Roots of Indifferences

by Terri Ragsdale

  "What was that?" Don Federico asked, focusing intently on Esquibel.

  "The main man that raped her was a big, husky white man, from this side of the border, pretending to be a bandit. He spoke bad English words and with bad broken Spanish. After he was finished with her he handed her to the others. They were all pretending to be Mexicans, dressed in colorful serapes and Mexican sombreros. She heard him talking about Los Rinches. They said they were going to have a "picnic" with the Mexicans. They had all laughed mockingly," the Don said. "This in itself will stir evil within the region and the two countries." He was obviously frightened.

  "Los Rinches!" replied Don Federico. It was the hateful slang word used by the Mexican people to describe the Texas Rangers, who were deeply despised. "Los Rinches are inhuman, especially when they deal with any problems with the Mexican people." A white man, he thought, rubbing his forehead in thought, as his elbows rested on the desk. "Something strange is going on at the border and more horrible than we suspect." He bent over his desk, got closer to Don Esquibel's face, and looked straight into his eyes. "Too many horror stories are being told on both sides of the river, where the white man can kill Mexicans with no repercussions. The rape of a Mexican woman happens, probably every day, and it's taken with a grain of salt, a diversion of animal lust. No one does anything about it since women have no say and no authority. But, what happens when a Mexican man rapes a white woman, or worse, kills her?"

  "Lynching, of course," replied Don Esquibel.

  "That's exactly what I mean! You can bet that Los Rinches will have their work cut out for them, blaming the Mexicans for this incident. It seems like several white men from this side of the river are doing something illegal, and have a cover-up for this murderous event. The Rangers will be on someone's trail, pointing their fingers at somebody's ass, and the Mexicans will be the targets. The Mexican people are going to suffer for the murder of the gringa, especially the honest people who are just trying to survive. This is going to create more deaths, more shootings, and lynchings, especially when Los Rinches, the sons-of-bitches, justify it because they're enforcing the law. Those arrogant Rangers who think they have been appointed by God himself to bring justice into this land are going to play havoc with the Mexican men in this area. How can anyone prove that the gringa woman was killed by a white man?"

  "At this time, Soledad does not know that the gringa woman is dead." Don Esquibel's eyes studied Federico with interest while he continued. "She kept crying, saying to us to go find her, to go find the gringa woman who needed our help, and it is best she doesn't know at this time. The vaqueros found the redheaded gringa a half mile down on your property by the resaca. The horrible, bizarre way in which they killed her made several of the cowhands sick. They had never seen anything like it."

  "How did the gringa woman die?" Don Federico demanded. His apprehension turned to worry since it was on his property that the body was found. He had been distinctly reminded of this fact several times.

  "They stabbed her, all right, but in a way, you would never think! The Bandidos spread her thighs and stuck a wooden spike into her genital organs, sitting her on it. She probably bled to death! Blood and flies all over," he said, making a terrible face.

  There was a long silent moment. Don Federico sat back in his leather chair, feeling as if his entire soul had left his body. His thoughts were now spiraling as rage and hatred overtook him. He raised both of his hands in disgust and got up again from his chair and walked to the window. He stood for a while glaring out the large window toward his great cattle empire. Then he rubbed his chin again and chewed the inside of his mouth, a nasty habit when confronting a major problem.

  He walked back to his desk. "Goddamn!" he cursed, facing Don Esquibel and leaning on the desk. "This problem is worse than I thought. This will stir a total state of confusion among the whites and the innocent Mexican-American families." He straightened himself up and began pacing the floor. "Killing a Mexican individual is like killing a rattlesnake in this part of the country, and nothing is ever done for justice. But killing a white woman is bad news. The situation on both sides of the river and the hatred among the whites and the Mexican-American people who have lived here for years will develop into a civil war, where no one will be safe." Cold shivers ran up and down his spine. "Where is the body of the gringa? What did your boys do with her body?"

  "Why, my boys would not touch the white woman. They left her there as she was found."

