Country of the Bad Wolfes (51 page)

He would, however, write periodic letters to Sófi and his mother and tell about life at Buenaventura among these odd blood kin. In their return letters to him they would rarely ask about John Samuel but always remark on the twins and ask to hear more about them.

They were as skilled at taking crocodile hides as at everything else they undertook. They had determined a procedure that proved effective on their first try, and so held to it every time after. They started out at dawn, poling the raft against a current that was much stronger than it had seemed when it had so gently carried them downstream from the falls. They poled hard around the first meanders and around the last of the mangroves and then came the first beaches and then the first few crocodiles. And still they poled on. And then poled past the first large bunch of them and around the next meander and past the next bunch too. They kept poling until late in the afternoon, when they arrived at a point within a mile of the falls and there they moored to a tree. They supped on jerky and spent the night on the raft. After breakfast the next morning, they began drifting downriver on the current, scanning both banks as they went. The first crocodile they saw that was at least twelve feet long and not too close to any others was the one they started with.

They tied up to the nearest bankside tree that afforded a clear shot from the raft. Sometimes they were able to tie up so close to their target they could have hit it with a flung brick and it was no problem for one or the other of them to shoot it squarely in the vital spot directly back of the eye and destroy the creature's meager brain. But sometimes the nearest tree that offered a shot at the croc was at some distance and then it was a test of marksmanship to hit that vital spot no bigger than a silver dollar. It was a harder shot still whenever the crocodile lay facing the raft so that they could not see the spot back of the eye and instead had to shoot the creature
through the eye itself. For these more challenging shots, one of the twins would stuff his ears with little wads of cloth and lean forward with his hands on his knees so his brother could use his shoulder to steady the rifle.

It was imperative to kill the croc instantly. If it were only wounded, it could go into the river in a bloody thrashing that would clear both banks of other crocodiles to come feed on it. The ensuing tumult—in which some of them even tore into each other—ended all chance of taking a hide from that part of the river the rest of that day, and they would have to drift farther down. But if the croc were killed cleanly with a single shot, the others on the banks might stir at the rifle report and a few might slide into the river and vanish, but most would stay as they were, still as paintings. The twins then went ashore with their sack of gear to skin the kill, first severing the croc's spine with a hatchet chop just behind the head to ensure it was dead. They had read of croc hunters who thought their prey was dead and had begun to skin it when the creature suddenly revived in a murderous rage.

From the larger crocs they took only the belly hide—the flat, as it was called in the trade—which was not only easier to remove than the hornback, or top hide, but also fetched a better price, being softer and easier to fashion into boots and holsters and belts and hatbands, however the skin might end up. Only a small croc had hornback supple enough to be worth as much as a flat and hence warrant the taking. They would alternate between killing three large crocodiles for the belly hides and then a small one for the whole skin. In either instance, after they removed the hide they fleshed it on the spot, scraping as much meat and fat off it as they could, then rolled it and put it in one of the tubs of brine they had affixed to the raft deck. The skinned crocs were left on the bank for its fellows to gorge on. Then they drifted around the next bend to where the crocs were still placid and there they tied up again and repeated the process.

They would be on the river for five or six days before reaching the last of the downstream beaches where they would take the last hides of the trip. Then came the stretch of mangroves and then they were back in the cove, tired, crusted with gore, singing, though they yet had to give the hides another scraping and salt them and hang them up to dry. Only then would they rest.

Sometimes it rained for most of a hunting trip and they did their killing and skinning in a dripping, green-gray gloom. If it was raining when they got back to the cove, there could be days of waiting for it to pass. But once the clouds broke, the sun made short work of drying the skins. The twins then stacked them in bundles and lashed them with cord and loaded them in the hold of the
Marina Dos
. And set sail for Veracruz.

A
t the time they took their first hides to Veracruz the town had but a single tannery. It stood on the far side of the harbor, on a slight rise back in the woods and out of view of the city, in a clearing next to a creek that carried the tannery detritus to the bay. It was owned and operated by the Carrasco brothers, of whom there were four, the oldest and head of the family being Moisés, a large man of around forty-five. They were a clannish lot with no friends or family except each other, and with a few employees who lived in a bunkhouse behind the tannery. They rarely went into town except for supplies and an occasional night of roistering. Now and again one of their bar fights ended with somebody dead on the floor but their standard claim of self-defense had never been refuted by any witness. They had long been a womanless bunch. Only two of the brothers, Genaro and Chuy, had ever married, but in her fourth month of pregnancy Genaro's wife had hanged herself, and barely six months later and five days after their wedding, Chuy's wife had run away.

