Ana Martin

by J. L. Jarvis

  “WHITE. TRADE. ONLY,” said Tate Royal. “That means NO. DIRTY. MEXICANS.”

  Carlos turned to face him eye-to-eye. The shopkeeper took a tentative step back. Carlos stood his ground. Fierce hatred burned in Tate’s eyes, but he made no move. The other man circled behind them and stood by the door. Carlos set down enough money for the combs on the counter, then scooped up the combs and shoved them into his pocket and turned.

  The shopkeeper watched as he walked to the door. When Tate Royal was not looking he snatched up the money and shoved it into the drawer.

  “What you got there? Some flowers for that sweet thing you’re shacked up with?”

  Carlos stopped at the door.

  Tate Royal went on, “Now there’s a fine lookin’ piece of calico.”

  Carlos made a move for the door, but the stocky man blocked him.

  Tate smiled broadly and took his time saying, “I’ve seen her telling stories to them little brown kids.”

  Carlos turned, alert and ready, and watched him.

  “Maybe sometime I’ll stop by and she can tell me a story—like Puss ‘N’ Boots.” He laughed to himself. “But you ain’t got any idea what I’m sayin’, do you, greaser?” Tate reached for the flowers in Carlos’s hand, but Carlos held on. A shower of petals drifted down to the floor.

  “Aw, look at that. Now what’s that sweet thing gonna do without any flowers? Course she ain’t gonna need ‘em once she gets a whiff of my long stemmed rose,” Tate said, grabbing his crotch. He doubled over laughing. “What do you think about that, cowboy?”

  Carlos let the flower stems fall to the floor as he turned to leave.

  Tate grabbed his arm and swung, but Carlos blocked him and got two hard blows before the stocky one grabbed him. He struggled to hold him until Tate Royal pulled a gun and stuck it under Carlos’s chin. “You keep your dirty Mexican ass out of our stores, understand?”

  The storekeeper said, “C’mon, Tate, y’all let ‘im go. You’ve had your fun.”

  “Now, Walter, you’d better watch it or before you know it this place’ll be crawlin’ with greasers thinkin’ they can shop where they please.”

  “Just take it outside,” said the Walter.

  Tate pressed the gun harder beneath Carlos’s chin. Carlos stared back through hooded eyes.

  Tate spit tobacco juice at Carlos’s face. It dripped down his cheek.

  The shopkeeper pointed a rifle. “Take it out of my store.”

  “All right, Walter,” said Tate.

  “Sorry,” added the other.

  “Go on. Get out,” the shop owner told Carlos.

  Carlos glanced at the flowers on the floor and walked out. The men chuckled behind him. He walked away, swallowing his rage and his pride. Fixing his eyes on his horse, he walked straight down the street.

  But they followed. Tate came up behind him and kicked him in the rear. The man’s foot was still in the air when Carlos turned and he kicked it up further, throwing him off balance. He fell to the ground. Carlos blocked a punch from the friend and knocked him unconscious. He looked at the two on the ground and raised an eyebrow. That was easy.

  Tate pulled himself up, but Carlos landed his fist on Tate’s jaw, and then held him down with a boot on the neck. Barely able to breathe, Tate looked up with hot rage in his eyes. Carlos pressed his boot down until rage turned to panic. An older couple approached. Seeing this scene, they turned and rushed in the other direction.

  It occurred then to Carlos that this did not look good, a Mexican standing over two beaten up Anglos. He gave Tate one more solid punch for good measure. Then he got on his horse and rode out of town.

  He left it behind him. He was going to be married. Tate Royal would not ruin his day.

  As he rode, Carlos heard horses behind him and cursed. They were following. He would have to outride them. Tate had a better horse, but Carlos was a better rider. He kept his pace steady until he heard them speed up. He went faster. As he rounded the top of a hill he caught sight of the ranch. Soon he would be home with his Ana. He began to breathe freely. They would never catch up, and he knew Tate would not make a move where his parents could see.

