The Hundredth Meridianrnby Chilton Williamson, ]r.rnOn the Border With Crooks,rnand FriendsrnIt was time to look into getting hold ofrntwo barrera seats if we were going to attendrnthe coming corrida at the PlazarnMonumental de Toros in Juarez. FromrnLas Cruces I telephoned Jim Rauen 190rnmiles away in Belen and tapped intornwhat sounded like a conversation betweenrndrug dealers speaking in heavilyrnaccented English.rn”This is Shnky, man, I got the Uzis today,rngo east on Candelaria to Gordo’srnBar where the Spanish Lords hang out,rnand—”rnI hung up fast and redialed the number,rncarefully this time. Jim answeredrnthe phone.rn”Good morning, Sir.”rn”Sir, good morning. Was that yourncalling a minute ago?”rn”Was that you answering?”rn”My nephew Stephen’s been practicingrnhis voices for the machine. ‘S up?”rn”Are we going to the bullfight Sundayrnafter next?”rn”I won’t be able to make it. I’m flyingrnto Chicago for ten days.”rn”That’s too bad. Maybe just as wellrnthough.”rn”How so?”rn’Tou haven’t heard?”rn”Heard what?”rn”Just after the fight let out Augustrnthird, two men with AK-47’s shot uprnMax-Fim’s and killed six people.”rn”No kidding. We’ve had drinks atrnMax-Fim’s. Juarez sounds like a goodrnplace to stay away from for a while.”rn”That could be. Go on up to Chicagornand have a good time. Keep away fromrnguys carrying violin cases.”rnRight now the Mexican-Americanrnborder is more chaohc than it has beenrnfor many years. On July fourth a manrnnamed Amado Carrillo Fuentes died inrnColombia under the knife of a plasticrnsurgeon attempting to sculpt for him arnface that would be unrecognizable, if notrnmore beautifiil. Carrillo was reputed tornhave been a leader of the Juarez drug cartelrnand the most powerful drug lord inrnMexico; his death, less than a year afterrnan American court convicted Juan GarciarnAbrego, formerly head of the MexicanrnGulf cartel operating from Matamoros,rnof drug-related activities, createdrna vacuum in the Mexican drug trade.rnSince the Institutional RevolutionaryrnParty, the military, and the drug cartelsrnare not always separable from one another,rnthe barons were already reeling fromrnthe national elections in May, when thernPRI lost its majority in the lower congressionalrnhouse, and its candidates for thernmayoralty’ of Mexico City and the governorshipsrnof several states were defeated.rnThese men being known to respond tornstress in the simplest and most directrnway, their present insecurity is the bestrnexplanation available for the rash of recentrnkillings on both sides of the borderrnbut in Juarez especially, where the Max-rnFim massacre was followed by the drivebyrnshooting of an attorney for the restaurantrnand the abduction and killing ofrnfour Juarez physicians who treated him.rnHit-men living on American soil crossrnthe Rio Grande for a night’s work assassinatingrnMexican policemen, while theirrnopposite numbers in Mexico come thernother way to kill American cops. Everywherernalong the border private citizensrnas well as officers of the law are beingrnmurdered, people abducted, public servantsrnsuborned, witnesses intimidated.rnWhen General Barry McCaffrey, PresidentrnClinton’s drug czar, visited El Pasornand other border cities in August, therncartels openly threatened his life and anrnextra retinue had to be added to his bodyguard.rnYou can buy bullfight tickets at thernKentucky bar in Juarez or from BobbyrnRamirez, the ticket agent and proprietorrnof Papa’s in El Paso. I thought thingsrnover for a day or two, and called MelodyrnSmith in Hurley.rn”Is this Melody Smith?”rn’Tes it is.”rn”Melody Smith recently moved fromrnDubois, Wyoming?”rn”Yes.”rn”I’ve heard about you. Would you likernto take a trip into the Gila on horseback,rnweekend after next?”rn”Are you down here already?”rn”I moved at the beginning of August. Irnmiss Wyoming terribly.”rn”I miss it too. What did you say yourrnname was?”rnMelody was off work from the ChinornMining Company in Hurley at eight inrnthe evening on Friday, too late for a startrninto the mountains. We put my horse intornthe corral with her mare, went for supperrnat the Gateway Plaza, and left thernnext morning, stopping for supplies inrnBayard. Melody’s Sweet Pea rode withrnmy Star in the frailer, and we had her dogrnTessa, looking like a cross between arnBlue Heeler and a border collie, in thernbed of the pickup truck.rn”I was disappointed the first time Irnrode into the mountains,” Melody confessed.rn”But I went again last weekendrnwith friends and saw country that lookedrnmuch more like Wyoming—like whatrnwe’re used to.”rnThe road from Silver City woundrnnorth among hills covered by dark greenrnforest. After what seemed like a longrnride, we turned out on a dirt road andrncontinued west, climbing through high,rnincreasingly steep country for sevenrnmiles to the Sheep Corrals. In one of therncorrals a fine-looking paint ran the fencernnickering, while away from them at thernedge of the woods the mountain lionrnhunters, surrounded by hounds, satrnwatching in front of their tents. We saddledrnup, loaded on the packs, and rodernoff into the forest, Tessa ranging ahead ofrnthe horses. The drainage went downhillrnthrough tall Ponderosa pines and livernoak growing in the sunny places.rnMelody looked back at me as we rode.rnShe was smiling.rn”How’s your horse?”rn”He’s fine. He’s doing what he lovesrnto do.”rnDECEMBER 1997/49rnrnrn