Flagged

    I squinted in the New Mexico sun beating down on the hard-packed calliche of the corral. The buckskin kicked, sunfished and spun under the cowboy. I sneezed at the dust as Jim Torrez brought the mustang to a sweating, shuddering stop in the shady side of the ring. Torrez, the spread’s ramrod, or manager, then handed off the now-subdued horse to another wrangler to lead away. He took off his bandana and wiped away mingled dust and sweat from his pecan-colored face. Another hand started to open the gate and bring in a skittering paint horse twisting away from the unfamiliar saddle, but Torrez waved him back to the paddock.



    With a sigh, he screwed his battered Stetson over his graying black curls and turned to face the eager audience of third graders, teachers, and volunteers. All eyes, including mine, were glued to his weathered face. His onyx eyes warmed as he surveyed the crowd. He addressed the fidgeting nine-year olds surrounding him, “Welcome to the Nelson Ranch. Today you will be getting a glimpse of the way the early settlers here in the Southwest lived their everyday lives.”



    “Rollin, rollin, rollin.  Keep movin, movin, movin, Though they’re disapprovin, keep them doggies movin Rawhide!”* started rumbling through my head as he spoke.



    “But first, I need a volunteer…” Torrez looked around the corral at the hundred hands waving desperately and choose a curly-haired blonde so reminiscent of Shirley Temple, I knew she was probably “hell on wheels.” She crawled through the fence and raced across the corral to his side.



    One of the hands brought out an antique Colt .45. Torrez showed the revolver to the now-breathless kids ringing the corral. “This is a Colt Peacemaker. The majority of outlaws and lawmen you’ve heard of from our area, like Billy the Kid, used a Colt. It was the Uzi of its day: fast, ready to shoot up to six times without reloading, and easy to reload. Just take out the empty shells and drop in fresh rounds and your pistol would be ready to fire whenever you needed it. Most fellas only loaded five live rounds. The sixth chamber might hold a rolled up twenty dollar bill. If all the cylinders were loaded and the gun was dropped, you might be one dead cowpoke!”



    Torrez leaned down to the little girl swaggering beside him, “What’s your name, sweetheart?”



    “I’m Courtni Su Wheeler - I’m nine years old - I’m in Mrs. Wilson’s class,” she answered in a rush. She batted her eyelashes furiously before continuing, “You’re gonna let me shoot the gun, aren’t you?”



    “Sorry sweetie,” Jim Torrez replied as he carefully kept the Peacemaker out of her grasping hands. “But you get to set up the targets and maybe I’ll let you hold one.”



    Courtni’s vivid blue eyes were as big as saucers as she ran placing the various targets at the end of the corral away from the crowd. Three were set into hoops. A fourth was a windmill-type contraption with a target on one wing. Jim shot the three stationary targets from various positions: quick draw, over his shoulder with a mirror, between his legs. After the three were tattered bits of paper with the bull’s eye missing, he sent Courtni down to start the windmill spinning. After she returned, he aimed and, once again, hit a bull’s eye.



    With a bow, Jim Torrez turned to the crowd screaming and clapping wildly, “Well, kids, what do you think? Does Miss Courtni deserve to hold the last one?”



    Courtni Su’s smile blazed out as she heard them cheer and clap. She reached out proudly for the balloon on a stick she was to hold. She held it exactly as instructed; Torrez made short shrift of popping the balloon without even taking the end off the three-foot rod.



    The crowd roared their approval. Courtni took bow after bow, clutching the rod as her trophy. The ramrod finally had to escort her back to the rail in order to continue. Even then, little Courtni Su was bowing and waving her rod-trophy, milking her moment of fame.



