Boots On The Ground

Doug Donnan

Executive Editor OMNI-GENRE+MAGAZINE!

donnan.doug@yahoo.com

"Boots on the Ground"

'The Giant Ants of the Sonora'

(Las Hormigas Gigantes de Sonora)

by

Doug Donnan

            [ 1879 /// somewhere in the arid bowels of the Sonoran Desert ]

"Let's call it a day Naldo," Fitzhugh breathed out from atop his less than vigorous

sauntering, spotty rumped Appaloosa indian pony. "I'm tired as hell."

"Si amigo, por que no?" from his equally worn and weary fence riding companion.

"Muy bien Fitz. Muy bien."

"I'll be damned if even my saddle sores don't have blisters on 'em. This here looks

like a damn good campfire spot," he declared as he grasped his saddle's pommel

and struggled to dismount.

"Si Fitz," Ronaldo agreed wistfully with a yawn and back stretch of his shoulders.

"Aqui es bien. Estoy cansado como el infierno also."

But as the sun slowly submerged beyond the cut and cleavage of the distant

sweeping majestic Cabeza Prieta mountain's, Ronaldo spied something off in the

Sonoran's moonlit washed scrub and towering, angle-armed Saguaro cactus shadows.

Something quite peculiar thought he. It was a massive, purposefully packed pyramid-

like mound.

"Mirar por ahi mi amigo!"

"Look at que... what?'" from the dismounting gringo vacquero Fitzhugh.

"No lo conzco," was the Mexican saddleman's breathy reply.

"Well, if 'you' don't know what the hell it is, how'm I supposed to know. I'm from Texas...

comprende vu?" Fitzhugh yawned back as he landed with boots on the ground. "C'mon,

I'll see if I can't scare up some tinder brush and firewood. I'll see if I can get us some

coffee goin'. You tend and tether up these saggin' ponys of ours somewheres."

"Muy bien amigo. Pero--"

"Never mind that damn thing Naldo," from the tired and flustered Fitzhugh. "Let's just

get it done... por favor."

*   *   *

                                           [ approximately one hour later ]

"I'm turnin' in amigo," Fitzhugh exhaled as he splashed the last bit of trail coffee silt he

had in his tin cup at the flickering campfire there between them. He undid his bed roll

and multi-hued Mexican blanket and inched back into the smooth leather convex curve

of his saddle.

"Muy bien Fitz," from a stretching Ronaldo. "Yo soy going to finish my cigarette aqui

and do the same. We got a long ride ahead of us manana so we better get some sleep.

Buenos Noches mi amigo."

"Yeh, good-night Naldo," from Fitzhugh as he elbowed up a bit and stole a one-eyed

peek off at the silhouette of the massive mound. "Pleasant dreams."

"Gracias amigo y usted tambien."

*   *   *

                                         [ much later that same evening ]

"Psst oye... Fitz," Ronaldo leaned up and tried over the fizzled embers of the campfire

with a sleepy-eyed squint.

There was no reply.

No sound whatsoever save for some light, distant skittering and scratching sounds in

the Sonoran sand. Ronaldo was miffed, if not apprehensive, at this moonlit set of

silent circumstances.

"Donde estas mi amigo?" he called out as he struggled to his faded red long johns

and sloppy socked feet.

Of a sudden there was a distant muffled moan as if someone, or 'something', was

succumbing to some unspeakable, overwhelming agony and defeat. It chilled Ronaldo

to the very bone. He stooped over and reached down into his disheveled blanket and trail

bedding for his blue-black Colt revolver. He spun the cartridge chamber and listened

carefully to the clicks. It was fully loaded.

He slipped out a gnarled, glowing stick from the feisty, crackling campire and moved off,

slowly, cautiously, into the depths of the chilling coal black night.

*   *   *

Ronaldo was now befuddled at best. Try as he might, he couldn't seem to make hide

nor hair of the vacant midnight madness that was all around him there in the solemnity

of the spreading Sonora. An indifferent silver dollar moon looked down. He held high

his makeshift torch as if he might be signaling some far off lost ship at sea.

He decided to try a few more scooting, floppy sock steps forward. This inching odyssey

soon proved out. His tired eyes popped wide, owl-like. Ronaldo whipped a hurried little

sign of the cross just atop his sweating forehead. A blatant and bloody, dragging

two-lane boot heel trail lead off in the direction of the mysterious gargantuan mound...

El castillo de las hormigas asesinas gigantes de la Sonora!

                                     ___ The End ___

Author's Note: Go to "Google Translate*" for Spanish to English translation help.

Adios,

Doug