The Time It Never Rained

by Elmer Kelton

  Charlie turned as an automobile’s side window flashed a reflection across the tying table. He recognized the green government car, the round symbol on its door. Border patrol!

  Damn chotas, always slipping up on you!

  His first impulse was to look toward the house, but he managed not to. Maybe the three wetbacks had eaten and left. He got a grip on himself and moved through the shorn and unshorn sheep, shoving ewes and lambs aside with his knees. Two green-clad patrolmen climbed out of the car.

  “Mister Flagg?”

  Charlie nodded, and one patrolman extended his hand. The grip was firm and friendly. “Parker’s my name. And this is Oliver Nance.” Nance’s face was cold and without cordiality, but Parker’s easy drawl put Charlie partly at ease. Texas, he figured, or perhaps Oklahoma. He couldn’t be all bad. The patrolman said, “We heard you were shearing, and we thought we’d like to watch a little. Oliver is new to this part of the country. He hasn’t seen much shearing done.”

  Nance had no patience with pretense. “We came to see if you’re working any wetbacks.”

  Charlie cast him a hard glance. The man was honest, anyway.

  Parker frowned but said nothing.

  Charlie said, “I don’t work wetbacks.”

  Nance didn’t ask a question; he made a statement. “Then you won’t mind if we look around a little.”

  Too much honesty could get a man disliked. Tightly Charlie said, “Help yourself.” He said more than that, under his breath. Damnyankee! You could tell it as quick as he opened his mouth. Damnyankees always coming down here on us like locusts, thinking they’re two notches better than Jesus Christ! He had an old-Texan aversion to Northerners. His heritage from a Confederate grandfather made it automatic that he class them all as damnyankees until they had proven to his satisfaction they were all right. That sometimes took a right smart of proving.

  Nance studied Teofilo’s shearing crew and started to climb over the fence into the pens. Parker said, “Those are all local Mexicans. You won’t find any wetbacks in there.”

  “How do you know till you look?” Nance climbed over and shoved his way through the sheep, his eyes on the shearers.

  Stupid as well as arrogant, Charlie thought irritably. This would be a slap in the face to Teofilo’s men; to be mistaken for a wetback was considered no compliment. Maybe they would bounce Nance out of there on his butt. On reflection Charlie knew they wouldn’t do that. They would simply turn on a cold contempt and mock him with their eyes. Generations of living in this country as a minority group had honed to a fine edge this ability of the Mexican people to put a gringo in his place without speak-. ing a word or making any overt move that might invite stern reprisal. Charlie thought, You’ve never been insulted, Yankee boy, till you’ve been insulted in silence by a Mexican who knows how to give you the treatment.

  Parker’s jaw ridged. “I’ll apologize for him, Mister Flagg. Occasionally they send us one of these new boys who already knows it all.”

  One of the shearers snickered, and the others followed suit. Even the tie-boys took it up.

  People who lived long in the border country usually could tell at a glance whether a man was native-born or if he had recently arrived with muddy water dripping from his clothes. It showed in details hard to explain but easy to recognize—the clothing, the haircut, the general manner. To one who knew Spanish, a wetback was betrayed by his speech. Even a Yankee chota soon learned to know.

  Motioning broadly with his big hands, Teofilo Garcia assured Nance that his shearers were all right. “Every man here is puro American, and votes Democrat.”

  Nance’s face darkened in anger as the men quietly mocked him. He turned on his heel and pushed roughly back through the sheep.

  With mild rebuke, Parker said, “I told you. If you get the locals mad at us, who’s going to tip us off about the wets?”

  Nance stiffly rejected any reproach. “I didn’t like their attitude.”

  Charlie felt a glow of quiet triumph. He did not dislike border patrolmen, exactly; he realized they had a duty to perform. It was that duty which he disliked. In his view the wetback was no criminal; he was a hungry man desperately seeking work, and it took a lot of guts to set out across uncounted miles of unknown country in hopes of bettering oneself. Charlie identified because of his pioneer heritage. This guttiness, he felt, was a character strength which was disappearing from American life. He was glad they still had it in Mexico.

