After They Have Killed Us

The engineers, with their drills and tripods, came to New Mexico's age-encrusted Pueblo of San Felipe. They pointed to the sun-baked ceremonial plaza, place of the Corn Dance, where not even an Indian is permitted to drive his wagon. They pointed to the sacred kiva, where the Indians hold their secret councils.

Slowly, with great dignity, handsome Governor Don Sanchez shook his brown head. The sun glinted from his high cheek bones, from his jet-black hair, from the strip of magenta silk around his brow. He stood firm. The engineers went away.


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