    Jim Torrez returned to the center of the corral and made a quieting motion with his hands. When the noise level dropped, he spoke, “Now, ladies and gentlemen, please look at your tickets. You have been divided into groups. Please stay with them or you won’t get to finish the tour. Today’s exhibits include horseshoeing, milking a cow, butter making, the sod house, washing clothes, branding …”



    After a few frenzied moments, groups formed. Headed by an adult and two student volunteers, each made its way, in orderly fashion, to one of the twelve exhibits. Even though it was only mid-April, the baked ground mirrored the bright sun. While each demonstration area had its own set of smells, over the entire ranch headquarters, a distinctive odor, a mixture of dry heat, cow manure, sweat and hay assaulted my nose.



    “Move ‘em on, head ‘em up, head ‘em up, move ‘em out, Move ‘em on, head ‘em out Rawhide!”*

After the groups were set in motion, Mr. Torrez made a beeline to Jennyfer Hughes, one of the adult volunteers. Jennyfer kept her hair in the same fashionable blonde rough cut as her daughter, Ashleigh, one of the student volunteers. Dressed in an outfit no Artesia High School girl would have been allowed to wear, Jennyfer, teetering along in her wedgies and painted-on denim hip huggers with an eyelet lace midriff top revealing her pierced navel, looked not only out-of-place, but just plain uncomfortable. I thought, not for the first time, that some people just couldn’t grow up.



    As my group began their circuit, Torrez appeared to be arguing with Jennyfer until she ran her hand possessively down his side. With a shrug, Torrez strode off toward the ranch office. Jennyfer smiled smugly before she too swished away.           



    I checked my clipboard. Just my luck, little Miss Courtni rounded out my list of twelve. I was assisted by two of my former students. Megan Beasley still had hair the color of a newly minted penny with the creamy complexion that blesses few redheads. Tyler Sanchez was about a foot taller and broader through the shoulders than I’d remembered, but still a freckled-faced towhead. Like most of the kids there, both were involved in several activities in addition to FFA. Megan had just been chosen flag captain for next year’s marching band and Tyler was starting quarterback on next year’s Bulldog football team.



    Today I had decided to ignore my fly-away grayish blonde hair by jamming a straw hat over it. Slathered in sun block, I once again questioned my wisdom in volunteering to ride herd over a group of third graders. I’d surrendered to my fate, but I had come prepared with sensible shoes, sunglasses and a bottle of water in my fanny pack.



    No sooner had we reached our first destination, feeding the chickens and gathering eggs, than the requests for potty breaks began. A routine was quickly worked out; either Megan or Tyler would escort one child at a time to the “outhouses,” while I rode herd over the rest. The outhouses were actually modern, clean restrooms with running water, electricity and entrances identified “Shirts” and “Skirts.”  They, did, however have half-moons on the doors. 



    Other student volunteers were at each exhibit. According to my clipboard, the next exhibit on our list, the blacksmith, was manned by Ashleigh, Megan’s best friend since third grade, also on the flag team.

Megan and Ashleigh surprisingly were ignoring each other. In a respite, Tyler stopped by and whispered in my ear, “Ashleigh and her mom think that Megan stole the captaincy.”



    I must have looked startled because he went on to say, “I don’t think Ash minds as much as her mom. It’s all over school that she’s going to petition the school board to ‘rectify’ the band director’s faulty choice.” He started to say more, but he had to rescue a snaffle bit from a curious third grader. I pondered that for about a second until I had to break up a scuffle next to the forge.



    Not surprisingly, no one needed to go the outhouses during this display of fire and strength. The bronzed muscles of his back flexed as the smith pounded the pig iron into a u shape. Megan escorted each child for a turn at the bellows as his or her nail was made.



    Jennyfer dashed by on some, I’m sure, life-or-death task. She carried a clipboard like all the other workers, but hers was crammed into a Gucci knock-off. The enormous purse could have held the arsenal of a small country, but was probably filled with every beauty-enhancing product ever made. Jennyfer’s bluetooth was being buffeted by her falsely youthful voice, “… and if that little witch and the band director think they can get away with stealing the captaincy, they have another think …”



    At this point, she collided with one of the largest boys in my group, who was looking back at his friends as he ran ahead of the pack. Jennyfer’s purse dropped with a loud thud to the gravel path, its contents scattered, and she fell backward, for once speechless.



