Doobie would not be comforted. Remembering her own loss made Susanna a poor comforter, anyway. Soon, she was crying, too.
“He won’t come back, he’ll never come back,” Doobie said, again and again. She had never been so convinced of anything as she was that her husband, Ted Plunkert, was gone for good. Little Eddie would never know his father. She would never again have a husband, to hold her tight in the night.
“I was going to give him a new saddle,” Doobie said, hopelessly, to Susanna. Indeed, she had been skimping and saving for just that purpose. She had paid down the immense sum of eight dollars to old Jesus, the local saddlemaker. She had discussed Ted’s new saddle with Jesus in great detail. Doobie had even begun to take in sewing, to pay for the saddle. Old Jesus had promised it to her by the spring.
Doobie’s dream was that someday Sheriff Jekyll would move away and Ted would be sheriff of Laredo. She thought Ted would be a wonderful sheriff; maybe little Eddie could be his deputy, when he grew up. She wanted Ted to have a saddle worthy of the sheriff of Laredo.
Now that little dream was lost, too. Jesus had already started on the saddle. Maybe the best thing she could do would be to let him finish it. It could be little Eddie’s saddle, one day.
“I hate that old man Call,” Doobie said. She felt weak from crying so much and so hard, but not too weak to hate what she hated. She had only seen the old man from a distance; the Yankee, too; but she hated them both. They had ridden in and taken her Ted. She hoped they were both killed, and that the buzzards ate their guts.
“Who does he think he is anyway, just to come here and take people, like that?” she asked Susanna.
Susanna was ten years older than Doobie. She had heard many stories about Captain Call, for the cowboys were always talking about him. But it had mainly just been men talking. She had not paid much attention. Doobie coming in so upset had upset her, too, and now it was almost time for her to go to work.
“I think he was an Indian fighter,” Susanna said.
“I wish the Indians had killed him, then,” Doobie said bitterly.
“Don’t think about it,” Susanna advised.
She soon had to leave for her job in the store. Doobie walked back home barefoot, not caring how she looked, not caring about anything. She wished an Indian would ride into town and kill her. It would be easier than suffering. But then, she remembered that she had to stay alive so that little Eddie could be born. It seemed hard, but she would have to do it. She would have to do it without Ted, too. Yesterday, he had been there; today he was gone, and he would not be back. Ted was not very tough. Doobie knew that. He would not be very hard to kill. Somebody would kill him—this Joey Garza, or someone else. She knew it in her bones.
Doobie walked on home and hid in her bed all day, wondering who would be the one to bring her the news, and how long it would be before it came.
12.
AS A GIRL of ten, Maria had been given a crippled pony—not a true pony, but a small, spotted horse that had injured itself badly on some barbed wire strung by the men who owned the big ranch across the river. The men had been careless with their wire, and the little horse had become entangled in a coil and had cut one foot so badly that everyone thought it would lose its hoof. The villagers in Ojinaga were hoping that old Ramon, who owned the horse, would kill it and make horsemeat jerky.
That was what the people of Ojinaga wanted, but that was not what Ramon wanted. Ramon, though already an old man, wanted Maria, who was only ten. Ramon had a wife named Carmila, a quarrelsome woman liked by no one, but liked least by Ramon, who’d endured her angry eyes and acid tongue for thirty years. Now Carmila was sick; it was thought she had a tumor in her womb. As the tumor grew, Carmila became even more angry and spiteful, and refused to be with Ramon. She told him she thought he had put the tumor in her womb out of spite because she would bear him no more children. She had already borne him thirteen.
Denied relations with his wife, Ramon’s thoughts turned more and more to Maria, whose breasts were already budding. One day, noticing that Maria came every day to pet the crippled horse, the horse he had been thinking of making into jerky, Ramon impulsively gave it to Maria. He was not just being generous; he was preparing the way for a serious courtship. As soon as Carmila died, he meant to go to Tomas, Maria’s father, and ask for her hand.
