The prideful Don Federico began dodging cow dung, being careful that his horse avoided the piles of the dung many of the Mexicans used for fuel. Occasionally el patrón would come upon a clearing where wild Johnson grass grew in abundance and had turned marigold brown and brittle from the lack of rain.
Don Federico shouted to J.D., who would occasionally run in front of the horse's legs. The dog would become excited, abruptly run wildly, chasing a rabbit under a small brier of nopales. "J.D.! C'mon boy, go find the dirt road!"
It was not long after that the Don was able to get on the curved dirt road, headed for home. His arms felt strained from the constant controlling of the horse's reins. Hypnotized by the dry conditions and the hot weather haze, his solitary thoughts were then broken by the plaintive cry of a gray hawk circling over his prey, as sounds of the horse's hooves hitting the solid dirt road echoed. He noticed from the direction of the Gulf a purple canopy of clouds, wrapped in silence.
Roy Dale, his head foreman, had appeared from the undergrowth. Catching up with Don Federico, he began riding side-by-side, humming the song Red Wing. Roy Dale smelled of leather, cows, tobacco, and sweat. His face was caked, almost unrecognized by the white clay dust that covered his clothing, hat, and boots. Don Federico chuckled at the man's appearance.
"Like them mavericks?" Snickered the Don.
"Hell yeah! I can’t live without 'em, gotta love 'em leetle doggies.”
As the two trotted up the dirt path, they could see the tall metal windmills, but the hacienda was still obscured, hidden out in the middle of the vast brasada.
"Why, it's hotter 'en Hell," mused Roy, chewing his black tobacco, looking sideways from his horse toward Don Federico, and then spitting. "Seems dat in de las' days, it’d be like 'tis. Wunder if we're not gunna git no mo' rain? I ‘member when I was growin' up in the Cimarron Strip in Okie, we had sim'ler weather to whut we're havin' now." He then mopped his face with an old faded bandana, which he always wore around his neck. He turned his head, again emptying his mouth by spitting into the dry, gray thickets.
Don Federico Juelson was now in his fifties, his face darkened, tanned by the brutal sun. His hair had streaks of white on both sides of his temples. He was not a tall man, but his presence created the impression of a man with prestige and power, and pedigree was in his blood, a true gent of the old school. He was distinguished looking, proud of his education and his wealth, and proud of his mixed-blood heritage. He rode his horse with pride, radiating always a spirit of resilience.
"Ah! I suspect that a storm must be brewing out in the Gulf of Mexico," he finally remarked. "Remember last year when we had so much rain, some of the cattle died? It's been so dry now and we need the water. Remember ten years ago? It was the same year you came to live with us. That was a tough, hellish year. Many of the cattle died from screwworms and we couldn't get to them fast enough to save 'em. Father’s main reason for hiring you was to help us with the calves, bulls, and the horses. That same year, we had the chubasco, the hurricane that killed many of our cattle and also killed many poor innocent people as far away as Galveston. Be a good idea to get Miguel and the boys to round up as many cattle for the buyers in San Antonio, and get them shipped out as soon as possible. We must have at least a thousand head to be shipped. Better to be safe than sorry, for I fear that we're getting another storm in the next few days. Something sure is brewing up in the Gulf. Damn! We sure need the rain."
"Good idée" agreed on Roy. "We'll git them fetched up for ya'. Why ol' Manuel, talked jus' dis mornin' of a full blown chubasco. Said dat his bones was a hurtin' 'em. I reckon 'em never wrong."
Roy Dale was one of his father's favorite cowhands. George found him in San Antonio and took the liberty of hiring Roy for his hacienda. He had been a young cowpuncher and a trail hand, driving cattle back and forth into Abilene, Kansas. A rare character, different from the ordinary cowhand, he was a half-breed, half Irish and Cherokee Indian, with sandy-red hair and beautiful blue eyes, making him handsome in a special way, even though slight of build. His brown skin had the healthy glow of a man who had spent many years making his living outdoors. His walk had a skipping step, and he had a peculiar, courtly manner, always tipping his hat with respect, especially to the ladies. He was a natural storyteller, talking with a slow drawl. He could not read or write, but held a doctor's degree in animal veterinary understanding, according to Don Federico's thinking. He had never married, using the excuse that his work had prevented him from ever wanting the kind of responsibility that came with marriage. Roy had never found true love—at least, not yet.
