“We’ve got twice as many head as we did two years ago,” I said. “We’ve got twice the work.” The reason for this occurred to me and I winced. I began to wonder where María was.
“But the cattle won’t make money like this stuff. That’s what everyone is worrying over.”
“Well, they shouldn’t.”
Then I added: “Have you heard about this Garcia girl?”
He didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure if he was chewing his thoughts or if he hadn’t heard me. We continued to ride and then he said: “I believe everyone has heard of her, boss. In these three counties, anyway.”
“It’s a difficult situation.”
“That is putting it lightly.”
“What do you reckon about my wife?”
“Maybe she’ll get kicked by a horse. Or fall into a river.”
“My luck has never been that good.”
“That is true,” said Sullivan. “If anyone will fall into a river, it will be you.”
A
UGUST 4, 1917
Today, for the first time, we go to McCullough Springs together. At first she keeps a comfortable distance, as if she is an employee, but I take her hand. We have lunch at Almacitas, drink Carta Blancas, linger in the street holding each other. I am not sure I have ever felt better. Though part of me wonders if we are doing this as a bulwark against the tide that is rising around us. As if we might stop it with love. Which, of course, is ridiculous.
T
ONIGHT WE ARE
sitting in the library, my head in her lap, when I say: “Why didn’t you ever get married?”
She shrugs.
“But really.”
“I had lovers, if that’s what you’re asking.”
It isn’t, and it gives me a bad feeling to think about, but I persist.
“I won’t give myself to anyone who doesn’t respect me,” she says. “I would rather be dead.”
“They couldn’t have all been so bad.”
“I should have been born a man,” she says.
I pinch her thigh.
“They expect you to look at them adoringly, regardless of what they have done, and if they don’t expect you to wash their clothes, they expect you to keep after the woman who does.” She shrugs. “And the Mexicans are the worst. A Mexican man will take you to a place, say a nice hotel, or a nice view in the mountains, and show it off as if he made it. And part of him really believes it.”
“It’s bravado,” I say.
“Regardless,” she says. “He believes it. And that is why I never married. And never expect to.”
I give her a hurt look.
She leans over and kisses me. “Except to you, of course.”
I nuzzle into her lap and wrap my arms around her waist. But when I look up at her again, she is staring out the dark window, and doesn’t appear to notice me. “There is another story,” she says.
L
ONG AGO, HERE
in the Wild Horse Desert, there was a young vaquero, very handsome, though very poor, who was in love with the daughter of a Tejano rancher.
This girl, who was almost too beautiful to look at, was desired and courted by every rancher’s son on both sides of the river, though being of pure heart, she was more interested in horses than men, and dreamed only of a certain stallion that ran with the wild mustangs. This horse was unusual in both his pure white color and his size, sixteen hands. In addition to his perfect form, he had the toughness of a paint, the speed of a Thoroughbred, and, like the girl, he was coveted by every man who had ever seen or heard of him. But none could ever catch him.
When the young vaquero learned how much the girl loved this horse, he decided to make her a present. For months he studied its tracks and discovered its secrets. Then he waited all night at a hidden watering hole, and when the stallion came in, he roped it. He fed it plums and persimmons and chunks of
piloncillo
. He repeated this process for many weeks until the horse allowed himself to be stroked and touched, and then led with a halter, and then saddled. But even then he would stand only in one stirrup, never trying to mount the horse, until he knew the horse would not mind. And in this manner he broke the horse to the saddle without breaking his spirit.
After more gentling, the vaquero brushed and groomed the white stallion and rode him to the house of the Tejano rancher, where he called softly to the rancher’s daughter. When she opened her window she recognized the vaquero instantly, and the horse as well, and knew that this was the man she would marry. They shared one chaste kiss, but agreed to find a priest before they did anything else.
Unfortunately they were not alone. The fat son of an Anglo rancher had seen the entire thing, because when he was not forcing himself upon servant girls he was hiding in the bushes outside the window of this beautiful Tejana, watching her disrobe and doing unspeakable things to himself.
