Carmen Boullosa - Texas - The Great Theft

They remount their tired horses but no longer gallop. They arrive at the source of the smoke; there are only corpses around the campfire.

They were, rather, they had been some of Doña Estefanía’s vaqueros , Mexican cowboys. What happened?

They had just finished herding the cattle into the corrals and completed the chores of caring for the animals.

They were roasting meat on the fire and sotol was flowing from jugs; they were making large flour tortillas, a forearm’s length in diameter, tossing them until they were so thin they were nearly translucent — and putting the first ones on the griddle.

One of them was playing the violin. And that’s how a group of Rangers found them. They invited the Rangers to eat something. The Rangers asked about Nepomuceno.

“We haven’t seen anyone pass this way, brothers.”

The one with the violin continued playing, and the other Mexicans gathered around the campfire again. The Rangers weren’t sure whether they should stop and eat with them or go on their way. But they knew they shouldn’t. They were arguing among themselves when one of the vaqueros began singing. He had a good voice. They listened to him sing:

I’m selling a roach without legs

to a jeweler who’s buying amber.

He’s paying me twice the price,

dumb gringo don’t know any better.

I′m selling some cactus thorns

to a tailor who’s buying needles.

He’s paying me twice the price,

dumb gringo got a thick skull.

The gringos are in such a foul mood that when they hear the lyrics to the song they fire two, three, four shots into the Mexicans’ backs, killing the vaqueros , the Mexican cowboys, in cold blood just because of their music.

Then they take the cattle and head over to King’s ranch — they’ve given up the search for Nepomuceno — but a half-mile away they stop to celebrate their victory.

That’s what the Rangers were doing, celebrating and drinking the sotol they grabbed from the Mexicans and eating the roasted meat they had stuffed in their rucksacks, it was still warm, when Nepomuceno’s men spotted them with their spyglasses.

They sneak up on the Rangers. No shots are exchanged — the gringos don’t even have time to grab their weapons. Most of them are shot in the back of the neck, a few of them in the forehead because they had time to turn around, but it was the end for every last one of them.

Nepomuceno’s men look at what they’ve done; they don’t want to hang around a bunch of dead men, and they certainly aren’t going to bother burying them. They round up the cattle and take the road to one of Doña Estefanía’s ranches, there’s just enough daylight left.

(These poor cows! In one day they’ve changed hands three times. Some might think they didn’t even notice. But they’re exhausted, thirsty, tired of being herded here and there, and to top it all off one of them is about to birth a bull calf …)

In Bruneville many folks are still all tied-up in knots.

The rich Negro, Tim Black, was born a slave — just because his parents were slaves, which makes no legal sense, it’s like inheriting a crime, though there are those who would argue that if you can inherit a fortune you ought to inherit misfortune, too. His surname is an expression of the notary’s sense of humor. He learned how to earn money from cattle, not because he’s clever but because he’s calculating and cautious. These have been his greatest virtues; how else can you explain his owning so much livestock and land when he could have been treated like an animal himself once Texas declared its independence?

He doesn’t worry, as he often does, about the “Mexican threat,” so real and so near. He’s consumed by fear after seeing his wife’s features in the face of that young man.

He should overcome his fear, or else all will be lost, he thinks, and he’s right. But he doesn’t know how. He sits in his room, staring at the wall, staring and staring, not stirring a bit.

High noon and the hours that follow are when the river is calmest, seemingly in deference to the sun (which presides over everything).

But today the Bravo pays no heed, it’s temperamental and rebellious. It’s choppy, with eddies at its deepest points. The truth is it’s always treacherous, its waters dark and muddy. Right now it looks like the nighttime river, the one that follows the moon’s dictates and hides cottonmouths. A highway for bats. The hunger of a she-wolf about to give birth. A blind man following a hungry dog. It’s the darkness that the crazy man fears and the sane man is oblivious to.

The metallic luster of its surface is deceptive. It appears to be one solid body.

When Captain Boyle’s steamboat embarked, the current was cooperative, like a child on its way to school. But that’s an illusion.

Cautiously, the tug delivers the barge to the Old Dock in Matasánchez.

Years ago the City Council and the Port Chief agreed to build the New Dock at a more convenient location for marine traffic and for business, in the city itself, right by the town center. They no longer fear pirates and they haven’t yet learned to fear gringos.

To break the longstanding habits of sailors, the Old Dock was suddenly abandoned, and traffic moved further south, closer to the town. Luckily the Two Eights, Pedro and Pablo, have a few boards they keep handy for disembarking; they tie up the moorings and make a bridge to the dock.

They boys look to the center of the barge, to see if Nepomuceno’s men have further orders. Nothing. Nepomuceno and his men are laying low, hiding behind the bodies of their horses, still using them as shields. In one horse’s saddle there’s a body hanging like a blanket, that’s Lázaro Rueda. They’ve tied him to the horse while he sobers up and recovers from his beating.

Two Eights understand, they look left and right, then shout, “The coast is clear!”

Nepomuceno’s men appear and climb into their saddles, one of them motions to open the loading gates.

The cattle push out, mooing.

“In a hurry to piss?” jokes Ludovico.

“They want to go to communion, they’re old church ladies!” Because most of the cattle are black, everyone starts to laugh.

“Pay attention!” begs Fausto, wary of the difficult wrangling ahead.

The animals, hungry and nervous, have let themselves be rounded up.

The plains provide no natural cattle chute, no creek bed to corral the animals that stray from the herd like drops of water; and left to their own devices they are bound to wander.

A vaquero must be resourceful on the plains. He must exert himself to keep the herd together, using his horse’s body, his own, and his voice, with the assistance of his dogs (which they have none of today), his lasso, and his whip. He must take advantage of the herd’s momentum without letting it override the herd’s welfare, which involves staying together.

One of the vaqueros is momentarily distracted from his titanic labors, and, yeehaw! he snatches Pablo. “Now what?” Someone else nabs the other half of the Two Eights, Pedro. They sweep the boys right off the ground before they can put up a fight, lassoing them, and they fly several feet through the air before the vaqueros place them in their saddles like Apaches. Someone else lassos Pablo’s dog by the tail like an unruly calf, and they drag him along so he understands who’s boss; there’s not a dog in the world who won’t obey his master, but soon enough they stop and release him. The dog understands now, and follows along nursing his wounds.

“Who’s going to untie the barge for Don Arnoldo?” Ismael thinks, so he shouts it aloud.