Don Federico had learned much from Roy and held him in high esteem, especially within the last year, ever since his father had passed away and he had acquired his father's debts and responsibilities. With Roy’s help, he understood more about the hardships and the daily routine and the arduous work that it took to run a rancho.
As J.D. was running several yards in front of the horse, his ears perked up. He began barking.
They halted their horses at the sound of hooves pounding the soft dusty road ahead. "Sum one's cumin'," Roy said.
J.D. kept barking.
"That's enough barking, J.D.!" shouted Don Federico. The dog yelped and recoiled, but seconds later began running faster up the dirt path to meet the person who was coming.
Don Federico paused, trying to scrutinize the figure coming toward them up ahead. "Looks like Victoria!” He became apprehensive since his daughter was supposed to be taking music lessons from Miss Bell. "It’s too hot for anyone to be out riding a horse that fast. Something's wrong, I can feel it!"
"Dat Miss Bell sure's a fine music teacher, but she shore is a skinny ol' maid," Roy said, laughing. "I git da feelin' she'd like to git into mah flanks."
"She would make someone a fine wife! A well-educated person and knows her music too. She came highly recommended. But I do think she's got her eye on you. Every time she sees you, she becomes nervous, frustrated, and forgets what she's doing." said Don Federico. Both men laughed.
Victoria Juelson was Don Federico's oldest child and only daughter. Almost sixteen, her beautiful brownish hair was flowing in the wind as she rode her horse toward the two men, leaving behind a thick cloud of dust.
"Papá, Papá!" she hollered, trying to catch her breath. "Mother needs you quickly back at the hacienda. There's trouble! Don Esquibel is there with some of his vaqueros. Don Esquibel's cowhands found a Mexican girl in the bushes close to the Resaca, and they brought her over to our place. She's bloody all over her body and looks terrible! We don’t know if she is going to live or die!"
"Where is the girl now?" asked Don Federico, dismay evident in his voice.
"We put her in Roy's bunk for the time being, since it was the closer bedroom downstairs," she said, giggling. "All of the other ladies agreed. They said you wouldn’t mind sharing your bedroom with a lady. Aside from the bloody face, the girl is a real pretty one, too."
"Well, doggies! I swanee bee!" replied Roy in complete frustration. "In mah bunk, in mah room," he said over and over again.
"Bueno, Hija! We're on our way. Tell Don Esquibel I'll be there soon," answered Don Federico. Frowning, he looked at Roy and the two exchanged glances in total bewilderment.
Victoria turned her mare around. "Mamá sent Manuel with the wagon to get La Señora Adela. They should be coming soon," she said before she hurried up the road.
"Oh, hells bells!" Roy said. "Gonna git lots o' hocus pocus," he said. He began laughing. "With dat ol' hag, dat Bruja Adela, yus gonna git more suspense comin' yo way, patrón. Waal, now! Yus gonna git some more bullshit from ol' man Esquibel," he snickered.
"You'd think he had enough brains to take care of her in his own home," Don Federico snorted. "He wanted an excuse to snoop around. Nosey old buzzard! Damn! It will be another problem to worry about, another person in the house, not that it matters anyhow. We got plenty of room, but a sick girl—"
Riding his horse at a lope, Don Federico wonde
red if his boys had gotten into another hassle with Señor Esquibel's cowhands. He hated confrontations with the cantankerous old man, who was always finding something wrong with his property, or with Don Federico's cattle getting onto his land. A lonely old alcoholic, he had lost his wife three years ago after years of beatings and abuse, leaving him with several sons and many grandchildren.
Over a year ago, there had been a dispute, a fist-fighting, bloody incident, and a lot of gossiping in both families. One of Don Federico's cowhands, a blacksmith, got in trouble at Don Esquibel's home with a young kitchen helper, creating problems for everyone.
