Moon boots.
Well worn.
Semper Fi.

A great war chief had a beautiful daughter, who weaved beautiful blankets. Her skills were in high demand and she enjoyed the company of many women from other villages who came to watch her work.

One day Bear decided to visit. He sat and listened as she bragged about how she could turn anything Mother Earth created into a blanket more spectacular than Mother Earth had done herself.

Angered, Bear, Mother Earth’s great protector, challenged her to a contest. They each had to weave a single blanket by the end of the night.

Knowing he would lose, Bear enlisted the help of tricksters Crow and Fox. He told them to tell the daughter that she had won, that she was more creative than Mother Earth and that she should go to the top of the mountain and shout it to all the world.

Soon, everyone heard the daughter’s shout echo down the mountainside and at hearing this Mother Earth turned the daughter into a spider. Daughter Spider still makes her blankets but can no longer brag about how beautiful her work is.

There’s always been this suspicion in my heart that I am nothing more than a second-class veteran. Turns out, I’m right.

First, I never received the same educational benefit my Grandpa got following World War II. Nor was I offered the same educational package that my dad earned after Vietnam.

Along with these, once honorably discharged and in the care of the Veterans Administration’s hospital care program, (or whatever it calls itself these days) I’ve never qualified for eye or dental care as my dad and grandpa did. For me, if it isn’t “service related,” it doesn’t exist.

In fact, until I told the VA that I had ideation of suicide, they refused to treat my PTSD and severe depression or bipolar disorder. And the only reason I received physical therapy for my back injury is that the doctor forced the system to admit me as an outpatient.

And now I’ve learned, as I’m filling out a job application, that if I am unable to list myself as a “Protected Veteran;” someone who was in “a war, or campaign or expedition for which a campaign badge was authorized,” then I no longer qualify to be listed as a veteran at all. Neither the Cold War or the War on Drugs counts because no ribbon, badge or official medal have ever been issued.

A one time in the U.S., any man or woman who served this country, receiving an honorable discharge, were military veterans and were given the same care and benefits alike, but no more. Leave it to the federal government to decide that one kind of service is greater than another and to find a way to divide people without using ‘color, race, creed, religion, age, disability or age.’

He’s certain there’s more rehab to come even after the VA hospital cut him loose. Now a double amputee, both legs gone, one above the knee, the other below, Kraylin continues to navigate a world made for able-bodies.

He doesn’t complain about his inability to walk without losing balance or that escalators still scare the hell out of him. What Kraylin has difficulty with is a nightmare that comes with sleep.

In it, he explains, he bolts wooden shoe stretchers to his stumps, then struggles to walk, “They remind me of what my feet looked like after being blown off.”

Two days after Rosa was laid to rest in her family’s plot, nearly 200 men rode into the Alcala’s hacienda. Each carried not only the tools of the vaquero trade, but also enough guns and ammo to supply a small war.

“We ride in the morning,” Juan Alcala commanded.

Brady found it hard to sleep that night as he kept thinking about how to kill Keene. It had been the only thing on his mind since he brought the news to the family.

Not only had he imprisoned Brady and tortured him, he had allowed Rosa to die by doing so. “Cruel men like George Keene need not walk the earth.”

As Senor Alcala wanted, every available man rode out before sunrise, towards the mountain across the desert. There they would hole-up through the night before striking the town at daybreak.

Hours before the sun shown itself, all 200 riders were in their saddles moving in a large swathe across the desert through the cholla and chaparral. They rode with intent, to be at the edge of the town as the sun came up.

Brady could hear the small talk as it passed between men. Also within his hearing came the chambering and re-chambering of brass cartridges, the cocking of a hammer and the clicking of a squeezed trigger.

Soon all those sounds evaporated into silence as the mass drew nearer the town. One last check of the plan and twenty groups of ten men trotted out of the desert from different directions and onto the town’s single street.

A general alarm sounded throughout Keene that brought all able-bodied men from their bed’s to their windows. And without a word, gun fire erupted from the buildings and returned by the riders.

