“I had breakfast at the main house.”
She pushed past her aunt and went inside.
The People stared at Tía.
She said, “Don’t look at me!”
But she knew Huila had cursed her, and forever more, they would all stare like ghosts, and none of them would ever say a word.
Ten
THE ENGINEER DON LAURO AGUIRRE arrived in a flurry of dust and rattling. He was driving a smart cabriolet pulled by a handsome black horse. Gómez and his Rurales saw him through the gate of the ranch, then rode on, in search of wanderers to bushwhack.
Tomás greeted his old friend atop his massive palomino, El Tuerto. El Tuerto wasn’t one-eyed, even though his name implied it, but his troubling habit of going sideways was cured by giving him a single blinder, which forced him to follow just one of his badly crossed brown eyes. This solution meant that he was blind on his right side when wearing his eye patch, and Tomás had to rely on precise spur work to keep him from tumbling off hillsides or falling into bogs. But once controlled, El Tuerto was a magnificent stallion, taller than all the other horses on the ranch, with the hair of a French courtesan. Any other rancher would have made El Tuerto into a plow horse, or would have shot him, but Tomás had seen his glory right away. “If he were a woman,” he’d told Segundo, “I would marry him.”
“Sure, boss,” Segundo had replied. “Everybody likes blonds.”
Aguirre steered the little wagon toward the house, and Tomás rode beside him, regaling him with tales of the quotidian wonders of his life. “Yes, yes,” Aguirre repeated, “yes, yes.” Huila passed before him, her new shotgun under her arm. She didn’t even glance at him, but trudged into the distance.
“The curandera,” Aguirre offered.
“That’s the one.”
“She looks cranky.”
“When doesn’t she?”
“Say, Urrea, my dear cabrón. I’ve been meaning to ask you. Are there Indians hereabouts? Do you have the red man working for you?”
“Claro,” Tomás replied. “It’s their land.” He thought better of that comment and amended it: “It was their land.”
“Apaches?”
“No.”
“Yaquis?”
“A few. But we’re pretty far south for too many Yaquis.”
“Who, then?”
Tomás blew air out of his mouth.
“Quién sabe. Let’s see—Ocoronis, some wandering Pimas, I think, or Seris—far from home if they are here. I know there are Tehuecos and Guasaves in the bunch. The Guasaves come up from Culiacán looking for work. We have Mayos.”
“Mayas?” cried Aguirre. “I thought the Maya to be in the far south! A jungle people! Are these not the realms of the barbarian Chichimeca? The Dog People who laid waste to the temples and the pyramids? Are there Mayan ruins here?”
These fucking lectures.
“Not Mayas, pendejo. Mayos. O! May-
o!
”
Aguirre drew up before the main house and put his reins down on the seat and set the foot brake.
“Good Lord, man,” he sniffed, “there is no need to get huffy.”
By the time Tomás had collected his thoughts to insult Aguirre again, the Engineer was knocking at the door and calling for Loreto.
Inside, Loreto had already lined up her children. Aguirre had never really noticed them, except to note that there were several. He had not counted them, and he couldn’t remember their names. “Yes, yes, good to see you, how do you do,” he intoned, like a priest unloading wafers or shaking hands after Mass. Children, yes, certainly. He moved on to Loreto and clutched her hands, crying, “You remain as lovely as peach blossoms in spring!” He then baffled yet delighted Loreto by slipping into Italian for a moment, calling her a
fiore di pesca.
He lifted her hands in his and kissed them, taking the opportunity to smell her skin. Loreto! Blossom of warm sugar! Sprinkled with cinnamon and vanilla! Loreto! Angel of Ocoroni!
“My,” she said.
“Aguas,” Tomás warned, which was his way of letting them know he was watching, invoking the ancient
She pushed past her aunt and went inside.
The People stared at Tía.
She said, “Don’t look at me!”
But she knew Huila had cursed her, and forever more, they would all stare like ghosts, and none of them would ever say a word.
Ten
THE ENGINEER DON LAURO AGUIRRE arrived in a flurry of dust and rattling. He was driving a smart cabriolet pulled by a handsome black horse. Gómez and his Rurales saw him through the gate of the ranch, then rode on, in search of wanderers to bushwhack.
Tomás greeted his old friend atop his massive palomino, El Tuerto. El Tuerto wasn’t one-eyed, even though his name implied it, but his troubling habit of going sideways was cured by giving him a single blinder, which forced him to follow just one of his badly crossed brown eyes. This solution meant that he was blind on his right side when wearing his eye patch, and Tomás had to rely on precise spur work to keep him from tumbling off hillsides or falling into bogs. But once controlled, El Tuerto was a magnificent stallion, taller than all the other horses on the ranch, with the hair of a French courtesan. Any other rancher would have made El Tuerto into a plow horse, or would have shot him, but Tomás had seen his glory right away. “If he were a woman,” he’d told Segundo, “I would marry him.”
“Sure, boss,” Segundo had replied. “Everybody likes blonds.”
Aguirre steered the little wagon toward the house, and Tomás rode beside him, regaling him with tales of the quotidian wonders of his life. “Yes, yes,” Aguirre repeated, “yes, yes.” Huila passed before him, her new shotgun under her arm. She didn’t even glance at him, but trudged into the distance.
“The curandera,” Aguirre offered.
“That’s the one.”
“She looks cranky.”
“When doesn’t she?”
“Say, Urrea, my dear cabrón. I’ve been meaning to ask you. Are there Indians hereabouts? Do you have the red man working for you?”
“Claro,” Tomás replied. “It’s their land.” He thought better of that comment and amended it: “It was their land.”
“Apaches?”
“No.”
“Yaquis?”
“A few. But we’re pretty far south for too many Yaquis.”
“Who, then?”
Tomás blew air out of his mouth.
“Quién sabe. Let’s see—Ocoronis, some wandering Pimas, I think, or Seris—far from home if they are here. I know there are Tehuecos and Guasaves in the bunch. The Guasaves come up from Culiacán looking for work. We have Mayos.”
“Mayas?” cried Aguirre. “I thought the Maya to be in the far south! A jungle people! Are these not the realms of the barbarian Chichimeca? The Dog People who laid waste to the temples and the pyramids? Are there Mayan ruins here?”
These fucking lectures.
“Not Mayas, pendejo. Mayos. O! May-
o!
”
Aguirre drew up before the main house and put his reins down on the seat and set the foot brake.
“Good Lord, man,” he sniffed, “there is no need to get huffy.”
By the time Tomás had collected his thoughts to insult Aguirre again, the Engineer was knocking at the door and calling for Loreto.
Inside, Loreto had already lined up her children. Aguirre had never really noticed them, except to note that there were several. He had not counted them, and he couldn’t remember their names. “Yes, yes, good to see you, how do you do,” he intoned, like a priest unloading wafers or shaking hands after Mass. Children, yes, certainly. He moved on to Loreto and clutched her hands, crying, “You remain as lovely as peach blossoms in spring!” He then baffled yet delighted Loreto by slipping into Italian for a moment, calling her a
fiore di pesca.
He lifted her hands in his and kissed them, taking the opportunity to smell her skin. Loreto! Blossom of warm sugar! Sprinkled with cinnamon and vanilla! Loreto! Angel of Ocoroni!
“My,” she said.
“Aguas,” Tomás warned, which was his way of letting them know he was watching, invoking the ancient
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