  He glanced in the direction of his house, and the breath went out of him. The three Mexicans were walking toward the pens, swinging those telltale cotton satchels. The satchels were full now, for Mary had been to the pantry.

  Ay, Chihuahua! Didn’t those innocents know what a chota looked like?

  Parker saw them about the time Charlie did, and he glanced at Charlie in disappointment. Charlie was tempted to wave the three away, to shout for them to run. But that could get him sent to jail, or at least heavily fined. A ranchman could feed a wetback or even hire him to work without actually being liable to prosecution; no penalty had been provided. But the minute he advised him to run, he became an accessory to unlawful flight. So Charlie watched, numb, as the three Mexicans halted, realization striking them like a club.

  “Alto!” Parker shouted. “Alto!”

  The three took out for the brush as hard as they could run. The boy was far in the lead. The oldest son was hanging back, looking over his shoulder at the faltering old man.

  Nance hurried to the green car, reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a pistol. Charlie’s blood went cold. He wanted to shout, but no words came. He was sure Nance would fire at the fugitives. But Nance fired harmlessly into the air, causing a tied horse at the fence to lunge against the reins and snap them in two. The horse went trotting off in fear and confusion, stepping on one broken rein and jerking its head down. The old man stopped and raised his hands. The oldest son, seeing his father halt, turned and came back to stand dejectedly beside him. Only the boy kept running.

  Parker waved for Nance to go after the young Mexican. Nance shouted something at the halted pair as he passed them on the run. He disappeared into the green tangle of mesquite. Parker walked out and brought the pair back. He allowed them to stop and pick up the satchels they had dropped when they started to run. The boy had held onto his. The old Mexican’s eyes swam in tears of frustration. The younger man stood silent, defiant. Parker brought handcuffs out of the car. In Spanish he said, “I would not use these if you had not run.”

  The viejo said in a thin voice, “A man tries.”

  Charlie stood where he was until the pair were near him. Shaken, he said to the old man, “I am sorry. Why did you come back?”

  “I would not go without thanking the patrón again. We had nothing to give you but our thanks.”

  And that, thought Charlie, came at a hell of a price.

  While they waited for Nance, Charlie asked Parker, “What you goin’ to do with them?”

  “Jail a day or two. Then we’ll ship them back across the river.”

  “They came here because they was hungry. They’ll still be hungry when you send them back.”

  Parker flared. “Do you think you’re telling me something new? What am I supposed to do about it? You know the law.”

  “I know the law is as blind as a one-eyed mule in a root cellar. Don’t it ever bother you to take them back across?”

  Parker studied the forlorn Mexican, and Charlie saw pity come into the patrolman’s face. “I wake up nights . . . But hell, I don’t pass the laws, I just carry them out. If it wasn’t me, somebody else would do it. At least I try to treat them human. Some people wouldn’t.”

  He glanced toward his partner. Nance trudged back, breathing heavily. His uniform was spotted with sweat, his face flushed with heat and anger. “Got away in the brush. Damn kid ran like a deer.” He opened the rear door of the car and gave the old Mexican a shove. “Get in there!”

  Sharply, Charlie said, “Take i
t easy. He’s just a sick old man.”

  Nance whirled. “Don’t you tell me what to do. You lied to us.”

  “I didn’t lie. You asked if I was workin’ any wets. These was passin’ through and I fed them, that’s all.”

  “If you ranchers would stop feeding them they’d quit coming. There are laws about that.”

  “And have a man starve to death in one of my pastures? There’s a law about that too, a damn sight older than yours.”

  Parker tugged at Nance’s sleeve. “Come on, Oliver.”

  Nance backed toward the car, eyes still hostile. “You ranchers think you’re above the law, but you’re not. I’ll be watching you, Flagg.”

  Parker took Nance’s arm. “Come on, I said. Let’s go.”