  "Left her there?" roared Don Federico, glaring at the old Don.

  "Why, yes. They were afraid. Terrified. Finding a dead gringa’s body, in that condition, the whites would have accused them of the killing. The whites shoot first and talk later. So no one was going to pick her up and take any chances. They are frightened. Do you understand, Señor?"

  "Yes! Yes! I understand your logic," replied the Don, very agitated and disgusted at the American system of injustice. "She must have a family somewhere! They must be concerned. I'll have Roy and some of my boys who know the area ride out and get the body. We'll wait until it gets cooler, later on, this afternoon. I will try and make some arrangement and return her to her family. That's about all I can do for now. I'll be going over to Harlingen to get some supplies and have some unfinished business with the head of the Texas Rangers, my father's supposed best friend. Remember him—Bernard Hanson?"

  "How can I forget? He is a brutal son-of-a-bitch," replied Señor Esquibel. "That bastard killed one of my wife's cousins three years ago. Los desgraciados, the Texas Rangers, suggested that he was shot in the back escaping. The white people who are now in control of the region have put the patrolling Rinches in charge, giving them the authority to do what they please. Think of what happened to Jacinto Trevino over by Los Indios last May. His cousin was being horsewhipped by a white man and later died. Jacinto shot the perpetrator and fled into Mexico. If the Rinches had caught him, they would have tortured and lynched him."

  "I know," answered Don Federico. "And it looks like it's going to get worse," he added, becoming more inflamed. "While I'm in Harlingen, I'll try to find out if they have gotten wind of this incident. I'll need to get some supplies. We are completely out of coal oil and grain, giving me an excuse to ask questions while I'm there. We'll try to get the gringa's body to her family as soon as possible. I’m sure her family is looking for her by now."

  "I understand!" Señor Esquibel replied in agreement.

  "When Soledad heals and feels better, I'll ask her about what took place. I'll be able to get a clearer picture of what actually happened. Something is not right!”

  Don Esquibel began talking about the unrest in Mexico. "My son is already heading back to Texas after finishing his engineering studies in the State of Tamaulipas."

  "Has it been that long? It seems like it was just yesterday that José left to attend school."

  "From his letters, things are getting very bad in Mexico, especially in politics. There's a lot of talk of a revolution. I fear for all of us on both sides of the Rio Grande."

  Don Federico, being a man of innate justice, began worrying about the body of a dead woman lying out in the wilderness. He needed to get Roy and some of the vaqueros to go out and get her. He walked around to Don Esquibel and extended his hand in gratitude. "I'll have my boys get in touch with you on my next decision. It's been nice seeing you again and has been my pleasure. It's too bad it was under these unfavorable circumstances. Feel free to visit Soledad any time you want. And, yes! I'm afraid that this is not the last we are going to hear about the unrest in Mexico. If there is a revolution, we are all going to suffer, being so close to the border." He paused for the moment. "And also, Don Esquibel, let's keeps this incident between ourselves. Please inform your cowhands not to repeat anything until I have more information and can get the truth straight. I'm afraid there’s more to this story, and we are all dealing with a dangerous situation. The less said the better."

  "Of course," replied Don Esquibel. Again, they respectfully
shook hands, and the old man departed, disappearing with his vaqueros waiting for him under the hacienda's cool arches.

  A loud commotion, marked by the sound of barking dogs and loud voices, could be heard from the outside entrance to the house. It was Manuel with la Señora Doña Adela, the herb woman, called "La Bruja de la brasada." The healing doctor of the region, she carried a large, colorful bag made of maguey threads, which was full of magic herbs and oils.

  There was always an eerie feeling of awe about Doña Adela. Her crude mannerism and barbaric disposition gave the impression that she was a woman not to be trifled with. There was always the stench of herbs and oils and the necklace of rattlesnake tails hanging around her neck. With the heat of the day at its peak, she was wearing a long, black cape the same length as her dark shirt. Her hair, which at one time had been jet black, was now snow-white and pulled back by some kind of homemade rope. In her left hand was the crooked black cane that she relied on to keep her feet steady. Made out of a lightning-struck ebony tree, it made her feel lucky.

