Chad Ceccola Worn, Leather Jacket Get on off your high horse, the misplaced ruffian barks at the

reluctant rider. Russell has already ridden for half a day on this plateau, but to him its felt more like weeks since he last saw that border town in Escondido. The heat has just started to get to him. There is a separation obtained, when traveling so long in the wilderness, from all thoughts of human interaction. Russell has begun to realize the need of companionship, to keep one from going mad. Spirit seems to confide with whatever Russell asks of him, which is not much. Hes a good horse. Russell knows that if he waits long enough the ruffian will go on his way; so he refuses the strangers glare, instead turning his head over his shoulder to keep the sun against his neck. Russell rolls a cigarette, his eyes covered from the ruffian by the brim of his hat. The ruffian, decked in a poorly-stitched leather jacket - stolen off of a much smaller man - grows uneasy from Russells silence; his ties to confidence slowly dwindle. Russell, seeing no immediate danger, returns to his thoughts. He lights a match on his beltstrap. * * *

Russell, fresh across the border, walks into a skills shop. The smell of leather fills the room. A young Mexican boy with long, thick, jet-black hair shuffles in from behind the stockroom. Seeing the tall white man, the young boy jumps, responding excitedly, Hola Senor, como te puedo ayudar? Hola, um, Parle Anglais? No sir. Um, please Un momento. Por Favor. The young boy shuffles into the back. Russell takes a second to peer around the room. Trinkets scatter the shelves; a small whiskey glass; a model ship in a green bottle on the top shelf; a sword atop the mantle piece in a glass case. The wide array of leather reins, holsters, jackets, and belts contribute to the pungent odor of fresh leather. Afternoon, sir. Juan here tells me we have an American visitor. I just had to see this for myself. Hi, Im Shane Dalton, the lanky man with streak white hair remarks as he meanders into the room. He chuckles, continuing, I, uh, own this here skills shop. Russell Heines Russell extends his arm to meet the storeowners. Pleasure, Yea, we dont get too many visitors down here in Escondido since Truman dispatched the National Guard. Not a single man able to get back into the country. I, hu, been here ever since the Korean war has kept the country in an uproar. So I try to make the most of it here. I figure, whos going to bomb a tiny village in Little Mexico? Pardon my rambling. Is there, uh, anything in particular youre looking for Mr. Heines? the storeowner remarks in a genuine, yet timid tone. He chuckles again, remarking humbly yet proudly, We dont have much here but what we do have is real genuine Mexican rawhide. The best there is, you can almost taste the finery. Im actually in need of directions, if you wouldnt mind? Russell clarifies.

Chad Ceccola The young boy removes trinkets from the box, glancing at this tall, handsome stranger occasionally. Russell peers over at him, making eye contact briefly. The boy quickly turns his head back to his box of treasures, removing the objects speedily now. Watching the brief nervous exchange, the old storekeeper chuckles mildly again, remarking, Oh, well Ill sure help with what I can. What is it youre looking for? My brother passed through here some seven years ago now, said he stayed in a town called Salsipuedes. Salsipuedes, huh? The old man pauses, thinking to himself. Salsipuedes, he repeats as if it would spark a memory. Well, sir Ive been, living here some thirty-seven years now and that name just doesnt seem to ring a single bell. He says that it was near the ocean, sandwiched between two hillsides. Well if youre looking for some fishing, son, theres a great humble place just eight miles west of Tijuana to launch out of. Largest, most colorful Mahi you ever seen, why my neighbor caught one not forty inches long. Im not looking for fishing, sir. Well if youre looking for the ocean, mister, youll have to travel some ways down, southwest. Southwest. Well, thank you, I sure do appreciate your time. Just as Russell begins to turn towards the door, the storeowner stops him. Youre going to be doing a mighty lot of walking. You dont have a horse I imagine. No sir. No horse. Well, it will be awful more comfortable if you had something to, hold up those heavy trousers of yours. Pardon my remark; its these small things beltmakers tend to notice. Little things. These simple, useless peculiarities the old man timidly exclaims as he shuffles to a hook of belts on the wall. Russell confused, looks down at his trousers. The old man takes a quick glance around Russells waist and remarks, Thirty-four inch I imagine. Here try this on. Thatll keep you more comfortable. Its perfect. But Im sorry I havent much- Oh, please. Forget it, leather work is one of my many habits for me to keep sane. So many belts, I cant hold them all. The old man puts his hands on his waist and a smile on his face. Well sir, Im much obliged. Russell slides his belt through his pants loops. Best of luck, son. Russell had no such thing walking all morning and afternoon through the deserted houses that littered the side road. It was thirteen miles before he turned of the main road in search of a refill station for his water flask. The town placed a large wooden sign to greet travelers: Aqua Calientes. Calientes was crossed out, and replaced with Infierno. * * *

