Shame the Stars

by McCall,Guadalupe Garcia

  “Free Tomás!” someone screamed, and suddenly, they were all chanting it, together, in unison. “Free Tomás! Free Tomás!” They kept screaming and chanting, getting louder and louder as more and more people joined us.

  “To the courthouse!” someone else screamed, and before I knew what was going on, the people were leading me. Toward the center of town we all walked, chanting and screaming and picking up more and more people along the way, until it became very apparent to me that we had become bigger and more powerful than any posse Munro could muster. When we were standing before the courthouse, the people stopped screaming and stood together, looking at me, waiting.

  “Go on, son! Get up there!” Don Rodrigo said as he shouldered his way through the crowd. “Bring that thing over here. This boy has something to say. He needs something to stand on.” He pointed to a rickety trunk sitting on the porch of the dress shop.

  When I was finally standing steady over the crowd, I said, “I am Joaquín del Toro. Tomás is my brother. We are the sons of Jovita and Acevedo del Toro. My mother is dead now. Some might say she died for her beliefs, for the cause, but I think she died for us, for me and Tomás, so that we might have a future in this world. So that we might have the freedom to live and love and speak our minds here, en los Estados Unidos.”

  “That’s right, son! Speak your mind,” Donna Sabrett said, pumping her fist in the air, at which everyone whistled and cheered.

  “Speak your mind! Speak your mind!” the mob chanted, and then the doors of the courthouse opened, and Munro, Sheriff Caceres, and their men stepped outside. They stood on the front steps of the courthouse on the other side of the street, talking, shaking their heads, watching us.

  “My brother is not a murderer,” I said. “He’s good and kind. My mother raised him that way. She raised him to love his fellow man, to honor and protect them. She raised me that way too. Only I haven’t been as good as Tomás. Up until today, I’ve been fighting back, but as you well know violence only begets violence. It took me a long time to realize that. But it’s time we learned how to fight the intelligent war. It’s time to speak up. It’s time to raise our voices together. What we need here is a revolution evolution, a peaceful resolution, a new way of life.”

  “What should we do?”

  “How can we help Tomás?”

  “We’re all here because my brother needs us. He’s a good man, a good priest, a brother to everyone in Monteseco, and now the law wants to hang him. They say he tried to kill that deputy, but we all know that’s not true. We all know he’s not a killer. He only did that because that man murdered our mother. He shouldn’t hang for that.”

  “That’s right!” a man in the front row yelled. He turned his back on me and spoke to the crowd directly, “We need to free Tomás! We need to free our brother!”

  “We need to speak up for him!” I raised my hands high again and again as I spoke. “We need justice! We need freedom! We need to put pressure on the governor! He needs to know we’re tired of his crooked lawmen. We’re tired of his bigoted politics!”

  “Free Tomás! Free our brother!”

  “Free Tomás! Free our brother!” The crowd had worked itself into a frenzy, and to show her support, Dulceña ran to her father’s automobile and brought out another batch of the papers we’d been distributing all morning. Holding the papers in one arm, she lifted an issue into the air and waved it, saying, “El Sureño lives. It speaks our truth!”

  Her words set the place on fire. Munro walked toward us, his steps deliberate, purposeful. Sheriff Caceres and his men flanked Munro. Without saying a word to any of us, the captain tore the papers out of Dulceña’s hands. And when she fought him and called him a “desgraciado,” he backhanded her across the face, sending her sprawling sideways into the dirt.

  It happened so fast I didn’t have time to react. I was barely off the trunk when Dulceña stood up and spit in Munro’s face, an act that had him reaching for his gun. But he didn’t get to it because Caceres drew his own pistol.

  “Don’t!” The sheriff’s voice was high-pitched, nervous. It was clear to everyone he wasn’t quite at ease as he pointed his gun at the Ranger.

  The crowd was mute in the face of what had just transpired. Nobody dared to take a breath. Not even the wind moved as we all stood silently still, waiting for the captain to react.

  “How dare you!” Munro said to the sheriff. “Who do you think you are, pulling your gun on me?”

