Pathetic Literature, page 10
Old Arnoldo, who is deaf as a doorknob, is already at the tug’s tiller. He doesn’t like transporting livestock one bit; in addition to the whims of the river, you have to contend with the whims of the herd. He’s got the bullhorn at his feet, in case he needs it.
The livestock aren’t restless but they rock the boat and roll the tug. Pablo and Pedro work with steady hands. One mistake could make the barge lose its balance and tip them over. If the animals become agitated, it’s not enough to be on the alert. The herd is traveling unattended; the wranglers are depending on the barge’s rails and the animals’ fear of water. They wait on the opposite riverbank.
On the dock, without saying a word, Nepomuceno motions his orders. Ismael, a vaquero, leaps off his horse and jumps across the gap between the dock and the barge. All aboard!
Patronio takes the reins of Ismael’s horse.
Pablo and Pedro watch and weigh up the situation. Pablo thinks, Nepomuceno is crazy, but there’s nothing he can do against fourteen men, or thirteen, if we don’t count drunken Lázaro. Plus, who in their right mind would take on Don Nepomuceno?
Ismael opens the barge’s main gate; the herd senses this immediately; Ismael keeps them back with his riding whip, cracking it and shouting “Back!” in a stern voice.
Pablo’s dog barks at Ismael, baring his teeth. From land, Fausto throws a stone to scare him off, and the dog retreats between the legs of the cattle, who also shy away.
Patronio passes the reins of Ismael’s horse to Fausto. He pulls his horse back, causing it to whinny, and takes a running jump onto the barge—landing so softly (as if he’s polishing a gem) there’s hardly a sound; the animals shy away from the impact of his landing, rushing against the railings of the barge. After Patronio, Fausto follows immediately, shadowed by Ismael’s horse and the others.
Once aboard the barge, Ludovico, Fulgencio, Silvestre (who’s no longer laughing), Patronio, Ismael, and Fausto (all good vaqueros) attend to the Herculean task of controlling the animals. Once the cattle are subdued, they must ensure they don’t bunch together on one side of the barge, which would capsize it. Nepomuceno’s remaining horsemen board one by one.
What horses! They’re like one with their riders; full of vigor, they are momentum incarnate, and handsome devils. The same can’t be said of the cattle—focused on the unpredictable waters, who knows how they can be controlled? But they respond to the whip, shoves, and the dog nipping at their ankles (Two Eights’ dog understands who’s in charge now and joins in to help Nepomuceno’s men). In short, the herd fears the vaqueros and obeys them out of fright, not because they understand.
As soon as the herd is under control, El Güero jumps aboard, followed by their riderless, fresh horses (six in total, one horse for each rider). Then Nepomuceno, with Lázaro Rueda, who has passed out. It’s the last jump and the most graceful, a beautiful arc, the highest of all; their bodies trace a miraculous triangle through the air (the three points of the triangle are their three heads: Nepomuceno’s, Lázaro’s, and Pinta’s).
(You might ask, why did he go last? Isn’t he the only one they’re protecting? But if you think about it, the answer is clear: they don’t want to take any unnecessary risks and he might have capsized the boat, plus on land there’s not a soul who could catch him.)
The mule with the sack of garlic and onions stays behind on land. She ran after the horses through the streets of Bruneville, following them like a faithful dog, but jumping such a wide gap over the water, old and heavily loaded as she is, that’s out of the question. She’s an ass but she’s not an idiot.
With the assistance of Two Eights, who understand who’s calling the shots, Ismael closes the gate he opened to let Nepomuceno and his men aboard.
The repositioning of the herd continues, the very picture of wrangling skill.
Now the barge is really full. To ensure they aren’t crushed by the cattle, they must keep the herd calm.
Nepomuceno doesn’t need to speak his orders. Fausto points at Pedro and Pablo, “Go tell old Arnoldo that we’re ready to go, now! Release the moorings!”
Pedro asks, “Where are you in such a hurry to get to?”
“Where were you headed?”
“To Matasánchez, to pick up some feed and some pots; from there we’re headed to Bagdad.”
