"Oh! No!" Don Federico laughed and waved his hand, dismissing the thought. "I don't believe in that mumbo-jumbo stuff." He was scholarly, educated, and was inclined to scoff at anything involving witchcraft. But he was outnumbered by the rest of the people in the region who were not scholarly or educated and believed in la Bruja’s prophecying. This was one subject he was prone to avoid and preferred not to pursue.
"You wait," the old woman said with confidence. "You will come and see me for a reading in the near future. What I have to tell you, I should have told you a long time ago, after your Papá died, but the time has never been right. You will want answers—answers that only I can tell you." Her eyes looked weird—almost demonic. "I will tell you when we're alone and no one can hear us. For what I have to tell you is going to surprise you. You will know the real truth."
"We're alone now! So tell me." Don Federico demanded, frowning and now curious.
"No! Not now. I have a service to do in healing the injured Mexican girl. What I have to tell you—you'll be better sitting down. It's a very long story and I'll wait until it's more convenient. When I can sit and talk more comfortably."
“Okay!" answered Don Federico, reluctantly. "At this point, he was willing to say anything, just to calm the old woman down. He knew that the greeting committee from the kitchen would be showing up at any time. He did not want to hurt her feelings in not responding to a reading. After all, she was doing the family a great favor and a great service to his wife by attending, with great effort, the injured, dying girl.
Don Federico felt a great concern overtake him. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as a cold chill overtook his body, and it seemed his thoughts were already infected with evil. A Pandora's box of gripping doubts was becoming his worst nightmare. He got the impression that the old woman was hiding something. She had knowledge of his father's previous adventures, for old man George had consulted her many times and spent many hours with her when he needed her advice. The land where Doña Adela lived had been given to her by George Juelson in gratitude for her generous, benevolent, loyal service to him. The question was, just what service was she giving his father? Fortune telling and warning him of problems was one thing. This in itself had been a mystery. The elder Juelson was a man who was not easily cross-examined. He had a violent temper and to interrogate him about his risky, speculative ideas or to question any of his whereabouts would have meant instant retribution. And now, Doña Adela's hints were leading into a precarious subject, which was more than Don Federico wanted to know.
When Don Federico was just a young boy in his early teens, he knew that his father had engaged in unethical dealings, years after his mother had passed away, and he became fully aware of his father's other secret romantic encounters. Now Don Federico's bright mind leaped to an uncomfortable conclusion that he was almost afraid of hearing. A chill of suspicion hit him. His appetite, which was normally insatiable after being out in the brasada, had diminished. He decided perhaps he should be paying a visit to the two-seater outhouse and checking his underclothes.
Señora Adela continued walking in her faltering, uneven steps, hanging onto her cane as she rambled on and on about the strange weather and what she had seen in her vision of things to come.
The loud squawking sounds of the colorful Mexican parrots, the toucan birds, and barking dogs attracted the attention of Doña Francisca along with the house servants, kitchen helpers, daughter Victoria, son Fred, and the youngest sibling, Carlos. They joined with other ladies as they heard Don Federico and La Señora Adela approaching from the courtyard into the open-air kitchen. A servant from the kitchen area walked up and took the empty glass from la Bruja's hands, kissing it in the old Mexican tradition of respect, while others supported the old woman's arms.
La Señora Juelson, the attractive Doña Francisca, graciously approached Doña Adela. She was wearing a long, white skirt and high-collared blouse with a marcasites brooch and earrings to match. She warmly hugged the old bruja and greeted her. She was known for her benevolence, love, and maternal nature towards all the people who lived at the hacienda. Everyone knew her for her small talk, called consejos, not considered gossip. She was the voice of knowledge and talked quietly with infinite patience and certain honesty, and always with an air of sincere humility and wisdom.
She was taller than the average Mexican woman, with a slender silhouette combined with dignity and grace. Her eyes were large and as black as her hair, which was pulled high on top of her head. She thanked the old woman for the act of kindness in coming to her aid. Letting go of Doña Adela, Doña Francisca stopped, distracted with an annoying cough. The coughing did not stop and she was gasping hard, coughing so hard she almost lost her balance. She finally managed to find a white handkerchief within her long sleeve and brought it toward her mouth.
