I am sorry I have not made more of an effort to see you, to speak with you, to hold you tight and reassure you of my love. But there are things I must do, things I must take care of, before I see you again. I have to make sure the darkness that lingers in our midst, casting its sinister shadow over Las Moras, looming over our people, is dispelled. I have to act, now, before we all perish.
Tuyo, hoy y siempre,
— J
Chapter 11
After watching the Ranger station and following Slater and his deputy friends for days, I was still seething with anger and resentment. Ignoring my mother’s pleas, I came up with a plan. Three nights later, I was squatting low to the ground and unfastening the gate of the Silver Hoof Corral behind the sugar mill, on the outskirts of town, when I heard footsteps. The horses snorted and moved around nervously, while every muscle in my body tensed. There was no one patrolling the corral. My observations led me to believe that wasn’t part of the nightly routine, and I knew for a fact the corral boy was asleep — I could see him from where I was squatting — so I could only assume it was a Ranger coming back for his horse.
As heavy boots stepped carefully over snapping twigs and crackling pebbles, I reached for my pistol. I drew it out of its holster slowly, intent on using it if I had to. I couldn’t think of a story to explain my presence there, so I figured I was going to have to flee. I froze as the footsteps grew closer.
“Joaquín del Toro,” a hushed voice whispered in the darkness.
I recognized the man who came forward from the shadows and crouched down beside me. “Carlos!” I whispered, relieved. He was holding a gun in his right hand. He wasn’t pointing it at me, but I wondered why he had drawn it. “What are you doing here?”
“Me?” Carlos asked. “Well, I’m a rebel, so I’m up to no good, of course. But what about you? What’s this all about?”
“I’m taking care of the Rangers’ horses,” I said.
“Looks shady to me.” Carlos tested the knotted rope on the gate as he spoke. “You trying to steal these horses, son?”
“Why does that shock you? You stop people in the chaparral and take their things from them all the time,” I said.
Carlos was silent, but only for a moment, before he explained, “Stealing from vagrants and ruffians isn’t the same as stealing from lawmen.”
“I don’t see how it’s any different. They’re the same breed — outlaws and lawmen,” I said. Then I pointed to the rope. “Besides, I’m not stealing them. I’m just going to cut them loose. Release them.”
Carlos cocked his head and thought about it for a second before he asked, “Why would you do that?”
“To torment the lawmen.” I continued to work through the knot. It was the least they deserved, after all they’d done lately. “I’m going to take their beasts south of town, to the border. With any luck, I can coax them to run across the river into Mexico.”
“And what’s that gonna accomplish?” Carlos asked.
I finished untying the rope and pulled it through, separating the gate from the fence. “Well,” I continued, “the way I see it, if Munro and his posse are busy rounding up their horses, they won’t have time to round up Mexicans, much less go chasing after our girls.”
“And you’re doing this all by yourself?” Carlos put his gun back into its holster, then stood up, watching for signs of our discovery. “You know you can’t do this alone.”
“I’m not alone.” I opened the gate, then crept around the corral for my horse. Carlos followed. “You’re here. And if I know you, you have half a dozen men with you.”
Carlos laughed softly, deep in his throat. Then he came over and patted my horse’s nose. “So what?”
“Oh, don’t pretend you all were out here stargazing,” I said. “You knew what I was up to. The question is . . . are you here to help me?”
“This is madness, Joaquín,” Carlos said, shaking his head as I mounted.
“All right then, step out of the way,” I said.
At the sight of me on my mount, drawing out my pistol, Carlos swore, “Oh, hell!”
I fired my gun into the air three times and screamed at the top of my lungs. Carlos jumped aside as the lawmen’s horses leaped into action, bolting out of the corral at top speed. I chased behind them, using my hat to spook them out of town.
The wind whistled in my ears as we galloped after the remuda, trying to keep them together. A few of them went by the wayside, but most of them formed a herd that ran southeastward from town.
At first my horse was galloping after them, but after a few minutes, we were beside them, and suddenly, we had surpassed them, together a whirlwind of muscle and mane that ran through the chaparral, a many-hoofed, roaring beast. The ride was more than exhilarating. It was downright intoxicating.
As I’d hoped, a team of horsemen sprinted out of the woods. The mounted men sped up, flanking the remuda on either side, not trying to stop us, but racing alongside as if their goal was the same as mine, to get them to Mexico as soon as possible.
From the ranks, a leader emerged by my side. I recognized him in the dark. “I knew you couldn’t stay away,” I yelled at Carlos as we raced ahead.
“Does your mother know you’re crazy?” he yelled back.
“ ’Course not!” I said. “That’s what makes it so much fun!”
“Boy, you and I need to have a talk about what constitutes fun!” Carlos snapped his reins and made his mount move ahead of me. I let him take the lead, figuring he knew the territory better than I did.
We continued heading south, slowing down, keeping a strong but steady pace until we got close enough to the river, an earthy, wet mud smell intensifying in the warm summer air. When we reached the edge of the Río Bravo, we came to a complete stop.
Pollo and Chavito rode up to meet us. We split up, trotting half up and half down the riverbank, scouting a good place to cross.