  Nance slid into the driver’s seat and slammed the door. Parker entered the other side where he could turn and watch the two wetbacks. The border patrol had not yet begun providing a grill between the back seat and the front in all of its vehicles. The pair seated behind the patrolmen could grab them and take over the car if the patrolmen’s vigilance lapsed. But Charlie knew that was not the nature of the average man who came from across the river. Few criminals ventured deep into the ranch country, for travel was long and hard, and that kind gravitated more to the cities where pickings were varied and easy. These were humble men whose crime was that they refused to submit to hunger. Wetbacks might run or hide to elude capture, but once caught they were usually docile. In Mexico the ancient law of ley fuga was deeply ingrained, etched in blood. Even a common pickpocket might be killed for breaking away.

  The pistol shots had brought an abrupt end to the shearing. Every shearer was standing against the fence, and the tie-boys had climbed up onto the sacking frame to watch. Some approved of the capture, some had been rooting for the wetbacks. Grumbling. Teofilo Garcia began trying to shoo the men back to work. The machine was using up gasoline. It took awhile; they had to discuss the incident in all its details first. When finally all were in their places and the wool was peeling again, Teofilo lumbered to the fence and leaned his considerable bulk against a cedar post, his shirttail hanging out, the knees of his old khaki trousers crusted with wool grease.

  “Nothing here was your fault, Mister Charlie. Wetbacks like those, they get caught every day.”

  “They’re so goddamn hungry . . .”

  Garcia shrugged. “Half the world is hungry. A man can’t cry for all of them.” Teofilo watched the dust trail spread along the town road. “Damn smart-aleck chota ... damn boludo . . .”

  Page Mauldin drove a black Cadillac. It was seldom washed because Page might have to wait, and he seldom sat still that long. Its sides bore long scratches from limbs and thorns. Whenever Page saw cattle or sheep in a pasture and took a notion he wanted a better look, he wheeled off the road, across the bar ditch and headlong out through the brush.

  He had spent more of his life in a saddle than. in a car. When he paid good money for an automobile he figured it should do at least as much as a fifty-dollar horse. He did not buy Cadillacs for show; he didn’t give two whoops and a holler about appearance. He simply reasoned that it took a car of high caliber to stand up to the fifty or sixty thousand miles of willful abuse he would give it in a year. On an open highway, especially the long straight stretches across the ranching country west of San Angelo, his cruising speed was eighty miles an hour, if he was in no particular hurry. On rough country trips—rubboard graded roads and ranch two-rutters—he dampered his impatience and held to sixty or so.

  A lesser car would shake down to scrap iron.

  Page Mauldin braked to a stop at Charlie’s shearing pens. A gray billow of dust fogged over the car and into the crowded sheep. Page stepped out, chewing an unlighted cigar. He was a tall, angular man with nervous hands that never stopped flexing except when gripped to a steering wheel. He chewed down a cigar faster than most men could smoke it, working off a feverish energy. He was ten years older than Charlie Flagg and looked twice that. His eyes were recessed into dark-patch hollows, for he never took enough rest. He had a way of stepping in, sizing up a situation, doing whatever his snap judgment dictated, then leaving before the dust settled. Buy, sell, hire, or fire ... it never took long. With ranches scattered all over West Texas, he always needed to be somewhere else.

  Page walked to the corral fence and peered critically at the sheep, mentally setting a price on them. His rumpled gray suit looked as though it had been slept in, and probably had. His felt hat was flat-brimmed except for a small flare on the right side. The left side was drawn down almost to the point of covering his dark, worried eyes. Page’s only vanity was that he tucked his trouser cuffs into the tops of his black boots. One had worked out while he drove. He shoved it into place.

  Momentary humor flickered in the old ranchman’s eyes. “You don’t look much like Bo-Peep.”

  Charlie was too tired to think of a peppy answer. He climbed across a wooden sheep panel and shook Page’s hand. “Let’s go to Teofilo’s camp and get us some coffee.”

  Page looked impatiently at his watch. “I ain’t got time.”

  “You had time to drive this far. You got time for coffee.”

  Charlie noticed a young girl sitting in the Cadillac. He beckoned her with a broad sweep of his hand. “Kathy, you’d just as well get out of the car. Me and your daddy are fixin’ to have some coffee.”

