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PUEBLO, CHICKEN PULL

Cecil drove his Ford panel truck north on Interstate 25 heading towards Santa Fe. Normally he would take I-40 east then turn up highway 14 at Tijeras, the renowned Turquoise Trail and over the mountain, through and past the town of Madrid and its abandoned coal mines, and on up the road to the small town of Los Cerrillos. There he would head home up the gravel road into the BLM and the deserted turquoise mining district. Today he decided to use the freeway instead. He had been visiting as well as helping out a friend in Corrales for a couple of days and he didn't want to back-track south through Albuquerque and the heavy traffic, so he drove north. He'd thought about taking county road 22 (the cut-a-cross) except that it did mean a rough drive, even if that dirt road would take him south of Highway 14. The canyon road to Waldo would be a few less miles and from there he would take the gravel pit road on home.

His home for the past six years was a refurbished old school bus, hand painted an earthy light buckskin color, the color of the desert ground. He had staked a mining claim on the BLM, among other ancient claims of a previous and much more prosperous time that had long since played out in the Cerrillos hills. Though there were power lines running nearby that hummed incessantly on very windy days next to Cecil's bus and mining claim, but which was not accessible for him to have electricity. The lines ran on to the gravel pit some distance away. This was no hardship to Cecil; he was free of any rent, exorbitant or minimal. His claim had cost him ten dollars. All that was required was that he worked his claim/site in lieu of an annual assessment maintenance fee of one hundred dollars a year and that was enough to prove that he was not just a squatter. He'd hire a backhoe operator to dig a pit in the ground for $35 an hour. And at the end of three hours, pay the operator, get the bill from him and send him on his way until the following year. This was his scheme to live free on land that once had belonged to his Native American ancestry from some seventeen thousand plus years ago.

A mile before he reached the Algodones Exit, Cecil saw two men standing off of the highway in front of a very faded red 1989 Chevy. The pickup with a blown rear tire was sitting on its rim. One of the men was holding out his thumb in an attempt to hitch a ride while the other man drank from a bottle in a paper bag. Both men looked Indian and had long dark hair. Cecil signaled, braked and moved his Ford Econoline over onto the shoulder of the interstate. He came to a stop off of the blacktop and on the gravel near the litter of cans, bottles, papers, and wreathes of dry tumbleweeds collected in the borrow pit next to a dead dog of unknown breed. He didn't see the macabre dog half eaten by scavengers, as Cecil was looking into the rear view mirror watching the two men hurry towards his truck. They didn't run, only walk fast, as if they felt that he would pull away and drive off the instant they reached the rear of the van. The first man had his hair in a ponytail and wore a Dallas Cowboys baseball cap, jeans and a black T-shirt that said FBI in large white print. Cecil, himself Indian, knew that the description written in small print under the three capital initials of FBI was the intended acronym for Full Blooded Indian.

The other man looked the same age, late twenties, and had on a red and blue wide striped western long sleeve shirt and faded black jeans. No hat and his lengthy hair blew about his face as an eighteen-wheeler passed traveling at 75 miles per hour. He carried a paper bag and the way he held it, it seemed to Cecil that it held a bottle of wine or whisky. Both men wore the popular Wal-Mart type of off brand athletic footwear.

When they reached the open window of the passenger side of the van, the first man looking at Cecil asked, "Hey Bro! You headed to Santa Fe?"

"Yeah, hop in. One of you'll have to sit in the back on the mattress."

The man with the FBI shirt opened the passenger door and jumped in and shut the door. The other man opened the side door. Cecil glanced at him; he had droopy eyes and looked "half in the bag." The man climbed in, slammed the door shut and plopped on the mattress behind the driver and leaned his back against the van's side panel. He saw a pillow lying nearby, reached for it and used it as a backrest. He looked around the interior of the truck; saw a cooler, an olive drab Army fatigue jacket, a silver ten gallon propane tank and a large red Snap-On tool chest with a multitude of drawers. The propane tank sat in a square milk crate and was bungee corded to the tool chest, which was chained and padlocked to the sidewall frame of the van.

The whiff of liquor hit Cecil's nose and he turned his head towards his open window, signaled his intent to get back on I-25 and started the van moving forward. Seeing an opportunity to get back on the highway, he shifted gears and sped on, throwing dust and gravel into the air.

"Where you guys headed?" Cecil asked once he had caught up to the speed limit.

"San Lazaro Pueblo. Got to find someone there to loan me a spare rim and tire. I know my uncle will. He's got a Chevy truck up on blocks with a blown tranny that everyone's been usin' for parts. An' I think he's got at least one wheel still in the truck bed. If someone hasn't taken it."

The man sitting in the back spoke up, "Hey man! You's got a cigarette man? Trade you for a drink, Bro." And he held the open bottle out of the bag and over the seat to Cecil.

It was Four Roses whiskey. Cecil knew it to be pure rotgut bourbon.

"I don't want a drink. I'll give you a cigarette."

Cecil reached into his shirt pocket, pulled a half empty light blue pack of Natural America Spirit out. He shook one loose and held the pack over his shoulder. The man in back took the cigarette and slurred, "Yah gotta light, man?" Cecil picked a full book of Union 76 matches off the dash and passed them to the man in back. Then he turned to the guy next to him who had taken the...