The Hummingbird's Daughter (51 page)

“Muy bien!” he said.

“Word of my promotion arrived last night with the courier, Señor Ponce de León.”

“Oh?”

“He bore many documents. Some troubling. But some pleasing to me.”

“Ah!”

“Don Tomás.” The major nodded. “It is a fine morning, is it not?”

“It is!”

“Though there are seditious rumblings in the hills.”

Tomás watched the cavalry and the Rurales spread out.

“However,” the major sighed, “in spite of the rebellious spirit afoot in the land, this fine ranch is a bastion of loyalty to the president. Am I right?”

Tomás said nothing.

“Is this a social visit?” said Urrea. “Would you like to come in?”

The major removed his hat. Wiped his brow with a white handkerchief.

“If only I could, sir,” he said. “However, Señor Ponce de León has delivered to me a series of documents that link your daughter to the rebels hereabouts.”

“Rebels? Where?”

“Quite a party you have here,” said the major, gesturing at the pilgrims. “I see no one has chosen to go home.”

“I believe,” said Tomás, “they are as eager as I am to see what your disposition is today. After they see how the great army is feeling, then they will go home. I am certain.”

“A political rally, eh?” said the major.

“It is . . . religious in nature.”

“Religion,” Enríquez repeated. “Worse than politics.”

“Indeed.”

“I hear tell there’s a heresy here. Word came of that last night as well. Oh! Señor Ponce de León had quite a portfolio! Not simply revolt, you see.”

Tomás snorted. “As if the church itself isn’t so much horse manure.”

Enríquez looked away. “That’s debatable, my friend.” He gestured around him. “And these Indians? Are they here for religion, or war?”

“It’s their country,” said Tomás.

“Really?
” the major replied. “I thought this was the Mexican Republic.”

“Where your horses are standing now, it is the Urrea Republic.”

“Ah! That clarifies things for me.”

The major’s horse shook its head, rattling the bit in its mouth.

“Sedition, you know, is even more dangerous than heresy.”

He turned his horse away.

“For now,” he said, “you and your daughter are under house arrest. My men will keep watch. Feel free to have your assistants do their work as usual, but all preaching stops. No contact between Miss Urrea and the . . .
pilgrims.
”

“Until?” Tomás asked.

“Until new orders arrive,” the major replied. He saluted. “I must oversee the hunt for the rebels,” he said. “An officer’s work is never done.”

“Good day!” Tomás shouted as he retreated, but the major never looked back.

Enríquez returned the next morning.

“Major!” Tomás cried with false goodwill. “Will you dismount today and have a coffee with us?”

Enríquez shook his head.

“Not today,” he replied.

“Have a smoke,” Tomás said, offering the major a thin black cigar.

The major spurred ahead and stood his horse beside Tomás. He bent down. They shared a match. He had dust on his whiskers.

He said, “I apologize, Don Tomás. We have been sent to stop the turmoil here, as you know. Your daughter has preached liberal doctrines. Anti-Díaz in nature, no? And now she has been charged with consorting with armed rebels.”

“Una pendejada!” Tomás scoffed.

“I had hoped you would have left last night.”

“No! We were under house arrest.”

“True, but then you would have been someone else’s problem.”

The major gestured at the scarred Rurales glaring at Tomás. He felt as if he was seeing them for the first time. Ugly brutes, dark men, eyes like flat buttons, thin Chinese whiskers at the corners of their mouths, horrid ancient knife wounds running their cheeks and chins.

“We have troops with us come from Huatabampo to interdict the Tigers of the Sierra. Men are riding from Cocorit, from Hermosillo, from Guaymas, and Guerrero in Chihuahua.”

“Tigers?” asked Tomás.

“Come now.” The major puffed his cigar. “We have reports of their being here, armed. Talking strategies with your daughter. We know you spoke to their leader on your porch.”

“I speak to many people.” Tomás shrugged.

“We received a report that they’re coming back to confer with her.”

“Why?”

“Armed revolt, Don Tomás. Armed revolt. They have recognized your daughter as a saint. Only she can express God’s plan to them, you see. They’re coming to seek her counsel.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Tomás said. “Teresita doesn’t care about politics.”

“Orders are orders,” said the major.

“And what are your orders?”

“We are to stop the Tigers,” the major replied. “And Miss Urrea.”

“Stop her how?”

Enríquez looked at him sadly.

“I suppose that is your choice,” he said. “Either she dies, or she goes to prison.”

Tomás stared at him.

He looked at each of the military riders.

“Not acceptable,” he said.

“Oh? Do you believe you have a choice?”

Tomás smiled.

“A free man,” he said, “always has a choice, my dear Major Enríquez!”

Enríquez blew air through his lips.

“How do you like that cigar?” Tomás said.

