Free Wild Indigo by Sandi Ault

and started removing the loaves from the hornos. The women put padded oven mitts on their hands and began scuttling back and forth from the ovens to the picnic tables. Golden brown domes of bread, their smell warm and yeasty and delicious, lined up like soldiers in long, even rows. I noticed that there was none of the usual chatter, that the women were working in silence. I used a dish towel to maneuver the hot pie plates and keep the rows straight. When all the bread was out of the ovens, the cookies were put in just as the loaves had been. A few women also brought out loaves of store-bought sliced white bread and threw the pieces randomly onto the hot stones on the floor of the hornos. The doors were left slightly ajar for this last round of baking. Lupé went into the house and came back with a small cast-iron skillet. Inside, I saw the green tips of cedar. She struck a wooden kitchen match against the bottom of the pan and when the flame was ready, she put it to the cedar and held it there until the smudge began to make smoke. The women lined up along either side of the two tables, and Lupé passed by each one of them fanning the smoke onto them and onto the loaves of bread. The aunties and grandmas gathered the smoke into the palms of their hands and used it to wash their hair, their faces, their upper bodies. They turned their eyes skyward. Then they helped to fan the smoke across the rose-scented bread.
    When my turn came, I inhaled the sharp, clean smell of the burning cedar and washed myself in it. I saw the sun peek over the shoulder of Sacred Mountain and make a starburst of shooting rays into the gray dawn sky.
    While the other women carried the cooling loaves into the house, I saw Momma Anna walk behind the hornos, into the shadows. I followed her, and as before, she removed her hankie, circled her head with pinched fingers, and sprinkled her potion into the air.
    â€œIs that for Lupé again?” I asked.
    She said nothing.
    â€œIs she still sad?” I tried.
    She turned to me and gave a rare, tender smile. She blinked both eyes. “That for you. You got no family. Only that wolf.”

    Later, as I washed the pie pans from the bake and the women shoved the cooled loaves by the dozens into plastic bags and then into the trash cans to transport to that evening’s feast and giveaway, I said to Momma Anna, “Boy, this baking is a lot of work!”
    She looked at me and snorted. “This one easy. We not make prune pies this time. Most time, we do prune pies right after cookies.”

8
Bone Man
    After my encounter with Gilbert Valdez at the gas station in Cascada Azul, I headed toward Taos. On the way back to the highway, I saw a hitchhiker waiting with his dog beside the road, a common sight. The BLM encouraged a Good Samaritan practice. I pulled over on the shoulder, leaving plenty of room between me and the hitcher so I’d have time to prepare. I unlocked my glove box and took out my Browning high-power automatic. I unsnapped the holster, but left the gun in it, then reached across my body and clipped it onto my belt over my left hip, away from the passenger seat, but making sure I could get to it if I needed it. I reached into the backseat and skewed my rifle on the floor, wedging the butt end under my seat so it would be hard to dislodge quickly.
    It was then that I noticed a regrettably familiar face approaching in the rearview mirror on the passenger side. “Oh, Jesus,” I whispered harshly to myself, “it’s Bone Man!”
    Under an enormous knit cap and a swirling tangle of greasy dreadlocks, a cheesy smile lit up a leathery face smeared with dirt. “Wow, Jamaica, I thought that was you. Dude, what happened to your Jeep?” He folded down the seat back in order to throw his duffel bag behind it, then started when he saw my rifle. He threw up his hands in a mock gesture of being held up. “Whoa! Peace, man! Don’t you know it’s dangerous