Ariel's Crossing - Bradford Morrow [117]
His uncle disagreed. “Weather’d hurt it but I doubt it’d take it all the way down. More likely if it’s been destroyed, it’s been destroyed by men.”
Built back at the end of the thirties with the help of laborers from Las Cruces, the hacienda had been made of adobe over lath. Its architecture had acquiesced to ornament only in the form of some simple porch columns with balustrade and whittled spindles. Otherwise its structure was all simplicity, meant to last. Its whitewashed walls were as thick as those of Fort Selden at Radium Springs, Delfino said. The few photographs that had survived their forced exodus were as cherished as any heirloom. In them one could see the raised cistern they used in summer as a swimming hole. One could see young Agnes waving from beside a windmill with The Kerometer, Chicago painted on its rudder. A few other adobe structures looked very alike, a barn and stable attached—all built long before Marcos and Ariel were born, indeed even before any of Ariel’s parents were born. Delfino had built it as the down-state Montoya ranch, to be passed by his children into the hands of his children’s children.
In the absence of heirs, land becomes your flesh, he believed. Land reflects your soul, animates your soul. He carried with him the original deed to the spread and had it in mind, once they were there, to sign it over to Marcos. He could die in peace then, with some dignity restored, knowing he’d left an inheritance of earth to his family, just as his father had done.
At the summit of a rock-strewn rise Delfino reined his horse to a halt. This was it. The military range perimeter fence ran along the facing crest as far as the eye could see.
“Last chance to turn back,” Delfino told them.
“You’re not getting rid of us, old man,” Marcos said, and Ariel agreed.
“It’s the last time I’m gonna ask.”
“Good.” Handing over his reins to Delfino, Marcos dismounted and walked back to the packhorse. He whispered into its ear calming singsong nonsense as he unbuckled the leather pouch lashed to the saddlebags and fetched a pair of wire cutters. With the words “Here goes nothing,” he tramped across a shallow gorge whose bed was the finest alkali, which crunched underfoot like salt, then up the face of an eroded fault scarp. Scree sprayed behind him. He climbed the last of the little hogback on all fours while Ariel and his uncle watched in the saturating moonlight.
At the crest he knelt, removed his felt dakota, and ran his free hand over the back of his neck. From this vantage he could see for miles into the military reservation, far to the south, and without putting binoculars to the viewfield he ascertained where some bunkers were situated. Some looked forbidding and sophisticated, while others seemed crude, like squatters’ cabins. Tricky sons of guns, or lazy. He snipped the barbed wire, making an opening wide enough for them to ride through.
As he walked back to join his companions, Marcos thought about Kip. Hoped the poor devil was all right. At least it was a mild night and, walking, he was under the radar. Riders, too, eluded radar, but without doubt the military had surveillance equipment around here sophisticated beyond what anyone could know. They could probably see your wringing hands from a satellite. Could hear your gulping throat through a digital audio sensor. Maybe, maybe not. Ariel had so far put a brave face on it, but she must be worried sick. She was, he thought as he reached his companions, inspiring, was she not? He had to wonder if he’d do as well in her position, but then remembered that was precisely what he was doing. Birds of a reckless feather. And where was Mary right now? Where had her false wings carried her? No, stay focused. “Let’s go.”
The klieg-bright moon showed