“Very rich.”

“One takes small pleasures where one can.”

Tomás raised his right hand.

“For example, I,” he said, “dearly love to shoot my guns when given the opportunity.”

Juan Francisco stepped out from behind the wagon, levering a round into the firing chamber. Segundo and his men pulled their rifles and ratcheted their rounds. Don Teófano pumped a round into his shotgun. His niece raised her gun. The soldiers raised their rifles. Pilgrims scattered. Buenaventura worked the lever on his rifle. It was a small symphony of metallic snicks and clacks.

The cavalrymen jumped at their weapons.

The major raised his hand.

“Hold your fire,” he yelled.

The apocalypse was deferred.

“You are making me raise my voice,” Enríquez said. “This is bad form.”

“Leave,” Tomás said.

Enríquez looked down at him. “You are hurting my feelings,” he said.

Tomás offered Enríquez one of the sayings of the People: “If one doesn’t feel like it, two can’t fight.”

Enríquez looked at him.

Tomás dug in his vest pocket, produced a key ring.

“My dear Major,” he said. “My daughter is sitting in her bedroom, as any chaste Mexican lady would. Her room is there, on the second floor.”

He gestured to the main house.

The major glanced at the shuttered windows.

“Her door is, of course, locked. There are rough elements here who would not honor or respect the safety of a young lady. I am sure you understand.”

Tomás offered the keys to him.

“Our front door is also locked. One never knows these days. But here, take the keys. Do enter my home, and do open her door and take her from us.”

The major looked at the keys.

“But kill me first,” Tomás said. “I would become very emotional if you invaded my home, so I suggest you try to shoot my right-hand man over there —” He waved toward Segundo. “He is very protective of Teresa. Shoot him first. I recommend you then kill my son by the wagon. Then, on the porch, you might see my stepson.” Buenaventura beamed. What was a stepson? It sounded fancy to him. Tomás continued: “Be sure to shoot this crazy old man with the shotgun. I don’t know what my cowboys will say, and I cannot speak for these damned pilgrims. They’re all insane, if you ask me. But once you’ve cleaned them out, do me a favor. Shoot my wife. She is armed and, frankly, at the point where she might kill anyone who comes in the door.”

“She is very tense,” Segundo offered.

The major smiled. He barked out a laugh. “Pinche Urrea!” he said. “Qué cabrón eres.” He laughed again. “You are sly, I’ll give you that.”

Tomás puffed his cigar and squinted. “I love my daughter.”

The major scratched his chin. “I have two daughters,” he said.

“What, no boys?”

“God hasn’t graced me yet with boys.”

Tomás made a sound like
Uf!

“You should live longer,” he said. “Have sons.”

The major took the cigar from his mouth, studied the coal at the end. “We had fun in Los Mochis, didn’t we,” he said.

“We drank beer,” Tomás reminded him.

The major turned in his saddle and gestured to his men. They put their arms down. “All right?” he said.

Tomás waved at his people, and they lowered their rifles.

Enríquez spun his arm around once, over his head, and pointed at the gate. The men slid their rifles back in their scabbards and turned their horses and trotted back toward the exit of Cabora.

“For the children,” he said.

Tomás flicked his little cigar away.

“Gracias.”

“I understand your . . . situation,” said the major. He glanced at the house. “It will probably cost me my head. But I will give you some time to, ah, speak to your daughter. We will camp outside the ranch, near the creek there. I will call a meeting of my officers. We need to discuss our plans. And you . . . you can do what you must. I can give you two, possibly three hours.”

Tomás put his hand out. The major took it. They shook.

“You are a gentleman, my friend,” Tomás said.

“I am a soldier,” the major replied. “Nothing more.”

He backed his horse away, but before he turned to ride out alone, he said, “Be careful.”

“We will.”

“Be fast,” the major said. And, “Happy Easter.”

“We missed Easter this year,” Tomás said.

“Pity.”

Then Enríquez rode out of the ranch, nodding to the pilgrims and the vaqueros as he went.

Fifty-six

THEY TOOK LITTLE WITH THEM. Tomás wrapped some food in a blanket, and he took his weapons. Gaby cried as he embraced her.

“Don’t weep, my love,” he said. “No one can catch us—we’re the fastest riders on the plains.”

He kissed her feverishly, hard enough to hurt their mouths.

“I’ll have her in Aquihuiquichi tonight,” he said. “By morning, we’ll be rested enough to get things ready for you. A few weeks in the country, and we can all return home.”

“And if there is trouble?” Gabriela said.

“Listen, Enríquez is a good man. You saw that here today! We’ll slip away to the mountains. I’ll take Teresita to Bayoreca, or into Chihuahua. We’ll seek asylum there! Then I’ll get her to Texas, and Aguirre will shelter her. Don’t cry! I will be back here with you all in a month at the latest.”

