Finally, the trio was on their way. Don Federico drove the mule team with Fred sitting next to him. The boy was getting old enough to learn about the business of the ranch, and he was picking up on how men talk. Roy rode his horse alongside the wagon, and all three was still laughing about ol' Manuel, and about last night's outhouse incident with Pablo.
The sky had become somewhat overcast, with fleecy cumulus clouds forming far out on the horizon. The temperature was ten degrees cooler than the day before, but the humidity was nearly one hundred percent, keeping it sultry and oppressive.
The road to La Villa led straight south. It was the same old La Sal Vieja Road that for years, people had traveled to get salt rocks for human consumption and for their cattle. There was nothing but large prickly-pear cactus, mesquite, tall undergrowth, and chaparral on both sides of the dirt road. Doña Adela's house stood several hundred yards from the road, hidden among the brasada's undergrowth and sheltered by many tall cottonwood trees. It was a gray, strange looking place, blending into the environment as though part of it.
"Too bad I didn't get a chance to visit with Doña Adela," commented Don Federico, as he cleared his throat. "I get the feeling she is not saying everything she knows. Sure wish we could find the gringa’s body." Then there was a long silence, with only the wind and the sounds of mockingbirds and blackbirds calling to each other.
A swirling, dusty whirlwind came from nowhere toward them. The team of mules started to spook, as well as Roy's palomino. An eerie feeling overtook the three of them, a strange electrifying feeling of dread. It was as if evil existed there in Doña Adela's domain, the evil that stirred unexplained phenomena.
Don Federico's eyes shifted to Roy, riding alongside. "Last night, while I lay tossing and turning in my bed, a thought came to me and it's galling me. Why does Doña Adela's son, Roberto, keep popping into my mind over and over again? Where was he when the killing took place? Think about it! He must have seen something, the way he roams the brasada, prowling around. He knows every cactus and mesquite tree there is in this wilderness. I'm gonna have to talk to him if we can find him, and I'll bet we'll come up with some answers. I'll bet he knows something! It seems like Doña Adela is afraid of something. Maybe she’s trying to cover for him."
"B' dang! Ya' might be right, patrón! I hadn't thought of dat!" Roy replied.
Don Federico handed the reins to Fred and began to relate some of the experiences he had had with Doña Adela. "When Victoria was only a year old, back in the late 1890s, she became deathly ill one night with a temperature of over one hundred. Francisca, being familiar with the old Mexican superstition of the "Evil Eye," sent one of the workers to fetch Doña Adela. After viewing the baby, the old lady claimed that Victoria was suffering from that affliction. She ordered a fresh-laid egg to be brought in. She began rubbing it all over Victoria's little body, and within a few minutes, the child was perfectly fine. No fever. She was completely well, laughing and giggling as if nothing had ever happened. I couldn't believe it!" Don Federico exclaimed.
"Later, Doña Adela took an egg and opened it in a glass of fresh water. Right before our eyes, on the surface of the yoke, was the face of a man who had sold us some goods and yards of material earlier. I remembered he couldn't get his eyes off Victoria, wanting to hold her. She was a beautiful little girl with her curls and lace and all. According to the custom, you're supposed to touch the person you're possessing. Francisca, being very careful, would not let the salesman touch her. I think these beliefs exploit people, put fear into them, but that’s the way life is here and nobody questions it."
A horrible sensation overcame Fred as he felt a cold chill all over his body, and he moved closer to his father. He gazed toward the old jacale, and in the tops of the cottonwood trees were hundreds of blackbirds gawking, hunched together, as if watching them go by. Behind the thick undergrowth, he caught a glimpse of the humped silhouette of a figure watching them.
Periodically, the foreman and Don Federico exchanged talks about the good ol' days and how it had been in the early part of the region. Roy would bring up about his life as a young boy when he lived in Oklahoma and the Panhandle of Texas. There were few men more respected than his father, thought Fred proudly, as he listened to the interesting stories being told, while he handled the reins of the mules.