That plan failed, because Tomas and his oldest son and son-in-law got caught in Texas with twenty stolen horses. A Ranger troop led by Captain Call and Captain McCrae caught the men, and they were hung within an hour of their capture. Ramon considered, and decided not to take back the horse, which could walk fairly well, and even trot, although it had only three good legs.
When the news came that her father and brother were dead, Maria took her horse, whom she called Three Legs, and walked far down the river, farther than she had ever gone before. She never rode Three Legs, but she loved him more than anything else in her life. Every day, she made a poultice for his wounded hoof, hoping it would heal. But a tendon had been severed when Three Legs got caught in the wire; with the tendon cut, the leg could not heal.
During her time on the river, mourning for her father, Maria ate mesquite beans, and nibbled carefully at prickly pear apples. Once or twice she was able to scoop a little fish out of the water. The fish she ate raw. Once she caught a small turtle, meaning to eat it, but instead, she kept it for a few days and let it go. During the day, she walked with Three Legs, as he foraged. During the worst of the heat, she found shade. Often she looked across the river, at the hated place called Texas, where men killed other men over a few horses. She wanted to kill all the men who had hung her father and brother. She did not suppose it would ever be in her power to kill them, but she vowed to do it if she could.
At night, she looked at the bright stars, sleeping little, listening to the river. She did not understand rivers. Where did so much water come from? She wondered if the river began in the sky, where the rain lived. On some days she didn’t eat at all, though always, she drank the cold water of the river.
Ramon was furious with Maria, for going away with the horse he had given her. He wanted to find her and beat her, but in the end, he was too lazy to go look for her. It didn’t bother Ramon that Tomas and his boy had been hung. They were sloppy thieves, and it was no surprise to him that the Rangers had caught them and hung them. They had known the danger before they crossed the border. Horse thieves had to hang. That was the law on either side of the river.
It angered Ramon that a girl of ten would take it upon herself to leave, without asking anyone, and with a horse he had given her. Carmila, his wife, was dying—she might go any day now. Her stomach was blue and swollen. She could not keep food down. All Ramon could think about, during Maria’s absence, were her little budding breasts. He wanted to touch fresh young breasts, not the tired sacks that Carmila had.
Finally, Maria walked back to the village. The mesquite beans were gone, and she was hungry.
Two days after Maria’s return, Ramon caught her in the cornfield. She was feeding Three Legs corn from her hand. Maria greeted Ramon with a friendly smile, but one look at his face told her that Ramon was not in a friendly mood. She knew little about men and women. She was shocked when Ramon simply shoved her down in the cornfield and began to pull at her clothes. She screamed, and Ramon hit her; she screamed again and he hit her again. Maria thought he had gone berserk when he tried to pry her legs apart. No one in the village came. Maria was weak from her fast, and Ramon was strong. Also, Maria was so shocked at the change in Ramon, who had been her neighbor all her life, that she did not know what to do. She thought his wife’s illness must have driven him insane. He was acting like a crazy man. His face was twisted, he bared his teeth, and he was ready to hit her again if she tried to scream.
Maria gave up. Her life had become nothing but pain. She was surprised by Ramon’s pleasure, which soon dripped out of her, along with her own blood. While he still held her down, Ramon told Maria that he wanted her to
live with him now. Carmila would soon be dead. As soon as she died, he would marry Maria. Even as he crushed her into the dirt, Ramon was eager to let Maria know that his intentions were good.
Maria was almost more shocked by what Ramon told her than by what he had done to her. She did not want to marry Ramon, or anyone. What had happened in the cornfield frightened her and hurt her, but it also taught her something. It taught her what men really wanted of women. What they really wanted was what Ramon had just taken from her.
Carmila died the next day. Two days after her funeral, Maria’s mother, Silvana, told Maria that Ramon had asked to marry her. Silvana thought Maria should do it. Ramon had money—not much, but more than they had. Maria had two younger brothers and a little sister. They were mouths that Silvana had to struggle hard to feed. She did not think much of Ramon, but he was no worse than most men. If Maria married him he might be kind to her family, to Silvana and the little ones.