  She pushed the door open and slid out, both of her booted feet hitting the ground at the same time. She slammed the door then paused to push her blue jean cuffs into her boottops like her father. Kathy Mauldin was fourteen, best Charlie could remember. It had been a disappointment to Page that she was not a boy; he had been trying with some success ever since to make a boy of her.

  “You want some coffee with us?” Charlie asked her.

  She shook her head. “I’ll watch the shearin’. Or if you got anything you need me to do, I could ride your horse.” The offer was made hopefully.

  Charlie pointed. “I got some riders out yonder scoutin’ for whatever they missed earlier. You can take the roan out and find them if you’re a mind to.”

  Page frowned. “Kathy, we ain’t stayin’ long.”

  Kathy said, “You could go on. I could ride home tonight with Diego when he’s finished here.” She glanced at the car. “Anyway, I’d like to show Manuel my new .22.”

  Charlie said, “Let her stay, Page. Hell, I’ve paid wages to grown men that wasn’t half as much help.”

  Page seemed about to turn them down until a thought struck him. “That’d save me goin’ back to take her home. I could go from here straight to San Angelo.”

  The matter was settled. Kathy opened the rear door and dragged out a shiny new rifle, which she proudly showed to Charlie. He dutifully made some fuss over it, though guns had never particularly interested him since his Army days in World War I. A gun, to him, was nothing more than a tool, on about a par with a Stillson wrench except more dangerous. He made it a point to leave the bolt open when he handed it back to Kathy, and he locked the safety. He didn’t have to mention it; she got the message.

  “I might load it up later,” she said, “and go shoot a rabbit.”

  “That’d be fine,” Charlie replied. “Later.”

  He watched her carry it out to a barn to leave until she was ready to use it. Then she trotted eagerly to his roan horse, tied down the fence away from the sheep. The stirrups were too long for her, but that was of no consequence; she could ride like the Indians who used to hunt over these hills. Charlie had once remarked that she must have been weaned on mare’s milk; he remembered how Mary had taken affront at that. He watched her kick the roan into a trot with her bare-heeled boots and ride into the pasture.

  He asked Page, “What’s she goin’ to do when she wakes up someday and finds out she’s a girl?”

  “You tryin’ to tell me I ain’t done my duty by her?”

  “I’ll let Mary tell you that; she’s said it often enough.”

  Page said so
berly, “Your Mary is always tellin’ me I ought to get married again and have a woman in the house to set an example. But I’ve got old Elvira Escamillo, the housekeeper. She’s a woman.”

  “Diego’s mother? Hell, she’s too old to keep up with Kathy, and so deaf she can’t hear thunder.”

  “Kathy’s all right.” Page made it clear the subject was closed. “You said somethin’ about coffee.”

  The Mexican cook was peeling potatoes beneath the long, crooked arms of a huge live-oak tree, a sun-bleached straw hat set far back on his head. Seeing Charlie and Page, he stood up and set the pan of potatoes on his chuckbox lid. He took out two tin cups and moved to the coffeepot suspended from a steel rod over a smoldering campfire for convenience of the shearers as they periodically took a rest, one or two at a time. Years ago he would have removed his hat in deference to the guero ranchmen; he extended the two cups in a gesture which paid service to tradition but did not compromise his dignity. His smile showed a strong set of white teeth some younger men would give a fortune for. “Coffee?”

  Charlie had misgivings about the sanitary condition of the cups, but camp coffee was usually strong enough to kill almost anything. “Thanks, Mike.” The cook bent and poured and made some idle comment about the pretty day, to which both Charlie and Page made an equally idle response.

  Charlie blew the steaming black coffee awhile, then tentatively touched the rim of the cup to his lips. His eyes brightened at the sweetness. Mexican camp cooks usually boiled coffee and sugar together. That saved expense. If a capitán let his shearers use all the sugar they wanted, he would have to buy a barrel a week.

  Charlie studied Page’s face. Page looked weary, though he would not stop until he dropped. “You look like twelve miles of corduroy road. You ever sleep any more?”

  Page grunted but gave no other answer. Charlie wished he could lure him away to a fishing trip on Devil’s River this fall—anything to make Page relax. But it would be useless. He had tried once. Page brooded so much over business that Charlie had to take him home the second day.