by J P S Brown
"Heh, heh, heh," Julio said, happy that Manuelito had relieved him of his drink.
"My cousin," Manuelito addressed Julio. "Your cow, the white Brahma, has a new little calf."
"Which white cow, Manuelito? I have many cows."
"Yes, many. I know them all. This one runs near the cave of La Burra. She is there now with a new calf."
"So? Good. I entrust her to your safekeeping."
"The calf has worms in her navel. I have no medicine to cure her. Have you any medicine?"
"Yes, but it is packed deep in the boxes I brought. I'll dispatch some to you from Satebo."
"Big! Big!" said Juan Vogel. "You dispatch and while you are dispatching, the calf suffers and dies. Medicine dispatched is the same as medicine not given. Murder. Manuelito, take a knife down there tomorrow and dispatch the calf to a better world and save her hide. Your cousin doesn't like to dispense his medicines."
"Heh, heh, heh!" chuckled Julio. "How is that?"
"You have it in your hands!" roared Juan Vogel. "Give the man some medicine. Don't pay him anything, but at least give him the medicine so he won't be miserable watching the calf die."
"All right. In the morning," Julio smiled.
"Manuelito, bring the cow and calf up here in the morning before it is light. You can keep the calf up while you doctor her and you can milk the cow for yourself and Don Panchito," Juan Vogel said.
"I don't believe in milking cows this time of year," Julio said.
"No? You prohibit milking the cows while the calves are healing? Bring the cow, Manuelito, and milk her for your effort. Julio will never pay you for saving his calf."
"Oh, very well, then," Julio said. "You have my permission to milk her, Manuelito."
Adán rose from the table and shook Che Che's hand.
"No parties for me tonight, thank you," he said. He walked out of the room. Don Panchito followed him.
"You wish to sleep now, Don Adán?" he asked. He had been watching for the men at the table to make a move for their beds. "Follow me and I'll attend to it." He unfastened the key ring from his waist. He chose a huge and ancient key and applied it to the rusted lock of the door to the bedrooms off the portal. He lit a kerosene lamp. The large double beds were thick with mattresses lying on the rawhide webbing of the bedsteads. Don Panchito unlocked a trunk full of bedding and laid out clean linen and blankets for the front bedroom. He led Adán through a heavy door to the back bedroom. He made Adán's bed while Adán made a cigarette.
"You sleep here, Don Adán. You'll rest better alone. Your cousins are going to talk most of the night. You'll be in peace here and you can leave as early as you wish without disturbing anyone."
The old man left him and went out through the front bedroom inspecting each detail of the comfort it would provide. These rooms were never used unless a Vogel or a special friend of the family well known to Don Panchito came to the hacienda, but he kept the lamps glistening and full of oil, the woolen Mayo Indian rugs washed and bright, the walls washed with hot water and soap, the floors scrubbed and oiled to keep away insects.
Adán sat on the mattress and looked at the flame in the lamp Don Panchito had lit for him. The lamp rested him. The small blaze was his to use and made him feel at home. All day he had been thinking that he might possibly be a fool. Part of him, the social part that had cousins and responsibilities and slept in clean beds, told him he was probably a fool. Following El Yoco was a suspension of his normal life. Instead of trying to worry El Yoco, he should have cattle of his own to worry about, like his cousins. Instead of Las Animas and one mauguechi he should have a home in Rio Alamos, radios for talk, a school for his children. Responsible people like his cousins were reasoning that El Yoco would discover himself sooner or later and be killed. He did not need to be hunted. A man like Adán who had family and responsibilities and a social life must be after El Yoco because he did not want to work.
Well, his neighbors were not worried that Adán was foolish. They knew Adán was most purposeful when he was hunting. No one in the Sierra ridiculed Adán because he was a good hunter.
Adán heard Juan Vogel's spurs ringing through the other bedroom. He walked into Adán's room.
"Are you asleep? Not even in bed? I thought by now you would be away with the little angels," Juan Vogel said. Adán untied the thongs of a huarache without turning toward his cousin.
"What length of time do you calculate to be chasing tigres?" Juan Vogel asked.
