[h1]Chihuahua State[/h1]
[h2]Ciudad Juarez[/h2]

At the edge of a ruinous landscape where the El Grande begins to draw its early mark across the dry rocky landscape of the high desert. Where the wind had not blown in great clouds of dust from the north, across the great prairie lands in the far north and into Texas and Mexico, the cracked and barely readable scars of roads cut the landscape in regular plots where the ruins of adobe homes and buildings lay as mere shells of themselves, simple four walls around a floor of dust and desert sage brush with pale silver leaves. But while the landscape looked dead, closer towards the center of the city where the Rio Grande rolled wide and shallow there was life. When the wind gusts south into the barren inhospitable dry deserts it often carried with it the cackle of chickens, of old madres, and all the rattle of city and town life.

Across the Rio, where six-hundred years ago would have been El Paso Texas was yet another extension for what would be the domain of Juarez as a city. From atop its tallest still-standing towers at the city heart fluttered twin pairs of flags, the long white banner with red-stripe at its bottom, emblazoned with a black desert eagle flying over a black trumpet of the great Tabernacle State, and below in a smaller standard the coiled rattlesnake about the meat of a flowering cactus flush with fruit on a yellow field.

Here was the kingdom of Chihuahua, of a people hard and unbending to the rocks who since before their founding been tested by war and trials. It was a history of strife that spanned beyond generational count and the sun-baked concrete of a tall broken wall that once defined a border not far outside of the city stood as a dark monument  that defined the suspicions that rose to there having been fighting and battles when the old world ended, and which had emboldened many people.

And this was the place where, when the men of Deseret came to liberate gave them still more power, and to not turn itself on its own had marched westward to the terrible Bay of Cortes with its sea monsters and dark water. It was said among them that they would have desired to conquer the sea, but Baja across the way had already done so and thus became their jealousy, but not their enemy.

While the march was slow and consolidating it did not take the better part of six-hundred years, not even a hundred. Within a generation they had pierced the desert and slashed to the far waters with the roar of shot and cannon. And when it was done there was such fear in the dons and príncipes that claimed in part Greater Mexico  that they had sought to restrain the Chihuahuans. They were wars against the Tabernacle state, and the Chihuahuans came to carry the war themselves on their shoulders and backs. To the north, they were the iron shield against the south.

And so was the kingdom that Josiah Brown inherited, commanded. But more importantly to him: lead.
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A remarkable sound split the early morning air, as if called from the very frozen dew that covered every rock and stone in a diamond sheen that shone purple and black in the early morning sunlight. The sun itself had not yet risen and its light was barely an orange smudge over the horizon. The sky was still black and inky. 

In the collection of Adobe barracks at the foot of the rocky hill men bound to their feet, and hurriedly donned uniforms. From atop the hill at his nest the trumpeter continued to blaze out his tune over his trumpet heralding the men from their slumber and to their ranks. And so they did, soldiering without distraction to don trousers, don shirts, and don boots. To don their blazers and throw on their hats. To clasp their armor to their chests as they went out the door. Speak and pike in their hand, or musket at their side. Hussling them on more were the drill sergeants who seemed to no less awake than they were when they had retired to their beds five-hours previous. They stood atop boxes, rode atop horses whipping the shoulders and backs of the slow with the broadsides of their swords and sneering in loud voices goaded them on and threatening them with worse than whips at their back if they did not get to formation.

At the parade ground under a covered awning, an officer in fine white dress stood leaning over a table, his wide, round-rimmed hat obscuring his face as he bowed his head to a watch in the candle light. He scribbled in a ledger with a thin piece of charcoal the minutes and seconds as each rank assembled and were filled in.

When that was done, he stood back and away to the corner, keeping his eye low as a drill officer took the stage and began to make a pronouncement in a loud coyote voice. As the regular speech was done, he ordered the brigades to run, and they marched out into the desert with full gear and jogged the desert before the sun could rise. Their breaths combined leaving a foggy wake in their trail that wound and stretched on like a snake that faded away at its tail as its ethereal body melted away into the cold morning air.

By the time they returned from their run the sun had risen from the horizon and the icy diamond dew had all but evaporated from a few still shaded spots. But now they shone like flecks of gold against brown rocks and not as silver diamonds. But when the morning came into full bloom so did these gems melt away and evaporate into the dry air, and the snake that followed the marchers turned from mist to dust. And when the men returned, the officer in the white suit took the times again, looking from his watch to each passing unit taking them down by the passing numbered badges stitched to their arm sleeves or painted on their roughened matted metal breastplates.

When they returned the same sergeant returned, made another announcement and sent them to breakfast. And the white-suited man made no indication he cared, and did not lift his head up any higher than to make a peek at them. And when the men left, he remained; but a chair was brought up to him and there at his table he was served steak and eggs drenched in a blood red chili sauce, with fresh milk mixed with beer in an undecorated ceramic cup.

When the men returned, they were exercised for an hour. Some still jogged, others went about in some other aerobic excercise. The trumpet called them back to formation and they drilled for the better part of the remaining morning until afternoon. Their muskets popping in a rapid succession of volleys at the hillside, the roaring grunts of the others thrusting with spears and pikes rising in an audible beat that filled the quiet between volleys and episodes of reloading.