Again, Maria was shocked. She knew that her mother was tired. Silvana had worked hard all her life, she had lost a husband and a grown son. She had given up. Maria knew what it was to give up, for she had given up in the cornfield, given up because she was afraid a crazy old man might kill her.
Still, Maria had no intention of marrying Ramon, or anyone.
“He is a bad man,” Maria told her mother. “He did a bad thing to me.” She had not meant to tell about the bad thing, but she could not hold back.
Silvana was saddened by this news. It confirmed a fear that she had had for two years: Ramon was not to be trusted around Maria. Silvana cried, but not for long. It was only one more sorrow, heaped on many others, so many that Silvana could not cry long for any of them.
“He is not as bad as some men,” Silvana pointed out.
“He is a bad man, he bit me!” Maria said. She showed her mother a mark on her shoulder, a mark Ramon had put there with his teeth.
“He is not even as bad as your father,” Silvana said. “Your father did worse things. Marry Ramon, Maria. It will help us eat.”
But Maria wouldn’t, not even if they all starved.
Silvana had to tell Ramon that Maria had refused. She was a stubborn girl, stubborn enough to deny her mother’s wish.
Ramon did not take this news well. He cursed Silvana, and he told her he did not think she had asked Maria. He was only seventy-two, and he had given the girl a horse; crippled, it was true, but still a horse. How many men in Ojinaga were wealthy enough to give a ten-year-old girl a horse?
After that, Ramon watched Maria constantly. He became obsessed with her. Sometimes he even crawled up to her window at night, hoping to see her undress. He watched the cornfield, meaning to catch her again and repeat what he had done. Soon, he was convinced, Maria would accept him. She was not experienced. If she would consent, or if he could catch her, she would realize that he was a good man. Soon she would welcome his attentions, he was convinced of it.
But while Ramon was watching Maria, Maria also watched him. She would not be caught again, as she had been caught when she thought Ramon was her friend. Now she knew what he was, and he was not her friend. Perhaps no men would be her friends, not if they went crazy, as Ramon had, every time they wanted to go between her legs. Not if all they wanted was to make her serve their pleasure. She was determined that Ramon, for one, would never have that pleasure with her again. Her dead brother had left an old machete behind when he went to Texas on the raid that led to his death. The machete was dull, but Maria carefully sharpened it on the grindstone until its blade was as keen as a razor. She began to wear the machete in its scabbard over her shoulder. Whenever she led Three Legs into the cornfield in search of fodder, she carried the machete in one hand.
One day, when Silvana had gone to the river to wash clothes, Ramon snuck into her house, hoping to take Maria by surprise. Instead, he found her just inside the door, in the dim kitchen, her machete gripped in both hands.
Ramon cursed her bitterly, then. But he didn’t challenge her knife. He was too slow, and his eyesight was not good. Maria might cut him badly before he subdued her; he might bleed to death, or get an infection in the cut. Many men he knew had died from infections in the cuts they received in fighting. Ramon did not plan to lose his life because a ten-year-old girl cut him with a machete.
That afternoon, when Silvana was back, Ramon came over and offered to buy Maria. He could not get the girl off his mind. He felt that the rest of his life would be a sour thing if he could not have Maria. He wanted her so badly that he offered Silvana two hundred pesos for her. Two hundred pesos was an unheard-of price for a girl so young and inexperienced.
To Ramon’s surprise and chagrin, Silvana countered by offering herself, in Maria’s stead.
“She doesn’t want you,” Silvana said. “She won’t marry you. Take me. I am your neighbor and I need a husband.”
Ramon was outraged. He wanted the girl, not the mother.
“You are too old,” he said. “Almost as old as Carmila. Sell me the girl.”
“She won’t go with you. She’ll cut you when you’re asleep,” Silvana said. “Tomas’s mother was part Apache. Maria is like her. They are not afraid to cut men.”
“I didn’t know Tomas’s mother,” Ramon said, a little daunted. He did not like Apaches. But he still wanted Maria, and he said so.
“No, she won’t marry you,” Silvana repeated. “Take me. I am not so old.”
Silvana had not expected to offer herself to a man who wanted her daughter, but then, she had not expected many things that had happened in her life. This was just one more surprise, and it would help her feed her children.
