Both boys nodded, saying nothing.
“Answer me when I talk to you,” said Juan. “With words, not just nods.”
“Yes,” said both boys loudly.
“Yes, what?” said Juan.
Pedro glanced at José. He was scared.
“Yes, that you understand?” said Juan.
“Yes, we understand,” said both boys.
“Good,” said Juan. He turned off the highway into some oak trees and quickly drove into the brush.
There was a light blue mist over the mostly dried-out creek bed, and Lake Elsinore could be seen in the distance. This was still a very desolate place. Not one farmhouse was in sight.
“Quick, each of you grab a shovel and follow me!” said Juan.
The two boys had to run to keep up with their uncle as he went through the underbrush down into the sandy river bottom.
“Here,” he said. “Start digging by this boulder.”
“But why?” asked Pedro. “Is it a dead man?”
“Damn it, Pedro!” said Juan. “No more questions! Now dig!”
The two boys went to work and Juan kept watch on the road. Then, two feet under the sand, the two boys hit something hard.
“Be careful,” said Juan. “That’s the first barrel. Let me get it and you keep digging, José. And Pedro, you bring your shovel and come with me.”
“Yes,” said both boys obediently.
Grabbing one end of the barrel, Juan yanked the ten-gallon oak barrel out of the sand, put it on his shoulder and started up the embankment through the brush to the truck.
“Get on the truck, Pedro,” said Juan, “and dig a hole in the shit so I can put this barrel in it.”
Pedro climbed up on the truck, sinking knee-deep in fresh chicken shit. He began to dig without question or hesitation.
“Good boy,” said Juan. “Now help me put this barrel up there. And then make room for three more barrels! And hurry! I’ll be right back!”
“Yes, Uncle!” said Pedro, going to work with power. He was only nine years old, but he was tough and strong.
Ten minutes later they were back on the main road, headed south toward Temecula.
“All right,” said Juan as they approached the little cow town, “if we’re stopped by the law for any reason, I want you two to do just like me and act stupid, okay? You pretend like you don’t understand much English and twist your face to one side like this and let some spit drool out of your mouth.”
The boys saw their uncle stick his tongue out, letting spit run down his face, and they started to laugh. With his dirty old work clothes and twisted face, he looked worse than any tramp.
“Eh, don’t laugh,” said Juan. “I’m not joking. I’m very serious. Now you try it; come on, act stupid and drool some spit. Stupid, dirty Mexicans make the gringos nervous, and they’ll keep away from us.”
But both boys kept laughing. They just couldn’t take him seriously.
“Okay, then,” he said, leaving the block-long town and crossing the river, “we won’t act stupid. If they stop us, we’ll just kill them.” And he pulled out his .38 handed it to José. “You use this,” he said, “and I’ll use my .45. And you, Pedro, keep down so you don’t get killed.”
José held the .38 as if it were a rattlesnake as they started up the winding mountain road south of town.
“What’s wrong?” said Juan. “You’ve fired that .38 before.”
“Yes,” said José, his eyes filling with tears. “But I don’t want to kill no one, Uncle.”
“Good,” said Juan, “because killing people isn’t any good.”
And he was just going to explain to both boys that their job for the day was getting the delivery of liquor to the marketplace, not to play cops and robbers with the law, but Pedro grabbed the .38 from his older brother before Juan could speak.
“Give me the gun!” said Pedro with a wild gleam in his eyes. “I’ll help our tío! I’m no chicken-shit! I’m the one who always has to lead! José wasn’t even going to help me with the teacher until I got in trouble.”
“Oh, tell me about it,” said Juan, looking at his little nephew who, only a couple of hours before, had practically been wetting his pants at the chicken ranch.
“Well, we pantsed our old teacher,” said Pedro proudly, gun in hand, “and threw him out the window!”
“Oh, you two pantsed a teacher, eh?” said Juan, acting very impressed. “And threw him out a window.”
“Yeah,” said Pedro, pointing the gun at the windshield. “But it was only the first story, so he didn’t get killed or nothing.”
