by Donis Casey
The actress Miss Landowska answered. “In a way. It’s about how badly they were treated by the Mexican government. The story is about a Yaqui chief named Tambor who is separated from his wife and daughter when they are sold as slaves and sent far away. Tambor hunts for them and joins his family in their bondage. But before he can free them, his daughter—that’s Dorothy, here—dies and his wife kills herself.”
Cindy Stewart had not been able to keep quiet for another moment. “Tambor kills the white slave owner responsible for stealing his family and leads a Yaqui rebellion against the despot General Martinez. It is all so very heroic and tragic.”
Alafair had struggled to retain a polite expression. But she had not managed to maintain any real interest in the subject and did not remember if she had been told how the story ended.
The Revolution
The actresses took their leave as the sun settled on the horizon, pleading an early start in the morning. Miss Landowska took the wheel with Dorothy beside her as they drove away, leaving Chris Martin, the camera operator and sometime chauffeur, to walk back to the hotel on his own later. After their stars were gone, the rest of the women left the house to join the men under the trees in the back yard. Alafair and Elizabeth sat down together next to Shaw under the ramada.
Alafair knew Webster Kemp, of course, and the Carrizals. Ben Moeur was there, and a fellow named Fred Irish whom everyone called “Cap.” Then there was Mr. Woolf, Somebody Spangler, Chris Martin the cameraman, and a man called Estrada who told Alafair he was the town truant officer. A father and son by the name of Gillander sat side by side in a two-seat lawn swing situated just to Alafair’s right.
Once the ladies were settled, the men resumed their conversation about Pancho Villa, loudly proffering their opinions as though they might make a difference in the course of the Mexican Revolution. Alafair observed that Gillander the father had stern opinions about Mexican nationals living in the United States, but the son—Levi, it was—was much more sympathetic to their plight. There was a lot of bantering as well as speculation about what, if any, effect this endless revolution was going to have on the border region. Two or three of the men had Spanish names like Estrada and Carrizal, but none of the Anglos behaved as though they were particularly aware of that fact. Neither did Estrada or Carrizal. The three Arruda brothers stood directly behind the arguing men, playing their guitars and keeping their own counsel.
Mr. Carrizal himself resurrected the topic. “I hear the Mexican government protested that after Villa’s raid, Colonel Slocum crossed the border into sovereign Mexican territory in pursuit of the bandits.”
Web Kemp snorted. “It said in the paper this morning that Washington stands squarely behind Col. Slocum in sending his troops into Mexico after Villa. After all, he had to go after them now while the trail is hot.”
Shaw was a visitor in Arizona and did not feel qualified to offer an opinion about how the border dwellers should deal with the situation. But that did not mean he was not interested. “How big is this batch of invaders, anyway? Today the Daily News says two or three hundred, but yesterday it reported there were over a thousand.”
“Villa’s men are probably deserting him.” Mr. Carrizal sounded like someone who knew what he was talking about. “I have heard from friends in Chihuahua that for the past couple of years one revolutionary army or the other has been grabbing fighting-age men and boys up off the street or out of the fields whenever they come across them, then making them join up whether they believe in the cause of that particular faction or not. I do not imagine Villa’s army is made up of very many happy soldiers.”
Web Kemp laughed. “Villa is carrying sixty mule-loads of looted gold with him. I reckon that would keep at least of few of his men interested in his cause.”
Cap Irish was a tall, athletic man with white hair and spectacles who taught science and physical education at the Normal School. He was also the Captain of the Tempe Home Guard, so the men paid attention when he said, “What worries me is that I have heard the Germans would like nothing better than for us to get involved in a war with Mexico. That would keep the United States busy while they go about their fiendish business in Europe. All these Mexican revolutionary factions have German army advisors, you know. There is speculation that the Huns are supplying them all with weapons as well as ‘advising.’”
An Unpleasant Turn
It was Gillander Senior who gave the conversation a particularly unpleasant turn. “The Germans are recruiting Mexicans to spy on us, too.”
