Dulce Truths

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Noro continues up the trail, finally coming to its rocky top. He stands there on the ridge, surveying the vast Archuleta Mesa. It’s a rocky landscape, with scrub bushes here and there, sometimes a patch of juniper trees, but mostly jagged rocks the color of burnt orange. It was the land Noro had called home for all his 62 years. He was a Jicarilla Apache Indian, with hair still long and still quite black. It blew in the wind, though the yellow bandana tied around his forehead kept the hair out of his eyes. He’d surveyed his homeland many times, but for the others with him it was new ground. Noro stood waiting for those others to come up behind him. Colonel Harry Anderholt was first.

“There it is,” Noro says, putting his arm up to point out the area.

“Where?” Anderholt says.

“There… by those large boulders… you can’t see it from here, but once you get there you’ll be able to walk behind them.”

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