No one knows exactly where he came from. There are the rumors of course; he came from deep in the south, Aztec blood running through his veins. Others are sure his lines are traceable to the great Apache warriors, still others know of a small town where he was found as an orphan and raised by humble peasants. One thing is for certain however, the name Arturo Panduro has resounded through the border country for twenty years, a hero to the people, a champion of right, a fearsome fighter whose pistols flash like lighting, a man of no parallel whose exploits will be spoken of around the campfires and hearths of the people for many generations to come. This is one such story.
“Papa! Come quick! It is him! Quick, by the arroyo!” The young, gangly farm boy called through gasps of breath.
“It is who? Can’t you see I am working here? What kind of game are you playing now? Please do as I asked you and bring the goats in for milking, we have cheese to make for the fiesta of Saint Joseph.”
“It is him, Papa, Arturo Panduro. In the arroyo! Quick, I think he may be dead!”
“Pablito! Stop this nonsense right now! The man you speak of, this Panduro, he is a myth made up by idle people who have nothing better to do, unlike you who has chores to finish.”
“But Papa, I know it is him. The spurs, the rowels are made from silver coins, the gun belts are heavy with silver conchos and the pistols have the eagle carving in the ivory handles, just as it has been told in the stories!”
“Ok, Ok. We will have a look at this Arturo Panduro you have found Pablito. But! If this is one of your games there will be no fiesta for you next week. Are you sure you want me to go with you now?”
“Yes Papa, we must go, I fear there is no time to loose.”
And so it was true, just as Pablito had told his father. Arturo Panduro was laying in the bottom of the arroyo, shot to ribbons, his life blood running into the soft sand, dying.