Texas, page 29
Nepomuceno’s men begin firing from different vantage points.
It’s worth taking note of the skill they display on the water (they’ve grown up alongside the river or by the sea, they may as well have been born with fishtails). The “mermen” attack the U.S. troops from behind. They don’t hesitate, the goal is to kill as many as possible.
If the vaqueros weren’t so adept at handling horses, they wouldn’t have been able to guide them toward the crossfire. They deserve recognition too. They arrive at Mrs. Big’s when the field of gringos’ cadavers is ready to be harvested. Riding atop their mounts, followed closely by their comrades who run and yell, they burst into Bruneville. Bang, bang, bullets fly left and right, it’s a real shoot-out, a veritable hail of bullets.
Luis, the distractable boy who carried Miss Lace’s shopping baskets, is hit—he doesn’t have any baskets now, but he pays for them. The bullet enters his mouth and lodges in his head.
Without pausing, Nepomuceno’s men gather on the dock, board their boats, and “Adiós, amigos gringos, we’re outta here.”
In addition to the dead, they leave pages printed with another proclamation scattered in their wake and a message at the foot of the Town Hall steps: “This is a warning. Return Lázaro to us within two days or we’ll be back again every third.”
Sid Cherem, the Maronite who sells cloth at the market—and who’s diverted some of his orders to the encampment at Laguna del Diablo to support Nepomuceno’s men without getting directly involved—had been prepared. He got up on the roof terrace of his house. He lay down with his rifle so no one could see him defending Nepomuceno if it became necessary.
Dan Print, who’s been living it up (every time he goes to the Café Central he stays longer) and hasn’t returned to work in his room at the Ángeles del Río Bravo, hears news of the attack from one of his informants. “Now that’s news!” He awakens Matasánchez’s telegraphist, saying it’s urgent, asking him to send a report about Nepomuceno’s attack without delay. He ends his message with a note that’s almost longer than the message itself: THE RECENT DISTURBANCES ON THE BANKS OF THE RIO GRANDE WERE INITIATED BY TEXANS AND CARRIED OUT BY THEM. THIS NEPOMUCENO AND THE MAJORITY OF THE BANDITS WHO SUPPORT HIM ARE CITIZENS OF TEXAS … VERY FEW MEXICANS FROM THE OTHER SIDE OF THE RIVER, IF ANY, HAVE TAKEN PART IN THESE DISTURBANCES.
Eleonor escapes from the Adventurer after several encounters similar to the first, him taking her mechanically and quickly, without so much as looking at her. She mounts her horse and heads off without a destination. The stars watch over her.
On the day of the attack she arrives at the Aunts’, the ranch of the Amazons. They welcome her with open arms.
When he reads the telegram in New York, Dan Print’s editor answers as follows: WHERE IS YOUR ARTICLE? STOP. THE CLOCK IS TICKING. STOP. THANKS FOR THE NEWS. STOP. I WANT MORE.
After the attack, Nepomuceno and his men (both “mermen” and vaqueros) return across the river but they don’t disembark at the Old Dock. Fearing an ambush, they look for a landing further upriver; though there’s nothing even resembling a dock, the tide makes it easy to disembark. The Kids’ Brigade ties all the boats together—forty-seven in total, a rosary of vessels—and lets them go. They have allies on the lookout at the Matasánchez dock, they won’t miss them.
By the time Nepomuceno and his men arrive in Laguna del Diablo, negotiations between the mayors of Matasánchez and Bruneville have already begun.
By the next day Lázaro’s release has been agreed upon. An official messenger goes to Laguna del Diablo to tell Nepomuceno.
The atmosphere in camp is tense. It’s not like a party anymore, rather a military outpost.
“There’s no date set? Go back and tell them they can count on my compliance once they give me a date.”
“But the mayors are the ones setting the conditions.”
“What conditions? This isn’t a prisoner exchange. They kidnapped Lázaro, I want him back.”
“You can say that, Nepomuceno,” says Jones, “but according to their laws Lázaro is a prisoner because he broke the law …”
“Their laws … their laws … they can take their laws and go to hell! They can stick ‘em where the sun don’t shine!”
Jones ignores this outburst, but everyone else present is taken aback.
“So now what?” the messenger asks. “What should I tell them? They’re waiting for an answer.”
“Tell them,” Jones speaks up in response to the messenger, “that Nepomuceno accepts the truce but that they have to tell us when they’re going to set Lázaro free, and it should be sooner rather than later. This truce isn’t indefinite.”
“Give them one week,” Nepomuceno says, coming down from his cloud of fury.
“One week.”
“We’ll write our response down for you,” Salustio adds sagely.
The horses Nepomuceno’s men used, all of which were stolen, have been left at Mrs. Big’s Hotel—they haven’t even had time to rebrand them (though some have been rebranded before)—and there are a few mustangs and mavericks among them, too. No sooner have they freed themselves from where the Mexicans hitched them than Mrs. Big asks the first cowboy she can find to get some help and round them up. She plans to sell them. She’s decided to leave town with the money.