"Mamá," cried Victoria, coming to her assistance and consoling and patting her on her shoulders. "Are you all right? You need to sit down. Can I get you some water?"
When the wheezing stopped, Doña Francisca made a wry face and dismissed it with the wave of her hand, pretending that it was nothing to worry about. "I'm perfectly fine, Hija! Just a little cough! Dry throat! I'll be well in a couple of days." She then turned towards Don Federico and kissed him on the left side of his face, whispered softly in his ear, then said, "Federico, I'm glad you hurried. The body of dead women lying out in the jungle wilderness—Dios mío! What is going to happen?" Doña Francisca stopped abruptly and began coughing again.
Don Federico stood speechless, still traumatized from the visit of Don Esquibel. The incident of the young girl still needed to be confronted, and he was increasingly disturbed about the hellish suspicions of his father's adventures. "There is nothing to worry about, Corazón," he finally said. He then kissed his wife on her forehead and changed the subject. "Querida, I still do not like the sound of that cough. We need to take you to Reynosa and have Dr. Cantu examine you. I sure don't want anything to happen to you, Corazón!"
Doña Adela stamped her huaraches, and, in her blunt authoritative way, glared at Doña Francisca. "Dios mío, you’ve still got that nasty cough. The medicine I sent you a month ago has not helped. When I get back to my jacale, I'll make a stronger tea for you." The old woman looked around and kept talking. She sauntered on and then abruptly stopped, casting a glance at Roy, who was leaning against the stone wall. He held a tortilla in one hand and a bowl of chili in the other, watching the procession going by.
"Haven't gotten married yet?" she questioned him. "No!" she answered herself, in a scolding and insulting tone. "You're too lazy to go out and find a wife. Instead, they come for you, and find you here at Spanish Acres." She kept her balance with the help of her cane and shook her crooked index finger at the foreman. "But, she's already here!" The old bruja cackled, feeling sure of herself. "She has come here for you! You'll have a partner soon! You'll be married soon! You'll have responsibilities."
Roy, who had a hungry dog appetite, stopped eating and stared at the old women in amazement. What the hell does she mean, "soon?" She's crazy! The idiotic old hag! Crazier than a shit-house rat, he thought to himself.
The scrawny music teacher, Miss Bell, who was also watching the confrontation, glanced at Roy and then smiled with delight. Perhaps there's a possibility, she thought. Miracles do happen!
The revered bruja kept talking as she staggered around the group. As she passed each individual she would point her finger and prophesy what she was feeling at that exact moment. Everyone crossed themselves and whispered among themselves, Dios! Help us!
CHAPTER 2
As the sun began setting toward the west, a blood-hued twilight formed in August's torrid dusk. The dark shadows of the night came, swallowing the horizon relentlessly weighed down by vermilion colored clouds. It gradually changed as the dimness snuggled in, slowly overshadowing the Spanish mansion, and the great brasada.
The cowhands and the workers clustered together in the eating area, amidst the light of t
he kerosene lamps and hurricane coal oil lanterns, drinking black coffee and smoking their hand-rolled cigarettes. Many were sitting in silence, with a dazed expression, as doom weighed heavily upon them. They were afraid to think of what had happened out in the brasada. The atmosphere had taken on an air of deep irredeemable gloom; nervous tension engulfed them all, a feeling unfamiliar to the usually happy, tranquil natives.
Roy and several of the cowhands from Don Esquibel's vaqueros had volunteered to retrieve the body of the dead gringa mainly out of curiosity and respect. They had all waited until late in the evening, when the heat and earth had cooled down, and headed to the area of the resaca. They had returned tired and hungry and above all—empty-handed.
"Where's the body?" the residents asked, including Don Federico, Doña Francisca, and the entire household.