The discourse stopped for an instant before someone said, “Where did you hear that?”
Gillander was short but square and robust, a sour man with an old fashioned full beard and long hair slicked back from his forehead. The beard and hair had gone snowy white, but he had the pale, almost transparent complexion of a former redhead. Master of all he owns and righteous in his convictions, Alafair thought, judging from the ramrod-straight posture and hard attitude.
He continued. “It just makes sense, don’t it? Mexicans got no love for us, and droves of them have come across the border into the U.S. in the past couple of years….”
Young Levi Gillander, a pale, rather sad-looking version of his father, attempted to head him off. “Most of the poor people who are coming over are good honest folks, Father, who are trying to get away from the violence down there.”
Old Gillander was not happy about being corrected by his own son. “You do not know whereof you speak, Levi.” His tone was dismissive, and Levi’s face flushed red. The father continued, unaware of or unconcerned about his effect. “How better to hide a spy than in plain sight? Besides, even the honest ones are so poor that it would be easy for the Germans to bribe at least a few to send them information on our opinions and readiness to defend ourselves.” Gillander raised his voice to be heard over the outburst of comment. “We need to be keeping a special eye on Mexicans who live mixed in with us. The Mexicans in the barrio, at least they’re all together in their own place where we can keep an eye on them. These folks who live amongst us are more dangerous. It would be easy for one of them to spy on us and slip the information to anyone who meant to do us harm. Somebody had to have informed Villa of the unready condition of the troops at Columbus. Villa, he means to hurt us Americans for cutting him loose from our support like we done.”
Matt Carrizal gave no indication that he felt personally maligned by Gillander Senior’s comments. “Even if Villa does manage a few border skirmishes, I don’t think we here in Tempe have anything to worry about. They could not possibly get very far into the country, not with General Pershing on the lookout, and we are a long way from the border.”
“Besides,” Cap Irish offered, “the Normal School Cadet Corps has just received a shipment of eighty Springfield rifles, and tomorrow I am going to start drills and training on campus west of Old Main.”
“I’m pleased to hear it, but it ain’t enough.” The elder Gillander was determined to press his cause. “Ranchers all along the border have armed in case of an uprising of the Mexicans who live around them.”
Ben Moeur was having none of it. “That is ridiculous, Duncan…”
Gillander interrupted. “There will be an uprising here in the States, mark my words. Mexico wants the land they lost in the war in ’48. They have been making plans to get it back ever since we took it fair and square.”
Levi Gillander was clearly embarrassed by his father’s harsh views. “This kind of talk is no good, Father. It is true that lots of Mexican folks have moved up here in recent years to get away from the revolution. But many…most, I think…of our Mexican-blood neighbors were born right here in Arizona and have lived here all their lives, which is more than I can say for the rest of us.” He looked squarely at Matt Carrizal.
An incoherent murmur arose. Elizabeth leaned toward Alafair and whispered in her ear. “Let’s get out of here, sister. All this hot air is giving me a headache.”
Webster Kemp chose this moment to spea
k up. “As for the Mexican folks who live amongst us, I think we ought to look at it the other way around, Mr. Gillander.” He twisted in his chair so that he was facing the musicians. “Tony and Bernie and this other guy here can spy on the folks in Mexican town for us. What do you say, amigos. Want to make a buck?”
The music paused momentarily when the Arruda brothers realized they were being addressed. The older two managed a wan laugh and stepped back into the shadow of the overhanging eucalyptus tree, unwilling to be lured into a political minefield. The youngest, smallest, best looking one—Alafair had not known his name at that point—swelled like a rooster ready to defend himself. One of his brothers put a discreet hand on his shoulder, a warning not to make things worse. The young man took the hint and deflated before flashing a grin that had no humor behind it.
