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Acoma Pueblo was a small Indian pueblo in the western parts of New Mexico. Following the trail from Santa Cruz, it could be seen from miles away. It was in fact made up of three towns, but the most astonishing was no doubt the Old Acoma or San Acoma, also known as the Sky City. It lied on top of a 365-foot mesa towering above the landscape.

The isolation and location have sheltered the Acoma people, who have lived in the village for thousands of years, and it is sacred to most Indians. The meaning of the word “acoma” is “a place that always was”.

It had three rows of three-story adobe buildings. The roofs were covered with poles, brush and then plaster. The roof for one level served as the floor for another, and each level is connected to others by ladders. The ladders were the only way to enter the buildings that had no windows or doors.

During the 1880s, there were several occasions of Indian uprising, mostly the famous Apache Wars in New Mexico and Arizona. All Indian tribes often went across the border to Mexico to avoid the Cavalry regiments that were sent to eliminate the renegade red skins. Some of the old pueblos further away from the forts were also a haven for outlaws and banditos of all kind, and the locals showed them hospitality. The Indians raided mostly American ranches and attacked the railroads that were being built to bring civilization to the West. So the Mexican pueblos, north and south of the border, were never in real danger.

And of the all pueblos, San Acoma was the most sacred to all Indian tribes.

Poker is a science; the highest court in Texas has said so. -- Quince Forrest, quoted in The Log of a Cowboy, 1903.

Early spring 1886...

It had been a long ride from Delaware (Oklahoma) across the northern parts of Texas. At some point, Mayer was forced to leave his stolen horse behind and travel by train into New Mexico. From Santa Cruz he followed the old trail until he could see San Acoma from the distance. It would have not been possible to take a horse up to the mesa. Actually, only one narrow and almost hidden path serpented up to the top. It was not easy to get permission to go up to the sacred pueblo.

Nearly six months after Mayer left the Delaware bandits, he finally had found his way to San Acoma. Maybe he could find the veteran gambler Lucas here, or someone else that was up for a good game of cards. Unbeknownst to many, San Acoma was a haven for gamblers that wanted to get away from the noise and stress of the major towns and hotels, or even the floating saloons of the Mississippi. There were no saloons up in the mesa, but private homes were used for invitation-only card games, and if a well known gambler was in San Acoma, the word got around very quickly.

After abandoning his bandit days, Mayer had played some cards whenever he had a chance. But he was aware of the fact that his skills were still a far cry from what he wanted to become.

Some adobe-style houses were scattered at the base of the huge rock, and also tents and wooden structures, including stable, cheap hotel and what appeared to be houses for ladies of the line. Mayer was thirsty after long journey, and he could see the word “CANTINA” written in white chalk, and an inviting swinging door…

I stepped into the Cantina and stood in the middle of the room just for a second, taking a look to the people inside. I didn't want to attract attention, so I quickly went to the barman and ask for some whiskey (damn, I was thirsty: that path was hard, and my throat was sandblasted).

The swinging doors made a creaking sound as Mayer walked inside the dark Cantina. It took him a second or two to get used to the dim light. Outside it was high noon, and hot as hell. But inside the small Cantina it was cool and quiet. The barman looked at the stranger who had walked in, and without saying a word grabbed a bottle of cheap whiskey. After a nod from Mayer, he filled a glass up to the rim and put it on the bar.

There were only four small round tables, and two were empty. Maybe at night they put more chairs outside, who knows. A drunken farmer was asleep next to a bottle of tequila sitting on the table closest to the bar, and further away, in the corner, three men were playing a dice game. They stopped for a second when Mayer came in, but then carried on ignoring him. They did not talk, and tossed the dice with a bored and tired look in their faces.

The cheap whiskey soothed Mayer´s throat, and the glass was empty far too soon. During the last months, he had not had too many chances to gamble. Mostly silly dice games where only luck mattered. Still it had been enough to pay for the hotels, meals, and transport. Except that he was short one horse now. Normally, he would not bother with three farmers playing for peanuts, but the deck in his pocket was in desperate need of some action...

I took that base burner and left the glass on the bar again. The place looked like a benzinery but damn, that felt like the boss whiskey in town. Then I went slowly to the table where those mudsills where playing: I didn't want to bat my eyes*, I was determined to muck 'em out. Before takin' a chair, I took my California Prayer Book out of my pocket and threw it on the table where they were playin'. Then I sat and looked at their faces. That was a challenge.

-What about some Tiger's Tail twisting, fellers?

The three men stopped their game, and stared at the deck of cards Mayer had thrown on the table. Then they looked at each other. The one that was sitting in the middle gazed at the stranger and nodded, inviting him to sit. -Bien, gringo. We play. Ten cents por chip¹?