  “Elliot!” The name coming out of Caceres’s mouth was a nervous warning, a quiet, jittery rattle lost in the density of the thicket. “Please. Don’t do this, sir. You can’t lawfully tell the press they can’t operate here.”

  “Shut up!” Munro said. “And put that thing away before you hurt yourself.”

  “Don’t make me do this,” Caceres said, pulling back the hammer and placing the barrel of his weapon inches from the Ranger’s chest. “For weeks now, I’ve watched you tear this family apart one member at a time because I was afraid to say anything. But that’s over now. I’m not afraid anymore. Enough is enough. This girl’s upset, but she’s not hurting anyone.”

  “She’s an insurgent — just like the rest of them,” Munro said. “She has no respect for the law. But I’ll take care of that, as soon as I’m done with you.”

  Then Munro took a swing at the sheriff, knocking the gun out of Caceres’s hand. The sheriff stepped back and righted himself, but his gun landed behind him.

  Caceres was younger and thicker, and he punched Munro so hard the Ranger went sprawling and landed on his back. His own pistol flew out of his hand and landed a few feet away from him. The captain didn’t have a chance to stand up because the sheriff threw himself on top of the Ranger and reached back for his handcuffs.

  But Munro wasn’t going to let himself get arrested. He wrapped his arms around Caceres and rolled the sheriff onto his back. Then Munro sat on Caceres’s chest and pounded at his head, one punch after another, until the sheriff’s blood covered the Ranger’s fist. And when Munro saw that the sheriff was too weak to fight back, he did the unthinkable. He picked up his sidearm. Bringing it up, he pulled back the hammer, aimed, and then —

  I jumped him.

  I jumped out of the crowd and went straight for Captain Munro. We slammed so hard onto the ground that the impact knocked the wind out of me. But I managed to rip the pistol out of Munro’s grasp, and I sent it flying away from us into the dirt. Munro twisted under me, tried flipping me, but I pressed my hands at his throat, choking him. The images of my mother, dead in my father’s arms, her body lying prone in her coffin, the mournful prayers, the painful funeral, all of it came flooding back as I held the Ranger’s life in my hands. And then suddenly someone was pulling me off Munro.

  “Let him go, son,” Don Rodrigo said as he and several other men pried me and the captain apart.

  “Arrest him,” Caceres said breathlessly. He lifted his head and started to get up, wiping blood from his face.

  “Which one?”

  The crowd stopped moving, everyone stood still, watching, waiting. Caceres glared first at Munro, then back at me, before he finally said, “Both of them.”

  Chapter 25

  A shocked silence settled over the crowd when Sheriff Caceres ordered our arrests. Then quietly, like a puma, a great murmur moved over the throng. It raised its head and broke into a roar, an angry, outraged cacophony of voices: quiet and loud, meek and boisterous, old and young, weak and strong, all mixed together, all speaking up for themselves.

  “Gente, por favor,” Caceres said, holding his hand up with his palm out in front of the crowd of enraged citizens. “Listen, I know you’re angry, but like this young man said, violence is not the answer. I need you to calm down and give me an opportunity to make this right.”

  “Then let Joaquín go!” Dulceña said. “He saved your life.”

  “I know, I kno
w,” Caceres said, nodding in agreement. “But the law’s the law — ”

  “You’re fresh out of grammar school,” a man in the back yelled. “What do you know about upholding the law?”

  “You’re in over your head, son. I have whiskers older than you!” Roy, the town barber, said.

  “He’s learning, give him a chance!” Don Rodrigo said.

  “Listen!” Caceres yelled as his deputies handcuffed me and Munro, being careful to keep us at least ten feet apart from each other. “I know I’m just an acting sheriff, but in light of everything that’s happened, everything you’ve lost, it’s my duty to make sure things get done properly. Now, I’m young, I admit that. That’s why I’m going to make some telephone calls, seek advice. I’ll talk to the governor himself if that’s what it takes to make sure justice is finally served in Monteseco.”

