out.
The woman who’d dug the bullet out of Sam straightened up, stretching. The muscles in the back of her neck, shoulders and upper back were stiff from tension. She put her palms at the small of her narrow-waisted back and leaned backward, stretching to work some of the kinks out.
Her name was Lorena Castillo. “You men can take a break but stay where I can find you later. I’ll need you to move the gringo after I’ve finished cleaning the wound and stitching him up,” she said.
The vaqueros grouped around the table nodded, several saying, “ Sí, Señora .” They went to the door, opening it and filing outside for a stretch and a smoke. They spoke among themselves:
“The gringo took it well, no?”
“For a gringo.”
“Bah, he’s drunk.”
“You get drunk and see if you can stand it.”
“I would like to get drunk, sí .”
“The gringo is duro , tough. Muy hombre .”
“We will see,” said the ogre with shaggy gray hair, breaking his silence to join the conversation. His name was Hector Vasquez, the ramrod of Rancho Grande.
Inside, the withered crone was at Lorena’s side, handing her a square of fresh white linen. Lorena said, “Thank you, Alma.”
“It is nothing, my lady,” said the old one.
Lorena used the linen to blot some of the sweat off her face. They were in a workroom of a storehouse at the Castillo ranch, Rancho Grande. The structure was a thick-walled one-story rectangle, square-edged, flat-roofed, its stone-and-timber walls plastered with stucco and whitewashed.
A polite knocking sounded on the outside of the door through which the vaqueros had exited into the plaza. One of the vaqueros stuck his head inside. “Señora Lorena? Don Eduardo is outside. He wishes a word with you,” he said.
“Tell him that I will be there in a moment, after I have washed up. I would not come to him with blood on my hands,” Lorena said.
“ Sí, Señora .” The vaquero stuck his head back outside, easing the door shut.
“Though bloody hands are nothing new to the padrone ,” Lorena said when the messenger was gone.
Alma pursed her lips, her only reaction to the comment. She stood next to a side table on whose top sat a washbasin and a pitcher of water. Lorena went to it, stood facing the basin. Alma poured water over her mistress’s hands into the basin. Lorena made brisk handwashing motions. The water filling the washbasin took on a red tinge.
Hands clean, Lorena dried them with a towel handed to her by Alma.
“Clean the gringo’s wound, Alma. I will return presently to finish stitching it up in a moment,” Lorena said.
Alma nodded.
Lorena crossed to the door, opening it, and stepped out into the night. The vaqueros who’d been holding the gringo down stood at the corner of the storehouse, smoking and talking in low voices. They fell silent until Lorena was out of earshot.
She crossed the plaza toward the hacienda of the Rancho Grande, one of the largest and oldest established ranches in Hangtree County, Texas. Or in this part of the state, for that matter.
It occupied many acres of prime grazing land bordered on the north by the foot of the Edwards plateau, the east by Swift Creek, the south by the upper branch of the Liberty River, and the west by a tributary stream that came down from the plateau to join that same upper branch of the Liberty.
This had been Mexican land when first settled by the Castillos a hundred and twenty-five years ago, given to them as a land grant by the king of Spain’s imperial viceroy in Mexico City and registered in the Royal Archives in Madrid. A proud and ancient line, the Castillos.
The plaza was a wide, unpaved circular space ringed by the storehouse, the bunkhouse for the unmarried vaqueros, a mess hall where the men ate, and similar structures. At its center was a fountain and basin.
Dominating the space from the north end was the hacienda, a fortified Spanish Colonial–style mansion housing Don Eduardo Castillo, his family
The woman who’d dug the bullet out of Sam straightened up, stretching. The muscles in the back of her neck, shoulders and upper back were stiff from tension. She put her palms at the small of her narrow-waisted back and leaned backward, stretching to work some of the kinks out.
Her name was Lorena Castillo. “You men can take a break but stay where I can find you later. I’ll need you to move the gringo after I’ve finished cleaning the wound and stitching him up,” she said.
The vaqueros grouped around the table nodded, several saying, “ Sí, Señora .” They went to the door, opening it and filing outside for a stretch and a smoke. They spoke among themselves:
“The gringo took it well, no?”
“For a gringo.”
“Bah, he’s drunk.”
“You get drunk and see if you can stand it.”
“I would like to get drunk, sí .”
“The gringo is duro , tough. Muy hombre .”
“We will see,” said the ogre with shaggy gray hair, breaking his silence to join the conversation. His name was Hector Vasquez, the ramrod of Rancho Grande.
Inside, the withered crone was at Lorena’s side, handing her a square of fresh white linen. Lorena said, “Thank you, Alma.”
“It is nothing, my lady,” said the old one.
Lorena used the linen to blot some of the sweat off her face. They were in a workroom of a storehouse at the Castillo ranch, Rancho Grande. The structure was a thick-walled one-story rectangle, square-edged, flat-roofed, its stone-and-timber walls plastered with stucco and whitewashed.
A polite knocking sounded on the outside of the door through which the vaqueros had exited into the plaza. One of the vaqueros stuck his head inside. “Señora Lorena? Don Eduardo is outside. He wishes a word with you,” he said.
“Tell him that I will be there in a moment, after I have washed up. I would not come to him with blood on my hands,” Lorena said.
“ Sí, Señora .” The vaquero stuck his head back outside, easing the door shut.
“Though bloody hands are nothing new to the padrone ,” Lorena said when the messenger was gone.
Alma pursed her lips, her only reaction to the comment. She stood next to a side table on whose top sat a washbasin and a pitcher of water. Lorena went to it, stood facing the basin. Alma poured water over her mistress’s hands into the basin. Lorena made brisk handwashing motions. The water filling the washbasin took on a red tinge.
Hands clean, Lorena dried them with a towel handed to her by Alma.
“Clean the gringo’s wound, Alma. I will return presently to finish stitching it up in a moment,” Lorena said.
Alma nodded.
Lorena crossed to the door, opening it, and stepped out into the night. The vaqueros who’d been holding the gringo down stood at the corner of the storehouse, smoking and talking in low voices. They fell silent until Lorena was out of earshot.
She crossed the plaza toward the hacienda of the Rancho Grande, one of the largest and oldest established ranches in Hangtree County, Texas. Or in this part of the state, for that matter.
It occupied many acres of prime grazing land bordered on the north by the foot of the Edwards plateau, the east by Swift Creek, the south by the upper branch of the Liberty River, and the west by a tributary stream that came down from the plateau to join that same upper branch of the Liberty.
This had been Mexican land when first settled by the Castillos a hundred and twenty-five years ago, given to them as a land grant by the king of Spain’s imperial viceroy in Mexico City and registered in the Royal Archives in Madrid. A proud and ancient line, the Castillos.
The plaza was a wide, unpaved circular space ringed by the storehouse, the bunkhouse for the unmarried vaqueros, a mess hall where the men ate, and similar structures. At its center was a fountain and basin.
Dominating the space from the north end was the hacienda, a fortified Spanish Colonial–style mansion housing Don Eduardo Castillo, his family
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