Poor Man's Medicine

In the weeks following “the incident” with the Peruvians all was peaceful around Lonesome Ranch. Just wind whispering through the ponderosas, hints of late fall and early winter storms that would flow down through the San Joaquin Valley from the northwest to the Piute Mountains and eventually dust Lonesome Ranch with snow. Fidel did his usual chores, and in the evenings relaxed with a few cervezas and some tapes of “La Musica Mexicana.” He slept soundly, unconcerned, and arose early in the mornings to get started on the day’s activities. Lonesome Ranch was, for Fidel, a good place to be, private, quiet and uncomplicated. Fidel did give some thought to El Patrón, why he had not been up to visit, and what he might have heard, if anything, about some Peruvian sheep herders going missing in the mountains. Fidel was not concerned about that—gone and forgotten. Men of that type often just up and quit, disappeared. No one cared. New Peruvian herders would be easily obtained. Then, early one morning Fidel heard a vehicle approaching Lonesome Ranch, coming in on the two mile, narrow road from the dirt county road. He quickly got up and dressed. When he looked out the window of the bunkhouse he saw it was the truck of El Patrón. The man turned off the engine and sat for a while in the cab, as if lost in thought. Fidel watched through the bunkhouse window, wondering what was going to happen. When he saw El Patrón get out of the truck, Fidel came out of the bunkhouse and approached him. El Patrón got two Coronas from a cooler in the bed of the pickup and held out one to Fidel. Then he said, “Let’s go into the ranch house, amigo. We got a few things to discuss.” Fidel began to have a not so vague feeling of unease. That things were not going to be good. He was right.