[h1]Western New Mexico[/h1]

It boiled like hell, even as the year began to dip into its twilight. Having continued passed the dull roaring heat of summer and the year's middle-aged hump the passage of dry time ebbed into late summer. The same winds that bore the fruits of dry dust storms further east came across the dry rocky deserts on New Mexico on a lazy trip across the unencumbered flat lands of the American great plains, which slowly evolved back to that primitive name they were once known by: the great American desert.

But the men in the real deserts thought they knew what a desert was. They knew what it was like to live in a dry arid landscape where sandstorms were enough common place it wasn't outright panic and bore for the men a devastating feeling of apocalyptic doom when the horizon shifted and grew into a roving wall of airborne sand. A light brown curtain that swept across unencumbered terrain when the wind blew too strong, and as it passed leaving behind confused eddies of dancing and spinning  pillars of dust and sand.

This was just their way of life. As much as the squeal of the wind-powered mills that pumped silicate-choked water from deep reservoirs under the camp.

In the long shade cast by the flimsy tower built from two-by-fours and sixes gangs of men milled about busily or in idleness in the lowering glare of the sun. The desert of this area of New Mexico slowly turned over from the baked yellow  to a soft glowing red as the evening light set in. And with the  falling evening sun came a signal that night was approaching and if it was time to work on anything heavy, now would be the time to prepare.

Sounds of grinding and loud swearing echoed in the camp as the assembled men went about their various duties to maintain a sort of military. While the men carried about guns there was a loose formality about it as the impromptu soldiers had armed themselves with heirloom rifles, squirrel guns, and shotgun. But they carried themselves like soldiers all the same and their rifles rested from their backs like any other weapon a private carried on his person in the trenches of Europe.

Over the military compound several flags flew in the arid wind.  The red banner of the national commune of Browder's Dust Bowl state flew atop a dry almost petrified flagpole alongside a triad of other smaller and lower flags.

The old flag of the state of Mexico flew next to Browder's flag at their alter at the middle of the camp. Likewise the red flag of international socialism and a fourth with a stylized numeral four stood on either side.

Ever since his arrival, the men of the communes who called themselves a revolutionary army had reached out to the words of Trotsky and his lectures on permanent revolution. It was the means for a cause, and to the many angry poor men who found purpose in the hope of carrying their rifles again to battle the great mission of eternal revolution and bringing liberation to the broader masses was an inspiring message. It brought these people hope for a purpose, and liberation and social revolution helped underline their simply primitive desire for revenge against the bankers and statesmen who before were tearing the land out from under the boots of the former farmers.

But removed from the sounds of toil and work came the cheers and whoops of a crowd in reverie. Even a gang of self-professed revolutionaries must have in some way entertainment.

A punch connected against the exposed bare chest of a sun-baked farmer and the dull thud of  the sinews and ribs of his torso crunch loud in the mid-evening heat and beads of sweat splashed off from his bruised skin. He staggered and gagged on a mouth-full of phlegm rising in his mouth. The man staggered. His hair, which had once been blonde but was now dirty and brown hung down around his face as he staggered back clutching the spot his competitor's fist had connected. He seemed to stagger and fight to hold his balance, but grimmacing against the pain he held his pose and lashed out with his own balled up fist, aiming for the shoulder of his competitor.

The other man fighting had been through this before. As with the other he had dispensed with his shirt in the heat and his bare back and hairy chest glistened and dripped with sweat. His skin rung tight with sunburn over his hunched back as he moved his heavy stonecutter's arms up to guard against the quick left hook. The attack was quick, but as it smacked the heavy flesh of his arms it plopped helplessly against them like a lone raindrop. It splashed off and the recoil left the skinny bruised man exposed.

The larger man jabbed forward quickly, and the connection of his fist to the right side of his face and across the side of his head was wet and sickly. He spun deftly and collapsed into the dirt with the grace and balance as a sack of flour. He lay in the settling sand for a moment as everyone applauded and bellowed. The large man rose his hands and smiled.

“Jesus Mac, you didn' kill 'em did'ya?” a man asked jokingly as a pair of stretcher bearers ran over and  dragged the beaten contestant from the field of combat unceremoniously.

Mac smiled and shrugged. He was a giant of a man with a round boyish face and a pair of deep set green eyes that shone like a deep sea. Whipping his hand across his brow he looked around at the men of the unit seeking out a new challenger.

While he was large and imposing, that did not exempt him from his own injuries and a few fresh bruises littered his chest and gut. The smaller man had been quick and agile, and Mac simply had to fight to absorb the blows of the little gremlin until he tired enough to be handled. Blood dripped from an open wound above his brow and coated half his face in rich dark blood; he had refused to let it be saw too. Likewise the lobe of one of his wide elephantine ears had been split by a grazing blow and as the excitement of the fight dropped away he was noticing he felt a little numb and a bit more deaf on that side than usual.

He rubbed a bear knuckle into it as he scanned the crowd looking for anyone else who wanted to give the camp Goliath a shot. To be true, he had not been here for more than a month and he had opted himself out to be moved from his old unit to a new one as soon as everyone had gotten afraid to meet him in a contest. It wasn't important, and several others had joined him in the move like water flowing from one pond to another. If he didn't put out any permanently in boxing injuries to pass these later days, then it would be continued on by many others.

But the visible truth was that on the surface this was a New Mexican unit and he was from Colorado. Adventurous guns passed between all sorts of units for any variety of reasons but these men were a minority in volunteers and locals filled these militias and volunteer brigades as much as foreigners who flocked into the area in search of adventure and glory.

Mac continued to look about anxiously for someone to come forward as a distant cowbell rang over the din and summoned the collective's attention elsewhere. They all lifted their heads and looked up into the camp with suddenly hungry and thirsty expression. “Dinner, boys!” someone called out with a barking tone of voice. Springing to their feet there was a scuffling stampede as former fight spectators scrambled up to their feet and staggered off for the main camp.

The only man to be left behind was a similarly broad-built older man, he sat in the half-shade of a nearby locust tree engrossed in writing something on a tablet he propped up against a raised leg. He gave a half-glance in the direction of the bolting men and turned back to his pencil as he wrote his words on the page. Mac walked towards him, reaching down to a rock and picking up his discarded and dusty clothes that lay there. He approached the man by the tree, and stood in the light of the sun so that his large shadow was cast long across him.

Shifting his weight in the dirt at the base of the tree, the sitting man looked up at Mac from underneath the wide-brim of a dirty and almost burned cowboy hat. His face was wide, chin and jaw squared and nearly like a hammer. A mustache the thickness of a caterpillar hung out above his lip and over it, hiding the upper part of his scowling mouth as he leered up at him from behind a pair of spectacles.

“You hold your feet too close together.” the older man said in a dry gravely voice as he lowered his leg and laid the tablet down flat, setting the pencil to rest there, “You're lucky that skinny sissy boy didn't think to swing his legs at you and plant you on the ground. You could've been racked across the head.”

Mac laughed and shrugged, “Didn't do him no fucking good.” he smiled, “Come on Earnest, you want something to eat? I hear the cook as bacon.”

Earnest grumbled something under his breath and turned back to his writing. He reached into the pocket of his khaki shirt and produced a flask and took a mighty drag from the bottle.

“What are you snorting?” Mac asked.

Earnest didn't reply, not immediately. He slipped the flask into his pocket and picked the pencil back up and drummed it against his paper. “Bourbon.” the writer answered with a dry voice.

Mac shrugged, and turned away.