It was at this time a rider came on a dusty-brown steed. A long riding coat trailing up behind him as the slender built mare galloped up to the camp, slowing to a trot and then a soft canter as the man drew near. The man in the white suit still remained at the drill yard, shaded in the cover of an awning. The rider approached him.

He was a small man, not much more than an inch over five foot with a small jockey's build. His face was narrow, almost grimmacing at each step. And like the man in white he wore a round, wide-brimmed hat shading his face and neck from the punishing sun.

“Josiah Brown, I deliver a message.” he declared in a dusty voice. 

The man in white did not answer, and continued his work taking the time.

“Josiah, Brown.” the rider repeated, with a little more force.

“I am not Don Brown.” the man in white said in a low voice, turning to him only briefly as he recorded a time. He had a marbled face, cut with dust rock, and war. Soft green eyes looked up at the intruder, and then left him. His complexion was soft and caramelized.

“I am sorry.” the messenger said, bowing his head, “But I am looking for Josiah Brown.”

“The Don is here.” said the officer in white.

“Then where is he, here?” the rider asked, “I have a message to deliver for him.”

“He is here but not here to be disturbed. You will need to wait until rest.”

“Is this necessary?”

“For him: yes.” the officer in white said, recording some times as a set of volleys finished from the drill yard. In doing so, he displayed  a sharp ability of observation and memory. Making sharp glances at his watch and recording numbers and sources even as the successive firing ended long before he finished taking notes.

“I was sent here on a dispatch of emergency from Don Mark of Hermasillo. The situation he says is grave!”

“All situations are grave to master Mark.” the officer in the white suit said, “But it does not change the situation. I can not summon master Josiah at this time. Your waiting will persist.”

The messenger groaned displeased. And threw up his hands in defeat. “Fine then.” he huffed, lowering to sit on his haunches as he watched the drilling continue.

For the next hour he waited as the men rotated and continued. Then a long note was bellowed from the trumpets and everything stopped. The man in the suit put down his charcoal pencil and his watch and folded his arms as the men, now relieved or morning duties began to break formation and scatter, most in the direction of the main camp to the mess hall for lunch.

From the group though came a man walking in the opposite direction, a drill master at his side as they split from the rabble and approached the drill yard's wooden stage. The two stepped up.

The one, who looked to be dressed as a newly initiated junior officer stood tall with broad shoulders who towered over his companion, a small aging man who had lost an eye. With a trimmed beard, the taller and younger man held a neater appearance than the disheveled and scarred older man at his side. “Alright, I am curious. What do the numbers say about today's performance.” the older gentleman said in a gruff voice as he went immediately to the officer in white and scanned the ledger.

“Section 2 has improved from yesterday.” he said in a low voice.

“A marked shot more in five minutes of firing.” the seated man acknowledged.

“I guess that will be fine. I'll need to go over this when Josiah's done with them.”

He stepped from the table as the junior officer moved in. Standing up, the officer in white left him the chair and the junior sat down. The messenger rose.

“Josiah Brown?” he asked, looking between the two new comers.

The man seated turned to him and looked up at the messenger. “And who would you be?” he asked in a wispy, breathless voice. 

“Thomas Akron, I have word from Mark Hampton.” he said, stepping forward. Josiah Brown nodded his head.

He was a clean man, even despite the dust and sweat that caked his face. A full beard and mustache was well trimmed, and his eyes were a pure blue under fat-slickened eyebrows. At some point in the day he had coated his cheeks in charcoal dust to cut the glare of the sun, and that was even despite the visor of his cap. A heavy hooked nose dominated his face, and all together he looked at the messenger bitterly as he stepped around the table.

“Well?” Josiah insisted.

“Don Mark wishes to report that several weeks ago, men from Sinoaloa hit as far north as Obregon, and that in this episode of looting close to a quarter of the countryside south of that city was burned. He sent a party of men to pursue them, and last he heard they had entered Sinoaloa state in an effort to recover a herd of cattle these men had confiscated. No word has returned from them since, and to make matters work another party struck north just last week, seemingly in defiance. His authority and means to raise an army to properly retaliate is weak at best, and calls upon you; his governor to do something about it.”

“This is what you get for toying with Papist heathens.” the man in the white suit said, now standing with his arms crossed behind his master.

“Has he at least committed to trying to fortify the region as per my orders?” Josiah Brown said, “It is why I sent him there, to make sure the line between us and them is well defined and to not waste efforts trying to push them away. I didn't ask for a wall, for God's sakes.”

“I don't know.” the messenger said, “I only deliver what word he gives to me.”

Josiah nodded, “I will not go.” he said.

“Let him stew then.” the man-in-white said with a contemptuous snort.

“Not, to not do that, Jesus.” Josiah remarked, “I want word from a man that he at least went about to do what I requested. If he did, then I will not answer. But if he did not, I will have to fire him and deal with the matter myself. This fact is clear to me. You can go and send him that word now, I will deal with the rest on my end here and in my own time. Good bye.”