Chapter 14
Harrell Wade found himself thinking of last night’s empanadas as he opened his eyes that morning. He wasn’t sure that he would ever want to live in New Mexico. He had had some fried fruit pies in the Arbuckle Mountains near Sulphur, Oklahoma, on his way west. They were far more delicate and filled to the max with fruit. These empanadas had a lardy taste. They couldn’t hold a candle to Oklahoma’s. And then there’s all this chile.
He dressed hurriedly. He had much to do today and he was fully recovered now from his recent indiscretions with tequila. After a breakfast of ham and eggs, he taped Keith’s name, address, and phone number to his painting. With a self-satisfied smile on his face, Wade checked the painting with the bell captain, and then was off to the public library. Wade was a map nut and wanted to be completely oriented to Cabezón’s vicinity. He relished geography and, if he had a true hobby, map reading was it. He thoroughly enjoyed knowing that the Maumee River of Ohio, a northeastern flowing stream that dumped into Lake Erie at Toledo, was formed at Ft. Wayne in Indiana by the confluence of two westwardly flowing streams, the St. Mary’s and the St. Joseph’s. The Maumee then flowed back east between its two parental rivers. He enjoyed knowing that the headwaters for the Missouri River were at Three Forks, Montana, where the Jefferson, the Madison, and the Gallatin joined just northwest of Yellowstone National Park. He loved the story of the Northwest Angle of Minnesota and the role of the Mississippi River’s birthplace, Lake Itasca. Although he didn’t like to remember the infamous trip to Pittsburgh that his father sent him on, at least he had the satisfaction of seeing where the Allegheny and Monongahela joined to form the Ohio River. Names like Wapsipinicon and Maquoketa in eastern Iowa sang to him. He learned history by learning rivers. Wade could name the major rivers of every state in the union. He knew the fables too, like the Ashley and the Cooper joining to form the Atlantic at Charleston, South Carolina. He knew what happened to a spoon that was dropped into Passamaquoddy Bay in Down East Maine – it got wet. He knew all the geographical most easterns, most northerns, et alii. He knew Reno was farther west than Los Angeles. And he knew that there were two Rio Puercos in New Mexico.
Wade was distressed with his State Farm Road Atlas that he had used as his guide on this trip. He easily found Cabezón Peak on the New Mexico page. It was shown as 7786 feet high. His cousin had told him he’d have no trouble spotting it in the real world. One could see it fifty miles away from the hills around Bernalillo. The bell lay at its foot. What disturbed Wade was that his road atlas showed a stream flowing from or to the west of Cabezón marked as Rio Puerco. If this was the other Rio Puerco that flows through Gallup on its way to the Little Colorado, it would have to cross the continental divide and this made no sense at all. If Clark were to be believed, this stream would rise around Ambrosia Lake in the uranium mining area and would have to be the Arroyo Chico that Clark mentioned. Wade was well aware that the more noteworthy Puerco came into Cabezón from up to the north of Cuba, not from the West. Granted that few, if any, non-locals would be traveling in this particular area, still in Wade’s mind this was an egregious error.
Wade discovered that parking downtown was not really a problem. He entered the Municipal Library and walked immediately to the Help Desk.
“Good mornin’, how are you ma’am?” said Wade earnestly.
A much more accentuated “Good mawnin’ your se’f, how can I he’p you?” came the most pleasant reply. For the first time, it felt like home to Wade. He indicated a desire to see maps of the Rio Grande watershed from Colorado to the ‘Gu’f ’. When she responded with that same strictly southern twist as she repeated the specs for his information search, the two knew they would like to spend a little more time with each other. Both, it was discovered in the immediate small talk, called Nashville their hometown.
“My name’s Harrell Wade Harrison, but please call me Wade,” pleaded a broadly smiling face.
“I’m Linda Sue and it’s my pleasure, suh,” replied a most eager librarian assistant. “Let me show you what maps we have.” Linda Sue called over to another assistant to cover for her at the Help Desk for a short break.
As they walked to the second floor map room, Wade answered her inquiry, “I’m here on business for my father. Unfortunately, I’ll only be here for a few days. I’m now a senior at the University of Alabama and I’m workin’ for my pa for the summer. How about you? What brought you to Albuquerque?”
Linda Sue was quick to answer, “Well, wouldn’t you know? I do declare. I’m a senior at Middle Tennessee State in Murfreesboro takin’ Library Science. As you might surmise, I live at home and commute to school. My folks thought I would benefit from gettin’ away from home for a few months. My Aunt Millie is on the Library Board here and got me this summer job. I’m not stayin’ with her, though. I have my own apartment.”