“Oh, I see,” said Juan, acting disappointed.
But he could see that José wasn’t falling for it. He was getting nervous, feeling sure that they were going to get in trouble. Pedro, on the other hand, was in heaven, handling the gun.
“And why did you do this?” asked Juan.
“He called us names,” said Pedro.
“What names?”
“You know, Mexican this and that.”
“Oh, I see, and so you got him?”
“Yeah,” said Pedro.
“And now you’re ready to help me shoot it out with the cops, eh?” said Juan.
“Sure,” said Pedro, smiling. “I’m ready!”
“You’ll kill ’em, eh, if I tell you, eh?”
“Like a macho!” said Pedro, using both hands to point the .38 at the windshield.
“You’ll pull the trigger when I say, ‘kill that cop,’ eh?”
“You tell me, and I’ll do it!”
“All right,” said Juan, “then pull the trigger.”
“Right now?”
“Yeah, go ahead!”
“Where at?”
“In front of you. Do it.”
The snub nose exploded, and the glass from the windshield splattered, engulfing them in an echoing roar. The early morning sunlight hit the pieces of splintered windshield, blinding Juan, and he hit the brakes and went into a skid. The weight of the whiskey barrels and wet chicken shit swung the rear of the truck around.
“No!” screamed José, “we’re going over the cliff!”
“Oh, my God!” yelled Pedro, dropping the gun and grabbing the dashboard.
But the truck didn’t go over. It came to a stop just at the edge of the deep slope. Seeing that they might go over, Juan turned the steering wheel toward the middle of the road and gave it all the gas, but the tires only dug in, shooting a spray of loose gravel into the deep canyon below.
“Get out!” yelled Juan, as the truck teeter-tottered on the cliff’s edge. “Quick! And you, José, put some rocks under the rear tires! And you, Pedro, get on the hood in front!”
Both boys got out and they saw that it looked like the truck was going to go over at any second. The slope was deep, five or six hundred feet straight down into jagged rocks and boulders and trees and a little running brook.
“Uncle!” screamed José. “You better get out, too! It’s going over!”
“NO!” bellowed Juan. “It’s not going over!” And he sat there, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles. “Do as I say! Put rocks under the back tires and you, Pedro, get on the hood.”
“But it’s going over!” said Pedro.
“Damn it!” roared Juan, his neck muscles coming up like cords. “Get on that hood before I kill you myself, you little shit!”
Trembling, Pedro went around to the front of the truck while José began putting rocks under the rear tires with outstretched arms so he wouldn’t get caught under the vehicle if it suddenly went over. But Pedro still wouldn’t get on the hood. He just stood there, looking terrified.
“Damn it! Get on that hood!” bellowed Juan.
“In front, right here?” asked Pedro, watching the truck teeter-tottering on the edge.
“Yes, right there!” yelled Juan.
Seeing the rage in his uncle’s face through the broken windshield, Pedro finally got on the bumper, leaned on the hood and, to his surprise,
the vehicle didn’t go toppling over the edge of the cliff but, instead, came down on the road, holding solid.
“Good,” said Juan. “Now don’t move. Don’t even fart, Pedro. And when you finish with the rocks, José, you, too, get on the hood.”
Finishing with the rocks, José did as told, and got on the hood; now the truck was good.
“All right,” said Juan, “now I’m going to get out and get the barrels off the truck, but you two just hold there. Don’t move!”
Opening his door carefully, Juan began to get out of the truck, but he felt the vehicle starting to go over so he held onto the door, giving it weight as he got out. He could see that Pedro was praying.
“Don’t move, just hold there,” he said calmly. “I’m going to take two barrels off and then everything will be fine.”
The two boys were trembling, beginning to sweat.
“Hold still!” snapped Juan as he got a shovel and moved the manure aside, then reached for the first barrel.
He was so strong that he was able to lift the barrel with his outstretched arms, pulling it toward himself across the bed without once touching the truck with it. Then, when he’d unloaded the barrels, he turned to his nephews.
“All right,” he said, “you two can get down now.”