Adán lay down, covered himself, and laid his hat by his huaraches. "Until I stop him, or until he goes away."
"Look, Adán, you aren't going to kill that animal or run him away. All you will do is lose time. I need you. Look, I'll give you a young ox and a mule colt if you'll help me now. In addition, I'll give you a two-year-old mule you can break and train during the roundup. You would have waited a year before the filly would have been big enough to break and train, three years before she would have given you a colt."
"Thank you, Juanito, but no. I've begun this work. How am I to buy off El Yoco? You forget where you are. This is not Rio Alamos. New oxen or fine new muletas won't change the problem of a tigre cebado. Try to remember when you wore huaraches and rode mules that bucked off into the ravines with you. Remember when you broke a mule or killed him. Would you have traded off your bronco mules just because they were hard to break? You don't have to live here any more and you pay to have bronco mules gentled for your saddle. You can pay for every one of your needs, even your need to be a man. With your money you can get respect from all of us. You protect yourself with money. I have to live here and protect my life in my way."
"Personally," Juan Vogel said quietly. "I think the tigre will go away without causing any more harm. I hope so. Try to reason the truth of this situation. The animal killed a small colt and a burro, neither of any real worth. If you had sold me that bull of yours when I offered to buy him he would not have been hurt and rendered unmerchantable. You would have money in your pocket and not be holding rancor for a natural predator."
"My toro buey can still work. He is the companion of my boys, even their protector. Ju1io said he would give me money for the hide of a tigre. Other ranchers will contribute money to me when they see the hide, as they always do when I kill a cebado. You and Julio have the most cattle, horses, and mules in the country El Yoco is prowling. You two will lose the most livestock. He began with killing mine. Do you think he reads brands and is going to leave yours alone?"
"Help me gather the cattle and horses, and no tigre will get them. I'm taking them all to the coast."
"No. How about the small man like me who has only a few head and no place on the coast to go? We can't gather your stock quick enough if he starts preying on it. He can kill a dozen head in an hour if he wants to. He may be killing them this minute and doing you the favor of knifing your starving cattle. You may not need to send for that sharp skinning knife after al1."
"Don't exaggerate, Adán."
"No? No animal could do us that much harm? How about the lioness that killed Julio's entire mule crop three years ago. She kept the mares and colts so scattered and wild that Don Victoriano could not gather them to the house for their own safety. The lioness got them all. How can you tell me to stop? How about the wolves that finished an entire crop of horse colts and mares for you while you watched at Canelas and couldn't believe they were wolves? How can you say I exaggerate? You aren't a serrano any more, that's why. You don't have to husband your stock with your own sweat. You have money. You don't even care to remember how life is here."
"Enough then. Are you going to scold me all night? Go ahead and do what your stubbornness demands. But hurry up so you can help me."
"I'm going early."
"Well, have good luck. Be careful."
"I am lucky. El Yoco has no consideration for me at all. He is unaware of me. If he was aware, how could he mind a barefooted man following him?"
Juan Vogel left and Adán blew out his lamp. Manuelito came
into the room. He struck a match and lit the lamp. He didn't seem to notice the heat of the lamp chimney on his tough fingers. He sat on the edge of Adán's bed. Adán roused himself and smiled.
"I brought candy. Do you want candy, cousin?" Manuelito asked, and Adán knew he had come to the room to have a private place and a private person to share his small hoard with. He took a key from a ring he had fashioned to copy the great key ring of Don Panchito. He opened a small tinny lock on a box and raised the lid. He began taking out his personal treasures and laying them out on the bed for Adán's inspection. He had flints for a cigarette lighter, flint rocks to strike sparks against oak punk for fire, good pieces of oak punk hiesca, a flour sack, a tall can with dirty candy sticking gummily in the bottom, a plastic bag, a tiny length of tarnished chain, a comb, an aspirin tin that would not shut, a can of sardines full and untouched, a pack of cigarettes. He shook the can to make the candy change position. He stuck the can close under Adán's nose. "Sweets," he said.
"No, thank you, Manuelito." Adán shook his head to get away from the can.
"All these," Manuelito said. "Take any article you want, any little thing you might want here."