They quickly found a map of the Rio Grande watershed from the Colorado State line to El Paso. Wade was rather tickled and expressed his gratitude. He felt motivated to embellish his statement with an invitation.
“I’m deeply pleased with how you’ve helped me, Linda Sue. Could I treat you to a Coke on your break?”
The response was most encouraging. “I can’t this mornin’, but I would like that. My last name is Byerson. You can contact me here or give me a call at the Landmark Apartments anytime after three. It’s in the phone book and the doorman will forward your call to me.”
Wade could hardly contain himself. “I’ll call as soon as I know my schedule.”
“I sincerely hope that you do,” said Linda Sue Byerson with a wink.
Wade watched her walk away and thought to himself, ‘Now there’s a gorgeous and, unless I miss my guess, a lonely woman. Maybe I was too quick to pass judgement on New Mexico. A summer here, anyway, or even just a fortnight might prove to be downright intoxicatin’. Let’s see where this goes.’ After a short study, the map proved that State Farm was wrong and Clark was right. He now also had mileage for the route down the Puerco valley from State Road 550 south to San Luis, Cabezón, and Guadalupe and on over to San Mateo and Grants, if need be, although the cartographic legend showed that the road surfaces got progressively worse. San Luis was apparently a viable town, but both Cabezón and Guadalupe were in ‘abandoned’ status. The map also showed various ranch holdings in the area. Montoya Ranch had the largest holding and completely encompassed the ghost town of Cabezón. Apparently, some smaller outfits held grazing permits here and there around the monolith. Linda Sue was back at her post as Wade retraced his steps, but she was tied up with another customer. She saw him, however, and they exchanged waves.
Curiously enough, neither Keith nor Clark had yet seen Wade’s transportation. It was an older car, but very nicely appointed. It was a bright red convertible, a ’68 Mustang fastback, outfitted with an LS1 Corvette engine. This thing, when called upon, could really make tracks. It was a real head turner and Wade suddenly realized that could possibly be a liability on his present assignment. But what the hey, he now visualized Linda Sue sitting beside him as he gunned the engine and pulled out of the library parking lot. He drove over to I-25 and headed north for Bernalillo.
Wade chuckled to himself as he pulled up in front of the Sandoval County Courthouse. This is another one-horse town like Carrizozo, but with a much wider main drag. They’re even so proud of it that they have a sign every block prohibiting a U-turn under penalty of law. The courthouse was an old, old building all gussied up with a brand new two-story facade. He went into the County Recorder’s office and stopped at a ‘teller’s window’ sporting an embossed nameplate that identified the clerk as Emily Montoya. Wade thought he might as well come straight to the point, “Emily, I’m interested in ascertainin’ the owner of the properties in Cabezón. Can you he’p me?”
“Are you government?” the clerk responded in a voice that sure communicated that the answer better be negative if you really thought you might get some information.
“No, definit
ely not.” Thinking fast on his feet, Harrell Wade averred, “I’m writin’ a book on western ghost towns for my master’s thesis at the University of Alabama and I heard of Cabezón while doin’ research on early day stagecoach runs in New Mexico. I am hopin’ to visit it and some of the people who own it.”
“Well, first of all, I ain’t Emily. I’m Teresa Montoya and I guess I can tell you that the whole town is part of my cousin’s ranch. He’s getting pretty old though so you probably ought to talk to his boy, Feliciano. But I can tell you honestly, they don’t take kindly to strangers loitering around out there. People tend to take stuff that ain’t theirs. I honestly don’t know if they would give you permission or not.”
Wades eyes opened a little wider as he reacted to this news. “Isn’t Feliciano the County Sheriff?”
“He surely is,” said Teresa. “His office is just across the way there, but he’s out on patrol. I would imagine he’s having lunch at El Bruno’s in Cuba right now. I can get him on the radio if you’d like.”
“No, no, thank you. I hate to disturb a man while he’s eatin’. I’ll come back later,” lied Wade who had every intention of getting out of Bernalillo as fast as possible.
He drove west towards San Ysidro and on towards Cuba until he came to the San Luis turnoff. The natural erosion of the various uplifts and the myriad colors of the various sandstone deposits here on the Colorado Plateau made for a virtual fantasyland for a man reared in the South. The naked igneous throat of an ancient volcano, a splendiferous column of congealed lava, a black butte that dwarfed the surrounding rocks ... this was El Cabezón. The English translation of ‘the big head’ hardly did it justice. Wade’s cousin was absolutely right, you couldn’t miss it. With each succeeding mile, Wade became more concerned that he was on a fool’s errand. He turned around for Albuquerque with the realization that his stomach was starting to knot up as he pondered his father’s reaction. He was back in the Duke City shortly after three.