    I reached down and helped her gather the amazing amount of stuff she was carrying. Last I handed her a Ladysmith pistol, after checking to see the safety was on. Not just a pea shooter, but a gun that could do serious harm. Ladysmiths are full-sized .380s cut for a feminine hand. Guns are not uncommon in New Mexico, but I wouldn’t have brought one on a field trip with third graders around.



    After she struggled to her feet, she recovered her voice and turned on the hapless boy. “Idiot! Moron! How dare you! Boys like you should not be allowed …”



    I interrupted her rant, then grabbed the startled boy’s shoulder and pulled him out of harm’s way. Jennyfer was already cramming her earpiece back in her ear and checking her ridiculous manicure. “MaryAnn? You still there? No, I was bowled over by a stupid kid. That know-it-all writer, Marti Jacobsen, was supposed to be watching him …Yeah, that Jacobsen … I tell you, MaryAnn, I’m going to get that band director’s job if something isn’t done to make this right.”



    Feeling my face flush as my temper ignited, I bit back the comment burning behind my teeth.  These kids didn’t need to see a shouting match between the adults. I really didn’t think I knew it all, but I wasn’t the one struggling today in wedgies with what looked to be the beginnings of sunburn across her tummy.



    We continued on our way to the branding. As we arrived, student wranglers brought in a trio of steers. One stirred the fire while the other pulled out an old-fashioned branding iron with the bar-N glowing red-hot. Before it could cool, the cowboy positioned the brand on the right hip of the steer. The smell of burnt hamburger mixed with burning hair filled my nostrils as the steer bellowed its outrage.



    Since Megan and Tyler had things well in hand, I found a stump to sit on and checked our schedule. I couldn’t help questioning why Jennyfer had brought her Ladysmith today. Sure there were rattlers around, still sleepy and sluggish after their long winter’s nap, but a hoe was actually better protection than a .380.

A tug at my arm interrupted my musing, “Ms. Jacobsen, I can go to the outhouse by myself!” a red-faced Courtni Su said, glaring up at me.  She still clutched her rod with the tatters of balloon at one end. Her lower lip protruded mulishly as her sapphire eyes challenged me.



    “Don’t try to understand ‘em, just rope and throw and grab ‘em, soon we’ll be living high and wide.”*



    With an inward vow to never volunteer to chaperone a third-grade field trip, I said, “Now, Courtni Su, you know what the field trip rules are. No leaving the group alone.” I beckoned Megan over to accompany her. “Now, hurry back, you don’t want to miss milking.”



    The little princess flounced beside Megan toward the “outhouse.” The still-bellowing calf and the excited squeals of the children made it difficult to hear the instructions given by the wranglers. Another FFA volunteer assisted each child in branding a patch of leather for a souvenir of the day.



    We left the branding site and headed toward the milking stalls, each little “cowpoke” proudly clutching their branded leather patch. One of the local dairies had lent a few cows to the Nelson Ranch for the day to allow the third graders an opportunity to milk a “real” cow. Unlike kids from Albuquerque, Artesia kids were olfactorily well aware of the fact that milk didn’t start out in cartons. For most of them, though, this would be their first time to take part in the process.



    I refilled my water bottle from the iced water cooler standing ready and started to take a drink. Courtni ran up screaming, her trophy rod abandoned, “Ms. Jacobsen, I can’t find Megan. She wasn’t in the outhouse or waiting outside for me. I ran all the way back by myself. I was scared.” She covered her face and erupted into deep, shuddering sobs.



    I spoke in a calming manner to her. I was certain that little Miss Wheeler just wanted one more chance at the limelight. “Courtni, it’s going to be okay. You stay here with Tyler. It’s almost your turn to milk, anyway. I’ll go find Megan.” I turned to Tyler and said, “After the milking, they are supposed make butter. I’ll meet you there.”