  Then the crack of a rifle shot stilled the air. His horse reared up, lost its footing and fell. Carlos landed hard about five feet away. He could not catch enough breath to move for what seemed a long time. With a zip, a bullet flew past him. His horse took off running.

  Carlos never saw the other man circle behind him. A rifle butt hit his head. He awoke with his feet tied to a rope attached to a saddle horn. He was moving. His head hit the ground as he fought to free his arms from the ropes that burned their way through his skin. He kicked to loosen his feet, but each move seemed to pull the rope tighter. The horse sped to a canter, dragging Carlos over dirt and stones until it ripped through his clothes and his skin.

  He heard voices in English far off in the distance, and then it was dark.

  He opened his eyes to the black silhouette of the Royal Ranch’s Circle R floating in a gray cotton sky. Wet drops freshened his face. He was lying in mud. Rivulets worked their way around his still body. He licked the fresh rain from his lips and opened his mouth, wanting more. He thought about moving but his body did not want to obey. Each move cost him more and more pain. He crawled as far as the wrought iron archway and pulled himself to his knees. He set his mind on getting to Ana.

  How pretty she looked in her best dress. A beautiful bride with new combs in her hair. She stood smiling at him at the end of a very long aisle. She held out her soft hands. He reached and took a step toward her. His leg buckled beneath him.

  Ana sat still in the rocker and looked through the rain, down the road. The midday was gone, and so was their wedding time. Lupe brought out some tea. Her best dress seemed to bloom in every direction from beneath her apron. Ana looked at the tray and looked back down the road.

  “José went to talk to the padre. There will be other days.” She gave Ana’s hand a small pat.

  Lupe insisted, so Ana took one sip of tea and then set the glass down. Lupe was a solid, self-assured woman, with a quiet way of convincing. Ana drank some more tea, and realized that her sickness had passed for the time being. They quietly waited.

  “Lupe! Where are your children?”

  “Don’t worry. My oldest daughter is watching them.”

  “Oh.” As if conversation would make everything else become normal, she said, “How old is she now?”

  “Thirteen, but she’s already making plans for her quinceañera,” Lupe laughed. She shook her head. As her light laughter faded, her face went blank.

  Ana followed her gaze and stood up. Lupe stood close behind and braced Ana’s shoulders. Through the drizzle, a dark figure on horseback advanced down the road. Ana shook loose of Lupe and ran. Carlos lay limply across the wet mare. A sound lodged in her throat. Her shoes sank into a muddy rut as she put her arms over Carlos.

  José dismounted. “I found him on the road.”

  Two ranch hands came running and soon others followed. José sent one of them after the doctor. The remaining men carried Carlos into the house. Ana followed. Each step splattered brown rain on her ankles and dress. All she saw was his face. His strong nose and bold cheekbones were swollen and bruised. His thick, black shining hair was now matted with mud and dark blood. Ana reached out to touch him as they settled him into his bed. Others helped her pull off the wet clothing. Rope burns circled his legs, chest and arms.

  “He’s been dragged by a horse,” said José.

  “But he’s too good a rider,” said Ana.

  “The rope was still tied in a knot around his ankles when we found him.”

  “Someone did this to him?”

  José nodded gravely.

  People came in and out of the door. Ana trembled and lifted a basin of water. Lupe took it from her with kind hands, and gave José a look. Ana reached for some rags, but her ears started ringing.

  José led her to a chair.

  “
No, I’ve got to be with him,” she said in a small, pleading voice.

  José brought the chair beside Carlos’s bed.

  Lupe took over while Ana held Carlos’s hand and whispered his name, unaware of the flurry about her.

  Lupe quietly cleaned the mud from him, while others brought water and clean rags. She stole worried glances toward Ana, but kept on with her work.

  Lupe traded her basin of brown water for the clean one another woman brought over. “Find some clean sheets and blankets,” said Lupe.

  A fire and the smell of fresh coffee warmed the room as Ana leaned forward and studied his face. The doctor arrived. With one look at Ana, he said, “Go get some fresh air.” He reached into his bag. Lupe stayed, while José took a protesting Ana out to the porch.

