I don’t know how he was able to find me, but Tomás was suddenly there. I didn’t see him arrive, just like I didn’t see him jump in after me. I only felt his strong arms as he wrapped them around my chest and pulled me upward with him, and then he was dragging me out of the creek. As he sat me down on the water’s edge, I started spewing out the muck clogging my lungs, immensely thankful to have a brother who loved me that much.
“Why would you do this? Why, Joaquín? Why?” he kept asking me as I clung to his soaked shirt, trembling.
“I’m sorry!” I said, burying my face into his shoulder and closing my eyes, wishing the white flames of lightning and blasts of thunder would come to a halt. “I’m sorry!”
The memory faded as I stared at the murky waters before me, thinking that Tomás wouldn’t approve of what I was doing out here tonight any more than he had approved of my actions that terrible, dark night so many years before.
Thanks to him, I had survived that incident. But what if something happened out here now? What if bandits came along? What if we ended up seeing something or hearing something that would embroil us in treasonous acts? If we couldn’t tell anyone, would we be accused of conspiring with rebels, as Gerardo had been? Tomás had no way of protecting me or Dulceña if that were to happen. As far as he knew, I was safely back at home at Las Moras, reading a book or writing poetry in my journal as I did most nights.
I sat musing on that terrible night for as long as it took the moon to travel its own width across the sky. Just as I started to wonder how much longer Dulceña would be, I heard something move quietly in the brush. I turned around and saw her. She was standing just inside the clearing. She started walking toward me, and I stood up. I couldn’t make out her face because she was wearing a shawl over her head and shoulders, but I didn’t have to. I knew it was her. My heart only beats wildly for one girl in Monteseco.
Chapter 3
We shouldn’t be here,” I said. It was the first thing that came to my mind when I saw her standing there in the dark.
“I had to see you,” Dulceña said, stepping all the way into the clearing.
“This is dangerous,” I whispered. Her eyes gleamed in the dark, reflecting the pale, wavering moonlight. “It’s not proper.” That hadn’t stopped us before, but meeting in the daylight was one thing. Nighttime meetings were another thing altogether. There was something more than dangerous about a nighttime meeting. The whole thing felt sordid, and I wanted to get it over with and escort her home as soon as possible.
Dulceña reached out to me. I took her hand, caressing her fingertips as she said, “I’m not afraid of being alone with you. You would never do anything to damage my reputation.”
“Of course not,” I said, clutching her hand tightly between mine. “It’s just that I can’t help but wonder what is so important that we had to meet here, so late at night. We should go to town, find a quiet place to talk. It’s not safe here. Not now.”
“No,” Dulceña whispered. “My father would kill me if he found out we were together. But I had to warn you about the Rangers. Did you read the paper today?”
Dulceña’s hands were cold. I rubbed them gently between mine. “No. My father — well, you know. But I don’t understand what the paper has to do with us.”
“Not us,” Dulceña said. “This concerns you and your family. There was a story about the incident at the mill in the paper today. You do know about the mill, don’t you?”
I nodded. “Munro and a couple of his men were at the ranch today,” I said. “They took Gerardo Gutierrez, but he claimed to have nothing to do with what happened at the mill. I don’t understand why anyone would want to blow the mill up, anyway. Gerardo was just meeting his girl near there.”
“Oh, but he did have something to do with it,” Dulceña whispered. “This is big, Joaquín. Bigger than anything that’s happened in Monteseco in a long time. You see, several men escaped the authorities. The story said as much, but what wasn’t in the paper, what my father wouldn’t dare print, was that some of the escaped men were local ranch hands — men from Morado County who are so frustrated, so angry over this matanza, this indiscriminate slaughter of our people, they’re ready to burn down any business owned or operated by Anglo immigrants. To them, the mill is yet one more way the white man profits from our oppression.”
“What are you talking about?” I leaned in to catch her eye. She was talking so quietly that the sounds of the night and the running water nearby made it hard to hear her.
“My father was at the station this morning, waiting to interview Munro, when the Rangers brought in their prisoners. The Rangers wouldn’t give my father any information about the identity of the men in custody, but he overheard the two prisoners talking to each other when they thought they were alone.”
She took a deep breath. “Joaquín, they said they hoped their friends made it back to Las Moras all right.”
I dropped her hands and stepped back, my breath sucked out of me.
Dulceña waited for me to recover before she continued, “If it’s true that some of your workers are conspiring with rebels, it could mean real trouble for Las Moras.”
I turned to stare at the creek waters, letting the news wash over me. None of it made sense. We sold our sugarcane at the mill. The owner, Mr. Simmons, was a friend of ours. My father kept company with all types of people, from business owners to lawmen. It was in his best interest to keep peaceful relations with everyone in town. And as far as I knew, we didn’t have any rebel sympathizers working at Las Moras. “It’s going to be okay,” I told her. “Munro is my father’s friend. He’ll take care of us.”
Dulceña came closer and put her hand on my shoulder. “Joaquín, listen to me. I know your father trusts the Rangers. But this rebellion has changed Munro. His politics have shifted. As it stands, he wouldn’t think twice about arresting your father and shutting down Las Moras if his men try burning the mill down again. This is serious.”