Two roads intersected on the outskirts of La Villa, creating a small clearing in the primeval cacti infestation, and a few little huts squatted in between the heavy thickets of chaparral. The small village boasted a small, open stable, one windmill, a water trough for the horses, and one wooden hut that served a few specialty cold drinks. Hard liquor was brought out only on Saturday nights since it was hard to buy and shipped by wagon from across the border in Reynosa. When the vaqueros got their monthly pay, and on Saturday nights, the area became a rowdy, rip-roaring spot, with live music, card playing, and secret gambling. Women of the night would show up, giving the local workers many hours of pleasure. It was one of Roy's favorite spots, and he would tease the married vaqueros, saying "Dis da place to tear up a pea patch, by dang!"
An hour had passed. After watering Roy's horse and the mules and having a cold drink themselves, the three resumed their journey into Harlingen, with Fred once again taking the lines. Don Federico informed his son, "If you go straight south on this road, you'll come to the town of Mercedes City, where your Aunt Emma, Felicia, Jaime, and John live, but by turning left here, we'll be in Harlingen within a few hours."
"I'd like to see Jaime and John!" Fred said, thinking of his twin cousins. "I haven't seen them for several months. Don't care to see Aunt Emma, she's so bossy. But I do miss the boys."
"Gaw'd dang! Ya' had to brin' her name up!" roared Roy, then he snickered, trying to juggle his chewing tobacco and the reins of his horse. "Dat thar wimmin can talk the hind-end legs off a burro. By golly, that's all we'll need," he said, laughing.
"I'm surprised we haven't seen Emma show up lately," said Don Federico. She normally made her monthly calls to Francisca, bringing her new style of crocheting, new material, or a new recipe that someone invented. He continued, "Emma never did like the idea of Francisca residing so far away from her guidance. That's because Emma can't tell her what to do every single minute of the day. She resents the idea that Francisca is living out in the mesquite jungle with a bunch of old women, old men, and ensconced on a cattle ranch instead of having the opportunity to be a refined lady. She has always fancied Francisca enjoying the life of a sophisticated woman drinking tea at social parties. Emma thinks she is so cosmopolitan. Maybe among the stiff-necks of Monterrey, but not in Mercedes City."
"She calls Spanish Acres the wilderness," replied Fred.
"Bah!" Don Federico frowned and adjusted his hat. "What does she know about wilderness? That reminds me, I do need to go to Mercedes City in a couple of days. Need some supplies from Milton's Mercantile. I also need to see about the property my father bought several years ago when old man Dominquez was selling his land, almost giving it away for a few cents an acre."
"Can I come with you, Dad?" Fred asked. "I want to visit with the twins."
"Fine, son, we'll see about it! I know one thing. We will not be staying overnight at your Aunt Emma's house. There is nothing pleasant at their home. You have to take your shoes off before entering and you're afraid to touch anything—it's an uncomfortable place. She hates the smell of my Cuban cigars, nobody laughs, and it's a very dull and dreary place, as though you're in a high-class palace. Their new three-story house reminds me of a funeral home. I can't stand her retired judge husband either. It's like he's trying to judge you, with those beady eyes peering from behind his bifocals."
"What was Mercedes City," questioned Fred, "before it was a town?"
"The area was called Mesquito by the Mexican vaqueros and Indians who roamed the region in the early years, hunting for wild boars and deer. It was established and renamed four years ago by a rich syndicate. One of them was a friend of your grandfather George,
named Yoakum, a very eloquent and a very persuasive promoter. However, your grandfather did give some of his land and money for the building of the railroad from Brownsville up to Sinton. The township was named Mercedes City after Mercedes Dominquez, who had originally owned and controlled most of the area. Later the American Rio Grande and Irrigation Company claimed a town site, bringing the railroad across from Harlingen straight up along the border."
The ride was now becoming hot and tiresome. There was a long silent pause as the trio continued toward the town of Harlingen. Roy suddenly began riding faster, and Don Federico took the reins from Fred and slapped the mules into a trot. The eastern sky was producing heavy, dark clouds. A light drizzle of occasional rain and gusty winds made the mules snort and toss their heads.