In the Bruneville town papers there’s an article about Nepomuceno, preceded by a letter from the editor:
“To the Mexican residents of the State of Texas:
“The arch-murderer and robber has been induced by some inflated coxcomb to allow his name to be put to the following collection of balderdash and impudence. We shall not inquire now who wrote it, but it certainly was no one who has the least acquaintance with American laws or character. We invite the attention of the people abroad to his pretension that the Mexicans of this region (we suppose he means from the Nueces to the Rio Grande) claim the right to expel all Americans within the same.”
Some excerpts from the article:
“He claims to lead a secret society, organized to this end. He modestly describes his fellow villains as virtuous, especially courteous, pure, and good-humored. This is what he says about himself and his followers, even after stabbing and shooting the dead bodies of the Smiths’ daughter, Caroline, and three of our own men, Mallett and Greer and McCoy, who were killed in the fight he and his men started …” and “His men survive by stealing horses—that’s always been their livelihood. They’ve escaped justice with the help of perjurers. They broke into the jailhouse, stole the mail …”
Stealman orders Chaste, the sort-of mayor, to ship a new boatload of crazies across the river, in response to the damage and the losses incurred (in theory) by Nepomuceno’s raid. He writes that it’s more critical than ever to keep Bruneville free of burdens on society.
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.”
On the other side of the river, Nepomuceno has entered Matasánchez with a small party of his armed men, not the thoughtful ones.
They’ve come to Matasánchez for an appointment with the mayor.
They go straight to the Hotel Ángeles del Río Bravo, the best one in the region. They’ll spend the night there. Nepomuceno says he doesn’t want to, because that’s where his wife is staying, and he’s still mad at her, but the truth is that he very much wants to, he misses her and knows that they’ll spend the night talking and hugging and kissing as only widow Isa can.
But first, something cold to drink at Café Central. He doesn’t have to wait for a table because they have reserved two for him. He sits at one, alone. His men sit on the benches in the plaza facing the café.
A regiment of soldiers in parade uniform marches in the plaza.
“What’s the parade for?” asks Nepomuceno.
Doctor Velafuente shrugs at a nearby table, “They’ve been here three days, Nepomuceno, as soon as the Angelus is about to start they march from one side of the plaza to the other. Who knows what they’re up to!”
Then the news arrives, like a fuse about to be set alight, they come shouting into the café:
“The gringos are trying to take Lázaro Rueda from the jailhouse.”
Nepomuceno feels a thick, viscous anger.
The church bells ring. Noon. The ringing freezes Nepomuceno’s soul. In a few minutes he’s supposed to be at the mayor’s, that’s what he’s here for, to speak with him; “Take it easy,” Nepomuceno says to himself, now more than ever he should be at one with his compatriots. He makes a decision: the mayor can wait, he should go to Bruneville to protect Lázaro. He makes a sign to his men, but they can’t see him, the parade is passing between them.
In the jailhouse in Bruneville, Ranger Neals orders the cell to be opened. In a half second he forces open the handcuff around Lázaro’s wrist,
“I was a locksmith before I became this unlucky wreck of a man.”
He hands Lázaro over in silence, while the masses outside shout insults. “Greaser! Greaser! Dark-skinned idiot! Coward! You damn Mexican!” No one calls him Lázaro. No one attempts the “R” in Rueda.
Among those who have crowded into the jailhouse are Miss Lace, Mr. Chaste (the pharmacist), Mr. Seed from the café, and Smith, who once played cards with Smiley: all faces he knows but are now unrecognizable.
They drag him out. He would have preferred to walk, but they don’t let him.
Blows rain down on him; anyone who can reach him lashes out, beating him. Nat, the messenger, takes the Lipans’ knife from his pocket and cuts off one of Lázaro’s fingers.
Mexicans lock themselves inside their homes.
Cherem goes up on his roof deck, armed with three shotguns. Alitas goes up to his.
The other Eagles do the same.
Carlos the Cuban, sets off a rocket from the roof of his guesthouse. It’s a sign for Nepomuceno. The Mexicans keep their fingers on their triggers. There’s no way to stop the crowd that has Lázaro, they’re on the other side of the jailhouse.
Sharp, the butcher, distributes six sharp knives to the crowd, “For the brave among you.”
They slice whatever they can reach off of Lázaro. There is screaming and laughter, celebrating the slaughter. They drag him to the Market Square.
From there a few of the Eagles can see what’s going on. It’s a solid mass of people, women and children. They hang Lázaro from the only tree with a chain.
“What should we do? Shoot into the crowd?”
The Texans start a fire at Lázaro’s feet. Shears, the carpenter—bullet still lodged in his chest, like a chrysalis, an incipient butterfly, as if it doesn’t bother either him or the bullets to live like that, as if his heart were a shell, resting in his body, his gimpy leg—joins them, his eyes bugging out of his head in excitement. The new sheriff, Mr. Wheel, the cart-driver, is already among them, celebrating.