(Was this in your mother’s version of the story, I ask.)
(She ignores me.)
He returned to his father with news that the most beautiful girl anyone had ever seen was about to marry a common vaquero. And then he and his father laid an ambush.
With their specially made rifles they waited until the vaquero’s back was turned and then murdered him, and, for the rest of their days, told all their friends of the beautiful shot they made, at a very great distance, on a Mexican.
But when they reached the body of the young vaquero, the white stallion had returned to protect him. He bit and kicked at the rancher and his son and so they murdered him as well. Then they cut off the vaquero’s head.
The ranchero’s daughter, when her vaquero did not return, took her father’s pistol and murdered herself. But God does not allow noble beings to be separated, and thus the vaquero can be seen on his horse at every full moon, with his head in his lap, riding his ghostly white stallion with the other mustangs, looking for the spirit of his intended.
(I believe you have the story wrong, I tell her.)
(How so?)
(That is an old folktale of ours as well, I say.)
F
OR MANY YEARS
there was a black stallion, not white, that ran with the mustangs and carried a ghostly rider on its back. The sight of the rider made the mustangs stampede, and thus people always knew when the black stallion appeared, because it sounded like a tornado had touched down in the desert, thousands of mustangs galloping across the caliche.
Very few men ever got close to the horse and its rider, but the few who did said he was sitting normally, except that his head was not attached. His head, along with a sombrero, was strapped to his lap. And so for many years, the cowboys shot at the ghostly rider, but the bullets went through his body like a paper target, and he continued to ride.
Finally, a few cowboys decided to solve the mystery. They waited all night at a watering hole, and when the black stallion and the headless rider appeared, they shot the horse.
On the back of this beautiful mustang there was an old dry corpse tied upright with rawhide, the head tightly bound to his lap. After many months of inquiry, it was discovered that a young Mexican by the name of Vidal, who was a notorious womanizer and horse thief, had met his end.
The men who caught him were Creed Taylor and Bigfoot Wallace, legendary Texans about whom many books have been written. They were great practical jokers, and so to make an example out of Vidal, they cut off his head and tied both his head and body to an unbroken black stallion that had been caught in a trap with other mustangs. They released the stallion and his headless rider, who confused and terrorized the populace for over a decade.
“Y
OURS IS THE
true one,” she says.
“It’s an old story,” I say. “It’s well known.”
“Of course,” she says. “There are many convincing details. First, there is a dead Mexican who was a horse thief, as all dead Mexicans are. Second, there are two famous Texans, who decided, after killing a man, that they would decapitate him for fun. Third, they decide that merely decapitating this man is not funny enough. It will be hilarious if, instead of burying him, they tie his body to a wild horse.”
“Hmmm,” I say.
“And the final convincing detail is that a group of Anglo cowboys, when faced with the task of capturing a legendary black stallion, instead of roping him, or building a simple trap, decided to shoot him, because it required the least effort.”
“That is why I don’t tell stories.”
“No, it was educational.”
“Yours is the one our children should hear.”
“No,” she says. “Our children should know the truth.” Then she kisses my forehead and strokes my hair, as if I am a child myself.
Eli McCullough
1864
A
t the beginning of the year there was a shakeup and most of the RMN men were sent east. They tried shipping me to the Frontier Regiment, but I didn’t feel like riding against the Comanches and I didn’t like McCord, either, and so as punishment I was sent to the Indian Territories. Most whites didn’t want to work with Indians—they were considered only a step above Negroes—but I suspected it would be high living and I was right.
Of the five civilized tribes, two—the Creeks and Seminoles—had sided with the Union. The other three—the Cherokee, Chickasaw, and Choctaw—were fighting for the Confederacy. There was a brigade of Cherokee under their own general, Stand Watie, and a Choctaw brigade under Tandy Walker. I was given the temporary rank of colonel and put in charge of a battalion of ragged Cherokees. They’d signed enlistment papers the same as whites, but they didn’t believe in boots or uniforms, or remembering their orders, or fighting when they were outnumbered. They believed in eating well and staying in one piece, which made them just about useless, as far as the army was concerned.