  “Yeah, call the governor! See what that gets you! What a joke!” the barber yelled.

  “Get him down here! Tell him I want to talk to him!” Donna said, pointing at the ground at her feet.

  Sheriff Caceres took a deep breath and addressed the crowd again. “I’m with you on that. This has to end. Too much pain has come from this conflict. We don’t need any more violence in this town. That’s why you have to listen to me. Go home, please. Go home to your loved ones and give me a chance to do my job.”

  As it turned out, the people of Monteseco weren’t ready to let the matter go. They stood outside the jailhouse the rest of the day and the whole night through. The first rays of dawn found them still standing there, chanting slogans, picketing, and singing hymns, waiting for Caceres to make good on his word. There were so many of them, and they were so riled up, the governor was forced to grant a stay of execution for Tomás until they could clear things up.

  I sat in my corner cell and listened to Tomás hum along with the picketers, off and on. I was grateful to the sheriff for one thing: he had put me in the cell immediately across from my brother and had Munro put in a cell on the opposite side of the building. We all waited for him to get the call down in his office on the first floor.

  We caught up, Tomás and I, talking, but mostly we listened to the ever-growing crowd. And when the sun went down, we lay awake, letting the day’s events settle into our consciousness and lull us into a disquieting sleep that had us both tossing and turning all night.

  Dulceña and her mother visited us three times a day. They kept me abreast of how things were going with Papá at Las Moras. He was recovering slowly, although he wasn’t altogether himself yet. So Dulceña thought it best to keep my imprisonment from him until he was recovered.

  Doña Serafina insisted on bringing us food from her own kitchen because she and Dulceña didn’t trust the deputies who might still be loyal to Munro not to poison us in our cells. The first time they came, as soon as they were allowed to visit, a few hours after my incarceration, Dulceña also brought me and Tomás new leather-bound journals and black fountain pens. Her hand lingered on mine when she passed me my journal through the iron bars, saying, “For your thoughts, mi amor. May they bring you comfort.”

  “I’m sorry I’ve made such a mess of things,” I said, hanging my head.

  “Don’t,” Dulceña said, squeezing my fingers in her hands. “This isn’t your fault.”

  “It’s that demonio, Munro,” Doña Serafina said, cursing under her breath. “This is all his fault. He’s always thought he owned this town, but the people are tired of him and his bullies. Listen to them out there, they’re not going to let him get away with this. They’re all behind you, m’ijo. You spoke to them from your heart, and they heard the message in your words. You’re their hero.”

  “Don’t give me too much credit,” I said. “I’m not a hero, I’m a terrible role model, and I hope nobody follows my example and starts something out there. And as far as my words are concerned, I wouldn’t say I’m very good at that either. I’m in jail for attacking an officer of the law. I’m as stupid as they come. There I was, standing in front of our people, telling them it’s time we stopped using violence to solve our problems, and then what do I do? I jump in and try to choke Munro.”

  “You saved the new sheriff’s life,” Dulceña reminded me.

  “It’s useless. I failed,” I whispered. “I wanted to save Tomás, to make things right, for Mamá’s sake, because I promised her I’d keep him safe, but I failed. I’m sorry, Dulceña. I’m sorry for not taking my own counsel and for letting everybody down.”

  “You’re being too hard on yourself, Joaquín,” Tomás said from the confines of his own cell. “I read what you wrote in the paper about me. You’re a great writer, a great poet, and from what’s come of it so far, you’re a great orator too.”

  Dulceña reached up and caressed my cheek. “Tomás is right, Joaquín,” she said. “The people are united now, and it’s all because of you. You did this. Your words brought them together.”

  After Dulceña and her mother left, Tomás lay in his bed writing sermons, and I wrote a few poems while we waited for the wheels of justice to turn. A week later, after an exhausting series of long-distance telephone calls from the sheriff and our lawyer to their new friends at the capitol, Judge Thompson had no other choice than to have Tomás released. After all, the governor himself had read the papers, studied the case, and granted my brother a full pardon. As for me, my charges were dismissed after it was determined I had acted in defense of Sheriff Caceres.

