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Carlos
and Pedro, his venerable mount, inched their way up the
grueling eastern slope of San Madero Mountain. A cool
early morning breeze had been pleasant, but by noon hot
arid air had squeezed out all that had been comfortable
for the rest of the day. Carlos stopped often to let
Pedro rest. He gave his silent companion a reassuring
pat on the neck. “Have heart, old friend, the crest
is not far now.”
The
last mile to the crest bore down like an oppressive
weight. Pedro would pause, expand his chest for fresh
air, then trudge on. Carlos understood the pauses and
did not try to prod him on. “Only a short way now,
Pedro. You can make it.”
Pedro began
bobbing his head up and down, a sign of weariness, so
Carlos dismounted and walked beside him. “How many
trails have we walked together, Pedro. Too many maybe,
I’m old and tired and so are you.”
No talking
now, Carlos was blowing with Pedro. All movement of air
had ceased; the dust-coated scrub pines beside the worn
path were bent low, praying for water. Carlos stopped,
arched his shoulders back, whistled softly, and pulled
out a wrinkled bandanna that had been red in some
earlier time. Pedro watched with big brown eyes as
Carlos pulled his battered hat from tousled hair, wiped
the brim, soaked sweat off his brow, and crammed the
juicy bandanna back into his pocket. Slapping the
helpless hat on his leg aroused powdery dust that
drifted downward. Stubby sun fried fingers swiped dirty
lather off Pedro’s neck and he slung it on the trail
creating tiny dust plumes beside his disconsolate
boots. He drug his slimy hand across bedraggled
britches as they shuffled on up the trail. Even steeper
now it seemed, heavy feet were too tired to go on and
too close to stop.
At last the
crest. A refreshing breeze struck them in the face,
their reward for reaching the top. Carlos led Pedro
through some brush and around a few contorted pines. An
emerald valley lay below, with far away mountains
painted white. Carlos sucked in as much cool air as his
lungs could hold and claimed possession of it until
forced to exhale noisily. With an arm draped over
Pedro’s neck, he said, “This must be the top of the
world, old friend. There cannot be a more beautiful
place than this.”
Pedro’s
head was low, but he appeared to be looking at the view
also.
Carlos,
scrabbled in a limp saddle bag and pulled out a bruised
apple. He offered it to Pedro, a habit so old its
beginnings were lost. Pedro did not bite it eagerly as
he usually did. Carlos tried to nudge the apple into
Pedro’s mouth but he just looked at Carlos with those
big brown eyes¾then
his legs buckled, and he began to collapse. The apple
bounced down the rocky slope. Carlos frantically threw
his arms around Pedro’s neck and tried to hold him
up. “No, no, Pedro. No!” For a fleeting moment
Carlos felt his reluctance to accept the inevitable
would make a difference, but Pedro’s overwhelming
weight forced them to the ground in tight embrace.
Carlos
sat on the ground for a long time solemnly watching the
sun splash the western sky with streaks of copper and
gold, finally fading to a faint glow. His callused hand
rested on Pedro’s neck¾it
was still warm.
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