Adán picked up each article and examined it.
"Sardines," Manuelito said, offering the can. "Open the can and eat them. You'll sleep better."
"No, I'll have a cigarette, Manuelito."
"Of course. Immediately," Manuelito tore at the pack. He shoved Adán's nose with his fist when he put the cigarette into his mouth. He lit the cigarette. Adán sat up in bed. Don Panchito came into the room. He was carrying an empty sugar bowl. "What are you doing in here?" he demanded.
"Visiting my cousin, hermanito. Sharing with him, hermanito, " Manuelito said, proudly defending himself.
"Sharing without courtesy. Molesting. Keeping Don Adán from his rest. Come on now and take this bowl to the commissary and fill it with sugar. My patrón is in there wanting coffee and has no sugar, and you go on keeping a working man from his rest."
"Bah! It's my business to look after everything here. You can't do anything. Your eyes don't do you a bit of good. I like to rest and visit sometimes too."
Don Panchito turned to Adán. "He needs to be told to take his own burro to water. He'd leave his burro, his only possession and servant, in the corral six or eight days with no water if he were not told to let the poor animal drink. Now he has asked Don Julio for a cow to milk. How can he be expected to look after another man's cow if he can't watch over his own burro?"
"You'll see when you drink milk," Manuelito said, taking the sugar bowl carefully and going out of the room.
"Don't throw sugar all over the commissary," Don Panchito said, following him and shutting the door softly.
Adán gathered up Manuelito's treasures, placed them carefully in the box, locked it, set it on the floor, and blew out the light.
8
Chombe Servín, riding the tall gray horse he had stolen from his father, felt strong and confident. He had realized his life's ambition. He had killed a man. He had always wanted to kill a man. He narrowed his eyes at the daytime of the world and smiled a smile he knew strong, ruthless men smiled; a grim smile, a mirthless smile men would fear. He practised it while he rode with his back straight, his shoulders set, his neck stiff, and his head tilted to look down at the earth. He cranked his gaze back and forth in front of him like an artillery piece and barely, menacingly, moved his head as though his face were the maw of a weapon and would send all living beings scurrying before it. He felt his very look was enough to kill any being that would face it. He noticed that birds fearfully and unhappily flew away from him and lizards stiffened to helpless immobility when he looked at them. Even flying insects kept away from his look because they thought of dying when he turned toward them. From now on he would be respected as a man who had killed another man and the leveling of his gaze would command attention.
He found that menacing with his gaze came naturally to him. He knew the focus of his eyes could bring a hawk down from the sky. Now who would call him retarded? The jokester of Macarena, a man who was called Juan Puros Ojos, All Eyes, would have a distinctly different regard for Chombe Servín, the One Who Killed a Man.
The day before Chombe killed at Avena he heard El Puros Ojos say to everyone at a card game that Chombe was so retarded he almost was not there. He said this even after Chombe had taken refreshments to the card players from his father's store. Chombe had taken sodas and crackers and canned meats to the card players without the permission of his father. He stole as a favor to Juan Puros Ojos because Juan was a man Chombe admired. Juan was popular with everyone for his comic remarks and always showed Chombe particular attention and affection. Juan knew Chombe stole the refreshments for him.
Then he had looked at Chombe and said, "Look at him. That boy is so puny I could read a newspaper through his ears."
And everyone laughed but Juan. Juan just looked at him in the same way he always looked at him. Juan had never ridiculed Chombe before. Chombe had admired Juan so much, and Juan had always made pointed, funny remarks about everyone but Chombe. He thought Juan watched him all the time because he was interested in him, saw in him the manliness Chombe knew he was capable of attaining. Chombe was no boy. He was twenty-four years old. Chombe's feelings had been hurt so badly he had wept in front of all the card players. His father caught him weeping as he left the cardroom and regaled him for stealing merchandise and weeping like a baby. Chombe took the tordillo gray horse, the .30 caliber and its box of shells, and his father's cash of three months receipts amounting to $65,000 pesos, and left home with no purpose except to get away. He found his purpose when he saw Casimiro singing blithely on the trail above the orchard at Avena
But his purpose and the power he felt in his gaze was not yet enough to fill his belly. He was hungry. His last food had been some last year's dried quinces Don Panchito Flores Valenzuela had put in Chombe's pockets when he sent him to the orchard to work. He would like to ride the big horse on and on and keep feeling the strength in flexing his eyes, but his belly was not helping him.