    Courtni’s prize rod lay abandoned outside the building. I went into “Skirts” and called Megan’s name. I even peeked down to look for legs in the stalls without success. I went over to the “Shirts” side and checked in there as well. No sign of her.



    Concerned now, I avoided the circuit the kids were following and started around the access path to the “ramrod’s office.” As I walked behind the soddy, my eyes were drawn to a red fluttering from a mesquite bush.



    With a sinking feeling, I realized that the red fluttering was hair. I rushed over to find Megan lying face-down, her beautiful copper hair darkened by her own blood. I pulled her hair away from a large hole in the back of her head. Sweat popped out on my forehead and then dripped in ice crystals down my face. With faint hope, I felt for a pulse at her neck. Despite the comparative warmth of the day, the flesh of her neck was already slightly cool to the touch. I jumped up and ran blindly down the path, tripping over a mesquite. After righting myself, I rushed on to the ramrod’s office.



    As I stumbled into the door, I was confounded by the sight of a freckle-faced boy protesting his innocence to Mr. Torrez’s unresponsive head bent over paperwork. Because of the youngster, I didn’t scream out the horror I felt, but took a deep breath and then spoke with an artificial calm, “Mr. Torrez, I need to show you something by the sod house. Could this boy rejoin his group?”



    He stared at me for a moment, then squinted his chocolate eyes at me as if reading the trouble in my face, and then slowly nodded. He turned to the youngster and, after checking his master schedule, said to him, “Okay, you rejoin your class for the rest of the tour. Just don’t throw anything else at the girls in your group or I’ll hogtie ya.” He picked up a walkie-talkie. “Joe, I need you to come to my office and take a kid back to his class at the blacksmith’s.”



    The five minutes it took the assistant ramrod to arrive seemed like five hours. Torrez fiddled with the pencils in his drawer and reached for his cell phone several times. As soon as Joe escorted the boy out the door with a hand to his neck to prevent escape, Mr. Torrez turned his dark brown eyes to me, “Yes, ma’am?”



    I took a deep shuddering breath before I could answer him. “Mr. Torrez, I’m afraid that Megan Beasley is dead. I came across her body on my way here. I don’t think it was an accident.” I grabbed at the edge of the desk to keep from giving in to the weakness in my knees.



    Grabbing his cell phone, he ran out of his office in the direction of the soddy. Looking around the room, I picked up his walkie-talkie as well. I noticed the half-open drawer in his desk and automatically shut it, noting without surprise a box of .45 shells with six round empty holes lying in the desk.



    As I arrived back at Megan’s body. Jim was beginning to walk back. He was ending one call on his cell and then dialed 911. He explained the situation and got the sheriff’s department and the medical examiner to run silently, hopefully preventing 100 plus third graders, teens and adults from rushing the scene. As he hung up, I handed him the walkie-talkie I’d grabbed on my way out of the office.



    Torrez took it from me with a smile of thanks and then flipped the send button, “All staff, Code Rustler. I repeat, Code Rustler.” He turned to me explaining, “That stops the groups where they are. We’ve got some

barriers over there in that shed; let’s put them up at either end of the path behind the soddy.”



    The paramedics, the deputy sheriff and the medical investigator rolled up on the access road behind the sod house. I glanced at my watch; it was nearly 11:30. “Mr. Torrez, it’s almost lunchtime. Maybe you could have everyone gather in the dining hall and stay there until we can get the buses back from town.” I suggested.



    He nodded and clicked the walkie-talkie, “Attention, everyone needs to round up in the dining hall. All staff and volunteers, secure your areas and come to the dining hall as well.”



    The deputy sheriff met us on the path. The paramedic unit was already backing out and returning to town. The medical examiner knelt by the body. Shaking her grey shag sadly as she stood, she spoke to the nearby deputy, “She’s been dead about an hour. Cause of death appears to be a large caliber GSW to the back of her head. The shot was fired from about thirty feet away. A large chunk of her hair was pulled out before she died. Bleeding was noted from the left side of the head.”



