMC: 1976-1983
THP: 1986-2008
HS Teacher: 2008-2010
Author of ‘Yonderings’
‘Destiny’s Way’
‘Out There: Essays on the Lower Big Bend’
‘The Uvalde Raider’
‘Black And White: Tales of the Texas Highway Patrol’
‘¡Cristeros!’
Facebook: Ben H. English
Webpage: https://t.co/dRL9RoJxGW
X: Ben H. English
‘Graying but still game’
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