Out on the horizon, several Mexican men were busy clearing the land and burning the mesquite and cactus in a large pile. They were on the outskirts of the town that for years had been nicknamed "Six-Shooter Junction." Turning the mules, Don Federico headed them southeast. It was a shorter route through the thorny jungle to the "Hub of the Valley."
"Ah, yes," said Don Federico with a remorseful sigh. "This is the "Valley of Tears." In the late ninetieth century, a plague killed many people here. That's why the Mexicans gave it that name."
"Da feces from dat shit house rats cause dat, an' there's plenty of 'em here," said Roy.
Don Federico continued talking. "It's amazing how the so-called investors have seen the potential value of the land, and they are trying to change the name to the "Magic Valley." The only magic is the money. The white investors have been buying the land from the Mexican-Americans for pennies, then they specify where they can live. They advertise all over the United States that this is paradise and offer free transportation to prospective buyers."
Clearing his throat, Don Federico continued with his impromptu history lesson. "In 1903, the first major railroad was started, linking us with the rest of the United States, and opened the way for the white men to come in and start buying cheap land. For the Mexican-Americans, the image became that of a foreign land, instead of the mother country that it had been for hundreds of years. The investors imported cheap wholesale laborers from Mexico to clear the land and start irrigation ditches, paying them in Mexican pesos. Many people from the northern states came. The majority stayed, but some did not like the heat in the summer and left. Many of the investors wanted to build large sugar plantations, those that came from Mississippi or Louisiana, intent upon making the Mexican people into the Negro slaves of old—just with a different language and a different color."
Fred and Roy listened intently while Don Federico continued.
"What the white people don't realize, or perhaps have ignored, is that the forgotten Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo spelled out the rights of the Mexican-American people who lived in this area. But how many people can read?"
As they entered the town of Harlingen, called by the white investors "Mexican Acres," because it was mostly inhabited by Mexican people, Don Federico went on. "The Mexicans are not allowed to buy property or live south of the railroad tracks after the town was designed. The railroad divided the town, like the rest of the communities in the Valley. This is called 'redlining' and it separates residential areas. The city is controlled by rich, biased individuals running everything. Congress passed the Fourteenth Amendment in 1868, after the Civil War, prohibiting states from violating laws of equality. But I guess it applies to all the other states except the southern states, like Texas, where they segregate the Mexicans, or the poor Indians and black people in places with 'Jim Crow laws,'" he said facetiously.
Don Federico paused only long enough to wipe the sweat from his forehead. "Crooked lawyers triumphed in passing laws that disenfranchised Mexican people, and reinforced violence with their own terror tactics. They made up their own little laws to benefit themselves. The Mexican people are not supposed to mix with the white people, especially in any public places nor public schools, railroad cars, recreation areas, eating facilities, hospital rooms, or sleeping quarters. They can clean and cook for them and be their slaves, now that's all right," he said sarcastically. "This is the type of thing that creates racial issues and hatred. No Mexican can cross over into the white side of town, especially at night. In all the small Texas towns, signs are posted, intimidating Mexicans and Negroes. They are not to be found roaming at night. Under this makeshift system of southern laws, they can be shot with no questions asked!"
CHAPTER 4
The Mexican people lived in the north section of Harlingen, where the streets were dusty, dirty, and uneven, with dry potholes full of trash. Harsh winds of clayish dust blew in annoying clusters. In one-room shacks, the Mexicans lived in rough, appalling poverty. Other jacales were made of scrap lumber, the walls framed with tarpaper, unfit even for animals to tolerate. There were other better-looking shanties made of thatched mesquite mixed with plastered mud, with roofs of dried palm leaves. Jungles of cactus and mesquite and thorny undergrowth surrounded the jacales, sheds, and shacks; no planted tree could be seen. Hand-washed clothes were scattered on uneven gray, dry, mesquite fences; some were strewn upon chaparral brushes. Mangy, unfed dogs paced the dirt road, while many ragged children played barefooted in the dusty streets.
