THE CHAPARRAL CLEARED. Néstor could scarcely breathe as the line of the comisaria’s roof appeared, then the building itself and new jacales around it. Everything was so much smaller than he remembered, except the wooden protective walls surrounding la casa mayor and other, older jacales, including his family’s home. Several figures with rifles lounged in the shade near the gates. That was new to him, but not surprising. Sharp images of Don Feliciano’s blustering anger toward the government’s disinterest in protecting las Villas del Norte and the ranchos that surrounded them still lingered in his memory. He could, with surprising sharpness after so many years, picture the patrón praying over the midday meal, served to the whole rancho before the siesta. He could see Don Feliciano sitting at a table with his family and visitors from neighboring ranchos, his mustache following the angry set of his mouth as he cursed the government’s requests for volunteer soldiers and more donations of horses.
Not when the army ransacks good, honorable ciudadanos and stays in their homes without paying, he would say, his gestures sharp and animated, to the concurring cries of other rancheros. Not when we have already given so many horses. The Anglos can take Tejas for all I care, so long as the damn army leaves us in peace.
The Anglos did take Tejas. And thanks to the newspapers and the rumors that licked through the countryside like wildfire, Néstor knew that they lay claim to the horizon that stretched before him, all the way to the glimmering banks of Río Bravo.
The smell of the trees and the sight of the comisaria sparked a flinty lash of protective anger in his chest.
He was here to protect it from guns and greed. He would place himself between the Yanquis and this place, the soil over which he and Nena raced barefoot as children, the trees that cast their welcome shade over the closest thing to heaven he had ever known.
So he could swallow his fear and face Don Feliciano. He could. He must.
He turned his attention to the comisaria. Two well-dressed young women, their features obscured by hats shading their faces, dipped inside the building as Néstor and Beto approached. Four men lounged in the shade of the building’s patio, smoking and talking.
One spotted Néstor and Beto; stood up suddenly. Crossed to the edge of the patio in two strides.
That movement alone shook recognition loose.
It was Casimiro.
“Oye,” Casimiro called. “Duarte?” His voice had the lift of a question, a shade of disbelief.
Néstor lifted his hat in greeting. He nudged Luna to a trot to cross the final distance to the comisaria.
“Jesucristo, it’s Néstor!” Casimiro cried, and let out a feral whoop. The men on the patio were on their feet in an instant, one shoving the others aside to get to Casimiro at the edge of the patio. He shaded his eyes and took the cigarillo from his mouth, then seized his hat.
Bernabé.
Casimiro seized him by the arm and started slapping his back in excitement as Néstor and Beto approached. It was Bernabé with a gray mustache and deeper lines in his face, but Bernabé all the same.
“That can’t be him,” Bernabé cried as Néstor dismounted. “That can’t be him, that’s a man! ?Qué hombre!”
They were at Néstor’s side before his boots even hit the dirt. Bernabé seized him in a backbreaking embrace. He smelled like leather and tobacco and Abuela’s kitchen and so much like everything that was right in the world that a knot formed in Néstor’s throat.
Bernabé released him and kissed both his cheeks.
“Mijo,” he said, his voice raspy with emotion. “You look just like your father.”
Néstor, as a rule, did not cry. If he hid his weakness from the world, then the world could not hit him where it hurt the most. It became habit to blink away any stinging sensation from his eyes, to lower his voice and push it gruffly past any emotion.
He knew now that if he spoke, he would break.
“I can’t believe you’re here!” Casimiro cried joyfully. His face was exactly the same, albeit more weather-beaten. His broad smile and the crinkle of amusement that always lived at the corners of his eyes were unchanged by time. “Look at you! You actually grew in the end, didn’t you?”
“And you brought some Anglo?” Bernabé added, a shade of wariness in his eyes as he glanced over Néstor’s shoulder at Beto.