Now, if you can just tell me the way to get there, Russell says assertively. 2

Chad Ceccola The poor man was overly burnt, the excessive heat throughout the year, was obviously relentless on his now-rawhide leather skin. His lips had long since peeled off, the crisp sun having shredded most remnants of skin. Russell worries for his brother having spent seven years here if this is the kind of company he has kept. Oh I dont know, I dont know. It makes a man sad to see thats quite a nice jacket. I really like this. American is it, has to be American. Get out of here street rat, A tall widely built man grabs the scrawny burnout by the shirt scuff and flails him to the ground. Sigue asi, and itll be off the cliff with you. Oh, oh oh no no no no no, tsktsktsk. Long ways to walk back up out of the water. We dont like th- the rest of the words are mumbled as the boy cowards away, his back turned with a shit-eating grin on his face. Youll have to pardon the locals, friend. Theyre not the most intelligent of creatures. And I say creatures. Not a damn intelligent bone in their body. Id shoot every damn one of them if it wasnt on account of the whole town going nuts, the man exclaims with a full white smile. This man was bilingual, probably the effect of a white father and a Mexican mother. His large pores suggest he has lived here his whole life, bearing the hot sun for some many years. Removing a red bandana from his back jean pocket and wiping the sweat and dirt off the back of his neck, he continues. Im Sheriff Fawley. He places the bandana into his back pocket. Ill tell you straight off, we dont get too many Americans in Agua Calientes. Too many of them pass by us on the way from Tijuana on their way to Ensenada on the Carretera 3 looking for cheap thrills and Mexican hookers. You are an American, I take it. Yeah. Im looking for a brother of mine that passed through here a few years ago. Said he rested in a town called Salsipuedes. Salsipuedes? the sheriff responds suddenly. He chuckles mildly, exclaiming, Salsipuedes ain't much of a town, friend! To be honest with you, its not much more than piss and bare rock. If your brother stopped by there it mustve been either by mistake or he was running from some sort of trouble. Yeah. Salsipuedess not much more than a breeding ground of misfits, crack heads and whores. Pardon me for saying, there ain't no damn way he strolled onto the land and stayed there by sheer accident. Pardon me for saying, but thats where he said he rested, so thats where he rested Sheriff. So if you can just direct me there, Id be much obliged. The sheriff remains quiet for the first time, staring intently into Russells stern gaze, puzzled. I admire your gut, son. Trying to find your brother and all. But you dont seem to get it. That just aint no place for a man like you. How old are you? Thirty? Forty- I appreciate your concern, Sheriff but to be frank I dont think you seem to get it. I will find my brother. I dont think its any concern of yours whether I get shot down or become the playmate of some Mexican hooker while doing so. Whatever your concern may be. Now you can either tell me and Ill be on my way, or I can walk out now down that road, aimlessly. Either way, Ill be a fragment of your day, and you a mild etch in mine. The sheriff stands his ground, silent.

Chad Ceccola You got some cojones, my friend. I admire that. Sheriff Fawley turns and walks away abruptly, hands on his hips, disappearing from Russells sight behind the livery. Russell, discontent, walks in the opposite direction. Theres no sense in walking barefoot. Wasting your good shoes, Sheriff Fawley yells from beyond the building. Russell stops and turns back around to find the sheriff emerge with a large grey steed with black spots scattered across its back. This was picked off of some Mexican chum caught robbing money the chapels donation bin up the road. Now, I know it doesnt look it but we keep our Lord in high regards here in Agua Caliente. Sheriff Fawley stops in front of Russell who still has his back turned, flipping the reigns over as the leather straps slightly graze Russells shirt. We were going to shoot it not two days from now; we saw it unfit to keep a horse on account of its aiding and abetting in such a blasphemous act. Maintaining strong eye contact with Russell, the sheriff leans in and whispers just loud enough for them both to hear, But I take you as the kind of man who doesnt much worry about that sort of thing. The sheriff smiles intently. Russell slowly turns, eying the reins and back at Sheriff Fawley. He removes them smoothly, then looks up to return the sheriffs strong gaze. Take the horse fifteen miles due south. Keep Tabletop Mountain always on your right. Youll come to a single pine tree bearing no nuts on a plateau of cracked rock. There will be a fold in the mountain directly to your right. Take it all the way through til' you hear the ocean. Follow your gut, the unease in your stomach wont fool you. You know youve found the place. Much obliged. Nothing left unsaid, Russell turns down the road with a new companion in hand. It wouldnt be until he turned the corner when Russell would feel comfortable placing his legs in the stirrups. * * *

