Saturday, 11 February 2017

The Last Frontier

[Media prompt] Bounty hunters chasing immigrants on horses…

The Last Frontier

Having saddled the horses and rolled up our bedding, we set out for Nickel Ridge, about an hour’s ride to the south. Betsy, which is what Jake called her, had started off stubborn, but over the weeks had proven reliable and strong, which were good enough qualities out here. When we got to the climb, a narrow path skirting boulders and brushwood, she was sure footed, and I let her find her own way to the top. About a hundred yards from the ridge, we stopped and dismounted, walking and lowering to a crouch, finally crawling on our bellies, until we could see over to the other side. The sun was still below the horizon, but the four, four-and-a-half mostly flat miles to the razor fence were lit well enough for us to see what moved. The only thing I hate more than a wetback coming through the fence is two of them. Jake nudged me with his elbow, and I turned my glasses in the direction in which he’d nodded. There were three, and they must have forded the river around midnight to have made it as far as they had. They were lined up, following one of the animal trails through a sea of purple three-awn lapping gently at their calves. From the looks of them, they were all men, but I was undecided about one; the one behind could have been a woman if the swaying hips were anything to go by. Honestly, a lot of Mexican men walk like women, which from what I’ve heard is because they’ve had their balls removed. Jake and I waited for a while, sizing up the fence line. A couple of months ago, Nate Rudabaugh and two men out on their first hunt were killed by a bunch of smarter than average spics. Jake always spoke highly of Nate, and I can’t say I disliked him, but it came as no surprise; he took more risks than necessary. Though I couldn’t fault him over his contempt for illegals. The three of them down below on the flats were making good time, driven I am sure by the thought of bounty hunters. There are television stations down there in Mexico that do nothing else but talk about bounty hunters on the northern side of the fence; it’s meant to scare the pants off of them, but there’s always a few who think they can make it. Some do, like the river niggers that took out Nate, but it’s not like we’re the only ones who loathe them. Let’s go, cowboy, said Jake, and we slid backwards in the dirt, boots first, on our bellies until we could rise up into a crouch, then after straightening up I mounted Betsy. She knew what was coming. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought she hated immigrants as much as I did. 

No comments:

Post a Comment