  When we were released, Tomás dropped to his knees and thanked the Lord out loud and crossed himself before he stood up and hugged me. The smile on his lips, the tears on his cheeks, the love in his eyes, these are the things I will never forget. Nor will I ever forget how hard Dulceña hugged me when she met us in front of the jailhouse. Her wet cheeks cooled my burning face as she clung to me and cried with happiness.

  Excerpt from Joaquín’s journal, Saturday, September 18, 1915

  EVOLUTION REVOLUTION

  Let’s start a revolution

  evolution of the mind.

  Put away your rifles,

  wrap your riatas,

  wind them tight.

  Gather up your courage

  don’t let justice pass you by.

  Let’s start a revolution,

  evolution’s on its way.

  Shake their trees, disturb

  their nests. Don’t be afraid

  — rattle that cage.

  It’s time to start a revolution

  evolution on the page.

  Write your words in crimson,

  brush them up

  with beads of sweat.

  Fly your words against

  the clouds, let them rage,

  let them age.

  Drape them over streams

  and rivers, toss them

  quietly into springs.

  Throw them up into the air,

  make them spread

  their brand-new wings.

  Stand up. Speak up.

  It’s the only way to start

  an evolution revolution —

  thinking with your hearts.

  Chapter 26

  After we dropped Tomás off at the parish, Dulceña and I went back to Las Moras, where we set about the job of nursing Papá back to health. I won’t say he made a full recovery. Sometimes, he would wake up crying because he’d dreamed of Mamá again. But those days were few and far between. Mostly, he concentrated on Las Moras and our new family. The sugarcane was finally harvested, more land was cleared for next year’s crop, and the fence we’d once meant to put in the pasture finally got built.

  Tomás and the Villas came to visit often. In the spring they started making noise about our future. “This house is too empty!” Papá said, as if he’d suddenly awakened from a foggy dream.

  “Yes it is!” Doña Serafina said, reaching over and patting Dulceña’s ha
nd. “Perhaps someday soon, we might hear news of grandchildren.”

  “Grandchildren?” Dulceña blushed. Then, giggling, she added, “Why not. How many would you like?”

  Don Rodrigo’s eyes gleamed as he considered Dulceña’s question. “Lots of them. Lots and lots of them!” he said, lifting his coffee cup high up in the air in salute to the grand idea.

  “Oh my!” Dulceña said, blushing brighter than before.

  “I think you’re embarrassing our daughter,” Doña Serafina said, leaning over and kissing Dulceña’s temple affectionately.

  Dulceña’s eyes glittered for a moment and then she said, “I think it’s time to go inside.”

  “Yes, grandchildren will be forthcoming,” I said. “But Dulceña and I have decided to take care of our studies first. We hope you understand we have dreams to chase, careers to build, when things settle down.” Dulceña gave me a small hug and a chaste kiss on the cheek before she picked up her coffee cup, and we all went back into the main house for a quiet family dinner.

  For months to come, Sheriff Caceres and other county officials went knocking on almost every door in Monteseco. They probed and prodded, shook our hands and nodded, and eventually things started to change. Some lawmen, mostly Rangers, were reprimanded. Judge Thompson was removed from office and run out of town, and vigilantism of any kind was no longer tolerated in Morado County.

  Munro was investigated, prosecuted, and ultimately sent to prison in Huntsville. Some say he met up with inmates he’d helped put behind bars and finally got his comeuppance. I didn’t care to listen to los rumores, because, to be honest, I didn’t think too much about him after that. I was just glad he was out of our lives for good.

  When election time came around, Miguel Caceres ran for office and officially became our sheriff. He might have been young, but his word was gold as far as the people of Morado County were concerned. Even though by the middle of 1916 the “uprising” in South Texas had begun to fade into history, the practices of the Rangers continued to come into question. Over the course of the next three years, more and more reports of their cruelty and abuse of power came to light, and the government saw it necessary to intervene and protect its citizens.