The second: he feared Anglos. He knew what they had done and what they might do. He would do anything to protect his family from them.
To Beto’s credit, when he saw Néstor’s rigid shoulders and the untouched glass before him, he didn’t press him with questions. He didn’t click his tongue with sympathy or ask after the widow Celeste. He sat. Ordered a drink. Music rose around them; violins and singing. Laughter cut through clouds of blue cigarillo smoke. The aguardiente came; Beto drank. He waited.
Beto was like this: patient as a shepherd. He could outlast any of Néstor’s silences. It was the reason Beto was Néstor’s closest—perhaps only—friend. One of the many reasons Néstor didn’t deserve him.
At long last, the rope that pulled taut in Néstor’s chest snapped.
He spoke the words before he believed them. “I’m going back.”
“Back where?”
“To Los Ojuelos.”
Beto coughed. Néstor lifted his head to see the other vaquero wiping his mouth. His proclamation had made Beto nearly choke on his drink.
“Something’s wrong, isn’t it.” Beto stated this more than he asked, his voice low.
“Los Yanquis . . .” Néstor began. He straightened, took the letter from his pocket and handed it to Beto. It was easier than explaining.
Beto skimmed the letter quickly. Like Néstor, he had been educated in his youth: the son of a pastor from Massachusetts who settled west of the Sabina and took a Mexican wife, he learned his letters in English and Spanish before fleeing his alcoholic father’s beatings. Like Néstor, he had found his way in the world alone. He did not know why Néstor had left Los Ojuelos, but he understood something about ghosts.
Beto refolded the letter and returned it. He then reached into his own pocket for a piece of corn husk and tobacco and began to roll a cigarillo. He did not speak until it was finished and lit.
“My mother’s family lives south of Matamoros,” he said. “If Zacarias Taylor is headed that way, they’ll need all the help they can get protecting the ranchito. Mind if I ride with you as far as Mier?”
A flush of relief spread in Néstor’s chest. Of gratitude for the promise of company, for the way Beto gingerly stepped around the tangled roots of conversations Néstor did not want to have. Sometimes, he thought Beto was the only one who sensed why he might work or drink himself into an early grave.
He sometimes wondered, on the cusp of sleep under the stars, if that would be so bad. He deserved it, for failing Nena. But whatever was in the beyond—darkness, dust, or some sort of gilded God flanked by angels—he would be able to find Nena there, wouldn’t he?
“Come all the way to Los Ojuelos,” he said, perhaps slightly louder than was necessary. He cleared his throat; straightened the taut muscles of his shoulders. “We’ll keep you. Let you rest for a few nights before we ride to Matamoros.”
He took his half-forgotten aguardiente and dashed it back. His lips tingled; his throat burned. Let it scald the storm that built at the back of his throat at the thought of facing Don Feliciano. He raised his hand to catch the attention of the cantinero, then tapped the rim of his empty glass. One more, to try in vain to burn away what was painted on the backs of his eyelids:
Don Feliciano, candle in hand, pointing at him, his face a mask of rage.
Do?a Mercedes, weeping like La Llorona. Mi ni?a está muerta, mi ni?a está muerta.
Nena. Her hair sticking to her pale, clammy cheek. The lurid wink of blood on her golden scapular.
One more drink, but no more than that. It would be a waste of money. Even if he drank himself into a stupor, there would be no respite in that restless, sweaty black.
Not now, when the memories were awake.
They flexed their bright claws and flashed their teeth and sank them into him with greedy victory.
There would be no sleep tonight.
7
N?STOR
N?STOR AND BETO rode the last two miles to Los Ojuelos in silence. Luna’s ears were pricked; one flicked back toward him every few steps. The mare sensed his dread, but could not tell what was wrong. She shied at shadows, alert for danger.
The only danger that lay at the end of this familiar road was toward Néstor. Anxiety twisted his chest as they passed onto Serrano land. There were no markers, no ugly fences that Texians so loved. He knew when he crossed onto Rancho Los Ojuelos from the dip of the road, the familiar ridge of the horizon over a creek. Trees that he recognized, that drew him off the main road to a shortcut he had forgotten about until he nearly stumbled upon it. He gestured for Beto to follow him.
They would approach the broad walls of the rancho from the south and dismount at the comisaria in the earlier hours of the siesta—this would keep them out of sight of la casa mayor and out of sight of the Serranos.
Yes, Don Félix asked for him to return. But he could not imagine that Don Feliciano and Do?a Mercedes would be happy to see the person who caused their daughter’s death.
Beto spoke; his words floated right past Néstor. He barely clocked them. He hadn’t heard—nor answered—many things Beto had said over the last hour. Not his singing, not his speculation about the weather, not the few questions flung his way about what his family was like. Beto carried on anyway. Even when Néstor’s dread was so thick jokes couldn’t crack it, he liked to fill the silence of the chaparral with his voice. It had a pleasant, resonant ring—a preacher’s voice, Beto often said. The only thing he did not mind inheriting from his father.
But one word caught Néstor’s attention. “Plague?”
“Yeah,” Beto repeated. His tone hinted at surprise that Néstor had finally answered something he said. “You never know with rumors, but I’ve heard there’s some kind of plague of susto around here, on the ranchos near Mier. Haven’t you heard about it?”
“No.” Any letter Néstor received from Los Ojuelos was painfully succinct. He could almost hear Bernabé’s self-conscious awareness that he was taking up Don Félix’s valuable time as he dictated. Letters were filled of news of Casimiro and Abuela and nothing more. He knew beneath the surface were Abuela’s long, meandering tales, full of ghosts and innumerable cousins, and Casimiro’s raucous jokes, but the lines themselves were brisk and blunt. They contained no news of the rest of the rancho.
Whenever any member of any cattle drive brought up news from Mier—or God forbid, from Los Ojuelos itself—Néstor stood, put his back to the fire, and walked away. He had learned the hard way that idle gossip and the swapping of news between strangers could spark things he did not want to feel. A fresh hit of loss, like a horse kicking him in the gut. A tingle of fear racing over his skin. If he was not vigilant in avoiding all news from Mier or Los Ojuelos, he could be caught off guard by the sensation of a ghostly presence, a too-heavy weight slung over his shoulder. It could take hours to shake it off, if not days.
No, it was not surprising that Néstor had not heard news from Mier.
* * *
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