the trail gave out at last we left the rig inrnthe wash and continued horseback intornthe hills.rnBrown and tentlike, grouped in arnvaguely circular formation, the DofiarnAna Mountains arose from the desertrnlike an Indian camp. The ground wasrnstony underfoot, and I let the barefootrnhorse find his own way, so long as it wasrnuphill, over the steep hillocks rising byrndegrees to the pass. We climbed fromrnthe creosote desert above the riverrnthrough climatic zones signaled by varyingrntypes of cacti, beneath crags andrnparapets of pink conglomerate rock. Irndrew the revolver I wore under my jacketrnand spun the cylinder to check the loads.rn”If you smell mountain lion, scream,”rnI told the horse.rnIt was very still going into the mountains.rnThe horse stepped almost silentlyrnafter we left the rocky trail and struck outrnacross country over sand and gravel,rnpicking his way among the prickly pear,rnbarrel cactus, agave, yucca, and the leaflessrnmesquite. Nothing moved on thernhills, or down in the gravellv washesrnamong the wami and scrub oak. Accordingrnto Mike Cisneros there were deer inrnthe Doila Anas once, but they werernpoached out years ago. The lions too arerngone, departed east to the San Andres orrnacross the river into the wilder andrnrougher Robleros. If a gun is of any use atrnall in here it will be in self-defensernagainst feral members of my ownrnspecies. The faint lemon-colored sun,rnthe pale sky behind a tarnish of high icerncrystals, the barren, pinkish-brownrnmountains, bladed and sharp, erodingrnfast but not nearly so rapidly as the surroundingrnhuman civilization: there wasrnbeauty here of a cold twilight kind, thernstarkness of nature in retreat from an enemyrnwhich for reasons of inconvenience,rninutility, and diffidence had chosen notrnto pursue. The beauty, that is, of muchrnof the beleaguered Southwest today.rnThe city of Las Cruces, though clearlyrnvisible at a distance of only a few milesrnbehind, was an absent presence on thernscene as the mountains themselves, risingrnahead, were a present absence, makingrnus unwilling witnesses to an uncertainrnfuture.rn”What do you think?” I asked thernhorse.rnI don’t think.rn”We’ve been here six months now.rnThat’s already half a year.”rnA year is an arbitrary measurement ofrntime.rn”It is when it doesn’t have a winter.”rnApproaching the pass I let him havernhis head and we ascended the final risernof ground at a lope.rn”Moving to New Mexico was an experiment,rnyou know.”rnFor us it was three days in a hot horserntrailer.rn”You like it down here?”rnWhy not? The climate’s perfect.rn”But you’re a native Montanan.”rnAnd one of these days I’ll be a NewrnMexican senior citizen. The West is thernWest, after all.rnFrom the pass we stood looking awayrnbetween the peaks to the brown runneledrnwall of the San Andres Mountains.rn”There’s no snow east of here, either.rnI went looking yesterday. All the way tornElk, New Mexico.”rnI’ve had snow enough to last me a lifetime.rn”That’s only 30 years for a horse.”rnThe trouble with human beings is, forrnthem the grass is always greener on thernother side of the fence.rn’Tou’re quite a philosopher. I wasn’trnaware of the fact until now. Maybe Irnought to make you a consul—you know,rnPresident.”rnI’d be a big improvement over thernhorse’s ass you folks have in there now.rnI dismounted and went around him,rnlifting each hoof in turn to remove thernlong red cactus thorns from the fetiocks.rn”So you think you could be happy inrnNew Mexico?” I asked when I had got uprnin the saddle again.rnA person is able to be happy anywhere.rnOr ought to be.rn”You think this could ever really bernour countr)’?”rnAny countr)- can be yours if you makernit that way.rn”That’s easy for you to say. You don’trnneed to learn Spanish.”rnGet the cuss words down first. We’rernlearning already from Cisneros.rn”Okay,” I said, “you win. For now,rnanyway.”rnThe sun dropped behind the mountains,rnand the basin filled with the bluernafternoon shadow. Birds twittered fromrnthe junipers and tree yuccas growingrnhigh on the cliffs, and isolated patches ofrnold snow showed white in the shadedrnplaces. I sat the horse for a while, enjoyingrnthe bird calls and the windless solitude.rnThen I turned his head and wernstarted downhill from the pass toward therndistant river. As evening fell the secretrnlife of the desert began to emerge from itsrnhiding places. We saw jackrabbits and arncovey of quail going for water to a springrnrising amid house-sized boulders coveredrnwith a green lichen. Sighting us thernbirds fled bobbing with spread wings intornthe brush and broken rock surroundingrnthe boulders. The western sky separatedrninto bars of orange, turquoise, andrngreen, and the lights of the city rippled inrnwaves across the haze of gasoline fumesrnand the smoke of brush fires burning onrnthe far side of the Rio Grande. We arrivedrnat the truck as darkness closed inrnand the moon—the hot platinum moonrnof the desert Southwest —rose behindrnthe Organ Mountains.rn”Full moon tonight,” I said. “So that’srnhow it is I’ve been having a conversationrnwith a horse.”rnI loaded him and drove back to the stablesrnwhere Mike Cisneros was alreadyrnfeeding. The roping horses were in theirrnpens, ravenous from their workout andrnsnorting. I turned the gelding in with thernmare, and Mike came over and threwrnthem a couple offtakes of hay and a canrnof alfalfa pellets. The horse was sweatedrnunder the saddle, but his half-grown-outrncoat remained dry over the shouldersrnand along the flanks.rn”You can’t take that horse back tornWyoming now,” Mike said. “He’drnfreeze to death.”rn”So he’s been telling me.”rn”It’s beautiful here in the wintertime,”rnMike went on. ‘Tou can rope every day,rnride into the mountains and across thernriver—do anything you like.”rn”I know,” I agreed with him. “It’s thernperfect climate.” trnMOVING?rnTo assure uninterruptedrndelivery ofrnCHRONICLES,rnplease notifyrnus in advance. Send changernof address and thernmailing label fromrnyour latest issue to:rnCHRONICLESrnSUBSCRIPTION DEPT.rnP.O. BOX 800rnMOUNT MORRIS, IL 61054rn50/CHRONICLESrnrnrn