Mary Peace Finley
Award-winning author of books for young people
Julio sprinted toward the gates, but slowed and traced the sign of the cross over his
forehead and chest as he passed a mound of freshly turned dirt where a wooden
cross marked a new grave. He couldn’t read the words on the marker, but the date
was the same as the date he’d carved less than two months ago on the aspen
tree near Papá’s lonely grave in the mountains—1845. A gunshot jolted him from
the memory of digging with Papá’s shiny new coffeepot and his own bare hands.
Men cheered. The impact of pounding hoofs vibrated through his moccasins, and he tasted
dust billowing from beneath the surface layer of mud that remained after the days of rain. Through
an opening between wagons, he spotted an oval racetrack to the north of the thick Fort walls. "It’s
just a horse race, Chivita. Not an attack."
Trampled grass and wagon ruts narrowed as the toes of his moccasins nosed toward the gates. He
hopped over the tongue of a wagon, and his hand reached out to the studded metal that clad the
enormous gate. The metal was cold to his touch, almost sharp.
"Hola." He called out. "Hello?"
A man gave him a strange look, but didn’t answer.
"Vamos, Chivita, " Julio whispered, patting his leg, and eased into the cool, dark
entryway. He blinked in the sudden darkness, groping for the wall to guide him. A
shiver went through him, not from the cool adobe bricks, but from touching walls
Papá had made. Ay, Papá! he thought, I wish you were here.
© Mary Peace Finley 2012