He was nearing Juan Vogel's camp of Teguaraco. The Guarijía Indian, Bonifacio, was in charge of the camp. Bonifacio's daughter, Luz del Carmen was twelve or thirteen and well developed, though small in the Guarijía way. Her hair was black and shiny. She was straight of figure, strong and smart. Chombe had been wanting to use her ever since he had seen her running in a game of palillos, a game of stick and ball the Guarijía women played at Macarena. She had run from sunup to sundown and laughed the whole time. She passed his father's store each time the wooden ball was returned to the game's starting point. Chombe had been confined to watching the store while everyone else got to watch and bet on the game. The girl came in after the game with no more strain or fatigue showing in her face than a girl her age would have shown after a game of jacks. She bought a cone of panocha with money a man gave her for winning his bets on the game. She looked at Chombe with no more regard for him than any child would give him. He was only the dispenser of panocha.
He rode to the gate at Teguaraco and sat his horse while Bonifacio's old dog announced him. He sat there and waited for Luz del Carmen to come out and open the gate for him. She did not answer his greeting or look at him while she lowered the poles in the gate so he could ride through. He dismounted and tied his horse behind the house so no one could see him from the trail. He took his rifle and went to the portal and chose a chair to sit in without being asked to do so by the girl. The girl did not turn from her chore of grinding corn with a hand grinder. He laid a stick of wood on the fire under a heavy gallon can of corn boiling in lime water. He sat awhile and watched her grind the corn with one hand while she replenished the mouth of the grinder with more corn with the other. The corn stuck to her soft, wet hand.
Chombe narrowed his eyes and focused them intensely on her back, practicing his killer's look. She did not run. She did not seem to notice him at all. She noticed him less than she did when
he was dispensing panocha.
"I want coffee," Chombe said.
"Ahorita, " said Luz del Carmen with patience and little regard for what he wanted. "I have business."
She ground the rest of the corn in the grinder, squeezed the corn off her hands into the grinder, and wiped her hands on a clean cloth. She put the coffee by the fire to boil and went back to her grinding without showing any awareness of the importance of Chombe the man-killer.
"I want to eat," said Chombe. "Haven't you got food?"
"Ahorita. In a little while," said Luz del Carmen.
"When, then?"
"As soon as my father comes for his meal, perhaps at midday."
"You mean, I have to wait until noon?"
"¡. . . saaabe! " she drawled. "I don't know what you have to do. You can do what you want to do, I guess. Wait or don't wait."
Chombe squinted his eyes as meanly as only he knew how and stared at the girl's back. She still did not turn. He began to tire of his squinting. He went to the table, rifle in hand, and got a cup. He went back to the tire and poured coffee for himself. The steam from the coffee almost scalded his fingers, but he did not drop the can or cry out. He was handling himself better. He swaggered to his chair and swung his leg widely over it and sat sipping his coffee with the back of the chair in front of him and the rifle across his lap pointing at Luz del Carmen. He had not sugared his coffee. He liked a lot of sugar for the taste of his coffee.
"Bring the sugar, please, Luz del Carmen," he said. He was hungry. He had never in his life ordered anyone to do for him, never had anyone who would do for him but his mother, and he was not good yet at ordering people. The girl brought the sugar bowl and handed him a spoon. His fingers touched the girl's soft, moist hand. He looked at his hands. They were filthy, oily, and not from toil. He stank as he had stunk all his life from being too lazy to bathe and too nervous and afraid of people. The girl's hands were clean with her toil. Her dress was clean. Her camp and dishes were clean. Her hair and skin shone with cleanliness. Bonifacio was an ignorant Indian and lacking in reason, but he at least knew cleanliness. When a man was too stupid to make money he at least had to be clean. Chombe finished his coffee and set the cup down. He looked around, a hungry young man, and saw nothing he could eat.
