Read Online One Step Over the Border by Stephen Bly - Free Book Online

of brush and rocks. “I reckon I know who will do what.”
    “You got the best cow pony, even if he is wearing one boot. Tully won’t cut brush unless he sees your horse do it first.”
    “Luke’s so smart, maybe I could just send him down by himself.”
    “Holler up, if you need help.”
    “Yeah. I’ll just call you on your cell phone.”
    “You laughed at me when I suggested we get cell phones,” Laramie said.
    “It’s sorta like trainin’ wheels on a bicycle. If you know what you’re doin’, you don’t need ’em.” Hap turned Luke to the
     right and laid just enough spur to switch gaits. There was a gradual slope to the descent, but the trail choked down quick
     until the dead brush combed hair furrows in the black gelding’s shoulders.
    Brindle clumps of cow hair clung to fresh-broken brush as Hap picked his way through the ravine. “Lukey, we got one down here
     somewhere. But I’m not sure we can flush her out. I can’t see more than three feet in this tangle.”
    The further he descended, the taller the brush. By the time he reached dry sand at the bottom, the sun was blocked. He rode
     in the shadows with no air movement. Steam rose off the ground like cold water poured on a hot rock.
    Luke’s ears twitched as he stared at the north wall. Back in the brush, Hap spied a cow bedded down.
    “Hey-yah!” he yelled. The cow raised her rear legs, then her tail. She relieved herself, then trotted farther up the gully.
    Hap studied where the cow had lain and noticed a small cave carved into the limestone cliff. Dead brush formed a tunnel too
     short for Hap to ride, so he dismounted to investigate what looked like ribbons and flowers perched at the cave’s mouth.
    He tied his horse to a mesquite limb and crawled on his hands and knees, avoiding the pile just dropped by the cow. “It looks
     like a shrine or a marker, boy,” he called out as if Luke had an opinion on the matter.
    When he reached the opening, he deliberated on each object. At the front, three green glass jars held the remnants of once-alive
     flowers. Dry, brown petals carpeted the floor in front of the jars. An ornate plastic cross was wedged into the limestone
     with a battered and crucified plastic Jesus attached. At the back of the cave, a dust-covered picture frame of turquoised
     copper filigree rested like a silent witness to a sad, haunting story.
    He plucked up the framed picture and held it out in the variegated light of the brushy ravine. He blew on the glass. Dust
     fogged his eyes and mouth. He coughed and squinted as he wiped the glass with the elbow of his black shirt.
    The words engraved in the brass plate:
Nuestra Miranda
.
    “Darlin’, I don’t know your story, but you were way too young to die down here.”
    A brown-faced girl with black hair in a starched white dress smiled at him. On the back of the picture was written,
Niña bonita de Rufugio Álvarez Estrada y Francisca Dominga Estrada
.
    Hap yanked out his red bandanna, wiped the photograph clean, then did the same for the vases. He pulled off his hat, wondering
     why a child’s shrine would be hidden in such a lonely place.
    “Well, darlin’, I wish I had a flower to stick back in them vases. They look abandoned. But you got to understand, with this
     dry wind a real flower don’t last more than a few days.”
    He tugged off his turquoise and black horsehair hatband, then laced it around the photograph like a necklace for the little
     girl.
    He swatted a buzzing horsefly, then wiped his eye.
    He couldn’t figure why he would become melancholy over a stranger or tear up like his mamma watching her soap opera on television.
    He crawled back to where the brush thinned enough to stand. He remounted and plodded west, until he sighted the cow’s rump.
    “There she is, Lukey. Let’s run her at the brush at the end of the barranca. She can open it up and we’ll ride through without
     losin’ any more blood.”
    As the trail ascended, the ravine walls