Fausto and Nepomuceno exchange looks and make a few signs; Fausto understands and shouts the orders at the top of his lungs, “To Matasánchez, to the Old Dock, the herd disembarks with us. Let’s move it!”
Pablo heads to the tugboat’s cabin, working his way along the side of the barge, outside the railings; with swift agility he places his bare feet on the ropes and chains that moor it to the barge. He’s already aboard the tug when he feels a jerk: Pedro has just released the first mooring, and the motor is pushing the vessel, though it hasn’t started forward yet.
“Let’s go, Don Arnoldo!” he shouts in the old man’s ear. “To the Old Dock in Matasánchez!”
“The Old Dock? But no one uses it any more! Did you say the Old Dock? And what the hell was all that rocking? What was going on back there?”
“I’m telling you, Don Arnoldo, the old one! The Old Dock! Old like you are! Let’s go!” Pablo tells him.
“Off we go to the Old Dock,” the old man says, as merrily as he can, “old like me!”
“And make it snappy!”
“I can step it up . . . if you want us to capsize, you wacky kid! I can waltz but I can’t fly!”
He feels another jerk, stronger than the first: Pedro has just released the second and final mooring.
Moonbeam, the pretty Asinai Indian, has appeared on one of the Smiths’ balconies (not on account of the Lipans’ quarrel—which she didn’t see—or because of the sound of the shot—which she didn’t hear because she was in the patio fetching water—or because of Nat; it’s because of Nepomuceno’s horsemen galloping past, although she arrives too late to see who was in such a hurry); she saw the oranges rolling around, opened the balcony windows and jumped down into the street to pick them up. On another balcony, Caroline Smith—she knows whose fruit it is because she’s been standing at attention by the window—opens her windows too, but Moonbeam doesn’t hear, absorbed as she is in gathering the oranges into her skirt.
Mrs. Smith is wondering why her daughter is shouting. When she sees her hanging out the window into the street shouting nonsense, culminating in “I love you, Nepomuceno!” and sees Moonbeam, “that exasperating Indian girl, picking up oranges” off the cobblestones “with her legs fully exposed,” she faints, unable to bear either of these indignities.
Santiago watched Nepomuceno and his men board the barge. The other fishermen, who were mending their nets, had left to investigate the ruckus in the Market Square and hadn’t returned. Several of them got lost. Santiago, on the other hand, knows what has happened as if he has seen it with his own eyes, the same ones that witnessed Nepomuceno’s escape.
“Now that’s a real man!” he says aloud. “That’s what you call balls, big ones!”
As soon as they have finished tying up the last crab, Melón, Dolores, and Dimas get down off Hector’s cart; Mr. Wheel will only transport what’s for sale. Without talking it over, they all run to Mesnur, halfway between the center of Bruneville and the place where the fishermen mend their nets. Mesnur is where the children always gather at the end of the afternoon, and sometimes when their work is interrupted. Most of the kids work, and most of them are Mexicans or immigrants. They fly kites, sail toy boats they build themselves, catch dragonflies and tie them up on leashes, play ball (if there’s one around), jump rope, and share secrets. Sometimes they’re mean to each other, but mostly they share the goodies that might have come their way.
Melón, Dolores, and Dimas want to share the news about John Tanner, the White Indian, and about the sheriff and Don Nepomuceno.
Luis arrives at the same time holding his little sister’s hand and with empty pockets; he’s worried about that, it won’t go down well at home. Along comes Steven—hanging his head because he hasn’t made any money either—and Nat, with his hidden treasure.
But Melón, Dolores, and Dimas don’t talk about John Tanner and no one stops to discuss what happened with Shears and Nepomuceno, no one even thinks about swimming or playing freeze tag, because Nat removes the Lipan’s knife, the one he picked up on Charles Street, from his pants. They all agree they should hide it.
It takes the gringos a little while to mount their horses and begin pursuing the “banditos.” Their horses are in the stables, on the city’s outskirts, and the minutes drag by as they wait for their servants to bring their horses (on the way they were distracted by the oranges Ludovico carelessly dropped—the Asinai had gathered what she could, but many remained—and after they gathered what was left of the oranges it took a while to hide them in Judge Gold’s stables).