Web’s comment was greeted by dead silence from the guests. Poor clumsy Web. Alafair could not help but feel sorry for him when he realized the effect of his words. He had just been trying to lighten the mood, after all. Alafair shot a glance at Elizabeth, who was sitting with her head down and her eyes closed. Humiliated? Exasperated beyond endurance?
If nothing else, Alafair had admired the way Webster made amends after he realized how unfortunate his joke was. He stood and drew the Arrudas to the far corner of the yard in order to make a quiet apology out of earshot before he returned to his guests. The musicians resumed their places under the eucalyptus and played on as if nothing had happened.
The conversation turned to a less incendiary topic, though Alafair could tell from where she sat that the elder Gillander had not softened his stance. “Damn foreigners,” he murmured under his breath, as he leaned down to sheathe the small knife he had drawn out of his boot at the first sign of trouble.
Thirst for Justice
And now, on the day after the party, Dr. Moeur drove away from Elizabeth’s house after pronouncing Blanche Tucker much improved. He had also pronounced Bernie Arruda murdered.
“You go on inside, Alafair,” Elizabeth said. “I’m going to run next door to Cindy’s and tell her what Doc Moeur had to say and warn her that the law may be by directly to talk to us.”
Alafair watched her sister head briskly across the yard and disappear around the back of her neighbor’s house before she went indoors and found Shaw standing by the mantel.
He looked up at her as she came toward him. “Is the doctor gone?”
“Just left. Elizabeth went next door to tell Cindy what he said.”
“Now, which one is Cindy?”
“You remember. Geoff Stewart’s wife.”
“Oh, yes. The one who looks like a schoolgirl who is about to succumb to the vapors.”
Alafair tried not to smile at his apt description. “That’s her. You know, Elizabeth has a notion in her head about this killing. She thinks the law will not be much bothered to find out what really happened. She thinks we ought to…well, I can’t say exactly what she is proposing.”
Shaw listened with one eyebrow raised as Alafair repeated what Elizabeth had said to her about assisting the sheriff and hoping for justice. When she finished he regarded her in silence for a second before he responded. “And what did you say?”
His wary tone affronted her. “What do you expect? I said I could not be getting involved in any such business.”
His mustache twitched but he knew better than to grin. “Don’t get your back up, sugar. You have been known to get yourself into tight corners.”
“Well, this does not have anything to do with me or mine.”
Shaw draped an arm over her shoulders. “I believe I’ve heard those words before. Sounds like more than one of the Gunn girls has inherited a thirst for justice hitched to a wayward curiosity. Be careful not to let Elizabeth lead you down the garden path.”
She sniffed. “I can’t be bothered with anything but Blanche.”
“Good, then.” He felt much less satisfied than he sounded. He was fond enough of Elizabeth, or had been when she was a perky, mouthy, little girl. She looked a good deal like a taller, more angular Alafair, which predisposed him to like her. The two women had the same “I can see right through you but I like you anyway” expression in their dark eyes.
She was like Alafair in other ways, he thought, though the personality traits they shared appeared to have skewed off in different directions. Where Alafair was decisive, Elizabeth seemed willful. Alafair’s life revolved around her family. To his observation, Elizabeth’s world revolved around herself. Well, maybe she was just young. Though he did not remember Alafair being like that when she was Elizabeth’s age.
Perhaps he could not be sure what Elizabeth would do, but he did know that Alafair would never stand by and let her sister get into trouble if there was some way she could prevent it.
His train of thought was interrupted by the creak of the front door as Elizabeth returned.
“You weren’t gone long,” Alafair observed. “Was Cindy any more surprised than you were to hear that Bernie’s death was due to murder?”
Elizabeth looked troubled. “Poor Cindy. She nigh to burst into tears. That girl is so tender. Ever since she lost the baby I swear she wears her heart on her sleeve. And that inconsiderate Geoff is spending the night in town again. I did not want to leave her on her own so I cajoled her into coming over here to spend the night. She’s packing right now.”