There were no body, only the evidence of a struggle and blood on the dry, dusty ground, and flies.
"There is nothing more we can do now," said a disappointed Don Federico to his workers and their families. "We'll have to round up over a thousand head of cattle in the next couple of days to be shipped out before the weather changes and a chubasco is on the way. I'll send another party of workers out into the resaca again tomorrow, if possible. Maybe they'll find something. People don't just vanish."
"A wild cat got her," suggested one of the vaqueros, his voice full of concern.
Don Federico was getting worried. "In time, she'll be found." The tone of his voice was mixed with rage and irritation; he was sorely disappointed in the events that were unfolding. He turned his back and went into the library, closing the door. A glass of brandy would surely relax his nerves, and a Cuban cigar would calm his anxiety and help him contemplate the day's drama.
The night was an indelible darkness. Out in the sweltering heat of the undergrowth, the rhythm of the bullfrogs near the several waterholes throbbed. As the wind energized ever so slightly, the windmills cranked and turned, and the chirps of crickets pulsated into the darkness.
The Mexicans from the hacienda were ignorant and without formal education, but they understood nature and went by their instincts. Even the singing cicadas and the barking dogs could sense the oncoming waves; for that matter, there had been warning signs of an oncoming storm—many storms. A hurricane was indeed brewing in the Gulf of Mexico, but internal complications had also stirred the poor in Mexico into what would become a long and deadly rebellion.
Lying in bed, Don Federico was full of tormenting thoughts. The mosquito netting from his canopy bed had been put aside, lying partly on the floor and the edge of his resting place. He wanted some breeze that would cool and comfort him from the heat, and yet there was no comfort. His arms were folded, resting under his head; his eyes stared fixed toward the high ceiling, thinking that perhaps this had been one of his most trying days. Too many things were starting to cloud his mind. What had happened last night out in the wilderness? Where could the body be? What was the old bruja, Adela, insinuating? Don Esquibel talking about a revolution kept thoughts spiraling over and over again and again in his mind. He was concerned about his wife's consistent coughing, an unhealthy cough. He worried about his children, wanting the best education for them—the only solution to escape the bias and prejudice that had become so prevalent in this area. Why did there have to be so much hate between the two struggling races along the border?
Don Federico was well versed in the human unrest on both sides of the river. He had tried to forget the oppressing misery that dwelt within the souls of the hard-pressed Mexicans. He was a peaceful and fair man, but in the last several years a sense of rage and hatred had over-shadowed him, the result of so many injustices against the Mexican people, including the mysterious death of his father.
His thoughts reflected on the history of the Rio Grande Valley and the influence brought on by Mexico. President Díaz of Mexico dominated his country with an iron hand as a dictator, although he had opened his country to foreigners with money to invest, and had put Mexico on the map of international commerce. Other countries were now calling her, "Mexico, the treasure house of the world." But, in all of his years on the throne, Díaz did nothing for the poor villagers. He reduced the population to a condition of serfdom even worse than the repressive regime that existed under the Spanish or the French rule. The common villages of the Mexican Indians were seized and turned over to the rich landowners. These hacendados reduced the Mexican Indians to a total state of slavery, bound to the soil with unjust cruelty and left without hope.
Don Federico, being a man of innate fairness, felt sympathy for the poor peasants. Their nature had become indifferent, if not hostile, to such laws. To the Mexican, time—yes, time—meant that tomorrow would always come. The word mañana, to which they were all accustomed, was now a hopeless tomorrow. Had the Holy Catholic Church not told them never to worry about tomorrow? But the poor struggling Mexicans had become virtual slaves, with no land to grow their crops. When was mañana coming? The prosperity that had put their great country on the map had been at the peasants' expense, with hundreds toiling in the hot burning sun for the benefit of the rich landowners. The millions of aggrieved peóns, who were the foundation of the country, had suffered under the feudal policies of Díaz and his cronies' greed. For the poor Mexicans to rebel and take up arms was their only hope, their only chance for survival. A revolution would bring changes.