Once mounted on their horses, the gringos lose more time stopping at each intersection and corner to ask everyone in the vicinity if they’ve seen the fugitives and where they went. “They headed inland.” “I think they went that-a-way.” Folks’ directions are no quicker than their explanations. There’s no one on the road to the river to tell them whether “the fugitives” went toward the river or inland; the kids who usually gather to play there are nowhere to be found (they’ve already gone to hide the knife). Just in case, Ranger Phil, Ranger Ralph, and Ranger Bob head down to the dock. The rest of them head inland, continuing to question folks along the way.
Beside Mrs. Big’s Hotel, Ranger Phil, Ranger Ralph, and Ranger Bob catch sight of the barge loaded with cattle, floating slowly down the river (no matter how much the boy hassles him, old Arnoldo wisely maintains a snail’s pace, he takes good care of his cargo), and they hear the herd lowing at a distance. The vessel rocks a wobbly dance. There’s no way it could be brought back to dock.
“So much rocking!”
“It looks like there’s a ruckus on board, there must be an angry bull.”
“Nah! He’s not angry, he’s in heat!” As usual, Ranger Ralph has a one-track mind (you can hardly call what his brain does “thinking”).
“A bull in heat, you say? Ain’t no bull, it’s a steer like you!” Ranger Bob says in bad Spanish, which Ranger Phil understands, but not Ranger Ralph.
All three laugh, two because they get the joke, the other because he’s so stupid.
Watching the barge float along like it’s fighting the waves is both humorous and soothing, like watching sheep being rounded up into one big flock with mastery and skill; they don’t know the real reason for the boat’s swaying.
The barge turns upriver toward the Old Dock.
“I thought from here they went down-river to Point Isabel and then to New Orleans to sell cattle, but look, it seems like they’re heading upriver,” says Ranger Bob.
“They’ll be picking up feed, no doubt, they don’t want to deliver ’em hungry,” says Ranger Phil.
“Or maybe they’re trying to catch the current,” says Ranger Bob.
“Don’t make no sense to me,” says Ranger Ralph.
They turn their backs and enter the swinging doors of Mrs. Big’s Hotel.
Inside, it’s business as usual: a few whores are waiting for customers, folks are drinking liquor, four musicians begin to torture their instruments, competing for attention, and at her table Mrs. Big presides over her never-ending card game. To one side of the swinging doors—which don’t cover his face or the lower half of his legs—Santiago the fisherman hangs back, barefoot, by the entrance.
Jim Smiley is the only one who gets up when the Rangers come in. But not to shake hands or show respect. Smiley bends over to pick up the cardboard box where he keeps his frog, and says clearly for all to hear, as if he’s rehearsed it, “I betcha two bucks my frog can jump farther than any other.”
“And where am I gonna find a frog to bet you with? I don’t ride around with a frog in my pocket!” Ranger Phil says.
“What else you got in your pockets? What’s more important than a frog?” Smiley smiles.
Ranger Phil holds up his revolver. He smiles too, showing his gold teeth.
“You wanna take my bet or not?” Smiley dares him, still smiling.
“I’m askin’ you where am I gonna get a frog?”
Santiago the fisherman mutters, “Down by the riverbank, I’ll bring you one, Ranger. Wait here.”
Santiago is itching to get out of the saloon.
Ranger Phil turns and looks at him with admiration. If this backwater fisherman dares to speak to a gunslinger like him, there must be good reason. Santiago heads outside, the doors swing behind him.
A few seconds later, Ranger Phil follows Santiago, and the two other Rangers follow reluctantly—they wanted to grab a drink. Irritatingly, they can still hear the music, which makes them even thirstier. But when they see the fisherman looking so helpless, jumping around like a child, they turn around and head back into Mrs. Big’s.