The cowhand was caught red-handed, with his pants down, by the woman's husband, who almost killed his wife in a harsh beating. The matter caused a lot of resentment between the two families from both ranches, and Don Federico finally had to let the man go. He hated the thought of adulterous relationships and had informed the blacksmith when he was hired that it would not be tolerated. A woman's place was to run the household and be a wife, a companion, and a mother; women were to be treated with respect. Both ranchers had settled their differences very gracefully, months after his father's funeral. Traditionally, each took care of his own problems on his own property. But the incident had left harsh feelings between the families and the vaqueros on both establishments.
There was also a strong possibility of not being able to trust Señor Esquibel. Rumors from his own workers had floated around in past years. It was said Don Esquibel had stolen some of Don Federico's bulls and bred them to his own cows. Rumors like this were hard to prove, but in this part of the country, a man caught stealing could be hanged, with no questions asked. The border ranchers settled their own feuds. It was a strict code of honor. Rustlers stealing cattle and getting caught would face grave consequences. But Don Federico was a peaceful man, never letting the loss of one or two cows come between him and his neighbors.
Don Esquibel, in his own right, was actually a rich man, even though it did not show in his appearance or way of living. He owned several acres on the east side, past the railroad tracks adjoining his spread in Willacy County, where he raised longhorn cattle and hundreds of white goats. Blanca, the white nanny goat, an adored pet with a bell around her neck, had been given by Don Esquibel to Don Federico's oldest son, Fred, on his fifth birthday. Don Esquibel would sell the meat and cheese from his goats in return for other commodities. He lived very modestly, in an old hut, with several rooms attached to the shanty, plus a big bunkhouse for his workers and a barn fenced by walls of upright, cut mesquite trees.
"The devil is loose," Don Federico said.
"Yep," replied the foreman. "Wunder what the hell's goin' on?" he mused. "I shore hope dat none of the leetle doggies have gotten onto his land."
Don Federico spurred El Chulo faster and became silent, his face showing concern. Then he replied, "Probably some stupid, irksome problem, something to do with his cattle. You know how the old fart is!"
Roy started to laugh, "land sakes! No need gitt'n too riled-up, now," and turned his head to spit.
As the dirt road curved, they came upon the iron-gate entrance to the enormous two-story, Spanish Acres mansion. The letter "J" stood high above the entrance, suspended in mid-air with barbed wire displaying the emblem. Tall prickly pear cactus stood on each side of its stone walls. From the entrance, Don Federico viewed movement. Several of his workers and Don Esquibel's cowhands were leaning on the stone walls; others were talking, sheltering themselves from the wilting heat inside under the high arches and the verandas next to the big mansion.
Roy hurried his horse, saying, "reckon I’d bet'er git, now git," and broke into a faster gait and left Don Federico's side. J.D. followed.
Don Federico dismounted, giving his horse to one of the stable boys. "Pepito, where is Doña Francisca?" he questioned. The small boy stood shyly, grabbed the reins of the horse, and pointed to the back of the house toward the kitchen area.
Approaching the group of men, the great Don sensed some kind of turbulence. Some of the men spoke, some greeting him with respect, tipping their hats, while others looked soberly confused. He shouldered his way through the crowd where he spotted Don Esquibel coming toward him, gripping his sombrero.
"Buenos días, Don Federico," he said in a sharp tone. "I am sorry to bother you at this time of the day, with the heat being so terrible, and you so busy with your cattle, but—"
"Yes, yes, go on," replied Don Federico, breaking the conversation with annoyance and mopping his forehead with his handkerchief. He extended his hand, with apprehension, but in a gracious gesture. "It's been over a year since my father's funeral when you paid your last respects, and we had that serious talk about our workers' dispute." He took his hat off and wiped his forehead again.
"Yes, you are right," Don Esquibel said seriously. "I’m concerned about the young Mexican girl, Señor!"
Don Federico, puzzled and sweaty, wiped his face and replied, "Is she from Spanish Acres?"
"No! At first, my boys and I thought she was from your place since she was found on your property. It took us about an hour bringing her here, and we listened to her crazy talk, trying to decide where she was from. We finally understood that she was from across the river, the village of Rio Rico. My vaqueros found her between the fences, but inside your property," he insisted.