“But that’s not right,” I said, turning sideways to her. “My father can’t be held responsible for what our men do outside Las Moras.”
“But he will be. That’s how Munro operates,” Dulceña insisted, tossing the shawl off her head. “You have to tell him what’s going on. You have to make sure your father understands. He must find out who the troublemakers are and turn them in before it’s too late and they end up finishing what they started.”
I thought about Papá, about how honorable he was, about everything he believed in, and I knew in my heart that wasn’t going to happen. “He won’t do it,” I said, more to myself than to Dulceña. “He won’t take sides.” It was one thing for him to allow Munro to arrest Gerardo — he had no control over that. It was something else entirely to ask him to turn his men over to the Rangers.
“Then Munro will go after him,” Dulceña said.
The tiny pain that had started at my temples was suddenly throbbing behind my eye sockets. I thought my head would explode from the pressure of it. “No,” I said. “They’re friends. Munro and my father have been friends forever.”
“Munro has no friends, only allies and pawns. The minute he thinks your father is harboring insurgents he will go after him with a vengeance,” Dulceña said. “He’s vowed to protect the people of Morado County from rebels, and that includes anybody harboring them.”
Whether the people of Morado County wanted his protection or not was Munro’s unspoken promise. Dulceña was right. The thought of seeing Papá handcuffed and taken away for “harboring insurgents” gave me a chill. I could see it, my father’s demise unfolding before me, because unlike Papá, I didn’t trust Munro.
There were many reasons I didn’t like Captain Munro. None of them had anything to do with his position or his power. All of them had everything to do with that strange way he had of looking right through anyone he didn’t see as an equal.
How many times had I fe
lt his strange golden eyes lift off his playing cards to settle on me, pinning me to my seat like a needle through an insect? And how many times had I watched Mateo and Fito tug at their collars and squirm because Munro was doing exactly the same thing to them? Even my brother, Tomás, who was always sunny and bright, seemed to darken when Munro sat on our patio drinking brandy and playing poker with our father.
Dulceña pulled me out of my dark thoughts by lifting her hand to my face, turning my head. “Make no mistake, Joaquín, Munro is ruthless. The best thing your father can do right now is find out who was at the mill last night and turn them over to the Rangers.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll find out exactly what’s going on. If it’s true and rebels are hiding out at Las Moras, I’ll find them myself.”
“What? You can’t do this alone!” Dulceña furrowed her eyebrows. “Please, please promise me you won’t do this. Not alone.”
Thin sheets of clouds passed overhead, obstructing the moonlight, and suddenly we were enveloped in mist. “It’s the only way it’s going to get done. My brother’s a priest, so he can’t do it, and my father . . . well, he just won’t do it. No. It’s up to me to make sure Gerardo’s accomplices don’t jeopardize our livelihood.”
“It’s not fair.” Dulceña pulled at the shawl around her shoulders like she was suddenly cold. “This is all wrong.”
“That’s funny,” I said, reaching up to take her hand in mine. “I always thought you and your family would be siding with the rebels at a time like this.”
“What do you mean?” Dulceña asked, cocking her head sideways.
I cleared my throat, my mouth suddenly dry. “I mean your father seems to . . . understand . . . to sympathize with tejanos who’ve become rebels after losing their lands to greedy Anglo immigrants. It’s what he leans to . . . the stories he chooses to print.”
“We’re not on any one side in particular. We’re on the side of truth and justice,” Dulceña said, squeezing my hand in hers. “And it would be an injustice if Munro and his posse took down Las Moras and your family lost everything because of a few misguided souls. Mexican bandits and tejano rebels don’t understand the damage they’re doing when they destroy businesses and raid ranches and farms, just as much as the Rangers can’t see that dragging men into the brush and hanging them without a proper trial is not upholding the law.”
“This world is going to hell,” I whispered, suddenly feeling the burden of her words weighing down on me. “It’s all falling apart.”
As the clouds crawled away, the moonlight caressed Dulceña’s cheekbones. I could count every thick eyelash fanning out of her lowered eyelids. She stepped in, coming closer than I’d expected. I had been alone with her out here before, four or five times in the last few months, but not like this, never like this, pressed against each other, with every inch of our bodies touching.
“You’re trembling,” Dulceña whispered. “Are you cold?”
“No.” My voice was low, my mouth parched.
“You want to go?” she asked. Her dark eyes were gleaming, full of that fierce moonlight and something else, something deeper, more significant.
“No,” I said, mesmerized by the luster of her black hair, the glimmer in her brown eyes, the fullness of her lips.
Dulceña wrapped her left arm around my ribcage and placed her cheek on my shoulder. “Then what do you want to do?” Her face was inches from mine, and her breath was warm and soft — a whisper against my neck.
“I want to kiss you,” I said, at once shocked and shamed by my boldness. I hadn’t meant to make such an admission, to be so atrevido. I admit I am daring, even impulsive by nature, but I never revealed all of my emotions, not to my parents, not to Mateo and Fito, not even to my brother, who despite being eight years older than me was my closest ally.
