The farmers of Zamora were not Mexican, Hispanic, Chicano, or Latino. They were Spanish. They traced their ancestry directly to the latifundia grants awarded by the King of Spain to Coronado’s men for their explorations and conquests as they ventured north from the Sonoran desert toward El Dorado, trudging over a thousand miles, invading and disrupting the peaceful sedentary farm life of the Pueblo Indians.
Two hundred years after the soldiers were granted huge tracts of land, it was appropriated by gringo ranchers and thieves, leaving most of the Spanish dynasties destitute. Generations had farmed in the Sangre de Cristo mountains since their ancestors chased gold through the New World. As it turned out, gold was the place itself. The poor soil that had to be nourished, the limited water that had to be conserved, the common bonds of hardship.
For the second time that year, Hector Trujillo entered Kate Ryan’s yard. The first was to shoot a large white rooster that chased Kate to the shed where she’d flung herself on the roof, waiting for the bird to wear himself out. Kate gave him the carcass to take home for green chile stew.
That was May after a late snow. A week of omens and incidents. Hector’s daughter ran off to Las Vegas. His water pipes burst. His youngest brother slipped on the frozen ground and cracked his head.
When Hector entered Kate Ryan’s yard this time, he knew he was trespassing into a private matter. A lover’s quarrel, no business of his. It would cost him. It would likely bring trouble on his head. Everything led to trouble, he knew.
Nevertheless, he told himself, “A son-of-a-bitch is a son-of-a-bitch.” The simple truism gave him courage to walk across the yard to Kate’s window.
Through the glass, he spotted Kate’s daughter, Ruby. He never failed to notice how devilishly pretty she was, the color of cocoa like his daughter, a color heightened by unruly red-streaked hair, green eyes, and an insolent vaginal-colored mouth. There was fresh blood on her cheek.
Troy stood in profile, calm and composed. Hector recognized his calm. It was the satisfaction of a man whose demands have been granted through superior physical strength. He had the same look whenever he beat his kids.
Kate Ryan was not in sight. Whether she was hurt or unconscious, he couldn’t be sure. Noiselessly, he backed away from the house and crossed the yard to the road. When he reached the edge of the field, he began to trot. Dust and globes of dry sagebrush scattered by the wayside.
“Hector, I ain’t seen you run in a hundred years,” Marcos shouted as village dogs started to bark.
“Kate Ryan,” Hector said breathlessly. “Get your gun.”
Marcos was younger and thinner. He could sprint. The sight of two men running, whose habit of slow pace was known as key to a long healthy life, sent an alarm through the village.
“What’s wrong, Marcos?” a neighbor called.
“Tell me, man!”
The brothers were too excited to speak. At the entrance to his adobe house, Hector collapsed into his wife’s arms with Marcos right behind him. By this time, the Martinez twins and Juan Pedro had joined them.
“Hector says Kate Ryan killed.”
Hector nodded in a way that neither denied nor confirmed.
“The girl taken hostage.”
Hector nodded but the meaning was unclear.
The men of the newly formed posse looked into each other’s eyes, eyes that were brown, weathered, aroused. Their expressions were confident with purpose. As proud descendants of the first conquerors of the New World, they would exact justice.
“Call the sheriff,” Hector’s wife pleaded. “We have the telephone.”
“Too far” was the consensus.
“I will call the sheriff,” Marie Luisa announced. “After you kill this man you say killed Kate Ryan, the sheriff will come and arrest you! They will take you away to prison. Hector! Your own children will starve!” she screamed, pulling her husband’s hair and pounding his chest.
Hector’s oiled cleaned loaded 22-gauge shotgun was mounted behind the wooden door. Marcos had a gun too. The Martinez twins and Juan Pedro retrieved hoe, sickle, and scythe from the tool shack by the corner of the house.
The women did not bless or smile on the little band. Instead, they prayed for lightning to spark a fire in the field. Or flip a truck on the road. Or crash a plane into the mountainside. They prayed for a miracle to stop Hector, Marcos, the Martinez twins, and Juan Pedro from entering Kate Ryan’s yard.
Their prayers went unanswered.
The men marched on with a pack of dogs yapping after them.
At the entrance to the Ryan property, Hector shouted, “Hey! Hey! Kate Ryan!”
The hollow sound was carried away by the rising afternoon wind.
Troy didn’t hear the shout, but he appeared at the door. Astonished at the sight of an assembly of armed men, he ducked into the house and scrambled for anything that could serve as a weapon.
Kate was readying herself for the drive down the mountain. She splashed her face and armpits with water. She changed into a skirt and embroidered Oaxacan blouse. She took off her work boots and put on strappy sandals. She clasped a beaded necklace around her neck and braided her hair. She looked fresh and pretty.
“What got you?” she asked with alarm.
“Out there!” Troy pointed to the window. He’d plucked a chainsaw from the corner and was trying to pull the choke.
“Put it down before you hurt yourself,” Kate commanded.
Troy obeyed. He lay the chainsaw on the floor and replaced it with a broom.
Ruby chuckled under her breath. She’d been scared, but at the sight of Troy with a broom, she convulsed with laughter.
Kate peered out the window at Hector and Marcos Trujillo and their cousins. She counted two guns and several farm implements.
“What’d you do?” she turned viciously to Troy.
Troy shook his head. If he could avoid it, he never mixed with Mexicans. Growing up, he’d seen them praying to pictures, fingering beads, burning incense, eating little wafers of flesh. Coronado, Cortez, all of them were curses on the earth. Whatever Kate believed about their royal ancestry, impoverished dignity, injustices suffered from ranchers and gringo law, nothing penetrated Troy’s Texas prejudice.
“Did you do something?” Kate wheeled toward Ruby.
“That’s Juan Pedro,” she stammered.
“So it is.” Kate stared past Ruby’s shoulder. “Does he have a reason to kill us?”
A couple of weeks ago, Juan Pedro had frightened Ruby. He came to the truck where she sometimes slept. He stood only inches from her with a simple request. He wanted to smell her hair.
“I guess he likes me,” Ruby said.
“And?”
“I told him to go fuck himself,” Ruby was pleased to report.