People never know whether to call me gringo or greaser, Beto often told Néstor dryly. Based on years of observation, I’d say their choice depends on the weather. Today’s weather dictated gringo, it seemed, so Néstor inhaled sharply to steady himself and began to explain that Beto was a vaquero, that he was a friend, and—
Shouts of “Néstor, Néstor” from the vaqueros behind Casimiro and Bernabé drowned out any attempt he made to introduce Beto. He could barely string words together. Luna tossed her head as one of Casimiro’s friends took her reins and led her and Beto’s horse away to be cooled down and watered. Néstor was taken by the arm and brought to the shade of the comisaria patio just as the two young women exited the building. Bernabé and Casimiro touched the brims of their hats in respect; Néstor did the same. Their dress, hats, and way of walking indicated that they belonged to the family of la casa mayor, but he did not immediately recognize them.
The young women exchanged a conspiratorial look, linked arms, and walked at a quick clip toward the walls surrounding the inner heart of the rancho. A trill of suppressed laughter rose from one of them.
Cold rushed through his veins, swift as poison. That couldn’t have been Nena’s cousin Didi . . . could it?
Didi knew he was here. She was going back to the house, to tell them all. What would she say? That the boy who caused Nena’s death was shameless enough to show his face on Serrano land?
“So tell us everything,” Casimiro demanded. Néstor was forced down into a chair, a jug of water and a plate food placed before him on the table. “Where the hell have you been?”
He reached for words, found none. His mouth was dry as sand. A parched riverbank.
“A bit of everywhere,” he mumbled at last, helping himself to water.
“Well, when I found him it was in Durango.” Beto jumped in. “Six years ago I fished this whelp out of a silver mine and gave him a job. He saved my life a week later, so I’d say it was a good investment.”
“Durango?” Casimiro repeated, incredulous.
“A silver mine?” Bernabé said.
Beto met Néstor’s eyes briefly before launching into one of his many stories. I’ve got your back, that said.
There was so much Beto didn’t know, but he understood this: Néstor could not face Los Ojuelos alone. Beto kept the conversation moving at a quick clip, shielding Néstor from too many questions. Inevitably, talk turned to war, and Beto mentioned how he planned to join his family in Matamoros.
Bernabé’s forehead creased with concern. “It’s not wise to ride that way alone,” he said. “Is your family in town?”
“Outside of it, se?or,” Beto said. “They have land south of town.”
“Do they have young men to protect them?”
“Many, se?or.”
“I wonder if they can spare you a short while longer,” Casimiro said, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “The army conscripted many of our men last year and we are short on the number of vaqueros the patrón promised to supply to the squadron. He’s not happy. If you ride with us . . .”
“But enough grim talk,” Bernabé said. “You”—here he pointed at Néstor—“need to see your abuela.”
Casimiro and Bernabé brought Néstor and Beto through the gates into the heart of the rancho. Néstor kept his eyes trained on the ground before him as they passed la casa mayor; kept his back to it as they approached the Duarte home. Abuela was sitting on the porch mending, her needle catching the afternoon light as it flicked back and forth like the swishing tail of a bull. She rose from her chair, mouth wide in surprise, when she spied the men approaching.
“Abuela, it’s Néstor!” Casimiro said, giving Néstor a gentle push forward. “We asked Don Félix to bring him back, and here he is!”
“Madre de Dios,” she said, drawing each syllable to twice its length, shading her eyes from the sun as Néstor caught his balance.
“Buenas tardes, Abuela,” he said.
His grandmother raised her sewing and smacked his shoulder with it. He flung up his arms, belatedly, in surprise.
“When Jesus Christ told the story of the prodigal son, He says the father forgave the boy,” Abuela cried. When Néstor left, he was a hair taller than her; in the nine years that passed, he had grown to add a head and shoulders to that height difference. Perhaps she had shrunk as well, but that did not prevent how she still towered over him. “But did He talk about the boy’s grandmother? No!” Another smack. “Because she was angry and that would ruin a pretty fable!”