Dulceña didn’t say anything. She took my hand and placed it gently at her waistline. Spurred on by her audacity, I leaned in and kissed her softly. We stood like that for uncounted minutes. Locked in that embrace, we let that sweet, intoxicating kiss take us to another realm, a safe place far away from the border and the Mexican revolutionaries and the tejano rebellion.
“Ay, isn’t that sweet?”
Dulceña and I jerked away from each other at the sound of the gruff, mocking voice.
The shadow of a man crouched in the brush at the top of the incline at the clearing’s edge. The long barrel of his rifle was pointed straight at me. I lifted my hands instinctively.
“Hey, Pollo! Guess what I found?” The man yelled in English, which told me they were tejano rebels or local outlaws. The realization did not put me any more at ease than if they’d been Mexican revolutionaries who had crossed the river to wreak havoc on our borderlands. Someone came up behind our assailant, cutting his way through the dense brush with his heavy boots.
“What you got, Rogelio?” the one called Pollo asked.
“Two little birdies, just a huggin’ and a kissin’ — so, so sweet.” Rogelio laughed as he sang the words.
“Well, get ’em outta there,” Pollo said. “Take ’em up to the jefe.”
“You heard ’im.” Rogelio stood up and waved his rifle, showing us where to move. “Let’s go!”
Rogelio and Pollo walked us at gunpoint with our hands over our heads, half out of our minds with fright, all the way up the patchy trail to the old tree where Dulceña had tied her mount next to mine. Half a dozen scruffy bandits were milling around the area, while a couple of them rummaged through our saddlebags.
“¡Siéntense!” Pollo said as one of the ruffians untied our horses and led them away.
“Please, don’t hurt us!” Dulceña said. “Take whatever you need. It’s yours. The lantern. Here, take this blanket, please.” She pointed to a blanket she had tossed over one of the tree limbs. “It’s very comfortable!”
A heavy-set bandit with thick, hairy eyebrows ripped it from the tree limb, sniffed it, and then said, “Oh, that’s nice. Real nice! The jefe is going to like you, chiquita. He’s going to like you a lot!”
His remark brought about depraved snorts from the rest of the men. Dulceña, suddenly understanding their implications, physically recoiled from their laugher, seeking refuge beside me.
“Don’t be scared,” I said, putting my arm around Dulceña’s shoulder and pulling her in close. “I won’t let them touch you.”
“Well, listen to him!” A young, skinny bandit wearing a red shirt sneered as he circled around us. “Qué macho, and he doesn’t even have a mustache. How old are you, boy? Fourteen? Fifteen?”
I rolled back my shoulders and stuck out my chest. “I’m not a boy. I’m eighteen.” I’d be damned if I was going to let these thugs lay even one filthy paw on my sweetheart. I’d die before I’d let them touch my Dulceña.
“And you?” Pollo asked. “How old are you, señorita?”
“That’s none of your business!” I said, putting my arm out in front of Dulceña. I don’t suppose there was any harm in letting them know she was also eighteen, but it stoked my fire that they would ask such an impertinent question of her.
“Look at what I found.” An old man with a white beard came up the trail clutching my spare clothes. He dropped my mochila, my new leather saddlebag, on the ground beside the oak tree.
The young man with the red shirt ripped my clothes out of the old man’s hands and said, “Let me see those.”
“You can take all of his things, Chavito,” the old man told him. “But I’m keeping the girl.”
“Shut up! Both of you,” Pollo said. “The jefe is coming.”
“What’s going on?” a rich, heavily accented voice called out from the darkness as their jefe’s tall, imposing frame came into view.
“Not much, Carlos,” the bearded old man said, folding Dulceña’s blanket in his thick, leathery hands with the delicacy of a cleft-clawed armadillo.
“Just a couple of kids, out for a good time, about to go for a swim, no doubt.”
Carlos regarded us for a few seconds before zeroing in on my mochila sitting on the ground to the left of us. Without saying a word, he picked it up.
“Take it,” I said as he held the satchel up to the lantern.
“Well, thank you. Don’t mind if I do.” A crooked grin formed just under Carlos’s thick mustache, but his dark eyes bespoke his lack of amusement at my remark. He tossed my mochila at Chavito and nodded. The young man started rummaging through it.
“There’s a good hunting rifle and a new saddle on my horse,” I said. “You can have them too if you like. All I ask is that you let us go. We’re no threat to you.”
“He’s telling the truth,” Dulceña said, pulling her blue shawl over her arms and wrapping it modestly over her shoulders. She was conscious that the glow emanating from the lantern hanging from the tree limb was drawing unwelcomed attention to her figure.
“Well, whaddya know. He’s a poet.” Chavito was standing behind us, directly under the glow of the lantern, thumbing through my journal. “Oh, he’s good.” He pulled the lantern down and brought it along with the journal for his boss to inspect.
Carlos took my journal and examined it under the light provided by his goon. He furrowed his thick eyebrows, concentrating as his eyes roamed over a poem, and then he flipped to the first page, reading my personal information with interest.
“These your poems?” he asked, lifting his dark, menacing eyes to meet mine, my journal still open between his hands. “You’re Joaquín del Toro?”
Shame the Stars Page 5