Firstly, let me express my gratitude for the invitation to participate in this event. It is an honour to be included.
Thanks also to my friend Randi for her excellent editing skills and guidance.
This is the second part of three stories based on the Marty Robbins trilogy of songs, "El Paso," "Feleena" and "El Paso City." Randi has written the first, Stev2244 the final part. The stories should be read in this order. Readers may find the other two stories here:
https://www.literotica.com/s/El-Paso"
El Paso
and here,
http://www.literotica.com/s/El-Paso-City"
El Paso City
*****
Growing up in New Mexico was hard enough. Being a Mexican and a girl, made it worse. My parents were farmers. Hah, farmers, yeah right. Sand movers, really. Our farm wasn't much more than that, just sand... The crops we harvested were never enough. The cruel forces of nature, extreme heat, negligible rainfall. One step away from starvation.
The only way to sustain our crops was to carry water from our well in buckets. That was how I filled my days, carrying water back and forth to feed the crops, digging out weeds, my hoe my only weapon. Our home was nothing more than a two-room adobe hut. There was no running water, no bathroom. We all slept in the one room.
Mama worked cleaning in the nearby town of Cuervo. Town... it was nothing more than a group of houses, and the mission.
The American kids hated us, the boys constantly tormented me. They called me Poca, and Chola. I hated them, but mama made me go to the classes. She wanted more for me. She wanted me to be able to read and write, unlike her and papa.
While I was at the mission, the boys were always grabbing me, trying to catch me when I was alone.
When they were with their pals, they threw stones and spat on me. Alone, it was a different story.
My clothes were all used or Mama made them from scraps collected from the mission.
Father Nunes, the Padre, was okay. He was our teacher and looked after the mission.
As much as I hated the boys, I loved the learning, reading the books, seeing pictures of far away places. Anywhere away from this patch of dirt my parents loved so much.
I hated our patch of dirt and sand. I loved mis padres, but hated scraping around in the dirt. Working in the fields all day under the burning sun, watching the crops we planted with so much hope and love burn and wilt under the extreme heat, barely scraping by.
El padre, spoke in hushed spiritual tones of our bit of earth. "It is special, Muchacha, it provides for us, gives us shelter, food. It is everything. Here we are free."
I listened to him, never arguing. He rarely hit me, but he hated me criticizing our way of life. He grew up in Mexico, and came to America to escape the violence, and corruption. I was young, but even I could see he jumped out of the pan, into the fire.
Mexico might have been bad, but this was no better. The Americans hated us. They spat on us, called us names to our faces. My father turned the other cheek; that was his way. He believed in god, the Catholic priests ruled, as far as my father was concerned. The only time he hit me was to chastise me for taking the Lord's name in vain.
"Feleena, my angel, you must learn, we must adapt to the ways of the gringos. We have to do things their way."
"But Papa, they hate us."
"Only because they do not know us, my sweet child. They will come to understand we are no different, but it will take time."
"Papa, at the mission, they throw stones at me. I hate them."
Furious, he scalded me. "You must not hate, you must learn to accept."
It was clear that the boys wanted something from me as I matured into a teenage girl. Sex, that's what they wanted. In public, they spat at me, alone, they were all hands.
That's when I learned to fight. My punches were strong, and I learned quickly where their weak points were, and I wasn't afraid scratch out their eyes, or to kick their precious little cojones. They learned the hard way that I was not to be taken lightly.
All I wanted was to be left alone, be something other than a farmer's daughter. Scraping around in the desolate earth, trying to encourage something to grow. I may not have been a scholar, but I knew from the books I read that there were wonderful towns and cities, bright lights, beautiful clothes. I yearned for that, to be treated like a lady, not a Puta.
Young girls around town wanted nothing to do with the Mexican peon. From the whole town, I had one friend, Melissa. Her father worked for the railroad, and when I was at their house, I listened to him telling stories of wonderful towns. Melissa was fun; she loved to dress up and didn't mind sharing her clothes. When I stayed at her house, that's what we did, dressed up, made up stories about being princesses.
She was a wild child in many ways, she didn't mind the boys advances, which is why she was unpopular with the other girls. She let the boys kiss her, put their hands between her legs. She loved to tell me all about it, how it felt, and how much the boys liked her.
At night at home, listening to my parents in the bed across from me, I knew what they were doing, the sounds, the hushed moans of pleasure. Me, all I could do was dream about far away places, I lived in my little fantasy world where I was a lady, wore beautiful flowing gowns. That's all I wanted.
Melissa and I often played down by the railway tracks, in the old store rooms. It was there, watching the trains come and go, I hatched my plan. Collecting all my clothes, I sneaked out of the house, and hurried down to the old store room to wait.
The train arrived every night at about nine; it only stopped long enough to load cargo, there were no carriages. That's when I crawled out from my hiding place, and crept along the wagons. I found what could be a good hiding place, I climbed up onto a flat bed wagon covered by a big canvas sheet and slithered beneath it.
I listened as the workers walked by inspecting the wagons. The smell of their tobacco filtered under the cover as they banged the wheels looking for faults, or maybe to scare out hobos.