Sunday Morning
The family rose early and walked to the Congregational Church, just two blocks north and two blocks east to the corner of Sixth and Myrtle. There were churches galore in Tempe.One on every corner, it seemed, denominations of every ilk, including a Baptist Church, which is what their father would have insisted on for Sunday worship (though Tempe’s was not quite the proper kind of Baptist). The denomination that Alafair and Shaw preferred, First Christian, was only a block from Elizabeth’s front door. Alafair knew for a fact that Webster had been raised as Freewill Baptist, as Elizabeth had, which is why their father had favored him for his youngest daughter. However, Alafair expected that Elizabeth herself was the reason the Kemps had joined such a ‘high’ church. Elizabeth had more than likely attended every church in town until she found one that suited her, and Webster in his good-natured if vague way went along.
The Congregational Church was a handsome, tree-shaded brick building on a large lot. It had a large congregation, and judging from their dress and the number of autos in the lot, the parishioners were mostly well-to-do. Webster seemed to know everyone, and Alafair wondered if she had been wrong about who had instigated the Kemps’ conversion to Congregationalism. Going to church with the cream of Tempe society could only be good for Webster’s business.
As she listened to to the sermon, Alafair understood why Elizabeth and Webster favored this particular brand of Protestantism, bearing as it did little resemblance to the guilt-inducing hell-fire-and-damnation religion of their childhood. It did occur to her that perhaps Elizabeth and Web had converted from pure religious conviction, and she felt a bit guilty that she did not believe it for a minute.
Geoff Stewart was still nowhere to be seen, and Cindy had not accompanied them, but stayed abed in Elizabeth’s upstairs guest room. Alafair asked after them and was told that the Stewarts were Methodists, as though that explained their lack of religious zeal.
After a leisurely walk home, Elizabeth and Alafair prepared a substantial meal of leftovers from the pot luck, and dinner was already on the table when Cindy Stewart finally joined them. Her soprano sing-song call wafted into the kitchen from the parlor. “Elizabeth?”
“In here, Cindy,” Elizabeth called back.
Today Cindy was clad in a drop-waist aqua blue dress that matched her eyes. It was another beautiful March day, so they ate at the long table under the back yard ramada. The young woman looked pale and so fragile that a stiff breeze might blow her away. As the day progressed, Alafair’s early opinion of Cindy as a flighty girl without much depth modified. Cindy Stewart was a sad woman. Her loss—and maybe more
than her loss—was weighing on her under all that forced good humor. Elizabeth did not fuss over her and she did not have much to say, but Alafair was glad to see that Chase’s antics seemed to cheer her. By the end of the meal she was looking brighter.
***
While Web excused himself and retired to his study and his beloved law books, the rest of the family remained in the back yard with their coffee and dessert. They sat under the ramada and watched the children play, accompanied by the raucous bleat of little goats and the pleasant calming murmur coming from Mrs. Carrizal’s dovecotes.
The afternoon was bright and snappy, the air so clean it felt like you could see clear to forever. “Gracious, Elizabeth,” Alafair exclaimed, “Do you never have bad weather?”
“Not at this time of year,” Elizabeth admitted. “We enjoy the cool days while we can.”
Las Cabras
They were just finishing their pie when a light breeze arose and Alafair was once more overwhelmed by the sweet scent of citrus blossoms, heavy as a blanket. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath in spite of herself. “I swan,” she murmured.
Blanche knew without asking what had caught her mother’s attention. “That’s the orange tree in Artie Carrizal’s back yard, Ma. He showed it to me the other night.” She grabbed Alafair’s hand and tugged her toward the back fence. “Come on and have a look.”
Chase danced around in front of his new hero Shaw. “Come on, Uncle, come on Aunt! Come see las cabras!”
“The goats,” Elizabeth translated. “He can’t get enough of those goats.”
“Well, let’s go then!” Shaw swung the boy up onto his shoulder and seized Blanche’s hand and the family trooped to the fence at the back of Elizabeth’s deep yard. Several exotic fruit trees were planted in a small copse that spanned both sides of the fence.