But when they went to move, both boys found that their legs were missing. They’d gone numb, they’d been holding on so tightly. Smiling, Juan Salvador came around the truck and lifted Pedro off the hood and then José. They both had tears in their eyes.
“All right,” he said, “now come on, we’re alive, so move it! We got to hide these barrels before somebody comes by here and catches us with our pants down.”
Quickly, the two boys did as told. Having hidden the last barrel, Juan called Pedro aside. “Come on,” he said to Pedro, “you and I got a little unfinished business. You stay here, José, and watch the truck. We’ll be right back.”
Juan and Pedro walked back down the road, then Juan cut off into the brush. Pedro was right behind him.
“Well,” said Juan, “that was quite a shot, eh?”
“You told me to,” said the boy quickly.
“I’m not complaining,” said Juan. “You did just what I said, and that’s good. But, also, a man has to learn how to think for himself, too.
“And that reminds me,” continued Juan, coming to a small opening in the brush, “you haven’t had a chance to drive my new Dodge, have you?”
“Oh, no,” said the boy, “but I’m ready!”
“Good,” said Juan. “I’m glad to hear that. Because being ready is half of the battle in life.” He brought out his pocket-knife and cut a long, thin new branch off a tree. “But also, there’s responsibility that comes with everything we do. You ride a horse, then you have to feed him, brush him, cool him off, clean his stall, and care for your saddle and bridle. You kill a pig, you have to sharpen your knives, know what you’re doing and not make the animal suffer, then clean up everything and be prepared to cook the meat or to cut it up and put it away. There’s a lot of work and preparation; you just don’t shoot the pig for the fun of it, you understand?” said Juan, peeling the bark off the branch.
“Yes, I understand,” said the boy excitedly. “But what’s that stick for? To help me to reach the pedals of the Dodge?”
“No, not exactly,” said Juan Salvador calmly, deliberately. “But just like some branches are used for finding water, others are used for finding human wisdom.”
“No, really?” said Pedro, laughing happily. “But how can you find wisdom with a branch?”
“I’ll show you,” said Juan Salvador. “But first I want you to know and respect this word ‘responsibility’ above all else. And realize that to do anything in life—drive a car, rob a bank or kill a pig—you1 must be a man of responsibilities. For instance, if you decide to rob a bank, you just don’t go shooting into a bank like a savage. No, you plan, you organize, you think, you figure the odds and then, maybe, you decide to not even do it.”
“Why not? Have you robbed banks, too, Uncle?” he asked excitedly.
“No, I never have and I never will,” said Juan Salvador. “And I’ll tell you why; because I’m an honest man and I think out everything I do. So I’d never put myself in the position of needing to kill people just for money. Do you understand? I don’t want to kill anybody. And I don’t steal, either. That chicken shit we got this morning, I got a deal with that man. We weren’t stealing. And I got no fight with the cops, either; that’s why I act stupid and drool spit, so I don’t have to kill no one, you understand?”
“Well, yes, but you always carry a gun, Uncle.”
“Yes, and I carry my balls, too, but I don’t go around leaving kids like stray dogs all over the place, either,” he said. “Do you understand? I have respect!”
And saying this, Juan Salvador suddenly leaped forward like an enraged bull and he grabbed his nephew by the arm and began to switch him with the long, green limb. The boy screamed out in surprised terror. But Juan had a good hold on him, and he never let up. He just switched him all the harder on the legs and butt.
“I work for my living!” yelled Juan. “I don’t go around shooting people! And I wouldn’t shoot a gun inside a house or car no matter if God Himself tells me to! I think, I use my head, and I work hard! I make my own liquor! I don’t steal from no man! I’m a businessman! I’m not a stupid gang of little two-bit, ass-turning punks, ganging up on an old teacher and pantsing him! I got balls, you understand? I got respect! I sweat! I work! Now, repeat! After me! I work! I got respect!”
“I work! I got respect!” screamed the boy, leaping like a fish on a lure as Juan held him and whipped him.