When the Carrascos arrived in Veracruz, there had been two tanneries in town, one larger than the other. The Carrascos persuaded the owner of the larger one to sell it to them, and the seller and his family then packed up their possessions and left town without a parting word to anyone. A week later the smaller tannery somehow caught on fire late one night and its owner and his wife and his only son all perished in the flames. In the thirty years since, the Carrascos had held a monopoly of the Veracruz hide trade. For the past two years, there had been a rumor of a tannery in the Chinese quarter, but even if true it meant nothing to the Carrascos, as the Chinese were a world unto themselves and no one would anyway do business with a Chinaman except another Chinaman.

The only challenge to the Carrasco monopoly had occurred seven years prior to the twins' arrival with their first load of skins. Franco Carrasco, the brothers' father, was still alive then, though already shitting blood from the cancer that was eating his guts and would kill him the following year. The competition was a family of tanners named Montemayor, newly landed from Cuba. They bought a property further inland than the Carrascos's but on the same creek. The construction of their tannery was near completion when the Montemayor patriarch called on Franco Carrasco to introduce himself and say that he was sure the local hide trade could support two tanneries. Besides, Mr Montemayor said, everyone knew that a little competition always inspired a business to its best effort, didn't he agree? Old Franco said he certainly did. And the two men shook hands and wished each other well. Because Old Franco smiled throughout their conversation, Mr Montemayor took him for an amiable man, not knowing a Cuban accent was ever a dependable amusement to a Mexican.

Late one night, just two days before it was scheduled to begin operation, the Montemayor tannery went up in flames—and with it the family residence and the workers' quarters and the stable. The blaze was soon visible from the malecón, and everyone knew it was one of the tanneries, but as far removed as it was, there was no help for it. At sunrise all that was left of the place were smoking ruins and the charred bones of the entire family—five men and two women, three young girls and an infant boy—and of three employees and two mules. The family's horses were gone.

Franco Carrasco would attest that on seeing the fire's glow he had roused his sons and workers and rushed over to help, but it was too late, the fire too intense, they could only watch it consume the buildings and the luckless souls within. Because only three of the employees were among the dead, Old Franco said it seemed obvious to him that the missing workers had murdered everyone and then set the place afire to try to cover their crime before riding away on the horses. Who could say why they committed this terrible act? Robbery? A grievance? A drunken wrath? Who could understand the minds of such brutes? He said he had met Mr Montemayor and thought him a fine man of admirable competitive spirit. It is a great tragedy, Old Franco said. Everyone agreed—though some whispered to each other that the real tragedy lay in the Montemayors' misbegotten belief that they could cut into the Carrascos' trade.

The twins knew nothing of all this the first time they sailed into the Veracruz harbor on a bright fall afternoon. They called to a passing turtle boat for directions to the tannery, and a crewman pointed out the Carrasco dock that ran alongside the bank on the far side of the bay. They tacked to it and dropped the sails and tied up near another sloop moored there, a sleek red-hulled craft about four feet longer than the
Marina Dos
, the name
Bruja Roja
on its stern. It too was a fishing boat, but
though bigger than theirs, its wider beam gave it a draft almost as shallow. “Pretty thing,” James Sebastian said.

A path led from the dock up a slight rise and into the trees. They could not see the tannery but they could smell it. And too the stink of the copper-colored creek debouching into the bay beyond one end of the dock. Blake Cortéz went into the hold and came out with two rolled hides, a flat and a hornback. “Who are we?” he said. “Rivera,” James said, the first name that came to him. “I'm Tavo and you're, ah, Lucio.” Blake said, “Got it,” and headed up the path to the tannery while James stayed with the boat.

He returned in the company of three men, one pulling a two-wheeled cart with slatted sides. The three looked from one twin to the other, registering their likeness. Two of them were bareheaded and obviously younger than the other, who wore a straw hat and carried a knife on his hip and a money bag on his belt. This elder said his name was Moisés Carrasco and introduced the others as his brothers Genaro and Crispín. The Genaro one was missing the outer two fingers of his left hand. James Sebastian said he was Tavo Rivera and was pleased to meet them.

Mr Carrasco likes the two hides and wants to see more, Blake said. Of course, James said, and went into the hold. Blake hopped onto the deck and James handed a stack of hides up to him and he set the stack on the dock. The Genaro one began picking out hides at random, examining each in turn, bringing it to his nose, pressing a thumbnail into it in different spots.

Moisés asked where they were from. The Lucio one flapped a hand to northward and said, Little place on the coast. Moisés asked if this little place had a name. The Lucio said of course it did, Puerto de Lobos. Moisés said he'd never heard of it. The Lucio one said he wasn't surprised, it was a very small place. Moisés smiled and spat in the water. He asked if it was their first time in Veracruz and the Lucio one said it was. They were going to take a look around town after they finished with business.

So you won't heading back to, ah, Puerto de Lobos tonight? Moisés said.

No sir. Not till tomorrow after breakfast.

I see. Tell me, where did you get these hides?

From the river, the Tavo one said.

Moisés looked at him. Let me guess. The Puerto de Lobos River.

Yes! How did you know?

Lucky guess.