Ramon spat, and turned away in disgust. He did not want any more old women.
The next morning, a gunshot woke Maria. Fear went through her heart. She ran outside with the machete, but she was too late. Ramon had shot Three Legs. He didn’t make him into jerky, though. He just led him out beyond the cornfield and shot him.
Maria cried until she couldn’t cry anymore. When her mother came to comfort her, she stopped crying and became like a stone. It was another lesson about men: they wanted only one thing, and they were vengeful if they didn’t get it, or enough of it. Later, she was to learn that if someone else got what they wanted, they were even more vengeful.
A few weeks later, Ramon changed his mind and took Silvana. He had begun to be a little bit afraid of the girl; after all, she was part Apache. She might cut him in his sleep. Whenever he looked at her, he saw hatred in her eyes, black hatred. He began to avoid her, especially to avoid her hating eyes. Her hatred was too black. She might be a witch. He began to be fearful that Maria would sneak in and cut him in his own house. She was only a filthy Indian. He had been a fool to want her.
Silvana was not so old, after all. She did not smell bad, as Carmila had. She was a decent Mexican woman, and she had something of the beauty her daughter had. Ramon didn’t want to marry her, but he took her into his house. Her brats had to stay in her house, though. He gave her a little money for their food, but he didn’t want them underfoot.
Silvana’s younger children, the two boys and the little girl, stayed with Maria in Silvana’s house. Maria became their mother. They saw little of Silvana, once she became Ramon’s woman, although his house was only a few steps away.
Maria forgave her mother. She knew that Silvana was only tired. She had accepted Ramon because her spirit was weary and dying. Only a woman whose spirit was dying would submit to a man like Ramon.
When Ramon killed Three Legs, Maria felt that her spirit might die, too. She had loved her horse more than anything. But her spirit didn’t die. Her hatred kept it alive, hatred of Ramon, and for a time, hatred of all men. They were creatures of violence, brutes. Maria planned to live alone. She would raise her brothers and sister, but she did not plan to live with a man, as other women did. The only way a man would have her was if he was quicker and stronger and took her, as Ramon had.
Silvana gave Ramon two more children. Much of the
time, they lived with Maria and the other little ones. Maria felt sorry for her mother, because her spirit was so damaged. She helped her mother as much as she could. But she never turned her back on Ramon. All she gave him was the hatred in her eyes.
In time, Ramon came to fear Maria as he feared his own death.
In the matter of men, though, Maria was wrong. She never expected to be with one willingly. But the years passed, and then Carlos Garza rode into town. He was then a vaquero who worked in the south. She saw him looking at her, and when he spoke to her in his soft voice, she felt a change inside her. A few days later, she went with Carlos willingly and even eagerly. Only later was Maria to learn that Carlos’s soft voice belied his jealous nature. Soon after she went with him the first time, Carlos gave her a horse, a little white gelding who was too slow for cattle work. Maria named her little horse Chapo, because he was so short.
The day after Carlos gave Maria the horse, the two of them rode together, far down the river, past the place where Maria had gone to mourn her father. They entered a canyon whose great cliffs rose over the river. Carlos Garza looked especially beautiful to her that day. She was eager for him, more eager than she had ever been before.
In the time of their ride, Joey was conceived.
After Carlos gave her Chapo, Maria was never without a horse. Maria traded work for corn, in order to feed her boy and her horse.
Joey was six when Juan Castro sold him to the Apaches. He was gone two years. Maria had begun to give up before her son came back, and once he did return, she found she had to give up again, though in a different way. Juan Castro had traded away a good boy, a child she loved, but the boy who came back was not even a child she knew. No one knew Joey Garza. He was the most beautiful boy in the village; the girls looked at him, and hoped.
But they hoped in vain. It was to be that anyone who invested hope in Joey Garza hoped in vain. From the time he was ten, he often left the village, to be gone for a month or more. Maria wondered if he went back to the Apaches, if the Indian ways were stronger than her ways. Once she asked him if he went to the Apaches. Joey merely looked at her, smiling.
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