    As we stood there, detectives summoned from the various agencies drove up into the open courtyard and parked. A representative from this group walked over to join us as I briefly described what I knew about the murder.  A plain-clothes officer with the New Mexico State Police, introduced himself and had me repeat the story one more time. Crime techs began to carefully walk in a pattern around the body gathering evidence. A clump of copper hair tangled with something that glittered was pulled from a mesquite bush and put in an evidence bag as I finished telling my story for the third time. Another tech made imprints of Torrez’s and my footwear.



    The sergeant naturally examined Torrez’s gun still in its holster on the gun belt. As I expected, it was empty of bullets, only six large-caliber empty shells remained.



    Even though the murder was not my concern any longer, I scanned the group as Mr. Torrez made his announcement. Everyone looked shocked except for Jennyfer who was frantically trying to get Torrez’s attention. As I got to her side, she was pawing through her carry-all. Her Ladysmith now just seemed like another fashion accessory amongst the clutter of beauty aids. She quickly pushed the gun down beneath a collection of makeup brushes.



    “. . . And so, we’re going to have lunch a little early today. Please line up to go through the chow line. Beans and cornbread are what most hands ate in the 1880s.” Torrez announced.



    Jennyfer moved to Torrez’s side at his signal to the roving volunteers. She was chewing on a broken nail throughout their tense conversation.



    I followed noting Ashleigh and Tyler standing arm-in-arm with the other teens, all with tears streaming down their faces. As I approached Torrez and Jennyfer, something fluttered to the floor and instinctively stepped on it to prevent it blowing away. Jim had waved Jennyfer to silence and walked away as I approached. Jennyfer teetered after him.  I carefully moved my foot. To my shock, what I picked up with a tissue was a clump of coppery colored hair. I carried it carefully to the sergeant standing at the back door of the “ranch house.”



    “Where did you get this, Ms. Jacobsen?” he asked as he examined the hair and then put it in a small evidence bag. I took him back to where I’d been standing next to Jennyfer and Jim. He called over a crime tech, who found another hair I’d missed.



    “Mr. Torrez was standing here as he made his announcements. The clump of hair fell to the ground as he talked with Jennyfer,” I said as I peered over the shoulder of the crime tech.



    The tech looked up at Sergeant Wilkerson, “We won’t know for sure until we get them to the lab in Albuquerque, but the hair is a visual match to the victim’s.” she said. There’s also something attached to it that appears to be an acrylic nail.”



    As the tech spoke, the sergeant and I looked up at the incongruous couple again standing side-by-side. When she caught us looking her way, Jennyfer quickly sidled away from Jim Torrez, an odd mixture of guilt and relief flickering across her face. I was puzzled at first by her reaction. Then I caught the admonitory look she fired back toward Torrez.



    “Ms. Hughes, I need to look at your hands, please.” Jennyfer’s ridiculous escape attempt ended with her tumbling over her wedgies and landing in a heap. Tears mingled with the makeup  slathered on her face revealing blotchy skin in streaks. The tech had to forcibly open Jennyfer’s hands to reveal two broken nails. One was a match to the one mixed with the hair dropped on the ranchhouse floor.



    “I didn’t kill her!” Jennyfer screeched as they examined her purse and its contents with particular attention to the Ladysmith. It had not been fired.



    As the sergeant continued to pressure Jennyfer about what had happened, she grudgingly admitted, “We did fight. She just wouldn’t admit that my Ashleigh should be the flag captain. When she fell, her hair got caught in my hand. But, when I left her, she was crawling back to her feet. She was alive!” She glanced away from the sergeant’s inquiring stare to catch Torrez’s eyes, now frantic with worry.



    Jim Torrez ignored her cautionary look and reached toward her, a plaintive expression crossing his weathered face. "You said it meant the world to you. I thought...."



    “Boy my heart’s calculatin.  My true love will be waitin, be waitin at the end of my ride.”*







*Tiomkin, Dimitri & Washington, Ned. “Theme from Rawhide.” Performed by

         Frankie Laine. 18 Jun 1959.