Don’t long for ‘the good old days,’ for you don’t know whether they were any better than today.” –Ecclesiastes 7:10 (NLT)
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I stayed with the Jorgensens for a couple of days. My head had stopped pounding on the day I left so I took that as a good sign. I found that they had moved from Wisconsin to make their fortune in the gold fields. Ha, like many before them, they learned that it was not to be. Anders had a good head on his shoulders, and I found him to be a God-fearing man raising his family in the fear and admonition of the Lord. He quickly saw that mining was not for him or for his son, Axel. Nor did he like to expose his wife and daughter to the vices so prevalent in the mining camps.
He purchased half a dozen guernsey cows from a friend back in Wisconsin and was now operating a small dairy farm. I asked why he didn’t move closer to Durango as there would be a larger market for his goods. He smiled, “Ja, and more work, and more worries, and more stress. No, I’m satisfied. I pay the bills with what I make, I am content and what more could I ask for. The Lord, He is good to us. Ja?”
Axel took milk to Mancos twice a week to a grocery there who bottled it then sold it to customers. Anders gave or sold the rest to neighbors around. He had a nice family. Axel, a hard worker, Britta who never lost her smile and the fine cook in his wife, Tuva. I told him that whenever I came this way I would stop in to see them.
“You go to look for this man who shot you?” asked Anders as I was cinching up Hawk.
“Not directly, but I will search around the area where you found me. I don’t know much about him except that he rides a palomino. There are few of those in this country, so I’ll sure keep my eyes out for one.”
I mounted, then tipped my hat and smiled at Britta and Mrs. Jorgensen. Axel shook my hand, and I thanked them all for the care they had given me. “We’ll be prayin’ for you,” cried out Mrs. Jorgensen. “You are doing the Lord’s work, keeping the scoundrels and riff-raff at bay.”
“I could surely use plenty of those,” I replied, waving then giving Hawk a nudge with my heel. I had the reins of the pack mule in my hand and we moved back down toward the road. I looked back to wave once more. The Lord had that family ready and waiting for me and I thanked him as we went up the road.
There was no sign left of the man. I didn’t figure it was worth the time to check the area for a casing, so we headed on towards Cortez. The man most likely went back to Durango, but I would be wary on my travel, especially if I saw a palomino.
I had been over this road many times when I worked for Wells Fargo. Not much to this country, so I wondered why some Navahos were being attacked. I needed to find out more of the story. When I arrived at Cortez, which now had a saloon with a sign attached noting that there was a cochina inside, a trading post, and a small livery attached to the stage station. The last time I was through this way there was only the stage station.
It was just after noon, so I rode up to the saloon. I hoped to get some food and possibly some information. There was no need to take Hawk and the mule to the livery as they had been living high with the feed from the Jorgensens. I stopped, took a step to my right, but looked down first. Letting my eyes adjust I thought back to the time in Texas where the saloon had a rattlesnake in the corner of the saloon. It made me think of Elias and Hidalgo.
There was a couple of men sitting at a table, eating. I walked up to the bar where there was a man, maybe forty years old or so. He was a short, stocky man with a scar on his face from older days in his life. He was dark complected, Mexican or Indian, I couldn’t tell. He didn’t say anything, just nodded as I approached.
“I’d like something to eat,” I said.
Pointing to the tables. “Take a seat,” he replied with a Spanish accent, then he hollered out, “Maria!”
The menu was stew, chili, or carne guisada. I figured the meat was all goat, so I ordered the guisada. The meat was slim, but there were plenty of onions, peppers, and tomatoes in the sauce. I took a tortilla and spooned some of the mixture in it then rolled it up. Maria stood by watching me take a bite. After chewing and swallowing I smiled. It was not Emelda’s but it was good and quite spicy.
“Don’t go,” I uttered as she turned to leave. “I’m looking for some information regarding some Navaho who were killed near here.”
Her eyes widened, and she began shaking her head…