The contrast became obvious as they crossed over the tracks to the white area of town—it was cleaner and greener. They passed the Paso Real Stagecoach Inn, close to the large sugarcane mill that one of the pioneers of the town had started. Posted there, true to Don Federico's word, were posters saying "No Mexicans Allowed." This meant Mexicans could not enter the eating places or use any facility, especially the white's outhouses or any of their drinking fountains.
From a distance, the group could see the Lon C. Hill house, built in 1905, which was the first home in Harlingen. Hill was a promoter and responsible for the development of the town. The community had over three hundred residents already incorporated into the town that same year. In the white district, there were small shops, mercantile stores, a bank, horse stables, corrals, blacksmith shops, and two hotels. Horse trading was conducted all along Jackson Street, and the railroad depot was at the Van Buren intersection. The headquarters of the Texas Rangers, or Los Rinches, was located in the middle of Main Street, and next to it stood the sheriff's office. Patches of mesquite, undergrowth and cactus were scattered in between the newly built structures.
Large wagons with heavy, hundred-pound barrels and others with hay and goods were being pulled by horses and mules. Busy women, hurrying along in drab, dark dresses, shopped at the various stores, while others wearing gingham-checkered clothing held onto shopping baskets, with sun bonnets hiding their faces from the elements. Many of the local white ranchers did their business here because it was centrally located, and groups of townspeople were on hand for the daily arrival of the train at the junction of the Missouri and the Southern Pacific railroad. Heavy cargo, baggage and express trains going up the Valley were being unloaded onto wagons pulled by horses or mules. Behind the railroad depot, many pistol-toters used the wall for target practice, making for a rowdy scene. They were hard-looking hombres wearing large, faded Stetsons and silver belts, and armed with pistols hung on their hips in double holsters.
"I'll tell ya' whut ah thin' 'bout Bernard Hanson," said Roy, as they got closer to the Rangers' building. "He's a damn dangerous hombre. Meaner den a rat'ler! Ever since yore father died, he was dat hombre in question. As fur as I'm concerned, I don't want any part of 'em. I don’t put no stock in any lawman. His name fit's 'em all right, with a big 'B' fur bastard."
There was a long pause, then Don Federico gave a loud sigh and narrowed his eyes. "It's been more than a year since Dad died so mysteriously. Nobody can convince me that it was just a heart attack! Bullshit! The bruise on the back of his neck suggested something else. We didn't notice it until days had passed and Dad was being dressed for his funeral. As a matter of fact, it was Mamá Maria that brought it to my attention—a dark, purplish d
iscoloration on Dad’s neck, like a thin, sharp cut."
Don Federico cleared his throat and continued. "Dad got Hanson to go into partnership with him in the gold mine in Monterrey. How the devil he convinced my father is beyond me. Ol' Hanson must've had something on my dad's head. Frankly, I don't like the man myself, but I'll have to deal with him until we settle an agreement. He's the typical individual brought in when the whites began infesting this area, with all of the racial hatred toward the Mexican people. Yes, there have always been skirmishes here and there, for as long as I can remember. Hanson was a hero when he came back from fighting in the Spanish-American War. He was with Teddy Roosevelt when the Rough Riders were organized to fight in that war, helping the Cubans. Yes! I agree with you, Roy! I think he's a very dangerous man. The hair on the back of my neck stands straight up when I see him. But I have plans, and if everything goes well, ol' Hanson will have lots of explaining to do."
Don Federico struggled for breath as the wagon approached the hitching rail next to the wooden porch of the Texas Ranger office. "Fred, take the wagon over to Lozano's Mercantile Store, give ol' man Lozano this list, and tell him to put the supplies on my bill. I will barter with him later on the half dozen cattle he bought from me a week ago." He glanced toward the heavens. "We'd better take care of things pretty quick. The sky is getting darker, and the wind is trying to pick up. This conversation shouldn't take me very long!"
Roy nodded and touched the tip of his hat as a signal of approval. Don Federico took a deep breath as he climbed up the steps to the wooden porch, trying hard to hold onto his composure. He had decided to play it safe, cut the nonsense short, and get down to brass tracks. The final decisions on the gold mine had to be resolved. He entered a small, crowded room filled with the pungent smell of tobacco.
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