  La Bruja’s wrinkled face resembled someone who had died and been dug up. Resurrected from the grave, and her crooked and feeble hands were arthritic and dotted with age spots. The old woman never changed—she always looked the same. Perhaps it was because she was a full-blooded Tejas Indian with high cheekbones and very dark skin. She had numerous remedies for the sick, including the "evil eye" methods—stomach sickness liniments, called empacho among the Mexican people, with solutions and potions of magic. From the wicked to the do-gooders, all would consult her for fortune telling and the rituals that she performed. Going into a deep trance, she could foretell the future with amazing, unerring accuracy. La Señora Francisca loved her because the old woman was reliable. She was the only one within a thirty-five miles radius who would help her with the needy, sick people in this region. There were few doctors and none if you were a Mexican. The majority of doctors were white, and the white doctors did not attend to the needs of any Mexican person, nor anyone with a Mexican last name.

  Doña Adela was a walking wealth of spiritual knowledge. She was a shaman with the impressive ability and would scare the pants off any individual who did not know she possessed mystical powers. Most mysterious were her large, light-colored eyes, so light that they had no color—crystal clear, like the eyes of a cat.

  The stories that were told about la Bruja were grandiose and imaginative and became more monumental among the natives in the region as time passed. Many years prior, when Don Federico was in his early twenties, completing his studies in Mexico City, he had returned to a scandalous rumor that had spread throughout the region, about a man who had died of fright after seeing Doña Adela.

  Apparently, a Mexican man in his early forties had wandered close to the resaca as it was getting dark, trying to find his prized goat. The man did not realize that he was trespassing because in those early times the ranchos did not have fences. The man got lost in the thickets of the brasada as he pushed forward into the dense jungle hell, determined to find his lost animal.

  He finally came to a clearing where he heard someone talking. As he got closer in the shadows of the night, he noticed the silhouette of a woman without any clothes on. He hid behind a mesquite tree and watched, with his eyes wide open and his heart almost leaping out of his chest. He noticed that the woman was in the middle of a ritual, performing witchcraft and talking in an unknown tongue. With a full moon on the horizon, he witnessed the spectacle as she lifted her arms toward the sky, offering a plate of food to the Moon Goddess.

  Time slipped away, and the Mexican man could not recall how long he stood and watched the devilish performance, but in an instant, Doña Adela had transformed into a black wolf and began howling at the moon. Her eyes were like two bright lights, and she knew that he was standing behind the tree because she turned her head in his direction and then lunged toward him like a wild demonic spirit.

  His family found him the next morning in a state of espanto—fear—wandering among the mesquite in a state of shock. He had peed and shit his pants without even knowing that his lower extremities had become weak—not knowing and not caring. The Mexican man was in a delirious state for a week, with scratches all over his body. His heart gave up and he died shortly after. His tale created much fascination among the Mexican cowhands and ranchers and was enlarged upon in years to come.

  The cowhands would converse and laugh about it, but not take any chances. They respected la Bruja with her super powers. West of the resaca was considered sacred grounds. And no vaquero in his right mind would dare get close to that acreage. However, there were those who desperately needed immediate help with personal problems, matters of love, money, or revenge. Or, in worse cases, they wanted someone dead.

  "Buenos días, Señora Adela," said Don Federico, walking up to greet her with a glass of lemonade in his hand. "Seems like another hot day with no wind!" he said.

  "Ah! Gracias, no day is hot enough for me. As old as I am, I need the warmth," she replied, taking the glass out of Don Federico's hand. "What's all this about? A girl being beaten and raped," she said. It brought out many years of old wounds and memories filled with pain, which she herself had experienced so many moons ago when she was very young and innocent. "Manuel told me a little of what happened, but Manuel is getting old and gets excited very easily, just like me."

