Mariano Medina #5: Too Many Names

I won't be remembered. I have too many names to keep track of. John, Maria, Takansy. Mariano, he picks and chooses. It is John when he is feeling American, Marie when he is feeling Spanish and very Catholic. It is Takansy only when he does not take the time to stop and think of what he is that day. When he just is. I do not tell him of the power in a name; he knows. I do not tell him I want one, just one, and it isn't John. There are many things I do not tell him, this man with his wide grin and crows feet, this man whose name is whispered up and down the frontier. 

He has made a name for himself in this corner of the world--they call him the Don Juan of the Big Thompson. I have a husband who will live long after he is dead--his name is a common thing. Everyone knows him, everyone comes to him for money and passage and ponies and whiskey. I sit quietly by in my rocking chair under the great oak and think to myself I am three women and none of them will outlive him. 

Mariano Medina #4: Money, Money, Money

"How you doin' fancy man?" I ask. The gent steps into my humble saloon, takes off his hat. He looks around, his lips pressed tight into a thin line. This is what he sees:
A cramped little room filled with bags of grain and feed, rows of farm tools, shelves of canned food and dry goods. The floor covered in peanut shells, bolts of fabric tacked along one wall, all muddied browns and grays and then me behind the long counter, a dirty rag thrown over my shoulder.
This is what I see:
An empire.
"I am fine, thank you," he replies. He takes a seat on one of the bar stools.
"What'll you have?" I ask.
"Whiskey," he says. I raise an eyebrow but give it to him straight. He knocks it back real quick and levels me with a steely gaze. "Do you know who I am?" he asks. I look him up and down. He's no trapper, no mountain man. His hands are soft and white, his face smooth and unlined proof he's not a toiling man.
"Can't say that I do, mister," I reply. "We get a lot of folks through here."
"Ah, yes. Mariano's Town; trapping and trading and ferrying and everything in between."
"It's the in between that makes the most money, I figure," I say carefully. The man straightens his fine silk tie and casts me a look I well recognize. It's the look of a man whose just about desperate--not quite, but he'll get there.
"They call you the Don Juan of the Big Thompson," he says.
I laugh, wiping down the counter with the already sullied rag. "It's not inaccurate," I reply.
"You have your fingers in every pot," he says.
"I got eager fingers," I reply. "We do alright. We get by."
"Please, Mariano," says the fine gent. "Everyone knows you do more than get by." His tone is bitter. "How someone like you managed to do so well for himself I shall never know." He motions for another dram of whiskey which I give him 'cause it's my job and I know he'll pay.
"Careful, sir," I say nonchalantly. "If I'm right--and I'm almost always right--you're not here for the ambiance of Mariano's Crossing. Looks to me like you got a question for me; you keep insulting me and I may not have the answer you're looking for." This gets his attention; he sits up straighter, has the decency to break eye contact, to sheepishly squirm on the stool.
"My apologies, Mr. Medina," he says. "You are correct; I have a...matter of business to discuss with you."
I lean over the bar, my elbow resting in a pool of soured alcohol. "You need money."
He blinks at me. "Well...yes. I represent the-"
"First National Bank of Fort Collins," I finish for him. His mouth drops open, all astonished.
"Yes...how..."
"I got my ways, Mister Blanchard," I reply. "Honestly I thought you'd be by sooner."
"As it is, I'm here now. The First National would like to enter into a business agreement with you--"
"A loan. You need a loan," I say. He doesn't reply, just sits there staring at me. I resist the urge to rub my hands together in anticipation. Money making has always been one of my favorite endeavors in this life. Taking it from men like this is only that much sweeter. They thought I wouldn't be able to do it. They all expected me to blow right on through this place. But I've got roots, see; I'm not going anywhere and this river's too lucrative. I got myself a business, a homestead, a saloon and good standing. I'm no mountain man--not anymore.
"Do we have a deal, Mr. Medina?" The fancy man asks me. He holds out his hand and I stare at that soft pink palm and think to myself money knows no friend or foe; why should I? But it's not that simple. I know that, but still...
I take his soft hand in mine, a hand that ain't so soft but rather rough and callused and all scarred and give it a firm shake. "You got yourself a deal, bank man; to the tune of $61,00."

Mariano Medina #3: White Flag

Surrender in white

A soaring eclipse

To overshadow prejuicio

Don’t tease me

Says the wind

The time is here

Is now

Is come

Is past

The man

Small in stature tall in order

A Napoleonic complex

An old world champion

Don Juan tirumphant

In buckskin clothes

And top hat

“I am at peace with all nations”

Except

Sometimes

men encased

in blanco 

Mariano Medina #2: Takansy

I am number two wife. He tells me I am the best trade he ever made—worth every pony he gave Louis Papa, the man I married first. I don’t think often of the Papin man—it was Mariano I wanted, the moment I saw him. He was a man of many nations, proof it could be done. Spanish, American, Mexican, Indian; he is all of these and he is more, he is more than those came before him. He is mine. There are many people in this world and I chose him. Over my people. The Numa, the people of the high growing grasses. I chose him and I hope it was right. I have made a life here, on the banks of this Big Thompson and it is not an easy life. There are those who would see us leave, those who don’t understand, who wish us gone. Or dead. I thought—sometimes I still think—Mariano could force the peace I seek with his winning ways and his money.

I watch this husband of mine, now, in that time of day when the earth is spinning itself slowly to sleep and the Great Spirit draws a blanket over the sky. It is my favorite time of day—the children are gathered around the small stove, warming their tiny brown hands. Mariano smiles up at me, the husband that calls me John. I don’t know why—I’ve never asked. He pulls on the beaded moccasins I have made for him and I don’t tell him they look out of place with his store bought pants and gentleman’s jacket. My man is no gentleman; he is all business, all about the coin. They jingle in his pockets when he walks; they clank in the soles of his boots. “I have been in this world with nothing, John,” he tells me. “I won’t go back.” Do I understand this in him? Sometimes. It is nice to give our children warmth, a wooden floor and new shoes every winter. But there are things, quiet things, I miss about our life before we settled here.

ANTH 456: Mariano Medina #1

“This will never work,” she says. I do not look at her. There is truth, there, in her words, but I won’t hear it. “Do you hear me, Jesus? This will never work!” I wonder if she will ever lose her accent, if the Indian and the Spanish will always hover over her words like smoke. She does not think we will make it here; she does not think we will make it anywhere. The world’s a mess.

“It doesn't have to. God knows what is best,” I say. Takansy, this beautiful wife of mine, will not hear me.

“Bah!” she throws up her hands. “You are a foolish man, Jesus!  Why do you listen to your god and not your wife? These people, they will never stand for this. For us.”

“We are the richest family in the Big Thompson Valley,” I say. “Money will talk and they will listen.”

“Money, money, money! Always money,” she says. Her voice is tired. “We were not meant for this life.”

“Then what life?” I ask. “A Spanish one? An American one? A life on the plains with your people?” I cross the dirt floor, take her hand in mine. It is rough and callused. The nails are dirty. I press a kiss to her palm. “This life is all we have.”

“We are all mixed up.” There are tears in her eyes.

“So is the world. We are part of it all.” I pull her into my arms.

“Speak to me in Spanish,” she says, her voice muffled against my chest. “No English; not for awhile.”