It was chaos and pandemonium for the town’s people. The horse-backed men went through the town, looting and burning each building, killing each man who interfered and driving the remaining towns-folk out into the desert.

Their work was without mercy as they hunted down associates of Keene and ended their violent lives with final violence. Finally, Keene was found, cornered in the same gold-laden dungeon in which he held Brady for those many weeks.

There was no way Brady was going to get a chance to exact his revenge as he watched a number of men hoist a still-belligerent Keene, spitting and kicking, into a nearby lifeless tree, by his neck. Knowing this, Brady went over to Senor Alcala, thanked him for his hospitality, shook the old man’s hand, turned and rode north.

Brady felt a general state of sadness, knowing that all of this came after the death of Rosa. He come to realize that it may take a life time to get her out of his head and out of his heart.

He also knew that if he should ever ride back this way, he’d find the town of Keene abandoned and as dead as the man it’d been named after. “Maybe the town of Bixby will have something better than chicken and dumplings to offer.”

John had been good to his word. After checking for the arrival of darkness through out the rest of the day, Brady finally found himself outside his prison and next to the livery stable.

As quietly as possible he slipped inside and began searching for a horse that not only could run but could gallop long distances without a breaking. He also looked for the lightest saddle he could, to subtract weight from the horses back.

Once Brady found what he wanted, he saddled the animal and slowly walked it out he back of the corral. He had hoped to find a pistol or a rifle, but neither were available, so after coaxing the horse out into the desert a ways, he hopped in the saddle and trotted away.

Brady had found a willing horse, it needed no spurring as it tore across the moon-lit sandscape. Before he knew it and hours before the sun arose, Brady found himself skirting his way up the mountainside towards the cave and Rosa.

As before the sound of echoing horse hooves filled his ears as he breathed in the fresh air of the canyon lands. Finally, Brady reached the sloping flat surface and the boulder that hid the cave’s entrance.

Quietly and fearfully, he approached the darkened opening already certain he knew what he’d find. There she was, peacefully at rest, her eyes forever open to the endless mystery.

Brady sat by her side, weeping and apologizing for not having returned until then. Soon he gathered his unused rifle he’d left her, returned to his horse, mounted and rode away, leaving Rosa alone for a second time.

Now he had to find her family. “They’ll want to know where she is, what happened to her and to get her back.”

Brady dropped onto the valley floor long before the sun touched the eastern range. By the time it was noon, he had ridden to a hacienda of a friend of Rosa’s family. They sent a rider out to the family, demanding Brady rest and eat.

Within an hour, several vaqueros had found their way to the ranch, each wanting to hear the story for themselves. Brady obliged, not leaving out even one detail at each telling.

Finally, Rosa’s father, Juan Alcala rode in through the gates. His stern features racked by grief at the knowledge of his daughter’s death and how.

“I know the place,” a ranch hand named Pepe offered, “We used to ride and play up there when we were ninos.”

With that, a party of mounted cowboys raced back in the direction to where the cave was hidden and it would be sometime before they would return. So Juan Alcala decided that the time would be best used to plan a raid on the town of Keene to avenger the death of his only daughter.

Brady withdrew from his pant pocket, five gold coins and laid them on the table in front of the old man. “And there’s more where that comes from.”

He knew he couldn’t move her, Rosa’s injuries were too severe. “Getting you on my horse alone, could kill you.”

As she slept he gathered all the supplies he could from where Rosa’s horse had met its fate. Brady even considered climbing down to where the horse lay to retrieve what remained in Rosa’s saddle bags.

When awake, he shared his plan to get her help. “I must get you help and the only way that’ll happen is if I leave you here and find your family.”

On the early morning before the sun rose, he checked his saddle and lead his horse around the boulder and along the wall. Brady felt a sense of dread as he hopped in the saddle and knowingly left the injured Rosa alone.

By noon, Brady was guiding his horse off the far side of the mountain and back onto the flat, sandy desert. He willed the horse into a light gallop, heading in the general direction Rosa had instructed him to follow.

As he crested a rise and slipped down into the gully, a group of fifteen riders surprised Brady. Before he could even think of escaping they had surrounded, lassoed and dragged him from his mount.