  Don Federico began. "I just came in from branding. Don Esquibel's workers brought her here. I don't know the full story yet, but we are gong to find out. Most of the women are with her, out in the kitchen area. By the way, Doña Adela, did you see or hear any strange noise last night? Anything that might have caused any kind of suspicion, or something that just did not seem right, out in your area?"

  "The dogs barked part of the night," she replied. "I think that perhaps a wild cat of some kind was nearby. I had some of my manzanilla tea and went to bed and fell asleep. My eyes are not as sharp as they used to be. Why?"

  "The injured girl who was raped was found in the direction of the resaca, close to your home."

  "No! I did not see anything. I was too tired last night. I took my usual brew, which makes me very sleepy, and rubbed liniment on my aching bones. I had a very peaceful sleep."

  He studied her for a minute and decided not to question her any further since he believed she was totally unaware of the incident. He changed the subject. "Lunch is being served. Come! Let's head over to where all the women are attending the injured girl. I was told she is in Roy's room over by the kitchen. I'm hungry enough to eat the hind-end of a steer!" said Don Federico.

  Doña Adela cackled loudly, with much enjoyment in her laughter, and spoke: "You all owe me some dry beef for this visitation. Or better, half a hog." She laughed again. "I will need Manuel to get some goods when he goes to el Mercado in Reynosa."

  Don Federico smiled. He reached for her maguey bag. "Let me help you with this load." He took the bag and began holding onto her left arm. "Come," he said, "Let's go see about the girl."

  The coming of Doña Adela was an exciting, uplifting event for the people of Spanish Acres, fostering good hope and wellness, for she was a herbalist and a healer. Many lived in the isolated areas of the smaller ranchitos, and the majority was completely isolated from the civilized world and still living a primitive Mexican lifestyle. Many lived and died in the shadows of their own environment and never sought outside help, so visitors were always welcomed.

  Don Federico and Doña Adela stepped out from the marble tile into the passageways of the cobblestone patio, past the main water fountain and iron cages filled with dozens of tropical birds. Hundreds of blooming vines in multi-colored splendor clung to the stuccoed side of the mansion.

  J.D. was playing with their new dog, King, a black-year-old Doberman pinscher pup given to Don Federico and his family as a gift from Ricardo Del Calderóne's family, Victoria's future in-laws. Blanca, the she-goat, stood dumbfounded in the middle of the patio gazing at the spectacle that was Doña Adela.

&
nbsp; The sounds of the ebony cane hitting the hard stone floor echoed as it steadied the old Indian woman. She let go of Don Federico's arm and stood still for a moment, as if in deep thought, staring sideways at the great Don because of the crooked condition of her aged body. Then she closed her eyes and lifted her head toward the heavens. Her facial expressions were twisted, resembling a dark, dried prune. Her left hand lifted skyward, and then it opened as if reaching for something in the air.

  And then, she began prophesying: "I feel something! Something dark! I'm picking up something—something evil!" Her eyes squinted, her wrinkled mouth moved. "This girl has a connection, something in regards to your father. There is something evil in this message—evil roots. I see guns, ammunition, and plots of injustice. I see the crossing of water, horses, and important men in high positions. There are lies and deceitfulness, murders, and tyrants who seem invincible. This girl was meant to be here for a reason. She comes with news, important information that you need to know."

  "My father?" replied Don Federico in complete bewilderment. "He's been dead for over a year." He chuckled nervously as if the old woman were going mad.

  The ancient one fixed her gaze on Don Federico with her clear-colored eyes. "You need a limpia, with yerba buena, spearmint, and one of my readings now, and you need one bad," the old witch said, pointing her crooked finger at him. "Everything I say will come true. I have never been wrong, and I was never wrong in telling your father the truth, even though he disagreed with me so many times. But everything came to pass. Your father should have listened to me! I kept telling him about his enemies. Friends, he would say, and all the while, they were using him. He would never believe me when I told him who they were. He was surprised. It caused his death. You need a reading! You are also in danger!"