Don Federico was annoyed that the old fart kept saying inside your fence, on your property.
"What happened to her?" questioned Don Federico, raising his eyebrows, "and why to bring her here?" He wanted some kind of accountability from the rebellious old fool.
"We are all frightened of the situation," answered Don Esquibel as he moved closer to Don Federico, and whispered, "Señor, may I please talk to you in private?"
"Yes, of course. Let's go to my library where it’s cooler inside and we can talk more privately." He began taking off his gloves and jacket. He ordered the servants out in the hall to bring them something cool to drink and some water and clean towels to wash up.
Don Federico headed in the direction of his library. Señor Esquibel followed down the long, marble, corridor, past the elegant, formal living room. On one huge, white wall was a colorful oil painting of George Albert Juelson, dressed in his general's uniform.
Inside of the library, hundreds of leather-bound collections of Texas law books caught the eye. The attractive appearance of the room was enhanced with elegant, dark mahogany and oak furniture. Carved wood was on the fancy desk, with a marble top and designs on the chairs made of solid leather. On one side of the wall was the mounted head of a wild boar. A large glass hutch was filled with silver and gold embossed rifles from Mexico, and several knives and antique guns were displayed inside another glass case.
Don Federico closed the French doors. "This should keep out the noise of barking dogs and people talking," commented the Don, as he politely offered Don Esquibel a seat and some of his imported wine and Cuban cigars.
"No, thank you," answered Don Esquibel, "but I will take something cool to drink."
Two heavyset, gray-haired women, Ophelia and Olivia, knocked and politely walked in. One held a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses, the other a basin of water and towels. They greeted Señor Esquibel with warm words, asked about his family, then excusing themselves, left the room quietly.
"Well! What is all this about? The story sounds very mysterious to me," Don Federico inquired with a suspicious frown, serving his guest a glass of lemonade. He then washed his face and dried it as he took his seat on the other side of his desk.
"It's been so hot, and we sure need water," said the Don, making himself comfort
"Señor," the old man began, now clearing his throat. "Apparently, from what we have gathered, the girl told the vaqueros her name is Soledad. She was screaming and delirious in her speech. Supposedly, armed Bandidos abducted her from a small village across the border. She had repeatedly been raped by all of them. Not only did they force themselves upon her, but they beat her around the face p
retty bad. She is almost unrecognizable. She also mentioned that sometime during the night, she managed to escape into the wilderness, not knowing where she was or where she was going, while the Bandidos were busy with the redheaded gringa woman."
"Redheaded gringa, did you say?" Don Federico leaned forward and interrupted, raising his voice in question. "What happened to la gringa? What does she have to do with what you're talking about?"
"Señor, she is dead!" answered Don Esquibel, with terror evidenced by his high-pitched voice. His hands kept fumbling with the brim of his sombrero, nervously turning it around and around as it rested on his crossed legs. "Soledad spoke little, trying to make us understand since her jaws are so swollen." He cleared his throat. "Armed Bandidos came and raided their peaceful village in the late afternoon. They were demanding money for guns and rifles and other ammunition that they were bringing to three strangers who had mysteriously shown up in the village. All of the villagers were shot and killed, including the children. Those that fled to the bushes close to the river were also killed. Soledad never had a chance to escape. The Bandidos caught her while running away and loaded her onto their horses and crossed the river into Texas where the men abused her."
"How did the gringa woman get involved?" Don Federico was trying to decipher the story, as his interrogation was getting nowhere. Don Esquibel had been drinking and was inebriated, excited, and had gotten the information secondhand from a delirious girl. Now Don Federico was presented with a story that was developing into a sensational incident that could cause both races much concern.
"The gringa woman was in the wooded area, picking some mesquite wood, close to El Ranchito De La Feria," said Don Esquibel. One of the bandits moved in on her, and she was taken by force. They already had Soledad with them, according to what Soledad said. I think she said that she counted at least four banditos, who raped both of the women. After raping them, two left." He went on, "What seems so strange, was what Soledad said." He rubbed his chin as though deep in thought.
Roots of Indifferences Page 3