“Where is she?” one man said from somewhere in the group.

“Who?” Brady responded.

“Rosa!”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

Without warning the butt-end of a rifle slammed into the back of Brady’s head and the world grew black.

Brady awaken to a severe headache and then found himself chained to the wall of a darkened room. He touched the back of his head and withdrew his hand covered in drying-blood.

Isolated and in near-darkness, Brady sat on the hard-packed earth and listened for what sound he might hear. There was very little, but every once in a while he could make out voices talking and arguing among one another.

Having dosed off, he jolted awake at the sound of keys rattling in a lock. Suddenly a stab of bright light flooded the dungeon where he was being held.

“Food,” a man stated as he slid a tin between the bars.

With hunger gnawing his insides, Brady took the plate and greedily scooped it into his mouth with his fingers. He handed the tin back to the man, noticing his jailer was a Black man from the color of his skin.

“So, where is she?” George Keene demanded.

“Don’t know,” Brady answered.

Obviously, Keene owned the town and could do as he pleased, including beat his captive and leave him imprisoned for God-only knows how many days. Day-in and day-out, the torture continued until Brady broke.

“She’s back with her family,” he lied. “And they’re planning to kill you.”

While the torment stopped, Brady still found himself a prisoner of Keene.

“How many days has it been?” he asked himself as he felt the notches he’d scratched in the wall after each time Nigger John brought him food.

For a month and a day, all Brady could think about was Rosa, alone, injured and in need of help. A quiet desperateness fell over him as each day passed.

Then one day, as his food arrived, John acted out of character. Not only did he unlock the bar doors, he unlocked the chain holding him prisoner to the wall, whispering, “They’re planning to kill you. There’s a door over there that leads up and next to the livery.”

As usual, Brady ate what food was given to him, then said, “Thank you, John.”

He started planning his escape for when it was dark. And still, the thought of Rosa weighed heavily on his mind.

The pair half-trotted, half-cantered out of sight of the town. Brady understood at once that Rosa knew the lay of the land, so he let her lead him deeper into the chaparral covered desert into Mexico.

The sand, dirt and small rocks made for an easy trail to follow and Rosa knew this as she reined up so Brady was side-to-side with her. “There’s a canyon ahead. It leads up into the mountains. I know where there’s cave that we can use to hide.”

After entering the canyon’s mouth, Brady dismounted and using his slicker, smoothed over the hoof-prints of their horses, hoping to make it harder to see which direction they’d gone. He knew that if they had a half-decent tracker, he’d figure it out within a minute or less, but the delaying tactic made Brady feel better none-the-less.

It was a steep and narrow ledge of a trail as she turned from the sandy loam of the canyon’s dried up creek bed. The clatter of the horse’s hooves echoed through the towering sandstone cathedral’s and disappeared into nothingness.

The trail broke wider as the two rode higher where the echo of hooves died-off. Now it was hard, flat stone leading through the small gorges and slots carved into the mountain by centuries of rainfall.

With the height came the ability to see into the distance and for the first time Brady pulled-up to look back on where they had come. In between rises in the red and yellow earth he could see glimpses of dust as it streamed low across the horizon.

They were following at a quick pace, but far enough behind that they’d have to stop for the night because of the setting sun. Back on the trail, Brady hurried his horse forward to catch up with Rosa.

She had paused, having gotten down from her horse to give it a taste of water. Brady moved ahead of her as she double checked the cinch on her rig and lifted herself aboard.

The landscape was open and flat, laying at a slight downward angle, made of hard multilayered weathered sandstone and emptying into an uncharted abyss. On other side was a wall of some height.

“Right ahead of us, around that boulder,” she pointed.

Brady guided his horse towards the wall and proceeded around the angle of rock, that Rosa had indicated. That’s when he heard Rosa’s horse scream in deathly fear.

Looking back, he watched in horror as her horse first slipped downward on the rocky slope, then pitched itself onto it’s side, slamming Rosa hard to the ground. The horse continued to struggle and slide towards the gap as Rosa lay unconscious, her left foot still gathered in its stirrup.