By then, we were getting most of our equipment from Union supply trains. We wanted Union-made pistols, which had steel frames instead of brass, and we wanted their repeating rifles, Henrys and Spencers, though we were happy with their Enfields as well. We wanted their wool pants and blankets, their field glasses, their saddles and tack, their horses and ammunition, tinned beef, coffee and salt, quinine, factory-made shirts, their writing paper and sewing needles.
Our only orders were to disrupt the enemy’s rear, which meant riding into Kansas or Missouri, burning barns or bridges or just stealing chickens. Eventually, when our bellies were as empty as bankers’ hearts and there was nothing left to plunder from the locals, we would go south to resupply.
I
T WAS A
familiar way of living and I did not mind it one bit, sleeping outside and roaming where I wanted, and I did not mind being with the Indians, either, who, civilized or not, lived closer to the natural ways than most whites. But in summer I got a few days’ leave and decided to head back to Austin.
I was heating the axles the whole way but when I came across the hill and saw the judge’s house, I reined up short. I wasn’t sure why I’d come home. I could remember sitting on a horse in my Comanche gear, shooting arrows for the reporters; in the backyard there were hackberries thirty feet tall that I remembered as seedlings. I suddenly felt old, and I nearly turned around and rode north again, but Madeline was standing in the doorway of the guesthouse, so I got off and fixed my horse to the snubbing post and went to her.
She was holding Everett. He was nine months old, or it might have been eight, or eleven.
“Daddy’s back,” she said.
He looked like he might cry and she looked like another person—she’d aged ten years since the war started. She’d had no trouble getting back her old figure, and looking at the dark circles under her eyes and her skin that bruised at the lightest touch, I knew I’d made a mistake for the ages.
We went inside and she put my hands on her chest and then I was in a fierce rutting mood. But once we made it to the bed, I could tell she wasn’t.
Still she wanted me to do it anyway but right before we started she said, “Put it there instead,” and raised her legs a little higher. “I don’t want my milk to get thick.
“Does that feel good?”
I nodded.
“As good as . . .”
“Sure,” I mumbled.
“It feels good to me, too. It also hurts, though.”
I took it out. She rolled over and examined me.
“I thought it would be filthy.” She looked closer. “It does smell.”
“I better wash I guess.”
“I thought you would like it,” she said. “Did you?”
“Sure,” I said.
The Negroes had kept some water hot so I walked over to the main house and took a bath. When I came back she was dressed again.
“Is it the baby?” I said.
“Probably.”
I looked around the cottage. It was small and dark. I told myself that I loved them.
“I feel a little far away from you, maybe.”
“I’m right here,” I said.
“You’re gone and then every few months you’re back for a few days and we do it and then you’re gone again. I feel like a cow.”
“You’re beautiful.”
“Not the way I look. I mean you come home and leave and that’s all there is to it.”
I started to say something but she interrupted. “My father could get you something here. I know he told you that. I see officers around town all the time and there must be men on the coast who see their families all the time as well.”
“That wouldn’t be fair.”
“To the army or to me? To a bunch of men you’ve known a year, or to me? You like to pretend it’s not a choice but it is, Eli.”
“Why are you mad?” I said. “I just got here.”
“I’m trying not to be.”
Everett was glaring at me. “I made you,” I said.
“That’s just his normal face,” she told me.
T
HAT AFTERNOON, AFTER
we’d been to see the judge and his wife, we were back in bed. Madeline had stolen a bottle of sunflower oil from the kitchen.
“You don’t want another Everett,” I said. “Or a little sister for him?”
“I do,” she said. “One day I really do, just not by myself.”
She looked at me and took my hand in both of hers and kissed it. She was a beautiful woman. I reminded myself she was plenty strong.