Get on off your high horse, boy, the ruffian barks, breaking Russell's mental subversion. Standing at a mere seven feet stacked on top of a dud of a horse, the ruffian stares up at Russell. Shielding the sun from his eyes. I said, get on off your high horse, he responds with more timid urgency. The ruffians uneasiness is apparent with the sudden uneven rhythm in his breath. Russell knows hes close to breaking, just a little longer. I just cant do that, pal, Russell responds matter-of-factly, peering across the plateau. The last remaining water in the atmosphere is evaporating off the ground, creating a mirage that makes the road seem longer than it really is. His eyes are distorted from the burning sun. Dry-eyed, Russell believes an end may be in sight. The walk might take a while, though. The clopping of the ruffians horse echo increasingly distant, as he shamelessly walks back to the hole in the ground he crawled out of from. Russell cant believe his brother endured this trail some twenty years prior. For the life of him, Russell could never figure out his brothers intentions for anything.

Chad Ceccola Russell thinks back to the days listening to the after supper Sherlock Holmes shows on the radio with Troy. Last he remembers of Troy was that August morning as the spirited brother boarded that last train to Austin, Texas * * *

Ok, bye for now. That was the only thing Masha could remark at Troys departure. Masha refuses Troys glance, or his embrace when he offers a hug in passing. Instead, the senile, old maid ganders at the roof of the train, holding her large-brimmed black hat as it blows in the wind. And so this is what the rolling twenties has left us with, she remarks to a Negro family passing by. Russell and Troy consider their grandmothers all black outfit as they walk toward the back train car. She's acting as though someone has died. And I can guarantee she would offer the same cold expression if I were on my death bed, Russ. You know how much she tries to keep up appearances, a much younger Russell remarks. Shell miss you in a weeks time, I just know. The last remark of naivet ends the conversation. Russ, I want you to take care of yourself. You dont let Masha's coldness influence you. Dont be fooled by her money, Russ. God knows there are humbler ways of adding stability to your life. And you on the right track to finding that something great. Just be patient. Dont you fall into the traps that I did neither. I come into the world backwards; I know it to be true. Thats the one thing Masha and I have found a common understanding on. And my life doesnt lie here, Russ. But you stay patient; dont let nobody get inside your head. Come here. Troy takes Russell by his shoulder and gives him one last hug. Troy releases his embrace and places one hand on Russell shoulder to give him a playful shove. Go on, sport. All Russell can do is genuinely grin. He turns around as he feels his chin and edges of his lips quiver. He turns around to hide the tears from his brother. Troy stands there, hands in pocket, as his brother walks away. Hey sport, Russell quickly turns around at the sound of his brothers voice, you keep your head up, you hear? This aint no place for the weary kind. Masha finishes up talking to the station attendant about her prized ferrets as Russell walks past her to the front of the station. What did he have to say? she asks Russell, waving away the station attendant. Did you see how your brother couldnt even say good-bye to me? I tell you, that boy is straight out of his damn mind if he thinks he is coming back here to my house. Causing his poor grandmother so much pain, Masha exclaims as she follows behind her grandson. Her naivet becomes clear to Russell. Russell refuses to stop walking, whether his grandmother is behind him or not doesnt really matter to him anymore. Hes looking toward the road ahead, back home to Ramsay, Montana. * * *

Chad Ceccola Spirit is spooked by a murder of low flying gulls, and trots backwards abruptly. Russell loses his train of thought. The sudden cape of night drapes over his ties to reality. Russells subversion may as well be on an account of sleep depravation, malnourishment, and deathly heat. The chill, crisp air slowly seeps into Russells leathered skin, like cotton taking in too much moisture. Once it reaches his core, he removes his leather coat from his knapsack, and then feeds his arms through its sleeves. Perfect fit. He is long past the pine tree that bore no nuts and has already entered the mouth of the mountain. The sheriff never mentioned to Russell how long the intrepid walk through the encaged valley would take. Russell dismounts and approaches a lip underneath the hillside. He walks into the cave, Spirit trailing behind as his hooves echo with every clank against the rock surface. There is utter darkness around Russell, but it doesnt faze him; he walks with one hand in front of him until he hits the back rock wall. At nearly twenty-five feet into the belly of the mountainside, Russell sits and rests. Spirit does the same, plopping one foot down at a time, her wrist resting on the ground first, then her chest, and then her belly. She leans against the back wall. Russell makes a nice pillow out of his knapsack. He reluctantly grasps the cold piece of brandished steel kept wrapped in cloth. Spirit nudges Russell with her nose, exhausting hot air. Russell complies, scooting over to rest his head on her broad neck. * * *