Brady leaped from his horse and scrambled towards the downed horse and rider. By the time he touched the reins of the panicked horse, he knew it was too late to save both of them.

He sliced through the fender holding the stirrup and turned his head so as not to watch as the screaming horse slipped over the edge of the precipice and into the unknown darkness of the cavern below it. Refocusing, Brady looked Rosa over, noting she had several broken bones from where the animal, in it’s fright, had rolled over her en route to its death.

Gently, he lifted her battered and limp form from the rocky ledge and carried it around the boulder that she had pointed out. A few yards from there, he found the opening to the cave she’d described and he placed her inside the mouth.

For the next two-hours, Brady spent his time moving his horse into the nature-made shelter, building a small fire and caring for Rosa’s injuries. He was thankful when she fluttered her eyes and seconds later looked up at him.

“Lay still and rest. You’re badly hurt,” he calmly told her.

It was roughly a two-day ride from the tiny town he found himself in to the next, and that was across the border in Mexico. Brady stepped off his horse, wrapping the reins lightly to the post, before dusting some of the travel from his britches.

Everywhere he looked, he saw one name and one name only ‘Keene.’

“A one-horse town,” he thought as he searched out the only grub-hole along the dirt street.

Inside, he found the a table in the far corner from the door vacant and sat down. The special on the chalkboard sign read, “Chikin-n-dumpluns.”

“I hope it tastes better than the spelling,” Brady said to no one as he flagged down the counter help to order.

She was a sight he hadn’t seen in days, petite with deep brown-eyes and black hair. She moved quickly to where Brady sat, ready to take his order.

In her hand she held a piece of paper. “Coffee and today’s special,” Brady stated as he read the note written on the paper.

“Help me.”

Knowing that she might be seen, Brady played it cool and nodded slightly. She vanished into the back, beyond the bare wood counter.

Brady was unable to stem his curiosity, he wanted to know what sort of help she needed. He pulled a worn notepad from his shirt pocket and a pencil tucked on the inside of his hat brim and wrote down a two words: “With what?” and laid the pad open where she could read it upon her return.

She glanced down as she set his coffee in from of him. It came in a china cup, dainty and floral, with a handle too small for even his pinky, and sitting atop a saucer sporting the same design as the cup.

Obviously, she was a step ahead of Brady. Folded neatly under the cup was a bit of paper that read “escape.” Brady picked the cup up by it’s brim and in one gulp drank the liquid down.

“Ma’am” he said, as he raised the cup indicating he’d like more.

“Rosa,” she replied.

“And can I get a bigger cup?” he asked.

She smiled and nodded yes.

He then took the time to write out the words, “Out back. Eat first.”

She stepped up to his table and set a clay mug in front of him and a coffee pot, while taking away the ‘good’ china. As he poured another cup of coffee and wiped the last of the gravy from his plate with a dumpling, Brady fingered the hammer of his pistol, removing the leather-loop that secured the six-shooter from falling out of the holster.

Finished, he put away the note pad and pencil stub, and stood up. He removed from his vests watch pocket a couple of coins and set them on the table, before leaving the diner.

Not wanting to draw anymore attention to himself that he already had by simply being a stranger in town, he slowly checked his saddle, adjusted his bed-roll and made certain his saddle-bags were secure. Once mounted, he reined his horse between the diner and what passed for a hotel, coming out in back of the eatery.

Rosa was there, waiting. She already had herself a horse, saddled, supplied and ready to make her quick getaway.

The masked-man entered the couple’s bedroom as they slept. He immediately tied up the husband.

Next, he tied up the wife and as he did so he bent over her, appearing to nibble on her left ear. Finished, he went into their bathroom.

“Don’t fight him,” the husband whispered, “Be strong and know that I love you.”

“You need to be strong,” she replied.

Puzzled, the husband asked, “What does that mean?”

The wife answered, “He says he’s gay and wanted to know where we keep the Vaseline. I told him it’s in the medicine cabinet. I love you, too.”