sent?" I said.
"The message was brief. I told them what the sheepherder reported. To meet here tomorrow night. To bring their weapons."
"What if they do not come?"
"There is not one who will not come."
"We do not know for certain whether there is an army at the gate," I said. "The sheepherder could be wrong. Or the horsemen he saw could be a company of fur traders."
"Fur traders do not come in great numbers with rifles across their laps and a flag flying. And that many Spaniards are not on a journey."
Then we went to breakfast, but I wasn't hungry. "My
cuera,
my coat of bullhide, is not in good shape," I said. "It needs stitching."
"Then I will have it stitched and an extra layer of hide will be added. I notice that you do not eat."
"I have no hunger."
"Many times I feel that way myself," my father said. "Without hunger. The last time was when I went in pursuit of the Piutes. We rode to the big river and hid our horses in a cottonwood thicket and poled out to an island in our bull boat. We made a fine fire of driftwood. We had roasted venison over the coals on willow sticks we had peeled, when Don Cesar said, 'Indians.' Just that: 'Indians.' I looked up and there they were, in war feathers, on the riverbank. They had come from somewhere and found our horses in the thicket. They were sitting on the horses now, watching us. I had a piece of venison to my mouth, ready to bite, and I dropped it in the sand. Suddenly, I had no hunger."
My father helped himself to a dipper of frijoles and peppers. "But fear, if you live, you get over. If you do not live, it does not matter." He looked up and smiled. "Now eat your frijoles, Carlota. They are tasty with the peppers."
I ate the frijoles but still I had no hunger.
15
The Peraltas, father and son, answered my father's message. They came that night and we talked until late. The next morning Fernando Soto came. Then that afternoon a vaquero rode in from the Sanchez ranch, which was near Los Angeles, with the news that Señorita Rosa MarÃa Sanchez planned to marry a young man named John Harper, a gringo. The vaquero brought the regrets and good wishes of her father, Simón Sanchez.
Don Saturnino groaned at this news and struck his forehead and walked around in a fury, but a little later that afternoon two young men came from the Montoya ranch, leading fresh horses and carrying lances. Though we had never seen them before, we had heard their names. They brought news that Americans were camped in the Oriflame Mountains. One of their vaqueros had made a count; there were one hundred and ten of the enemy. They were camped in a meadow beside a spring and were feasting on roasted sheep.
"We have nine lancers altogether," Don Roberto said. During our talk the night before, Don César and Don Saturnino had placed him in command of our party.
"He is a fine horseman, though not so good in the saddle as you, Carlota," my father had said. "He is also brave. We will require both."
That afternoon another ranchero rode in from the coast, bringing with him two of his vaqueros. When we left the ranch at dusk there were twelve of us with lances.
My father said nothing to Doña Dolores about the gringos camped at the springs. Nor did I. She was in the
sala
and Rosario was kneeling in front of her when we went to say farewell. She did not look up. She was making one of her cigarillos. She took her time and folded the husk lengthwise and filled the crevice with tobacco. Then she spread the tobacco evenly and made a dimple in the center and used both her thumbs to tuck in the edge of the husk.
Only then did she glance up at my father, holding the half-rolled cigarillo in her hands. She gave Rosario a nudge with her toe and he ran to fetch her a coal. Only when she had licked the edges of the cornhusk and lit the cigarillo did she speak.
"Go," she said, "and get yourselves killed, you and your iron-headed daughter. I would not prevent it if I could."
"Señora Doña Dolores," my
"The message was brief. I told them what the sheepherder reported. To meet here tomorrow night. To bring their weapons."
"What if they do not come?"
"There is not one who will not come."
"We do not know for certain whether there is an army at the gate," I said. "The sheepherder could be wrong. Or the horsemen he saw could be a company of fur traders."
"Fur traders do not come in great numbers with rifles across their laps and a flag flying. And that many Spaniards are not on a journey."
Then we went to breakfast, but I wasn't hungry. "My
cuera,
my coat of bullhide, is not in good shape," I said. "It needs stitching."
"Then I will have it stitched and an extra layer of hide will be added. I notice that you do not eat."
"I have no hunger."
"Many times I feel that way myself," my father said. "Without hunger. The last time was when I went in pursuit of the Piutes. We rode to the big river and hid our horses in a cottonwood thicket and poled out to an island in our bull boat. We made a fine fire of driftwood. We had roasted venison over the coals on willow sticks we had peeled, when Don Cesar said, 'Indians.' Just that: 'Indians.' I looked up and there they were, in war feathers, on the riverbank. They had come from somewhere and found our horses in the thicket. They were sitting on the horses now, watching us. I had a piece of venison to my mouth, ready to bite, and I dropped it in the sand. Suddenly, I had no hunger."
My father helped himself to a dipper of frijoles and peppers. "But fear, if you live, you get over. If you do not live, it does not matter." He looked up and smiled. "Now eat your frijoles, Carlota. They are tasty with the peppers."
I ate the frijoles but still I had no hunger.
15
The Peraltas, father and son, answered my father's message. They came that night and we talked until late. The next morning Fernando Soto came. Then that afternoon a vaquero rode in from the Sanchez ranch, which was near Los Angeles, with the news that Señorita Rosa MarÃa Sanchez planned to marry a young man named John Harper, a gringo. The vaquero brought the regrets and good wishes of her father, Simón Sanchez.
Don Saturnino groaned at this news and struck his forehead and walked around in a fury, but a little later that afternoon two young men came from the Montoya ranch, leading fresh horses and carrying lances. Though we had never seen them before, we had heard their names. They brought news that Americans were camped in the Oriflame Mountains. One of their vaqueros had made a count; there were one hundred and ten of the enemy. They were camped in a meadow beside a spring and were feasting on roasted sheep.
"We have nine lancers altogether," Don Roberto said. During our talk the night before, Don César and Don Saturnino had placed him in command of our party.
"He is a fine horseman, though not so good in the saddle as you, Carlota," my father had said. "He is also brave. We will require both."
That afternoon another ranchero rode in from the coast, bringing with him two of his vaqueros. When we left the ranch at dusk there were twelve of us with lances.
My father said nothing to Doña Dolores about the gringos camped at the springs. Nor did I. She was in the
sala
and Rosario was kneeling in front of her when we went to say farewell. She did not look up. She was making one of her cigarillos. She took her time and folded the husk lengthwise and filled the crevice with tobacco. Then she spread the tobacco evenly and made a dimple in the center and used both her thumbs to tuck in the edge of the husk.
Only then did she glance up at my father, holding the half-rolled cigarillo in her hands. She gave Rosario a nudge with her toe and he ran to fetch her a coal. Only when she had licked the edges of the cornhusk and lit the cigarillo did she speak.
"Go," she said, "and get yourselves killed, you and your iron-headed daughter. I would not prevent it if I could."
"Señora Doña Dolores," my
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