Shadow Valley

Thomas stood his watch as cattle grazed lazily below him and several drank from the spring. The small herd would not bring in enough money to free the hacienda from the loan, even though cattle brought in more money than crops. Looking around at the sun drenched land, Thomas breathed deeply the warm air which filled his lungs. He sat up straight, lifted his face and closing his eyes, let the sun shine fully on him. For a few seconds he sat still. He shoved his hat back on top of his head and finally gazed once more at the moving animals below. The sound of hooves beating the earth made him turn and watch the rider approach the ridge.

John joined his son and both sat studying the land which lay before them. “There is a lot of good grazing grass down there and beyond those trees where Jim and Randy are with the rest of the herd.” John pointed in the direction as he spoke. “But nearer those mountains, I was told there are large rocks, arroyos and dry streams. Don Alphonso never had use of that area.”

Thomas nodded.

John removed his hat and wiped his brow with his sleeve. “Whew! You don’t feel this heat, son?”

“No, I enjoy the warmth of the sun.”

John studied Thomas. He was about to say something but sighed instead and replied, “The war is over, Thomas. We have to forget the past, the--”

“No!” The interruption was emphatic. “I can’t forget!” Thomas kept his eyes on the distant range. In a firm lower tone, added, “I know hell is not heat, father, but cold--blasting--frigid air! I know hell is an empty stomach which receives only enough food to barely keep you alive!”

The two men sat silently for a few moments. John removed his hat once more and wiped his forehead. He reached down for his water canteen hanging from his saddle horn and drank thirstily. “Want some?”

Thomas shook his head. “I had some just before you rode up. I was studying the mountain range over there, father, wondering where it leads to.” He pointed in the direction of the northwest.

John looked. “Don Carlos told me that range leads into the San Fernando Valley. It’s a big valley with pueblos of mestizos and ranches. There is also the ruins of one of the missions there. One of the padres from Los Angles goes there once in a while and ministers to the people and says Mass.”

Thomas curled a smile. “Those missionaries--they never give up, do they? Don’t you think the missions were a waste? What was accomplished in the long run? The Indians haven’t changed and the ones who have accepted Christianity aren’t real Christians, not in the true sense of the word.” His eyes lingered on the distant mountains.

John gazed down and studied the horn with the water bottle hanging from it. He cleared his throat and asked, “What do you mean a Christian in the true sense of the word?”

“Well, I was told about the ones who fought with us in the war.” Thomas turned toward his father, “They were more interested in scalping and whooping it up after every battle. They wanted to get drunk and didn’t care if they were ready for battle the next day. They were supposed to be soldiers but were still Indians in every way. They didn’t care whether they fought for the Blue or the Gray--as long as they could kill the white man.”

“The Indians have their own culture--” John was about to say more when Thomas interrupted again.

“That’s it. They have their own culture and take from the white man what they want. It’s the same with their so called conversion. They take from Christianity what they want and throw the rest way. They take the training they receive as a soldier but still remain mostly Indian. It’s a waste of time.”

“You’re too harsh, son. There were loyal scouts who served both armies very well, and there are many who are still doing it.”

Thomas shook his head. “That applies to a handful. What about the majority?”

John sighed. “These people don’t want to change. Some accepted the white man’s ways but most seem to want to be accepted the way they are. What’s wrong with that? What’s wrong with their accepting Christianity and dressing it up their own way? It’s done all over the world. Why refuse that to the Indian?”

“Father, do you seriously think they can accept the meek teachings of Christ? Turning the other cheek? Accepting the Ten Commandments? Loving one’s neighbor?”

John shook his head. “Well, son, the white man seems to have trouble doing that himself, and he has had the word of Christ for eighteen hundred years. If a priest can bring at least one of these souls you speak of  to Christ, then he’s not a failure--nor were the missions. Don Carlos said thousands of Indians were received into the church through the years.”

Thomas drew in a deep breath. “This is a wild land. How far would any man, red or white, survive out here with outlaws and renegade Indians roaming around--by offering the olive branch? Of course not! To survive here a man needs to be strong, cunning and quick with a gun.”

John smiled. “You have been talking to some of those cowboys in town. There is civilization here, Thomas. You have been exposed to it and have enjoyed the luxury of it. Just avoid those men who love to shoot off their mouths as well as their guns. There is danger, true, and one has to be alert at all times, but change is coming. This state will grow and we will grow with it.”