Gaby hugged Teresita.

Segundo already had two strong horses saddled and waiting.

Teresita took nothing. She left her rosary behind. She left her herbs and her wooden crosses. She was beyond religious symbols now. What she had of God, she carried within her, and there was no totem that could give her comfort or strength anymore.

She held Gaby in her arms.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“I will come to you,” Gaby said.

“I love you.”

“And I love you.”

Segundo offered Teresita a small silver pistol. She shook her head.

“Please,” he begged.

“I cannot.”

She put her face against his chest. It was hard. The wool of his chest hair scratched against the cotton of his shirt.

“I wish I could go with you,” he said.

“You must defend the ranch.”

He put his hand on her hair.

“Bless me, then,” he said.

She kissed him and held him and whispered, in the old tongue, “Lios emak weye.”

Segundo was startled to find he was shedding tears.

They hurried through the house.

Buenaventura stood on the front steps.

Tomás stood beside him.

“Son,” he said.

Buenaventura turned to him.

“You did well today,” said Tomás. “I was proud of you.”

Buenaventura smiled.

“You are a man now.”

Tomás put his hand on his son’s back.

Juan Francisco joined them.

“Teresita and I must flee the ranch,” Tomás explained. “We can’t take anyone with us—they’ll only slow us. You know your sister rides like a hurricane. I think I can keep up with her.”

“And the ranch?” Buenaventura asked. “Will Segundo run things here?”

“Segundo!” said Tomás. “This is our ranch. He’s the second in command. Always has been. He’ll follow orders.”

“Whose orders?”

Tomás leaned away and pretended to stare at them both in shock.

“Can you two get along?”

The boys nodded.

“My other children are all in Alamos. I need men here. It’s
our
ranch,” Tomás said. “It’s
your
ranch, boys!”

“What?”

“You run the ranch. You’re the men here.”

“Me? Run the ranch?” cried Buenaventura.

“The two of you. I’m leaving you in charge! Segundo and the vaqueros will do what you say, so be smart. And you protect my Gaby, you hear?”

“Father?” Buenaventura said.

“Take care of things for me.” Tomás embraced his boys, and kissed them each on the cheek.

When he left, Buenaventura sat down on the step and stared at the ground. Juan Francisco stood taller and stared at the confused pilgrims staring back at him.

Tomás rode his immense black stallion. Segundo had chosen a fast palomino for Teresita. She slit her skirts with his knife and drew up her petticoats. They moved out, slowly at first, keeping the bulk of the main house between themselves and the front of the property. They slunk away from the kitchen, down between the outhouses and the ravaged herb garden. They cut around a long chicken coop, where the chickens had mostly been poached and all the eggs stolen and eaten by pilgrims, then behind Segundo’s house. They eased down the bank of the arroyo, moved around the turbid green water of last winter, their horses’ hooves pressing deep crescents in the black mud, a glitter of tiny flies fleeing their shadows. The cottonwoods were soft with new green, just starting to fill out in their May finery; still, the ends of their branches were bare, and they clawed the sky like skeletal hands ripping chunks of sun out of the storm clouds. Heat lightning skittering around the crowns of the hills. A heavy darkness rising from the far sea, coming toward them, tattering into white streamers and evaporating above the llano’s heat. Horseflies stinging blood out of the flanks of their mounts. Pilgrims already calling to her as she passed.

“Bless you, Teresa!”

Hands extended, she touched their fingertips as they reached for her.

“Come back to us, angel!” they said.

She touched their heads.

“Viva Teresa!”

They climbed the far bank.

“Viva la Santa de Cabora!”

Tomás looked back at his home one last time and put his silver spur to his horse. The horses exploded over the banks and screamed across the burning plain.

And the People began to slip away. With their saint gone, they went to the four directions. Some hurried. Some tarried. But the camps began to break down within the hour. Fires kicked asunder.

The Yaquis went north and the Mayos went south. The few Tarahumara ran back toward their sierras, and the Apaches galloped to Arizona. The Pimas moved west of Tucson, and the Seris walked toward the sea.

Mestizos hurried toward Sinaloa, their dream of salvation shattered. The Arizonans and New Mexicans and Texans hove their wagons onto the dusty roads and made less haste—the Mexican army would not dare attack gringo caravans. But all along the way, people stopped them and asked,
Is it true?
And
Have they taken the Saint?
And they spread the word—they said,
Yes, she is gone.
They said,
Yes, she is dead.
They said the army was set to massacre them all.

In the hills, the fighters gathered. They whispered of fire. They spoke late into the night of rifles, machetes, ambush, and slaughter.

As the People fled, the warriors drew closer to Cabora and watched.