I smiled and started shuffling the cards looking at 'em, just tryin' to know if they were just amateurs or if there were real gamblers behind those mexican bigotes.

-How about twenty, amigos?

The three looked at Mayer for a moment. Then one of them nodded, and also pointed at the table... The barman brought a bottle of tequila. -Veinte it is.

Everyone took out two dollar bills and put them on the table, and the wooden chips were handed out. Neither of them looked like they had much idea of gambling. They looked more like farmers. But all three did carry a side gun.

The game was on...

Mayer lays down the cards...

Aces and ... Sevens!

He claims the first pot, and breaks the other three with his first hand.

After several hands of poker, only two players are left on the table. Mayer looks at his opponent, who is staring at him. The Mexican is not a gambler, and things are not looking very good for him. His stack of chips is half the size of Mayers´

-You are a very lucky hombre, he says and fills two glasses with tequila to the rim, and puts one in front of Mayer. -Do you want to play it all on a high card?, he asks.

-I ain't feeling that lucky, amigo -I said, layin' down my cards on the table and making a pile with my chips-. Well played, though.

The Mexican laughs showing a few missing teeth. He seems happy he did not loose everything, in fact he has a few chips more than he had when he started. And he did not loose face in front of his friends since Mayer turned down his challenge. He insists Mayer joins him for a glass of tequila. -So, why you have come to San Acoma, amigo?

I accepted the shot and smiled to the chicano.

-Just lookin' for some gambling, earning a few dollars and keep drinking and fucking ugly-as-cow girls -I drank the tequila-. Nothin' special, friend.

I've gotta admit I didn't want to talk much about myself, but I wasn't lying either. Those were my objetives, apart from starting a new life, but that would have meaned questions, and I wanted to bury my outlaw past.

The Mexican smiles in a strange, almost insane, way. -You are in El Pueblo now, he says and waves with his hand towards the Sky City up in the mesa. -One does not come to San Acoma for nothin´. One comes to San Acoma to get away from ones past, or to find your path. One way or the other, this place is special. Always.

Then he calms down, and looks Mayer in the eye. -I can take you up to San Acoma. There is another gringo there, I take you to him. Vamos. Let´s go.

The Mexican moves swiftly and heads out towards the narrow path that goes all the way to the top, to San Acoma.

I liked how that damn mexican had read my mind, so I did'nt thought it for a second and started following him.

When we started the ascension, I took a second thought about it. Maybe I was just like everyone else, and that's just what he says to everyone... In any case, I did'nt had anything to lose, so I kept going behind him.

It had been a long walk to reach the top of the mesa, and Mayer was sweating and thirsty. Up on the top, there were but a few dozen adobe style houses, with flat rooftops and small window holes. He could not see anybody on the empty streets, even though it was not that late yet.  Behind his back, the sun was about to set, painting the twilight sky of en eerie reddish glow that only enforced the feeling of entering a whole new and strange world. San Acoma. The Sky City.

The Mexican waved towards a large building that had two square-based towers, and a white cross on top. The San Esteban Church of Acoma, built by the missionaries. Then he ran away as if the devil was chasing him.

Then Mayer saw a middle-aged white man turning the corner and slowly entering the church. He was wearing a cowboy hat, and a silver star was visible on his chest.

-Howdy -I greeted the man, who looked like town's sheriff judging by the star he was wearing on his chest-. Are you the gringo I heard about?

I walked towards the spanish-named church, slowly. I thought it may be a good idea to stay in touch with the sheriff and have a nice relation. Just in case, you know...

The sheriff turned around slowly when Mayer greeted him. He was already half-way inside the small church, and removed his hat and waited for Mayer to step inside and do the same. He was wearing a black tight vest and blue shirt, and he looked tired. But his blue eyes were penetrating when he gazed at Mayer. There was no doubt an aura of sadness in him, but more than anything he looked like he could read a man.

-No, I´m not who you are looking for, he said and looked at the empty church. –I´m here to pay my respects. My name is Maddox. And this is the funeral for Joe Wilmot. He was the lawman here in San Acoma.

Maddox walked the alley towards the wooden coffin, and then took a seat on one of the wooden benches.

The church  was a fine, old adobe church. A Mexican mission church. There were some Mexican Indian paintings on the side walls. It was cool and dark inside. This was a church meant to give man peace. Still, it felt awkward to celebrate a funeral with no one present. Not even the minister.

-Sorry, feller - I said, touching my hat as a sign of respect for his dead friend and erasing any expression from my face, looking serious while-. Guess he was the gringo... No disrespect, of course, but, may I know what happened?