by Janet Leigh
Chapter 11
We proceeded with our ride, and a little while later we came upon a cattle ranch. We followed the barbed-wire fencing about two miles before we ever saw a sign of the house. There were two six-foot walls made from Oklahoma stone. The rising sun illuminated the different colors of the stone. A wide entrance with a curved iron sign above it and a big H centered in the middle rested between the two stone walls. A brown wooden box that read “Hawkins Ranch”—most likely a mailbox—sat to the left and closer to the road. Two neatly done flower beds bordered with the same stone had been planted in front of the walls. Various wildflowers just beginning to bloom filled the flower beds and offered a kind welcome to Hawkins Ranch. This looked like a friendly place. I prayed we were going in as friends and not to kill the owner and take his cattle.
On one of our short rest stops, Gertie had filled me in on the details of the history of Pancho Villa. He was a Mexican rebel who fought against the government using men, women, and children to man his army of pistoleros. And just to confuse the white people, they were also called Villistas. He was also a cattle rustler and was accused of various other crimes Gertie couldn’t recall. He was wanted by the United States for something she couldn’t remember, but she did know there was some famous general after him. The Mexican government was also after him, so he was indeed a wanted man.
Mr. Villa led his horse down a long dirt road that I guess I would call a driveway. Each side was flanked by huge oak trees, creating a nice shady lane. I noticed Mr. Villa went first. I thought the head honcho always stayed in the back so if his men were killed, he could make a getaway. Not Pancho Villa. He led the way every time. I guess you had to respect that much about him.
As we came to the end of the lane, it opened, revealing the Hawkinses’ homestead. The house was a two-story white frame house with green trim the color of the surrounding pine trees. The huge wraparound porch had several rocking chairs, and a big old hound dog slouched in front of the door. He raised his head up to check us out, then gave a sort of “ruff.” Obviously deciding that getting up was too much trouble, he flopped back down on his belly and rested his head on the porch. That was the extent of his guard-dog duty.
A tall, skinny man was coming down the two steps leading up to the porch. He seemed to be the owner and looked very pleased to see this Pancho Villa. Mr. Villa dismounted to shake hands with the man. He spoke in Spanish, and the man looked at us and something was said again in Spanish, and they all laughed. The man went back into the house, and we got off our horses. Moments later the man returned and spoke in English, telling Villa there would not be a problem with the cleanup.
Gertie moved closer to me. “This house looks very familiar.”
“Do you think you have been here before?” I asked.
“I don’t think so, but I have that kind of déjà vu feeling.”
Mr. Villa spoke with his thick Spanish accent. “This is Slim Hawkins; his wife will take you around back to wash. If you do not wish for Paco to watch, then I suggest you do not attempt to leave.”
Paco gave me a little shove and led us around to the back of the house. A heavyset woman came out with a basket of ripe tomatoes. She wore a floral housedress that hung down to her ankles. A white apron was tied around her plump waist, and she had her dark-brown hair pulled up on the top of her head in a bun.
“Now I’m really having that feeling like I have seen these people somewhere,” Gertie said.
“Maybe they look like someone you know,” I responded.
“Mmm, both of them?” she asked with a finger pressed to her lips. “Maybe.”
“Howdy, girls, my name’s Opal Hawkins. You can call me Mrs. Opal. Slim said you were in need of a tomater bath. Pee-yew! Y’all sure do stink. That ole skunk must ‘ave got you good.”
“Nice to meet you, and yes, it did,” I said.
“Follow me this way.” She motioned for us to come along and balanced the basket on her hip as she waddled away from the house toward a small shed.
When we were out of earshot from Paco, I asked Mrs. Hawkins, “What do you know about this Pancho Villa dude?”
Opal looked at us kinda funny. Then she scrunched up her mouth like someone who was carefully choosing her words. “He’s a hero to his people, not someone you’d wanna cross. He’ll kill whoever gets in his way. Women, children, it don’t matter.”
I swallowed hard. I didn’t want to be killed. I didn’t want to stink like skunk. My priorities were in order.
“He’s always been good to us on accounta he does business with my son.”
“What kind of business?” I asked hesitantly.
“Oh, we’re mule traders,” she said proudly. “Mr. Villa uses the mules for hauling his, um, cargo. My son, Johnny, is on his way with the next shipment of mules. My Johnny raises the best jackasses in the entire state of Texas. That’s why Mr. Villa trades with us.”
“I remember reading about Pancho Villa,” Gertie said. “He cut the soles off people’s feet.”
“You can read?” Mrs. Opal asked. “Must be why he wants ya. He don’t read much.”
We were standing in front of a square wooden building with a pointed tin roof. “OK, girls, get in that bathhouse and take off yer clothes.”
The shed turned out to be a bathroom of sorts. There was a big metal washtub with a number three on the side in the middle of the room and an outhouse in the other half. She started mashing the tomatoes with a big metal hoe.
“You gals get on in the tub.”
I looked at Gertie, and then we both looked at the small metal tub in front of us. I think the last time I had taken a bath with a friend I was five years old.
Gertie shrugged. “Mrs. Opal, Jen wants to go first.” She sounded like a first grader.
“No matter to me, first one in gets the fresh water,” Mrs. Opal said, pounding the tomatoes to a pulp. Gertie started ripping her clothes off, but the laces on the grandma boots hung her up, and I got undressed first. I stepped into the tub as Mrs. Opal instructed. The tub was too small to lie down in, so I sat in the bottom and hugged my knees to my chest. Mrs. Opal poured the squashed tomatoes over my head, followed by a bucket of cold water.
After I screamed out loud from the shock of possible frostbite, she said, “Sorry ‘bout that. Can’t get the smell out with the warm water, and no time for heatin’ now anyhow.” She handed me a bar of soap that actually smelled good.
“I make my soap outta lavender ‘cause it smells so good and it calms your nerves,” she said.
Sign me up for anything that would calm nerves. I was contemplating the state of my nerves and wondering if I should just eat the soap when Mrs. Opal dumped more freezing water in my direction. I guess I should have told Mrs. Opal she had invented the first spa, but I didn’t see any sign of a masseuse, so I just washed with the tomatoes and lavender. When I got out, I didn’t smell as bad. I stood with a towel wrapped around me as she repeated the process with Gertie. Mrs. Opal reached into her basket and gave us some clothes to wear.
“These belonged to my girls before they took the fever.”
Gertie and I looked at each other and then at the neatly stacked clothes. Lord, I hoped my vaccinations held up in time travel. I didn’t want the fever.
After we were washed, our hair was brushed and braided. Mrs. Opal insisted all the young girls were wearing their hair “plaited” like the French women.
“You have the most beautiful hair,” she told me. “How lucky to have so many different colors.”
I wasn’t actually so lucky. It was ninety dollars worth of highlights by Blaine, but I didn’t think Mrs. Opal would understand. Lucky for me girls were required to wear bonnets. I tugged the hat over my freshly braided hair and felt about four years old. At least it disguised my hair. If the brigands turned up, I would fit right in. Hopefully…
While Mrs. Opal finished braiding Gertie’s hair, I stepped outside to check for a way out of the place. Paco was leaning against the wall to the washroom, guarding the do
or. He licked his lips. I shivered and ran back inside.
