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JULY 3RD, 1947
Corona, New Mexico
4:13 A. M.
The lightning struck the ground with such ferocity that the small boulders and rocks in its path shattered into pieces, spraying out like fireworks.
Mac Brazel had been sound asleep, until the thunderclap from the nearby strike of lightning jolted him awake. The old timbers of the small ranch house shook, causing mortar, long ago dried out, to fall into the cavity between the ceiling and the roof, scaring the rodents who took refuge there. He jumped out of the bed, quickly making his way to the open window. The frightened bleats from the several hundred sheep on the ranch, now huddled together in a tight undulating circle, assaulted Mac through the open window.
Water had splashed in, wetting the floor and window casings of the old ranch house. It wasn’t the first time that windows in the house had remained opened during a rainstorm. Storms were so rare and lasted so short a time, that most in the area of the many ranches and few houses, didn’t concern themselves with a bit of rain splashing in. As Mac reached up to pull down on the sash in an attempt to close the warped window, another strike of lightning hit with equal ferocity. He watched as sparks first flared up and then cascaded down to the point of impact.
Lightning again lit up the sky. This time it failed to reach the earth. Instead, the bolts crisscrossed through the clouds. Flashes of white backlit the dark gray masses of clouds, casting shadows of gray upon darker gray.
Mac tightened the muscles of his weatherworn, ranch honed shoulders and began to pull down on the old sash, as a breeze swept into the dank room. He hesitated closing the window completely, breathing in the ozone-laden air, and feeling the rain-cooled breeze on his bare skin. It was a rare but appreciated sensation.
All was momentarily quiet, and it appeared as though the storm was about to blow over. Then, the ranch house shook again. Rocking. Shuddering. An explosion of light and sound hit the ground south of the ranch house. Rock and dirt burst into the sky, fanned out, and settled into a long path. Mac stood, half groggy still from sleep, half frightened to death, mesmerized by the lightning spectacle. For a moment, he considered that he might be dreaming and willed himself awake. A gust of wind pushed the spray of rain into Mac’s face and he knew for certain that he was not dreaming.
The herd of sheep that would most often be far out in the acres upon acres of desert land, now poured into the nearby corral. Their wails grew in volume. Frightened to the point of panic by the last explosion of lightning, they jostled for position pushing into the small corral near the ranch house.
In the distance, the ground appeared to be glowing. And Mac surmised that the brush had caught on fire from the lightning strike, as it often did, after having baked in the desert sun for several weeks or months before a storm moved in. He continued to watch the glowing earth, internally debating whether to mount up now and ride out to the fire, or wait until morning. The rain continued to fall in ever increasing cloud bursts making his decision for him. He could safely wait until the storm passed, and for morning light. The fire wouldn’t make it far if the rain continued and the southern pasture could use a good burn anyway, Mac convinced himself, as he pulled the window most of the way closed. He fell back into the bed and restlessly waited for sleep or morning’s light, whichever came first.