Russell hadnt lost touch with his brother, for twenty years after he left on that train. The return city labeled on the letters always changed. As did the pictures on the postcards he sent. Troy initially would drop a letter every week to Russell, describing to him the marvelous, marble statues in Texas. Then the letters came nearly every week, when Troy described his graveyard shift manning the border booth just west of the Fortuna foothills in Arizona. He described his search for a simpler life when his drinking at nights led to a barfight at Yonkers. He slammed a local pool shark with a whiskey bottle on account of a card game. Troy fled across the border before the pool hall junkie was placed on the gurney on account of a bullet wound in his chest. The next post came some two years later in June of 1943. Russell wouldnt read until he returned home from war. It read:Im alive, Russ [stop] Found an easier life [stop] Im happier now [stop] I found a wife, Russ, we have a brand new baby girl, born in march [stop] Her name is Luna like the moon [stop] she is the most precious [stop] Ive finally done something right, Russ [stop] Ill be staying here for some time [stop] SALSIPUEDES MEXICO [end of post] That was the last post. No more came after that. Its been eight years now. * * *

Russell stands on the rockface overlooking the clear water forty feet below. The ocean like a clear jelly, bumbling about with a mind of its own before it abruptly crashes into the rockface. Many of his senses are now numbed by feelings of 6

Chad Ceccola desolation. Bodies infest the dirt plateau surrounding Spirit. The decaying bodies of preceding travelers might instill fear in other men, but something in Russells heart told him it was coming, but not quite at this extent. The poor horse doesnt seem to mind the stench as she reaches for a hard-earned pear off a neighboring tree. The horses lengthened neck stretches unto the dry rock cliff. Russell sways forward with his brawny companions reach. Damn shame, ain't it? says a voice from behind Russell. Russell reaches for the pistol hidden in his leather knapsack, aiming behind him. Easy there, amigo, exclaims Sheriff Fawley, sitting atop a red steed, his hands lifted to his head. Never counted you as one so excitable. Damn good thing I hadnt hollered at you back in town. What happened here? Russell lowers his pistol, keeping his gaze on the sheriff. Well. The Mexican drug cartels send scouts through these beaches, the Sheriff begins, leaning back in the saddle to adjust his posture. The mess they leave is unbearable. He steers the cherry horse over to the rock edge beside Russell. Its ivory hoof steps on a decomposed body, the chest collapsing with a brittle crack reveals a hollow chest cavity. The bodys torso is the only part above ground; the rest is left buried under dried mud. Theres not much anyone can do to clean them up. The winter brings hellish rains turning the mud like heated butter. It opens up a series of quicksand pools all across this plateau. Once the summer months come, damn muds harden up so much you cant pull the bodies out. Its no use looking for him, friend. Many of the villagers were tossed over the cliff. Back in town, why didnt you say anything? Would it have changed your mind any different? Fawley asks, throwing his leg off his horse, His legs hit the dry ground. Russell remains silent. His gaze strong as if trying to pierce through the sheriffs back. Fawley walks over to the nearby pear tree and tosses his reins over a low branch. He talked about you, Russ. He talked high regards about you. The tension in Russells brow drops. The sheriff turns around to face him. He would always come in and tell me all his high hopes for you. I took it in with a shot of whiskey. You knew him. Yeah I knew him, he says solemnly, rummaging through his saddlebag. What... what happened to my letters? I sent him letters. Did he get my letters? He never wanted your letters, Russ. Fawley pulls out a stack of white and yellow sealed envelopes, from the bottom of the saddlebag, all of which marked to Troy Heines in different shades of pen. Each letter stained a different shade of tan and dark yellow. Some were curled at the edges, as if from years of being left in the sun or left under the floorboards in attempts of being forgotten. How did you- Russell grabs the letters, exchanging his glance between the stack and Fawleys squinted reluctant gaze. Troy didnt want you coming down here, Russell. He knew the slightest hint of welcome would have brought you flying down. Fawley walk to the side of the cliff. Your brother exiled himself willingly to the water, to these sweet marshes of Salsipuedes. It was much more beautiful then. His dream was set for him when he 7

Chad Ceccola met Desiree; I was with him, too, when he first saw her. She was, pawning off a leather jacket that some chum had stolen from the jailhouse. I was going in to book her before he grabbed my arm, give me this one, he said. From then on he was locked in his own solitary paradise. As the iron gates rose above him. Couldnt nothing touch him, and he was content. Im awful sorry, Russ. Truly I am. Sheriff Fawley turns and walks back to his horse. How was she? The sheriff stops in his tracks at the sound of Russells stern voice. Whatd she look like? The little one, whatd she look like? Sheriff Fawley took a pause before responding, She had your brothers spark, and his eyes. The two of them could light up the sky together. He grabs his reins, and hoists himself onto his red horse. Its best you be getting home Russ, this ain't no place for the weary kind. The sheriffs passing words hit him like a brick. Russell turns towards his knapsack, holstering his pistol into his leather jackets inside pocket.