CHAPTER 3
Burnt Valley to Black Mountain

He said he was a Mescalero Apache, or part at least, our one man welcoming committee to Warner Springs. We had approached this historical ranchero through the Canada Buena Vista (Canada? Already?) and across open rolling range land to meet this hysterical Indian.

He came up to where the girls and I were holding the horses while Bernice and BJ were off shopping, and James was looking for a telephone to call his parents. "Killed 300 snakes this year," this young man, said as a way of introduction.
"That so?"
"Yep, just like to kill rattlesnakes. Part Mescalero, you know."
"No I didn't."
"Yep. You hobble your horses at night?"
"Yes we do."
"I know how to sneak up and steal a hobbled horse without even the horse knowing I'm there. Part of my Indian training. Snakes don't know it before I pounce, either. "
"Well don't steal my horses."
"I wouldn't do that. You my friend."
"I am truly glad to hear that."
"Good friend. You want my old TV set?"

James returned with a gentleman dressed in hat and boots who immediately walked up to Petite and gave her a poke in the ribs.
"Who is he," I whispered to James .
"Runs a riding stable for the resort. I borrowed his phone."

I needed to buy some oats to top off our supply, and though I didn't care for the way this fellow was looking in The Colonels mouth, I approached with a, "How do . . . "
"Never make it. All your horses will die."

Since it is part of the etiquette of The West never to disparage anothers mount, unless the animal happens to be a mule, I didn't know what to reply."

"Too small. Too small," he said, and turned on a boot heel and left.
"What's with him," I asked my Mescalero friend?
"Oh, him crazy."