Santiago continues leaping around on the muddy riverbank, without realizing the Ranger is nearby. He catches sight of a frog at the edge of the river. He follows it, leaps to the right, and then to the left. He squats to capture his prey. Ranger Phil follows him stealthily, so as not to scare the frog—now he understands what Santiago is up to—until he arrives at the edge of the dock. He stops and watches the fisherman. Then he notices the hoof-prints in the mud.
Santiago captures the frog.
By this time the barge appears to be fading away and you can no longer hear the cattle lowing.
Pointing to the horseshoe prints in the mud, Ranger Phil asks Santiago, “What’s this?”
Santiago, who has the frog in his hand, doesn’t say a word for a few long seconds.
You can still hear the music of the four fools in the saloon (each of them wandering around with own their instrument, gathering only to look for handouts), scratching strings, their music lacking all melody.
What happens next takes place in the blink of an eye. Santiago, who is a good man and doesn’t know how to lie, realizes what trouble he’s in and begins to cry in Spanish, “I don’t know anything, I saw them jump on the barge but didn’t understand what was going on.” He drops the frog he caught.
Unfortunately, Ranger Phil understands Spanish.
In Mrs. Big’s Hotel the musicians’ torturous song ends. Ranger Phil whistles to his men; they appear through Mrs. Big’s swinging doors.
The musicians start a new song. Ranger Phil grabs Santiago by the arm and drags him over to his partners, the fisherman bawling like an animal on the way to slaughter. Ranger Phil translates the fisherman’s confession for his partners, pointing to where he found the prints in the mud.
From the barge, Fulgencio (who has an eagle’s eye) observes the three gunmen approaching Mrs. Big’s Hotel. He whistles to Nepomuceno (softly, not to disturb the herd), who dismounts and hides behind his horse. His men copy him, using the horses as shields to keep them from sight of anyone on the riverbank, in case they have a spyglass, despite the fact this leaves them exposed to the herd.
The herd reacts to their movements. They nearly capsize with the commotion. Old Arnoldo curses the herd and steers the tug, yanking its tiller. Fulgencio cracks his whip. Just the sound of it is enough; the herd recognizes his authority—luckily all Nepomuceno’s men are vaqueros—and settles back down.
Nepomuceno wants to go to Matasánchez. He would have preferred to go to his own ranch, but he knows the gringos’ vengeful nature; it’s better to hide out somewhere that doesn’t endanger his own people. For the time being he knows he can’t go near the place, or any of his mother’s ranches either (where the food is much better than anywhere else, there’s no contest). He must cross the border and prepare to face the Rangers there. If not, they’ll crush him. Once again, it occurs to Nepomuceno, as it has on many occasions, We should have allied ourselves with the warrior tribes; it’s a shame it didn’t work out, but they’re like wasps’ nests, even among themselves. Together, Nepomuceno thinks, Indians and Mexicans would fry the gringos up with a little chipotle, some garlic, and a pinch of . . . You can tell he’s the son of Doña Estefanía, the best cook in the whole region. Her desserts are without compare, as are her marinades and her stews. You’re fortunate to dine at her table.
Chipotle, frying, garlic: this is no way to talk about gringos, who don’t even know how to hold a frying pan. Even the Karankawa were more civilized, may they rest in peace.
While all this is passing through his head, Nepomuceno has an idea. Traveling with the herd puts him in good spirits, there’s a lot of vaquero in him . . . Since they’re hiding behind their horses, they don’t see what’s happening on the dock in Bruneville.
Those awful musicians have begun yet another tune back at Mrs. Big’s. One of them squeezes an accordion. Santiago the fisherman is on his knees, crying silently like a child, clasping his hands and begging for mercy. Ranger Ralph takes out his pistol. He points it at Santiago. The shot hits him in the forehead. (The bullet that has come to rest in Santiago’s head comes to life. It knows it wasn’t meant to end up there. The fisherman’s noble, sweet brains, washed with the sea air and the silence of high tide, soothe it. His brains pour out in luminous silence, the bullet has rendered them insensate. No fear, no fatigue, no longing, no children, no wife, no nets, no Nepomuceno; not even the river remains.)
