Arftifact 10: A Normal Morning at Corona Ranch

While Raynor wrestles with a severed arm, we see another angle of this story from Corona Ranch.

Artifact 10: A Normal Morning at Corona Ranch

 

            Only quiet could be heard out there on the prairie range. This particular predawn night, cool and calm in early July could have been not unlike so many other summer nights. Glittering stars spread across the black sky out to the seemingly edgeless horizons like a faraway magical sprinkling of glittering gemstones hand-sown by age-old titans.

Though, under the splendor of this cloudless sky on the knolls and in the darkest bottomlands, not all is still. Coyotes pad quietly on stealthy toes as always on the prowl for an early morning repast and above owls swivel their heads about with an eye open for a meal of their own. The desert lives at night as much as day�" more so�"but for human ears out there the silence of the night can be deafening. Used to voices, noises, and choices, the thunderous quiet can overwhelm the consciousness when human ears strain to hear a familiar sound. Out there alone, we only perceive our own sounds: steps, clothes rustling, heightened breath, and pounding blood pumping.    

            Not so quietly, miles away next to the bunkhouse, Rusty Young slept off another hard night spent at the Roswell Saloon. Too many beers and too little patience often found Rusty in bad condition these early mornings. The stake bed truck’s windows were wide open with Rusty slumped back in the seat snoring away the few hours before sunrise that always comes too early for one hungover. How he made it to Corona Ranch after these rowdy nights, he usually doesn’t remember. But his drive later on this particular day he’ll remember for some time�"in fact, Rusty will never forget it.     

             This morning progressed like so many other quiet mornings; however, the prairie’s silence was soon punctuated. A far-off thud echoed across the prairie like a bomb in the distance, the kind of boom you’re not sure where you feel it, in the ground, chest, ears, or all three. Rusty’s alcohol-induced sleep remained undisturbed; he continued his snoring, head back, and nose to the sky. The thud gave the prairie wildlife a start.

Coyotes took a few quick sideway, shirking strides away from the sound, heads high and turned, ears perked for lurking danger wondering what made that noise but sure it was human. The owls lost their scholarly expressions and escaped the unknown sound with a few beats of strong wings to soon find another high-ground hunting spot. The animals go back to their hunting routines with the interruption soon forgotten. A few early human risers and those old folks unable to sleep may have heard or actually seen the falling object, but they will just attest the event to just another shooting star as they report later in today’s Roswell Daily Record.

            After a steady increasing glow, the sun’s first spectacular rays made their appearance over the eastern horizon as seen from under the boughs of the considerable oaks’ that envelop the Corona Ranch’s yard, but oblivious to all, Rusty missed it. Functioning on only those few hours of sleep after a hard-drinking night was always hard on Rusty, but he nevertheless got the job done as a normal hard-working cowboy. Because of his continued dedication and hard work, Rusty continued to be John Thompson’s trusted foreman.

 So, with the rising sun, hired hand Salazar de Meidara doubles as cook and is usually the first to rise at the ranch. Rusty doesn’t stir until Salazar wandered over and reaching through the truck’s window, grabbed Rusty’s shoulder to give him a vigorous shake. Just another typical morning at the Corona, but as foreshadowed by the bump in the night, this day would diverge far from the typical. 

  Rusty stirred from Salazar’s shake, but he doesn’t immediately awake from his hangover sleep. As matter of his usual routine, Salazar will give him another shake a little later as he continued on his way across the yard. Salazar had chores on his mind and didn’t notice the single high-flying RB-46 that had arrived over the far eastern area of the ranch to begin slow loitering orbits covering about fifty ground miles at an altitude of 30,000 feet.

            Mrs. Thompson, John’s wife Melba, had seen her share of crystal-clear mornings and even though she completes her chores every single day without fail, she no longer completes them as quickly as she once did. Even so, Melba still maintains the household with a strong will and stern disposition. She keeps husband John on the straight and narrow when he seems to deviate and lose focus on those important factors in their lives and on ranch business. Melba stepped out of the board and battens ranch house with a slam of the screen door, taking in a deep breath of cool air and taking stock of the new day. Melba paused recalling the noise in the night but shrugged to herself and continued on.

She went around to the cleared south side of the house to the garden. As all residents around there knew, it proved a real and constant chore to maintain a garden out here in this New Mexico climate. Experience passed along generations taught Melba the right combination of soil improvement, right timed shade, and the application of plenty of water. She does most of her gardening in the cool of the morning or later in the evening before sundown.

Today, she gathered the end of the beans and the mid-season crop of tomatoes for a nice lunchtime meal to go along with the ranch’s staple of beef, which of course they always had plenty of. Years ago, she was more than glad to hand over some of the meal preparation duties to Salazar who provided hearty breakfasts and other nicely Mexican style meals to give the woman of the house a break.   

             Meanwhile, John Thompson’s morning custom usually meant lingering in the house for a while smoking his first cigar of the day and planning the day’s activities or attending the paperwork of the ranch’s business. He too moved slower than he used to allowing Rusty, on the foreman’s better days, to perform some of the jobs John used to do himself in his younger days. The cigar’s blue haze hung in the sitting room air which was another reason Melba chose to work in the garden.

John’s everyday routine included listening to the news and farm report that included the latest market prices of beef. Like most days, there was only a couple items of note today but no significant trend up or down in market prices. A good stable market made John feel secure. In the news, there was a buzz about the noise in the night with speculation continuing into whether it was some sort of explosion, sonic boom by the newly established air force, or a shooting star. In Roswell, the young man in the hospital who had been injured by fireworks a few days ago on the fourth was on the mend but had burnt off most of his facial hair and injured his hands.     

             This news description reminded John of Raynor Raven, his neighbor and fellow rancher. He realized he hadn’t spoken to Raynor for probably three or four months now. John had been close to Raynor’s father, Robert who, God bless him, helped John in many times of need, especially during the depression.

            It was a terrible account that Robert managed to manage the Triple R right through Raynor’s absence during the war and bared up to Raynor’s slow hospital recovery only to suffer a severe stroke soon after Raynor finally returned home. Everyone spoke in whispers saying that the stress on old Robert was too much for him to bear.

Like the tough men ranchers are, Robert fought his way back to near normal and even regained his ability to walk over the course of a year. But he would never display the vitality he once had. John visits his friend and neighbor as often as he can, but he finds it tough to see an old friend struck down.

On the other hand, Raynor always played himself as the stiff upper lip type, John thought, but John knows the loss of his father’s mobility and strength bothers Raynor more than he lets on. And so in likewise fashion, Raynor bears his own war nightmares and injuries in stoic silence. John deals with Raynor often but more often than not they don’t see eye to eye like he had with Robert. Stubbing out his cigar, John got out of his easy chair with a groan to start another tough, albeit normal day on the Corona Ranch.

 Life goes on at the ranch, but John and Rusty’s lives will forever, irreparably, be changed after this rare and curious day.

Author's Note

Yep, another point of view in this Artifact story. My writing may be a bit rough in places, but I just want to get it down in serialized form. If you read--enjoy!