The Ghost Ranch of the Robles

Sierra Taramuhara, Chihuahua, Mexico-

Me and the ranch-hands.

For the majority of the two weeks I spent on the ranch after the owner left, I was alone.  For a while another ranch-hand came with his brother and he taught me how to ride the horses, to make tortillas, and to lasso the unbroken mules in the coral (turns out that while lassoing is hard, getting the lasso off is even harder).  But he left after a few days and then it was just me and the horses and dogs and coyotes that howl every night.  Me and the vast forests of pine and oak and the wide valleys full of tall prairie grass.  Me and the magenta sunset and the fuchsia fruits of the cacti.  Me and the many outbuildings with hinges that screech at night.

After several days of silence so absolute that the jets that passed high overhead every couple days nearly scared the living daylights out of me, I mounted up to visit our nearest neighbors, the Robles, who live about 5 miles away.  The owner of Rancho Norte told me about Rodrigo Robles when we were driving up to the ranch.  Rodrigo grows marijuana.  A few years ago he had come to some prominence in the local group of La Linea.  A few years ago, the Sinaloa Cartel marched in and shot most of the leaders of La Linea in the area, and established this part of the Sierra as Sinaloa territory.  Rodrigo hid out for months in the immense and complex country, until Sinaloa finally stopped looking for him and he could return to his property.

Now I am ambling down the hills toward his ranch, which I can see from about 30 minutes away.  I pass a Texas license plate nailed to a tree which I first mistook for a no trespassing sign.  I ford a stream, the horse churning hard through the deep sand.  I dismount several times to undo barbed wire gate strung across the pathway.  I pass the skeleton of an old rusted-out truck and begin whistling a greeting. 

Silence.

I call out.

Nothing. 

I stop in front of his heavily barred house but do not get off my horse.  The flies buzz heavy in the hot air.  A mattress, originally on the porch, has been gutted and strewn across front area.  A stray chicken or two clucks and struts.

At this moment I notice that Codi, one of the ranch dogs that came with me, is hopping around on three legs.  I dismount to take a look.  I bend over, my back to the black and silent windows of the house.  Codi lets out a slight whimper. The flesh between the pads is pink and venerable.  There is nothing visible that is wrong with his paw.

At that moment, crouched down beside the dog, I feel a chill like a cloud had just suddenly passed over the sun. The nearest human could just as easily be 20 feet away from me as 20 miles. 

I swing up into my saddle and ride out of there fast.