  Ana looked at the sky. “It ought to be dark.”

  “Sit down,” said José, leading her to a rocker.

  She obeyed. José sat on the steps, but did not force conversation.

  Ana looked at the hills in the distance. They looked just the same, gently rolling with patches of green mixed with dirt. Gnarled branches stretched out from trees and made shadows beneath them. The rain stopped. The whole world was still but the trees. The leaves wept while the earth held its breath. Every thought and sensation was vivid with useless detail. The floorboards did not meet, and the flour sack curtains hung limp.

  The door opened, and out came the doctor. Lupe followed behind him. Ana looked up at his eyes. She had waited, eager to know, but now she could not make herself ask.

  “I’ve done what I can. The head injury is severe. I’ve left something in there for pain, in case he wakes up. Just try to make him comfortable.” He looked at her as though he had left something out, but did not offer more. With a nod, he stepped down from the porch.

  “Thank you, Doctor,” she said without looking.

  He nodded. “I’ll be back in the morning.” He looked at Lupe and said, “Send for me if there’s any change.” He got into his buggy and drove off down the road toward town.

  Ana sat beside Carlos until dusk fell upon her and the darkness crept in through the window. Time had not stopped, after all. Lupe dozed in a chair.

  Carlos stirred and made so slight a rasp, no one heard it but Ana. She leaned closer. His eyes were open.

  “I’m here, my love. You’re safe.”

  He searched her eyes. His lips parted and came together, but no sound would come. Ana made out one word: “Pocket.”

  His clothing hung over the footboard. Ana searched through his pants pockets and pulled out broken pieces of the carved ivory combs.

  His mouth twitched, but could not form a smile. Ana’s throat tightened. She made herself smile.

  “For my bride,” he whispered.

  She touched her hand to his. Carlos squeezed her hand. She breathed in and steeled herself, trying to keep her eyes open so tears would not drop.

  He looked calm as he spoke in halting half whispers. “Tell him…”

  Ana bent closer to hear him. Tears fell on the quilt.

  “Our baby. Tell him I love him.”

  “You’ll tell him,” she started to say, but she stopped when she saw the truth in his eyes. She gave a slight nod and whispered, “I will.”

  The priest arrived at the door.

  “No,” she pleaded, as he came to the bed.

  “First marry us,” whispered Carlos.

  Ana sat on the bed beside Carlos and promised to love him until death. She held his hand and bent down to touch her lips softly to his. She felt so close she might have gone with him and, closing her eyes, she willed it to be. But the priest murmured words and she felt his soul slip from her reach. And time waited. She lay down her head on his shoulder, and tried to remember the strength of his arms when they held her, so sturdy and warm. And time waited.

  Chapter 23

  At dawn Ana walked to the stable and saddled José’s horse. She needed to ride like she used to with Carlos, and she had something to do.

  Ana rode into town and knocked on the door of the town’s only mortician. “My husband has died.”

  He looked at her closely. Ana tightened her grip on her shawl.

  “Are you new here?”

  “I’ve been here a few months—on the Royal Ranch.”

  “Someone should have told you. Your people don’t come here.”

  “My husband is dead. You’re the only undertaker in town.”

  He shifted awkwardly. “If it were up to me…but it’s business.”

  “Is it the money? I can pay.” She reached into her bag, but he reached out to stop her.

  “I haven’t got anything against your kind. It’s just—people don’t feel comfortable…”

  Ana’s heart thundered, but words would not come.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t help you.” He closed the door gently between them.

  By the time she reached home, Ana’s house was full of people.

  José was the first to see her. “We’ve been worried. Where have you been?”

  “I’m sorry. I borrowed your horse.”

  “I know. Lupe saw you ride off. Are you all right?”

  “I went riding.”

  Ana looked at the bed. It was empty. Carlos lay in a simple pine casket on top of the table. He was dressed in his best charro clothes: the black coat and trousers with silver trim down the sides. The first time she saw him in that suit, walking past her—so tall and so handsome—she’d heard herself sigh.

