The Hummingbird's Daughter (49 page)

I began to preach!

—We, sir Father, are very ignorant, it is true. And perhaps we cannot tell the difference between those who have reason and those who do not. We are simple people. Do you speak the truth, or does the Girl of Cabora? I can tell you that our hearts tell us it is she, sir. She speaks the truth to us. She is the one who tells us to love all men, regardless of their failings or beliefs, because we are only men under God, and as such we are all brothers. While the priests tell us those who are not Romans are removed from God and not loved by Him. And she tells us that the farther a man has wandered from the path of God, the more we must practice goodness and love toward him so he might be enticed to return.

—So, you see, sir, our hearts dictate that Teresita tells us the truth. Our reason, then, tells us that if she speaks the truth, she cannot be sent by Satan. She has been sent as a daughter of God to put us on the road to goodness.

The priest cried:—Blasphemy! How do you dare contradict and defy the rules and orders I have given you! Generation of vipers! Fools! Heretics! You and your devil should be excommunicated for all time from the Christian Church!

And so on. We followed him outside and there commenced a spirited session of yelling and cursing until the good father finally mounted his horse and sped out of town, calling curses down on our heads.

It was not until today that we discovered that someone had entered our church and cut our angelic cuadros from their frames and spirited them away! Devils? Romans? The government.

Someone is in league with Gastélum, and I do not know if he hates you or me more than the other.

I pray for you in the trust that you pray for me.

How is your porch swing?

Tu amigo i sirviente,

Cruz Chávez            

The response arrived in Tomóchic by mule train. It had been taken as far as the foothills by a vaquero on his way to hunt bear. He had paid a Rarámuri runner to carry it for him into the Papigochic wilderness. There, a mountain train of pack mules passed across the runner’s path, and he handed off the letter to the second mule driver, who was a cousin of Cruz Chávez. It was now April of 1892.

Everybody was eager to see the mail. When Cruz opened the letter, he read it quietly.

December 1891

My Dear Pope Chávez,

Forgive me the tardiness of this letter. Your own only just arrived here, and I despair of this response returning to you by the New Year or even the Day of San Valentín! Oh! For the wings to fly! Then I could be with you in Tomóchic, my friend, away from these spies and dangers and troubles that encircle us every day!

Harm no man! That is God’s iron rule, Cruz! You have been done a great harm! But together, we shall resolve to have your artworks returned, and your land blessed and inviolate forever! This is our holy battle. Justice for Tomóchic!

I await your next message . . .

With hope . . .

Your Friend Always,

Teresita                    

“What does she say? What does she say?” they cried.

He read it again, then folded the letter and put it in his pocket.

He cleared his throat.

“Teresita,” he announced, “says she is in danger! She is surrounded by spies and evildoers!”

They stirred around him.

“And she says we must begin a holy war to save Tomóchic!”

Rubén started the shouting:

“Viva la Santa de Cabora!”

Fifty-four

SEGUNDO HAD AWAKENED one morning in May to find himself old. It took him by surprise. He looked in the mirror and realized his mustache had gone white, and his sideburns were silver, and gray wires seemed to be threaded through his hair. Oddly, his eyebrows were still black.

He had given up his home to Teresita. The crowds had made the forecourt of the main house into a bottleneck, and the back was too difficult to defend. So Tomás had asked him to build a stout fence around his small home and then move out. Oh well, a burro was never intended for a prince’s bed, he decided. He had moved into Teresita’s old bedroom in the house.

For the fence, his men had sunk tree trunks as uprights at a distance of fifty feet from the walls and doors of his house. There was a new guardhouse at the far corner so a buckaroo could keep an eye on the rear while Teresita slept or ministered in the front. The front of the fence had a wide gate with a swinging barricade that two men could handle to control the flow of bodies to the porch. The crossbeams of the fence itself were stout half trunks from pines trees in the hills.

It was Segundo who first noticed that Cabora itself seemed to mirror Teresita’s moods. If she was happy, the crowd was joyful and full of laughter and song. If she was ill, the crowd was sullen and listless. She ate at the main house. When he went to eat breakfast, he saw that her hands were jittery. Teresita had these moments of sheer nervousness, almost manic. Noises made her jump, and small frustrations set her off. This morning, she suddenly jumped to her feet and snapped that she could not stand eggs ever again, then dropped her plate. It broke on the floor. She slapped her hands to her face and cried, then ran upstairs.

