Carmen Boullosa: Texas: The Great Theft

On the barge we recognize some characters: the priest Rigoberto — they say he’s crazy because he falls asleep all over town (and because they want to get rid of the Catholic priest) (this recommendation also came from Stealman, via telegram: “Don’t forget the guy who’s always falling asleep”) — and Frank, the run-speak-go-tell (since Nepomuceno’s attack, two things have changed: he’s been sleeping in the streets and folks have gone back to calling him Pancho Lopez, for the gringos if you’re not white, you’re Mexican whether you’re a Texan or not, and regardless of your accomplishments). (In the jailhouse Lázaro still has enough heart to sing, although he doesn’t have his violin:

You ain’t Frank anymore,

Panchito, the gringos saw right through ya. )

De la Cerva y Tana’s “emissaries” arrive in Laguna del Diablo: three Pueblans who are “ambassadors” for the federal government, dressed in stiff, black suits totally unsuited to the climate.

The message they deliver is that the mayor wants to see Nepomuceno.

“Tell him he’s welcome to come here.”

They explain why he won’t, why he must go to Matasánchez.

“And why should I go, if he’s the one who wants to see me? Tell him he’s invited for barbecue and sotol. ”

The emissaries explain it’s a goodwill gesture, just to establish their friendship. Etcetera.

Nepomuceno has a word with Jones and Óscar. They decide he’ll go.

They arrange the day and the time with the emissaries.

The word is that the Indian settlements are all gone, broken up, but here and there a few camps remain, existing in uncertainty. Some of the ones who are encamped receive the news of Moonbeam’s death and burial. That the greasers killed her and her death should be avenged. But the fact the gringos have put her in the earth without ceremony is even more unforgivable.

The Hasinai make a journey to Bruneville. They plan to present themselves “to the chief” and reclaim the body. The conna (the tribe doctor) and caddi (their chief) lead the way. Along the way they dance for ten nights — their funeral rite — around a ball of straw attached to a long pole.

They also carry the coffin for their tribeswoman, it’s as big as a cart.

They dance again on the riverbank in Bruneville, carrying an eagle’s wing in their hands. They hail the fire as they dance around, spitting their tobacco into it. Then they drink a scented potion that makes them drunk.

That’s how the U.S. scouts found them. They didn’t even wake them, they killed them while they slept.

SIX WEEKS AFTER NEPOMUCENO’S ATTACK on Bruneville, eight pistol-packers approach the Bruneville jail at a quick trot as the afternoon ends. From a distance, judging by their clothes and their demeanor, they look like vaqueros , which is to say, Mexicans. But they’re not. There’s Will, the Kenedys’ ranger, and Richie, who works for the Kings (he’s the king of the kiñeros or reyeros ), the rest aren’t on anyone’s payroll, they’re guns for hire. All eight are cut from the same cloth. They stop about two paces in front of the door and form a semicircle. Shouting in English, they demand the prisoner Lázaro Rueda. They call for “The Robber” to be handed over to them, and, in pseudo-Spanish, they add, “The Bandito.”

In response, Ranger Neals orders the jail door to be locked and barred. He shuts himself in with his men.

Ranger Richie approaches the window at the side of the jail and stops. The semicircle rearranges itself.

Lázaro asks his unlucky jailer to give him his Colt, they have it right there, “So I can defend us.” He’s certain they’ll break down the door. As if to confirm his fears, a bullet zings through the high window of his cell and lodges in the wall about a palm’s length above Lázaro’s head.

Ranger Richie dismounts. He sets fire to a rag soaked in turpentine and blows on it.

The sopping rag flies through the cell’s high window.

With his free hand, Lázaro picks it off the floor. With no fear of scorching his fingers, he puts it between the cell bars so it doesn’t go out.

“Give me a stick or something! Anything, a pole, a rod, a piece of metal!” Lázaro begs the jailkeeper. He wants to use the fiery rag to defend himself.

Big kids, little kids, old folks, even women are thronging around the jail, some crowd together behind the horsemen, others line up behind Richie. In silence. Awaiting the inevitable outcome: Lázaro will come out that door. Or else they’ll burn him up inside. The folks surrounding Ranger Richie help him soak more rags in turpentine. Then they toss them in the air and set them alight with shots from their pistols; some catch fire and sail, burning, through the window. Some catch fire and slide, flaming, down the stone wall.

“Whose idea was it to not build the jail out of wood?”

The jail keepers reinforce the door. Lázaro insists, begs, “Give me my Colt!”

Another rag falls at his feet.

Mr. Wheel, who drives the cart, the one with the crabs, appears behind the horsemen, chewing tobacco and blinking, his eyelids like butterfly wings. He’s the one who wears the sheriff’s star on his chest now. He shouts:

“Ranger Neals! Open this door and I mean now! I won’t let anything happen to one of my men. Open the damn door!”

“I take orders from Stealman!”

“You know he ain’t in Bruneville!”

Ranger Neals thinks it over a couple of times, but quickly. Things are getting ugly. If he doesn’t comply, they might treat him like he’s just another greaser.

Lázaro keeps saying, “Give me my Colt, for pity’s sake, for the love of God!” He understands exactly what’s happening.

Ranger Neals’ moment of indecision causes cart-driver Wheel to back off; he makes himself scarce; he leaves the same way he came (the relatively new sheriff’s star doesn’t embolden him much), but with a more decisive step, muttering about fetching some tobacco.

Wheel pokes his nose into widow Rita’s tobacco shop and leaves in a hurry without buying a thing. He walks in silence to his office, where he locks himself in. His heart is in his mouth. He’s terrified. He watches from his window, blinking, his nerves on edge. Frozen like a statue, he watches the doors of the jailhouse open wide.

One of the riders dismounts. He puts his reins in the hands of some kid, maybe his son; he walks, composed, toward the door.

The other riders dismount, too, gracelessly, but in unison. They file through the doorway. The new sheriff, cart-driver Wheel, leaves his office and heads to the jail.

Lázaro Rueda sees the riders enter, his eyes are riveted. Without his Colt, the only thing he has is the rag burning at his side. He thinks about throwing it. Whom should he chuck it at? He recognizes a few of the violent, cruel-hearted ruffians, two of them rape Mexican girls, more than two have been called kiñeros or reyeros.

Lázaro can just see — and hear — that behind the men there’s a hoard of gringo Texans.

He doesn’t lift the rag. It’s futile, and besides, that’s not what he’s made of, he’s no fire-starter, no murderer. Lázaro has never wanted to harm a soul. He throws the rag on the floor, and extinguishes it with his boots — a gift from Nepo in better times.

Someone squats, picks it up and blows on it, someone else grabs Lázaro by the neck and stuffs the hot, smoking rag down his shirt, sparks and all.

The rag burns him a little. It’s bearable. It’s not searing. The pain reminds him: “You are Lázaro Rueda, you were born in the south, you have been a vaquero forever; you’ve been in the Valley of the Río Bravo since the beginning of time.”