  People arrived with their arms full. Rice, beans, fresh tortillas and chicken. They would not let her help them. A feast was set out.

  Ana stood by the side of his casket.

  “Is there anyone we can contact?” Lupe whispered beside her.

  “Eduardo.”

  “Eduardo?”

  “Guerra Peña,” Ana added, almost to herself. “In Mexico City. He works for President Madero. Someone will know how to reach him.”

  “We’ll send a telegram.” Lupe started to leave, but Ana touched her arm.

  Ana’s face crumpled as her eyes filled with tears. “Thank you.”

  Lupe put her hand on Ana’s and gave it a squeeze, and then left.

  Ana glided numbly from day to night, place to place, and life happened around her. On the last night she would sit beside Carlos, she studied his face and each leftover line, the only proof that remained of expressions now lost.

  Heavy footsteps rushed up the porch steps. The door opened and Ana looked up. In the doorway stood Eduardo, his eyes fixed on Carlos. She barely knew him at first, dressed as he was, in the clothes of a working vaquero. He said her name softly. She stood as he strode to her and took her in his arms.

  “What happened?”

  “He was dragged by a horse.”

  His face contracted in confused disbelief as looked down at Carlos. “Compañero.” He put his hand on Carlos’s shoulder and gripped it.

  “How?” he asked, not taking his eyes from his friend.

  Ana told him what they had pieced together.

  Eduardo buried his face in his arm on the edge of the casket. He was quiet and still only moving to pull out a bandana. He took off his glasses and wiped his face before looking at Ana. She held out her hand and led him to a pair of chairs. He sank down and stared at the floor.

  “Have they caught them?”

  She shook her head. “No one knows. But it happened in daylight, but no one saw.”

  Eduardo lowered his eyes with the stone face of a man now immune to shock. Someone brought him some coffee. He took a drink and set the cup down. He looked older tonight.

  Ana said, “How did you get here so soon? They just sent the telegram yesterday.”

  His eyes looked helplessly weary. “I didn’t know.”

  “But you’re here.”

  Distress creased his face. “The President is dead.”

  The room fell to a hush. “There was a coup. Huerta arrested President Madero and Vice President Pino Suarez. Outside
of the prison, they shot them.”

  “No,” Ana softly insisted.

  “When?” asked someone.

  “Saturday. In Mexico City.”

  Ana said, “But how did you—?”

  Eduardo put his hand on her arm and said softly, “May we speak in private?”

  “Of course.”

  They went outside and walked until they would not be overheard. He spoke in low tones. “My life is in danger. I was tipped off, but I could not get to Madero in time. I was getting men together to break them out of prison, when I heard they were shot—while escaping. That’s the story, but it was murder. I worked with Madero—wrote speeches, advised him. They’ll want me dead, too.”

  “But you’re here, in the North. You’ll be safe now.”

  “Safer, but not safe. You can’t tell anyone who I am.”

  “But I’ve called you ‘Eduardo.’”

  “And that’s all they need know.”

  “Lupe and José know. They sent you a telegram.”

  “Can you trust them?”

  “Yes.”

  Eduardo was doubtful. “We’ve no choice. We will have to.”

  “What will you do?”

  “I don’t know. May I stay here for a few days?”

  “I was hoping you would.”

  The next morning they buried Carlos in the Mexican cemetery. All the hands on the ranch came to pay their respects. The Royals stopped by; all but Tate. Ana greeted them, politely gliding through motions.

  Eduardo sat in a chair in the corner and watched her. She was so soft and strong. Lupe noticed him sitting alone. She took his arm and led him outside to a large table of food. He declined, but she gave him a plate and insisted. She gave his arm a pat and left him at the table. He was filling a plate when two women edged their way around him to replenish a basket with fresh tortillas.

  “But they wouldn’t send her away so soon,” said one woman to the other.

  “As soon as he’s replaced. Whoever takes his job will need a place to stay, too.”