from the heated ground.
“Every time I
see old Mangas Coloradas,” she said, nodding toward the rocky profile of
Cooke’s Peak, “I have to wonder what he thinks about all the interlopers in his
valley. And how it’s changed.”
He had the
feeling she had spoken only to break the silence. Simply for the sake of
argument, to capture her attention, he said, “No, that’s not Mangas Coloradas.
It’s the Kneeling Nun.”
“No, no,” she
said, turning serious. “You’ve forgotten. The Kneeling Nun overlooks the Santa
Rita copper mines. Over there, that’s Mangas Coloradas. The Apache warrior is
looking southward to see if Spaniards are coming again.”
He kept his
expression sober. “You’re wrong. It’s the Kneeling Nun.” According to the most
widely accepted version of the Kneeling Nun legend, an order of nuns had
arrived from Mexico to work with the families of Santa Rita Del Cobre in the
early 1800s. “Don’t you remember the tale,” he asked now. “That among the nuns
was one who was very beautiful? And that a contingent of soldiers was stationed
in Santa Rita to protect the copper mines and the settlers from Indian raids?”
“It’s Mangas
Coloradas.” She compressed her mouth in irritation.
He was enjoying
himself immensely. “And the beautiful nun attracted a handsome sergeant’s
attention—which, you understand, quickly turned into devotion and love,” he
drawled. “Finally the nun yielded to the soldier’s ardor and, as a result of
her broken vows, was changed into a stone pillar, condemned to forever read
penance as that monolith.”
“My, my, aren’t
we articulate?” she snapped. “Leave it to you to see the nun’s love as
something evil. You got the ending all wrong, however. It was because of her
broken heart that she was transformed into an everlasting monument to prayer
and purity.”
He grinned
triumphantly. “Then you admit that’s the Kneeling Nun?”
“I did no such
thing. I was merely arguing the point.”
He saw the
shadows in her eyes and regretted his ruse. “Maybe you’re right. I don’t really
remember the story that well, anyway.” Nevertheless, he knew that she—and yes,
himself, too—had been talking about a much more crucial issue, a twenty-year-old
issue.
Once more they
lapsed into silence, and this time it lasted for forty-five minutes, until they
entered Silver City. With unspoken relief on both their parts, they agreed to
go their own ways, meeting back at the car in three hours, at six.
Feeling as if he
had shed an old burden, he sauntered off. All she was to him now, he thought,
was a snag in the way of his mining claim. Unless he wanted her to be something
more. Which he didn’t. He didn’t need a spiderwoman weaving a silken web around
him to trap him. He had a dream to keep.
Before the
railroad had been built in 1881, fourteen-horse teams had hauled ore and
bullion into Silver City from the mining camps, and bricks of gold and silver
had been stacked on sidewalks outside shipping offices. Silver City had been a
flourishing shipping point ever since.
One business
that still acted as a shipping and receiving point for the local mining
industry was Southwest Mining Supplies. Now a husky red-haired man who somehow
managed to appear dapper in a three- piece pin-striped business suit waited at
the counter while the female clerk searched through a catalogue. “I can order
that electrolytic amalgamation unit for you,” she called over her shoulder to
him.
Since she was
busy, Jonah picked up another catalogue and began leafing through it for
compressors.
“Jonah Jones!”
He did a double
take when he saw the man next to him, then grinned. “Soren Gunnerson.”
Soren pumped
Jonah’s hand in a genial handshake. He had a broad, intelligent forehead and a
smile that was pure sunshine. “I’d heard you were back in town, old buddy! Been
doing any fishing?”
As boys, Jonah
and Soren, who was two years older, had fished in the streams
“Every time I
see old Mangas Coloradas,” she said, nodding toward the rocky profile of
Cooke’s Peak, “I have to wonder what he thinks about all the interlopers in his
valley. And how it’s changed.”
He had the
feeling she had spoken only to break the silence. Simply for the sake of
argument, to capture her attention, he said, “No, that’s not Mangas Coloradas.
It’s the Kneeling Nun.”
“No, no,” she
said, turning serious. “You’ve forgotten. The Kneeling Nun overlooks the Santa
Rita copper mines. Over there, that’s Mangas Coloradas. The Apache warrior is
looking southward to see if Spaniards are coming again.”
He kept his
expression sober. “You’re wrong. It’s the Kneeling Nun.” According to the most
widely accepted version of the Kneeling Nun legend, an order of nuns had
arrived from Mexico to work with the families of Santa Rita Del Cobre in the
early 1800s. “Don’t you remember the tale,” he asked now. “That among the nuns
was one who was very beautiful? And that a contingent of soldiers was stationed
in Santa Rita to protect the copper mines and the settlers from Indian raids?”
“It’s Mangas
Coloradas.” She compressed her mouth in irritation.
He was enjoying
himself immensely. “And the beautiful nun attracted a handsome sergeant’s
attention—which, you understand, quickly turned into devotion and love,” he
drawled. “Finally the nun yielded to the soldier’s ardor and, as a result of
her broken vows, was changed into a stone pillar, condemned to forever read
penance as that monolith.”
“My, my, aren’t
we articulate?” she snapped. “Leave it to you to see the nun’s love as
something evil. You got the ending all wrong, however. It was because of her
broken heart that she was transformed into an everlasting monument to prayer
and purity.”
He grinned
triumphantly. “Then you admit that’s the Kneeling Nun?”
“I did no such
thing. I was merely arguing the point.”
He saw the
shadows in her eyes and regretted his ruse. “Maybe you’re right. I don’t really
remember the story that well, anyway.” Nevertheless, he knew that she—and yes,
himself, too—had been talking about a much more crucial issue, a twenty-year-old
issue.
Once more they
lapsed into silence, and this time it lasted for forty-five minutes, until they
entered Silver City. With unspoken relief on both their parts, they agreed to
go their own ways, meeting back at the car in three hours, at six.
Feeling as if he
had shed an old burden, he sauntered off. All she was to him now, he thought,
was a snag in the way of his mining claim. Unless he wanted her to be something
more. Which he didn’t. He didn’t need a spiderwoman weaving a silken web around
him to trap him. He had a dream to keep.
Before the
railroad had been built in 1881, fourteen-horse teams had hauled ore and
bullion into Silver City from the mining camps, and bricks of gold and silver
had been stacked on sidewalks outside shipping offices. Silver City had been a
flourishing shipping point ever since.
One business
that still acted as a shipping and receiving point for the local mining
industry was Southwest Mining Supplies. Now a husky red-haired man who somehow
managed to appear dapper in a three- piece pin-striped business suit waited at
the counter while the female clerk searched through a catalogue. “I can order
that electrolytic amalgamation unit for you,” she called over her shoulder to
him.
Since she was
busy, Jonah picked up another catalogue and began leafing through it for
compressors.
“Jonah Jones!”
He did a double
take when he saw the man next to him, then grinned. “Soren Gunnerson.”
Soren pumped
Jonah’s hand in a genial handshake. He had a broad, intelligent forehead and a
smile that was pure sunshine. “I’d heard you were back in town, old buddy! Been
doing any fishing?”
As boys, Jonah
and Soren, who was two years older, had fished in the streams
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