Down the Rio Grande, 1829

Chapter 2 The next afternoon the pale, cloudless August sky shimmered with heat. No one in Guerrero could remember a spring and summer with so little rain. Not one drop. Corn had shriveled. The constant east wind scoured across the plains of mesquite and cactus and sang laments among the rows of rattling bean plants struggling to survive along the banks of the shrinking Rio Salado, a tributary of the brave, wild river they called Rio Bravo.Dust rose in blinding gusts from nearby low hills. The wind did not discriminate among the poor or the rich of Guerrero. Grit seeped through the open windows and coated the frijoles and tortillas, the refried beans and flat corn bread, of families who crowded into the simple huts thatched with willow branches and mud called jacales. Grit seeped under the stout oak doors with the iron grillwork of the stone houses and coated the young goat meat dinners of the well-to-do families. Every morning poor and rich alike awoke exhausted and sweaty with their faces powdered in strange patterns and their teeth gray. No one could escape the wind, the dirt, the heat.As they did every day during the most oppressive, breathless hours of sunlight, the people of Guerrero were taking their siestas. They shuttered their windows with carved wooden panels hung from leather hinges. They closed their small shops. No vendor wandered among the streets calling,"'No shouting, bare"Arroz con leche Arroz con leche!" No shouting, barefoot children chased one another in the plaza. All was silent. Even stray dogs crawled into whatever shade they could find. Everyone slept or rested.Everyone except Rosita.As silently as she could, she slipped out the door of her father's grand house with the snail carved over the stone portico. She wrapped her white cotton shawl over her head and bare arms. Carefully she gathered a bundle of her most precious belongings, stuffed them inside a woven morrales, and hurried away from her napping family, snoring don Cassos, and the servants who were leaning against a cool stone kitchen wall or were stretched out on a hard wooden bench. For once she felt free of the prying stares that seemed to follow her everywhere.There was something different about Rosita. Anyone in Guerrero could see that. Her passing made very old men stop and stare and wish they were young. Very young men stopped and stared and wished they were old. When Rosita walked down the street, dogs looked up from the cool shadows of buildings. Shutters opened. Women raised their hands to their mouths and spoke to each other in lowered voices. In the little village there was no need of wind with so many whispers.But this time, no one was awake. No one saw her. No one whispered. Without looking back she left the blinding white buildings and empty straight streets of the village. The farther from town she traveled, the happier she felt. By the time she headed east past the rocks and falls and reached the barren hills of Rio Salado, the invisible burden she carried always on her shoulders seemed to lighten ever so slightly. She could almost breathe freely.Steadily she walked -- not too fast, not too slow. And whenever she could, she slipped into the shade of a scrubby cactus and waited for her heart to stop beating so hard, for her feet to cool. She held the morrales close against herself so that the bulky bag and the front of her dress were wet with perspiration. Even though she wore leather huaraches, she felt the burning ground sear up through the thick soles. Her nostrils filled with the herby sweetness of mesquite and the smokey smell of dried creosote and the rich, muddy breath of the river.She paused to remove a sharp pebble from her sandal.Just then something crackled. A footstep?She froze, terrified someone might be following her. There were bandits along the river. And the CoLawlor, Laurie is the author of 'Down the Rio Grande, 1829' with ISBN 9780743436229 and ISBN 0743436229.