Educational Experience

Part II--Chapter Two

The wild rumpus begins, 'way out in the wilds of northern AZ...

Fun as it was schmoozing with murderers and all, I was more than ready when I heard the rifle shot that meant ranch security had seen us turn down the little wheel rut road that eventually gets you to Tuff’s spread.

You take the wheel ruts to a paved road that winds its way up to the wrought iron gates with a big old howling wolf in the middle --the ranch brand I told you about. Those pages will open for you only if you’re expected.

But you’re not going to find those gates unless you know how. Tuff deliberately sought out land they hadn’t been able to sell because it’s way out there in the middle of nowhere and hard to get to. So he got it for a ridiculous price. And it gives up total privacy.

Once in a blue moon someone will blunder his way up to them. Usually a tourist from back east chasing an eagle or something else wild and beautiful they wanted a shot of to tweet or put on Facebook or Tumblr or whatever.

Since we took over, there’s a guard tower and booth and all kinds of motion detectors and things—it’s like trying to cross the goddamned border. And when those alarms go off up at the command post, there are butts behind wheels and boots on the ground—cowboy boots, mostly—in seconds.

But for us, that rifle shot is a big “Welcome home!” Or more like, “Here they come!”

Wyatt startled when she heard it, probably flashing back to the truck stop. And she looked at me to check and see what I was doing with it.

“Just means they see us,” I told her.

And Mike leaned in between us and said, “That’s how they do things up here. Buncha wild Indians.”

“Nice,” I said, giving her this little smirk.

“Well, that’s what they are.”

“Some of ‘em are Indians. Some of ‘em are Mexicans.”

“Mexicans are Indians. The brown ones.”

“Oh, really?”

“Those conquistadors had big fun. I mean, boys will be boys, right?”

“That’d be like saying all of the black people in America are white because those bastards got their freak on with the slaves every chance they got.”

“Well, o-kay Mr. Know It All,” she said, shoving me upside the head.

“Hey! I’m drivin’ here!”

She laughed and then sort of draped her arms over the backs of both our chairs, watching the road like a little kid who couldn’t wait to get to wherever she was going. And on that, I was totally with her.

Because you could already hear the music heading our way—they come at us dancing and singing, her “wild Indians.” Chicken Scratch, mostly. That’s a hybrid of all these really different types of music that the O’Odham people created.

It’s also called “Waila,” which is how the locals heard the word “bailar” the Spanish word for dance. And it can be some pretty corny shit when it’s too much like hard core polka music. That’s what it’s based on, I kid you not. Long story, related to that “race mixing” Mike was alluding to, but ‘way later than the conquistadors. Germans, Scandinavians...all kinds of Europeans wound up down that way at one time or another. And the locals mixed all their music together over time.

So it can sound really Lawrence Welk-y with the accordians and “oompah” sounding bass trying to sound like a tuba. But sometimes it’ll have a Latin beat that makes me want to shake my groove thang a little bit.