“Down here.” Carlos signaled for us to bring the remuda along. The men snapped their reins and slapped their legs against the ribs of their mounts and we drove the lawmen’s horses into the river. The dark waters of the Río Bravo were calm and warm, inviting. It wasn’t too deep either. I barely got my boots wet before we were on the other side.
“Let’s go!” Carlos hollered, and we all galloped after him, driving the herd of horses into the campo.
“Where are we taking them?” I asked when Carlos slowed to a leisurely trot.
“Up into the hills,” he said, keeping a steady pace as he talked. “Those Rinches and their deputy friends will never find them if we can get them to Chelito.”
“Chelito? Who’s that?”
As we traveled, Carlos told me that Chelito’s real name was Consuelo Zaragoza Morales de Limón. She was a Soldadera, a former tejana who’d fled to Mexico after her father and brothers were murdered and she and her mother had been forced off their ranch in Monteseco fifteen years before. She was now in command of a band of fifty-two Mexican revolutionaries, an all-female troop holed up in the hills of northern Mexico. However, to my uncle Carlos, she was simply Chelito.
Deeper into the hills, we came upon a campsite hidden within the folds of a huge ravine. A large group of wild warrior women came out of the cavernous dwelling to welcome us.
“Carlito! Cariño mío, where have you been?” Chelito called. Her long, thick white braid moved softly side to side as she walked to us. “I haven’t seen you in almost a year!”
“Working hard to keep you in luxury, as you can see.” Carlos nodded back to the herd of horses Chelito’s women were already inspecting and petting behind us.
Chelito’s eyes twinkled and crinkled at the edges. “Are those for me?” she asked.
“Who else?” Carlos reached over and pulled on one of her trenzas, like she was a little girl. Chelito grinned and slapped his hand away playfully.
“And who’s this?” she asked. Time and hard living had not taken the fire out of her eyes. Although her face was heavily creased, her gaze sparkled with life.
“This is your benefactor,” Carlos began. “The herd is a gift from him. He was going to cut them loose, but I told him I knew someone who would really appreciate them.”
Chelito narrowed her eyes at me for a moment, and then she smiled, a tight-lipped smile that revealed nothing. “You a horse thief?”
“No, ma’am,” I said. “I just thought the lawmen in Monteseco needed to be taught a lesson.” I’d intended to make the Rangers scrabble in the brush looking for their horses, but the idea of making the horses disappear altogether did appeal to me.
“Amen!” Chelito said, then she unhooked a canteen from her belt, took a small drink, and handed it to me. “Have a drink. You’ve earned it.”
I took a long, thirsty swig only to choke on what I can only describe as a gluttonous, bitter alcoholic muck.
“You all right there, son?” Chelito asked, pounding forcefully on my back as I coughed and snorted the fiery liquid straight out of my burning nostrils. My windpipe was aflame, and my lungs clogged with red-hot cinders.
“Let me guess,” Carlos shook his head. “You never had pulque before.”
“No,” I said, puckering at the sour, yeasty residue lingering in my mouth.
“Ay, m’ijo, you’ve been missing out,” Chelito said. “Here, have some more. It’s sweeter the second time around.”
I took another swig and swallowed the volcanic stuff down quickly, handing the canteen back to Chelito before she insisted I have any more of it.
“Come on in, pásenle a lo recogido.” Chelito took the canteen and led us up a dirt path. We made our way up the small hill, where women lingered at the mouth of the cave.
It was dark inside their dwelling, but my eyes adjusted quickly to the dim light. Every nook revealed the remnants of the women’s somewhat domesticated lives. There were Floral skirts, drab shawls, and light-colored undergarments drying out on recumbent clotheslines that extended from one end of the small cave to the other. The simple bedding on the dirt floor was neat and tidy, like it would be if they had real beds.
A small fire burned low and quiet, and I could smell coffee brewing in the tin pot sitting on an iron grate over it. There was even a set of crates piled up two by two, one set on top of the other, with a lacy tablecloth spread over it, and a thick, unlit candle at the center.
“Don’t let her get too close.” Carlos sat down on a crate next to me and Chelito, who was studying my hair as she ran her fingers through it. “She’s a sirena! She’ll draw you in, ply you with sweet words and small swigs from her jug, and then she’ll break your heart.” He winked at Chelito.
“Break your heart? When have I ever?” Chelito reached across me and smacked his arm.
“Always,” Carlos teased. “In all these years, you’ve never kissed me. You just keep me waiting like a schoolboy.”
“Oh, behave yourself! Now who’s this child? Do I know his parents? I don’t recognize the hair. But those eyes,” she said. “Well, those eyes are legendary, aren’t they?”
“Well, you’re right about that. This is Joaquín, the youngest son of Acevedo and Jovita del Toro, from Rancho Las Moras,” Carlos informed her as I squirmed beside her.
Chelito touched my hair again and said, “So you’re Jovita’s son?”
“You know my mother?” I asked, intrigued by her familiarity.