Tomás, numb now to almost anything, stirred his coffee and stared at the cooks.

Segundo picked up the pieces of the plate.

“She is having a difficult morning,” he noted.

“Why should she be any different from the rest of us?” Tomás said.

When Segundo stepped out on the porch, he saw that the crowd, too, was nervous. They stirred and shoved. He heard shouts.

“It is going to be a bad day,” he predicted.

Shortly, a contingent of cavalry and Rurales appeared at the far end of the crowd. Their brasswork gleamed in the sun. Plumes, flags. This seemed like no normal patrol. He opened the door and called inside: “Boss!”

Tomás joined him.

“What is this?” he asked.

“Trouble.”

The people in the crowd shied away from the horses of the soldiers, like cattle trying to evade ropers. Suddenly, five soldiers waded into the crowd and pummeled a man to the ground. Tomás could see their rifles rise and fall as they butted him where he lay. The crowd jumped, surged. A man on the other side broke and ran. Tomás watched the mounted officer gesture once. His riders raised their rifles and fired as one. The sound was small and blunt in the heat, like a thin piece of wood being broken in half. A cloud of dust exploded from the runner’s shirt, and he somersaulted over the edge of the arroyo.

The officer’s horse started toward the house. The crowd parted. They fell far back, trying to make a wide path for the rider. He came ahead, leading a horse with a slumped prisoner tied to its back.

It was Juan Francisco, Tomás’s eldest son.

And the officer was their old friend, Capitán Enríquez.

Tomás stepped forward.

“What is this?” he demanded.

“Don Tomás,” said Enríquez, tipping his hat.

Juan Francisco had a black eye.

“We found this bandit on the road to Alamos,” said Enríquez. “He claims to know you.”

“You know very well he is my son!” sputtered Tomás.

“Do I?”

Enríquez gestured for his men to cut Juan free.

Segundo helped him down and took him inside.

Enríquez said, “Will you offer a representative of your government a drink of water?”

“Of course,” Tomás replied.

Enríquez dismounted. He removed his hat. Tomás called for the house girls to bring a glass of water. Enríquez drank it down when it came and wiped his lips on his sleeve. He handed the glass back to the girl, who ran to the safety of the house.

“Gracias,” he said to Tomás.

He looked at the restless crowd.

“We hear much of this rancho in Guaymas.”

“What do you hear?”

“Nothing good.”

Tomás said, “There is nothing bad here. Perhaps some fanaticism. But it will pass.”

“Will it?”

Enríquez patted his horse.

“We found two rebels in your yard, Don Tomás. Do you doubt there are more?”

Tomás raised his hands.

“Surely, you can’t expect me to know who is in this throng.”

“Why not? Is this not your ranch? Are you not in charge? If you are not in charge, then who is?” Captain Enríquez turned to him. “The cavalry would be happy to control this situation for you if you are not able to attend to your own duties.”

“Captain!” Tomás said, grabbing his arms. The riders behind drew their weapons. A Rural was off his horse in a second, holding a rifle in Tomás’s face.

Enríquez raised one hand.

“Calma,” he said.

The crowd was slipping back farther as they spoke.

“There has been talk of this place,” Enríquez said. “And I have been charged with warning you. The talk will cease. This,” he gestured at the pilgrims, “will stop.”

“How?”

“My old friend,” said Enríquez, “I will honor you by offering you the chance to repair this damage on your own terms. Find a way to end it, or we will end it for you. Comprendes?”

Tomás hung his head.

“Sí.”

“Now.”

“I understand.”

“Your son,” Enríquez said, “could have died today. We could have hung him. You are very lucky. You should count yourself blessed and get on with your life.”

He mounted. He tossed Tomás a crisp salute.

“Make sure, Don Tomás,” he said, “that you go back to your old harvests.” He turned his horse. Then, over his shoulder, he added: “Or I can assure you that Cabora will reap a harvest of lead.” Enríquez spurred his horse and trotted away. His riders jumped aboard their nags and followed him.

The beaten man was already tied at hands and feet, and he was tossed over the back of Juan Francisco’s horse while a small group of women wailed and tore at their hair and their dresses.

“Harvest of lead!” said Segundo. “What a poet.”

Tomás went inside. He was red in the face. He had never been so humiliated. Or so frightened.

