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Dec 18 (posted viaProZ.com): An wonderful document related to an exhibition about the O’odham and Piipaash indian communities from the Sonoran Desert. So glad to do this translation, since it has a deep meaning and I've learned a lot....more, + 1 other entry »
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LEE Weston’s big hands clenched tightly around the handle of the spade. For a little while he could not continue and then, taking a breath that held the shudder of grief, he began to scoop thick red gumbo into the grave, covering the body of his father.
It was done, and the two mesquite sticks he had tied together with a rawhide thong in the form of a cross cast their shadow across the raw, ugly earth.
Lee Weston dropped the shovel and turned to walk with weary gait back to the heap of still-smoking ashes which had been his home. There was nothing left there. Not even the frame which had enclosed his mother’s picture had survived.
As he stood staring at the broken corrals and the ashes where the barn had once stood, his hands strayed to the guns on either thigh and his palms went up and down against the walnut, as though they itched.
His young face was a haggard mask and his blue eyes plumbed the depths of hell. Three weeks of riding, enough to kill a weaker man, three horses dead under him and now—this!
He remembered the letter in his pocket and he drew it forth. The chill morning wind rippled the stained paper.
Son:
I wish you could come back, if only for a little while. I realize that you are making money and a name for yourself, and I know that you probably still think that I was unduly hard on you at times, but believe me, my boy, when I say that I need you.
The day of the small rancher in Pecos Valley is over and the combines are moving in with better stock and more capital. Men, because of their money, think that they can buy a thing for which other men have given their lives.
Some day my part of this range will be yours. I have tried to keep it for you, son. But now I need help. Harvey Dodge, whom I once knew on the old Chisholm Trail as a raider, has come here.
Please do not fail me!
Your father,
TOM WESTON
Lee put the letter back in the pocket of his batwings. The name Harvey Dodge was scorched into his sight so that everywhere he looked, the letters danced before him as though they were written in flame.
His strong mouth hardened into a bitter line. Three horses dead and three weeks of hell—and he had been only hours late! He looked at the hoofmarks in the churned earth and saw that at least twenty riders had made this raid. If he had arrived before their attack, he would probably now be dead. But he wasn’t thinking of things like that. He was thinking of only one thing—of finding Harvey Dodge and pouring twelve slugs into him.
He had often thought of coming home, but never had he dreamed that it would be like this. Smoking ashes and dead men—those three sprawled riders, who might have been friend or enemy, he did not know which.
Coming home, with the acrid smell of powder- smoke still lingering in the air. Coming home, and finding that he had no home.
He turned to his mount, intending to ride away. But the horse stood in deep dejection, lather dried upon his flanks and eyes glazed with weariness. Lee took the riata from the horn and walked out to the small band of broncs which had escaped from the corrals. He dropped his noose over the head of a buckskin who had not run away with the rest. Even the horses had changed here, but Lee Weston had been away for six years.
Translation - Spanish
EL PROSCRITO
Las grandes manos de Lee Weston apretaron firmemente el mango de la pala. Por un rato no pudo continuar, y luego, dándose un respiro entrecortado por el dolor, comenzó a arrojar tierra roja y espesa sobre la tumba, cubriendo el cuerpo de su padre.
Terminó, y los dos palos de mesquite que había unido con una tira de cuero para formar una cruz lanzaron su sombra a lo largo de la tierra cruda y fea.
Lee Weston tiró la pala y comenzó a caminar con paso fatigado hacia el montón de cenizas todavía humeantes que había sido su hogar. Ahí no quedaba nada. Ni siquiera sobrevivió el marco que encerraba la foto de su madre.
Mientras miraba los corrales destrozados y las cenizas donde alguna vez se encontraba el establo, sus manos se dirigieron hacia las armas en cada muslo y sus palmas frotaron el nogal, como si le picaran.
Su joven rostro era una máscara macilenta y sus ojos azules sondeaban las profundidades del infierno Tres semanas de cabalgar, suficiente como para matar a un hombre más débil, tres caballos que murieron durante la cabalgata, y ¡ahora esto!
Recordó la carta en su bolsillo y la sacó. El helado viento matinal onduló el papel manchado.
Hijo:
Desearía que pudieras regresar, siquiera por un poco de tiempo. Me doy cuenta de que estás haciendo dinero y te estás ganando renombre, y sé que probablemente todavía piensas que fui indebidamente duro contigo en ocasiones, pero créeme, hijo mío, cuando te digo que te necesito.
Los días del ganadero humilde en Pecos Valley se han terminado y las asociaciones están entrando con mejor ganado y más capital. Los hombres, a causa de su dinero, piensan que pueden comprar una cosa por la que otros hombres han dado la vida.
Algún día mi parte de este territorio será tuyo. He tratado de conservarlo para tí, hijo. Pero ahora necesito ayuda. Harvey Dodge, a quien alguna vez conocí en el viejo Camino Chisholm como un bandolero, ha venido aquí.
¡Por favor, no me falles!
Tu padre,
TOM WESTON
Lee puso la carta otra vez en su bolsillo. El nombre de Harvey Dodge estaba grabado en su visión, de tal manera que dondequiera que miraba, las palabras danzaban frente a sus ojos como si estuvieran escritas en llamas.
Su boca fuerte se convirtió en una rígida línea amarga. Tres caballos muertos y tres semanas infernales, y ¡había llegado tarde sólo por unas cuantas horas! Miró las marcas de los cascos en la tierra revuelta y vio que al menos veinte jinetes habían cometido este asalto. Si hubiera llegado antes del ataque, probablemente ahora estaría
muerto. Pero no estaba pensando en cosas como esa. Estaba pensando en una sola cosa: encontrar a Harvey Dodge y meterle doce plomazos.
Con frecuencia había pensado en llegar a su hogar, pero nunca soñó que sería como esto. Cenizas humeantes y hombres muertos, aquellos tres jinetes tirados, que pudieron haber sido amigos o enemigos, no sabía qué.
Llegar a su hogar, con el acre olor de pólvora- humo aún flotando en el aire. Llegar a su hogar y encontrar que no tenía hogar.
Volvió a su montura con la intención de alejarse. Pero el caballo permaneció quieto, profundamente abatido, con los flancos cubiertos de sudor seco y los ojos vidriosos por el cansancio. Lee tomó la reata del cuerno y caminó hasta la pequeña banda de broncos que habían huido de los corrales. Tiró su lazo sobre la cabeza de un potro que no huyó con el resto. Incluso los caballos habían cambiado aquí, pero Lee Weston estuvo ausente por seis años.
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I worked for a publishing house in México for 10 years. I translated a lot of articles and special reports from the media for the magazine I worked at, so I specialize in translation of every kind of things you could find published in newspapers and magazines.
With my collaboration, the magazine I worked for became a best-seller in Mexico City for some years. I was the best translator of English-to-Spanish at the publishing house, also the fastest.
Right now, since 2007 I´ve been doing a lot of various translations for several languages agencies, with jobs ranking from proofreading to updating of employee handbooks, medical manuals, personal letters, legal documents, charity websites, and some other materials.
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Member since Dec '09
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