“A long time ago, when she was a young girl,” Chelito said. “We played in the same fields, picked flowers together, gazed up at the stars, and made promises that — ”
“Joaquín is not a stargazer, Chelito,” Carlos said. “He’s more like his Papá in that respect. He’s just started to see things our way.”
Chelito cocked her head sideways to stare at me again. “Oh, but it was always there. I see the light of La Estrella in his eyes. Even his smile is his mother’s, isn’t it? And judging from his actions, he’s got his mother’s spirit también.”
“La Estrella. You know about that?” I asked. As I thought about my mother, I wondered just how long she had been known by that name. Was she helping these women too? Was she a revolutionary like them?
“Well, I wish we had time to discuss Joaquín’s rebellion, but we have to get going,” Carlos said, shifting as if to rise.
“But you just got here,” Chelito said. “Stay. Rest. Let the horses get their wind back. I’ll pour you some good, strong coffee, to help keep you awake for the ride home.”
So we stayed for a while, rested over a couple of hours by the campfire. The women plied us with aromatic coffee. Carlos teased them all, outright flirting with them, asking them for a kiss or a hug, but none of them paid him any mind.
While the men lay down and chatted with each other by the fire, I sat on a dusty zarape on the ground and leaned back against a battered trunk. I killed time, writing a poem in my journal, waiting to get back to my life and the only thing on my mind: Dulceña.
Excerpt from Joaquín’s journal, Thursday, September 2, 1915
IN DREAMS
In my dreams, I run with beasts —
we run rampant, como remuda,
into the thickness of the chaparral.
Darting off, their necks stretch
forward and lengthen until the stars
on their faces touch the sky.
The diamonds on their chests contract,
expand, harden them. Their withers grow
hair that fluffs and flickers, and we fly
into the fog, in and out of the mist,
like locomotives on fire.
In my dreams, I run with beasts —
caballos moros, blancos, y negros.
Their hooves eat the dirt beneath us,
spitting out the bones of the earth
as we gallop back to a place in time
where mount was monarch
and man could only watch
and marvel at him from afar.
We swallow the wind in giant gulps
as we pass man by, leaving
him farther and farther behind.
In my dreams, I run with beasts —
capricious ballos, beautiful and strong.
Their ears sit back, almost flush
against their skulls, as we spring out
of the brush. We run along the dim horizon,
wade through arroyos, climb over
deep ravines. We rush through valleys,
dash through deserts, traverse montes,
and somewhere in the Sierra Madres
we come upon Zapata and his insurgents.
We sprint over campfires — a pot of beans
spills, sputters, and bursts into flames.
Zapata shakes his head and smiles,
bedazzled by the swiftness of the shadows
we cast upon canyon walls.
In my dreams, I run with beasts —
sweaty mounts with foaming coats
and heavy snorts, worn, weary mammals
with rebellious, seditious hearts fleeing
on instinct, running toward the light.
We outrun coyotes, stomp on vipers,
and spook lechuzas, and all the while
my thoughts return to you, like buitres
circling overhead, always going back
to the United States, back to hostility,
back to oppression, back to resentment.
Chapter 12
Because my horse got spooked and I fell into the river when we were crossing back, I got to Las Moras completely soaked. Fito was taking care of the stables that night, so I didn’t have to explain to him where I was going when I left. But when I got back, he did tell me to be careful because Tomás had arriv
ed earlier in the evening and hadn’t left yet.
Worried I might get in trouble for leaving the house in the middle of the night without telling anyone where I was going, I snuck in through the back door. With any luck, Tomás was spending the night and already asleep, so I wouldn’t have to talk to anyone. I slunk through the kitchen, down the hall, until I came to the banister of the main stairway. That’s when I saw the light coming from my room. To my surprise, Tomás was sitting on my bed waiting for me.
“Join me, Joaquín,” he said, shifting the book he’d been reading and placing it on his lap. I breathed a thankful sigh of relief when I saw it wasn’t his Bible. It was hard having a priest for a brother. I was especially worried about having to talk to him tonight, because I knew for a fact I was going to have to lie to him, and I was sure lying to a priest had to be one of the biggest sins a man could commit. “Odd time for a swim, don’t you think, Hermanito?”
“It was too hot in here,” I said. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Hmm,” Tomás frowned. Here it comes, I thought, cringing. The Lecture. “You shouldn’t stay out so late.” Tomás lifted the delicate ribbon from the crease of the book and flipped it over and away from the page. “It’s hotter out there than it is in here.”
Tomás put his book aside, got up, and came over to me. He stood before me in his black shirt and black pants, his persona less like a priest and more like a brother as he put his hands on my shoulders.
“Please don’t lie to me,” he said, gripping the back of my head and tugging at my hair as if I were a pup. “I know about the horses. Now, please, tell me. Why would you do something like that?” Not wanting to lie to my brother, I hung my head instead and didn’t say anything else, hoping he’d let me go to bed without any more fuss. “Am I talking to myself here, Joaquín?” Tomás asked, giving my hair another tug.
“No.” I eyed the place on his shirt where his priest’s collar would have been if he’d been wearing it and wondered if lying to your brother when he’s dressed down was less of a sin than if he was all decked out in his priestly garb.
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