He hugged Juan Francisco.

“Where is she?” Tomás called.

Gaby said, “She is upstairs, mi amor.”

“Where?”

“In our room.”

Segundo stepped forward.

“Don’t be angry at her,” he said.

Tomás reached out and pulled Segundo’s revolver from his holster. This was the final proof to Segundo that he was too old to do anyone any good—the boss was able to steal his pistola!

“Wait!” Segundo said.

Tomás stomped up the stairs. He pounded on his own bedroom door.

“Go away!” Teresita yelled.

He threw the door open and stepped inside. “You and your idiotic dramas!” he shouted. “Get out of the bed and face me!”

“Father?”

“No more ridiculous little-girl scenes!” he roared. “The real world is here, now! The real world! Do you understand me?”

“What? What? I don’t understand!”

“It ends now.”

“What?”

“They came, do you know that? Did you even know that? They were here!”

“Who?”

“You mean angels didn’t tell you? They killed one of your followers! They beat one of your pilgrims and took him away to hang him!
Who?
You ask me who?” he shouted.

He was insane with panic and rage. He grabbed her hair.

“Stop. This. Now!
”

“I cannot!”

“You will. You will. By God you will, or we will all die.”

She sobbed. “Father! You’re hurting me!”

Teresita sank to the floor.

Tomás suddenly realized the gun was in his hand, as if it were put there in a dream. And, as if in a dream, he raised it slowly and looked at it. He pulled back the hammer and listened to it cock.

“The army,” he said, almost whispering now. “The army. They almost killed Juan. They drew guns on me. On my own front steps! They gave us fair warning, Teresita. They will kill us all. Kill your followers.”

He bent down to her.

“They shot a man in the back. And do you know what? I think they did it to make a point. I don’t think he was a rebel or a bandit. They just picked anyone to die so I would understand. These are the enemies we are facing.”

“Father, father!” She wept.

“I am so sick of it,” he spit. “The Saint of Cabora!”

“We need to pray.”

“Prayers are bullshit.”

“We have to rely on the Lord.”

“The Lord doesn’t care.”

“Pray with me!”

“Prayers do not stop bullets. Prayers are nothing.”

He put the gun to her head.

“What are you doing?” she cried.

“I am stopping this now.”

“No!”

“If I do not stop you, everything is lost. You’ve pushed me to this! You and your insane pride!”

She covered her eyes. He yanked her hair with his free hand.

“I have to do this,” he said, his voice shivering in his throat.

Suddenly, he let go of her hair, spun, and shot a hole in the wall. Below, all was screaming and terror in the house. Tomás threw the gun against the wall and fell to his knees before her. He put his arms around his daughter. She clutched him. Together, they sobbed.

“Please,” Tomás cried, “please, please, help me. Stop this. Please, Teresa, please . . .”

Segundo cautiously stepped into the room.

“Oh Jesus!” he said. “I thought you’d killed her.”

He backed out of the room and closed the door.

He stood guard outside it until they were done crying, and when Tomás came back out, he remained silent.

“Watch her, would you?” Tomás said.

“I always have.”

Tomás looked in his eyes—his own eyes were red and tormented as if coals had been placed inside them. He reached out and laid his hand on Segundo’s arm.

“What now, boss?” Segundo asked.

“The end,” Tomás replied. He buttoned his jacket and squared his shoulders. “The end of everything,” he said. And slowly went downstairs.

Supper was almost ready when the first bullet came through the window.

They all fell to the floor, hiding under the table. Segundo was already running for the door, his revolver in his hand. Tomás, alone, sat upright at the table, lit by a silver candelabra squirming with candle flame as he smoked. The second shot exploded through the wood of the window frame, showering the room with splinters. The family yelped. The cooks screamed as they crawled on the floor.

Tomás drained his glass of vino. He poured himself another. A third round came through the shattered window and blew adobe out of the far wall. “Buffalo gun,” he said. “Fifty caliber. Sniper sons of whores.”

Teresita rose slowly and peered around.

Tomás looked at her for a moment.

“I love you,” he said.

They could hear distant tumult: great hootings and cursing.

Tomás took another sip of wine and looked under the table at Gabriela and Juan Francisco.

“Where do you suppose my supper is?” he asked.

He looked at his daughter again. She pulled out a chair in defiance of the bullets and sat beside him. He nodded, then. He knew what he would do.