“I’m a businessman!” yelled Juan. “And I steal from no man! And I respect the law!”
“I’m a businessman! And I steal from no man! I respect the law!” bellowed the boy at the top of his lungs as he leaped with each swishing, hitting, cutting strike.
“I don’t do nothing without thinking and planning!” yelled Juan, giving the boy three quick hits. “And when I kill the pig to eat, or deliver liquor for money, I take the responsibility to do it quickly and cleanly and with RESPECT!” And he swatted Pedro five more times. “Repeat!”
Pedro screamed at the top of his lungs. “When I kill the pig to eat or deliver liquor for money, I take the responsibility to do it quick and with respect!”
“Repeat! All of it! AGAIN! I work! I have respect!”
“I work! I have respect!”
“I have honor! And I don’t abuse no one, not even a pig when I kill him to eat, much less a human being . . . because I’m responsible!”
“I have honor! And I don’t abuse no one, not even a pig when I kill him to eat, much less a human being . . . because I’m responsible!”
“Killing is no fun!”
“Killing is no fun!”
“I respect life!”
“I respect life!”
“And I’ll never shoot no gun in no truck, no matter who tells me, because I think first!”
And he swatted the boy three more quick ones.
“I won’t! I won’t! Oh, please, no more, Uncle!” begged Pedro.
“And I’ll never think killing is fun again! And in the future, I’ll act stupid and drool spit to avoid a fight.”
“I will! I will! Honestly!”
“And if you ever think that killing or pantsing a teacher is fun again, you just remember this whipping!” said Juan. And he whacked the boy three more good ones. “Is pain fun? Eh, tell me!”
“NOOOO!” screamed the boy. “It hurts!”
“Good,” said Juan, releasing the boy.
Pedro ran down the hillside and jumped into the little river, rubbing his ass and legs and crying desperately.
Trying to calm down, Juan Salvador brought out a cigar and went back up on the road. Next, he’d have a talk with José. But he wasn’t going to have to whip José. He’d been more respectful from the start.
Juan breathed deeply. Oh, raising kids in this country was going to be much more difficult than he’d ever imagined.
“Did you hear the screams?” he asked José, walking up to him, cigar in hand.
The big, husky boy nodded. “Yes,” he said.
“Well, don’t worry,” Juan said to his nephew, bringing out a match, “I’m not going to whip you. You had the good sense not to want to kill someone in the first place.” He struck the match. “And, also, you’re too big for a whipping, José. You’re not a boy. You’re twelve years old; you’re a man.”
Still, the boy looked very wary.
“Now tell me, how did all that business with the teacher get started?”
“Well, you see, Uncle, he’s one of these gringos who doesn’t like mejicanos, and he’s always saying little things.”
“Oh,” said Juan, sitting on the hood of the truck and smoking his cigar. “He’s like that Tom Mix cabrón we see in the movies, eh? That son-of-a-bitch! I’ve seen people get in fights inside the theaters because of his movies and good men die. William Hart, on the other hand, fights against Mexicans, too, but he always does it with respect.”
“This teacher is like Tom Mix,” said José, “but not that brave. More like an old-woman Tom Mix.”
Juan laughed. “So go on, what happened?”
“Well, Pedro and some of his friends had had enough, so they put some dog shit under his desk and he got it all over his shoes. He was so mad that he got Pedro by the neck and was going to whip him, but I told him to put Pedro down.”
José stopped.
“Well, go on.”
The big, husky boy was embarrassed. “Well, he called our mother a name, Uncle, saying that our race came from whores, so I dropped him.”
“You what?”
“I hit him,” said the boy, looking ashamed.
“One hit?”
The husky boy nodded. “Yeah. And that’s when the peewees pantsed him and threw him out the window.”
“Peewees?”
“Yeah, Pedro and his little friends.”
“I see, I see, but is he a good teacher?” asked Juan. “Did you learn anything from him?”
“Well, yes, he was all right in that way. He taught us a lot. But you don’t understand, Uncle. He was always saying little things.”
Rain of Gold Page 44