As the influx of the white man mingled with the ageless customs of Mexico, it fomented resentment from the native dwellers, who for centuries had owned both sides of the Rio Grande River. The white man rapidly made trouble between the two cultures, settling all matters with guns and the whip. The Mexican-American natives who had lived on the Texas side had become used to their Mexican traditions and customs, but the new habits and ways of thinking and doing business introduced by the Europeans created a racial issue. The dominant power of the white man over the Mexican-American people, who took life freely and were mostly illiterate, not only suppressed them but made them feel inferior. This began the sowing of the ‘roots of indifference,’ the seeds that germinated trouble between the races in the coming years. One was ambitious to clear the land with zealous demands and hungry to become rich; the other hostile, proud and fearless, and perhaps too confident about their land.
Like a magnificent, gnarled and aged tree, whose roots stretched far and wide across the Rio Grande River, the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, splitting the two countries, was like the sudden severing of a massive organism. The natives were ripped from their Mexican heritage, creating problems which would last throughout the coming generations. The Mexicans had families and relatives living on both sides of the border, and any incident would automatically affect them all. The native citizens of the Rio Grande Valley considered themselves the true Texans, and they sometimes referred to the English-speaking strangers as foreigners.
The Europeans, many of whom called themselves "greenhorns," being unfamiliar with frontier ways, represented many diverse cultures. Later, the Mexicans called them Anglos, which distinguished them from the rest of the residents. The word Gringo came years later because of their songs. One, especially was, Green Grow the Lilacs.
Don Federico remembered when he was a young boy, how the so-called gringos had looked at him and his mother and had made rude remarks about his parents' mixed marriage. However, the great Don was more than Mexican-American, for he was cultured, with a great education and social advantage over most men in this area. On this tormenting night, he was a man who neither laughed nor smiled, feeling drained and empty. In this region, his word was law, but still deep inside him was a man sensitive to the world's common problems. Changes were coming. They were in the wind—they were in the milieu and worried whispers. Unable to sleep, he got up and paced the floor in his chambers. How he hated aggression and the appalling quicksand of injustice, which was so common in this region.
It had been more than a year, he remembered, since President Díaz had met with President Taft of the
United States. He, with Doña Francisca, her mother, and her diplomat father, José Hinojosa, had attended the ceremonial event in El Paso, Texas. How could he ever forget the President of Mexico, the old, dignified Indian President, articulate, eloquent, and charming, his uniform displaying his prized two-dozen medals across his chest, in an effort to outdo President Taft and his White House staff? Later that evening, in the city of Juarez, sixty guests had sat down with the two Presidents to a delightful state dinner for which the Mexicans were hosts. The table, as he remembered, was serviced with gold plates from the presidential palace in Mexico City. How elegant! How magnificent! Such splendor! He had met Díaz in Mexico City many years back. Federico was engaged to marry Doña Francisca at the time. And President Díaz was glad to see Doña Francisca again, the daughter of his retired cabinet member, Don José Hinojosa, the wealthy diplomat from Monterrey. The President of Mexico had promised them that properties were secure in Mexico, especially for a rich, wealthy investor like her father, Señor Hinojosa.
Thinking back, Don Federico's instincts told him that nothing was secure in what the president had said over a year ago. Anything could happen, and soon, for there were strong rumors and talk all along the Texas border of a political overthrow in Mexico.
Don Federico was not a religious man. God was for the poor, the destitute, and the afflicted. For those who had outgrown it, like himself, the well-to-do, wealthy, and well-fed, there was only the God concept. However, Doña Francisca was extremely religious. She had the Holy Catholic Church wrapped around her body and soul, for it was her faith, with the help of myriad saints, which had brought her safe through all of the chaos of raising her children in this untamed wilderness. La Señora was educated in a convent southwest of Monterrey and she loved to take care of the poor and the needy. Everyone respected her and loved her for her sincere humility and gentle kindness. In turn, Spanish Acres was always full of stranded people who would come, work, and stay for days at a time, or months, and sometimes never left.
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