Rhizomania, Part 8

“Your brother works for Sayre,” said Doran.

“Sayre pays Cesario good because my brother can speak Spanish and English both. Cesario keeps the Mexicans behaving like Sayre wants. But what Sayre don’t realize –” Jorge grinned, swaying, and wagged the forefinger of his damaged hand. “What he don’t re-al-ize, is that a Mexican man is a smart man. How he think we got all the way up here from Cuernavaca and Guadalajara and Tijuana? That’s a long way.  The Mexican man is a smart man, yes he is.” Jorge hiccuped. “Cesario sees all Sayre’s tricks. Animals got sick, and Sayre’s men put them through the fence and they say the steer was poisoned.”

“That’s how he done us,” said Shorty, thoughtfully. “He’s going to send me a bill for some of his expensive Dexters that he thinks we gave poison to.”

“See his way?” said Jorge. “This was he don’t lose money on the sick ones, if he can make you pay, and then when he tries to get your land, he feels it is a right thing, because you have attacked his herd.”

Doran, unable to supress his outrage, burst out with “He’s crazy!” 

Shorty gave Doran a stern look and Doran closed his mouth. Chastened, he turned went to Redboy’s side and rubbed the big chestnut’s hide. It was very warm from the early-autumn sunshine.

Shorty looked at Jorge. “How come you rode all the way after us?”

Jorge moved the toe of his boot through the dense, matted grass, pushing around bits of broken matchstick, and spoke in a low voice. “Sayre will kill Cesario, and his old friend Buchanan, and his good friend Morrison." He paused, and continued looking down.  “And he might kill you too.” Abruptly, the bay mare shook her mane and Jorge reached up clumsily to stroke her neck.

“For the homestead?” said Shorty.

“Sayre got big plans, new crops,” said Jorge.  “All kinds of big plans. He just needs some more water, then he is the king of all.” Jorge brought his palms together in a sharp clap, then curved his hands, both the damaged one and the undamaged one, as though he were squeezing John Sayre’s throat. He let his hands drop, then turned and nodded toward the small of Doran’s back, where the Colt cavalry gun in its oiled-canvas case was jammed behind Doran’s belt. “That a gun in there? You shoot straight?  Quick?”

“It don’t shoot at all,” said Doran gloomily.“Cylinder’s froze up.”

“You must want John Sayre to shoot you in the belly,” said Jorge.  He stepped close to the mare and wedged his dusty boot into a rust-pitted stirrup. After three tries, he succeeded in lifting himself into the  saddle. “Carryin’ a gun that don’t shoot.” Shaking his head, he used his smaller, curled hand to wrap the reins around his good hand.

Shorty, next to Doran, shifted his weight on the gritty soil and tilted his head back to make eye contact with Jorge, who wobbled a bit drunkenly in the saddle.  “You ought to see if Evie would come down to the store and give you and your brother readin’ lessons.  She used to be a teacher at some kind of Negro women’s school, and I know she could use a little money.  Be good for you to learn your letters and not to be took advantage of, with the election coming up next year.  County newspaper has a lot in it, good useful facts in there.”

Jorge forwned, concentrating. “Evie’s a nice lady,” he said. “She ain’t going to come see a dirty, drunk Mexican cowboy.”

“Don’t drink whiskey before she comes by,” said Shorty, grinning. “And send Cesario out to say hello first. Everybody likes Cesario.”

“Cesario helps Mama and my father,” said Jorge, sadly, and sighed. “But I don’t help nobody.”

“You run the brickyard and the lime pit by yourself,” said Shorty. “And you helped us today, coming to tell us about Sayre and his tricks.”

Jorge, making no answer, clucked to his horse.  Doran and Shorty watched the bay carry Jorge, tilted slightly in the saddle, back into the vast emptiness of the prairie.

Doran looked at Shorty. “I hope he don’t fall off and get dragged.”

“He had the reins wrapped pretty good,” said Shorty. “And that little horse won’t jostle him off.  She knows the way back.”

“Redboy wants to head home, too, I expect,” said Doran, the saddle leather creaking as he put his foot into the stirrup, threw his leg over the chestnut’s back, and settled himself comfortably against the back of the saddle.

“Me too,” said Shorty, moving close to Ben.  The sorrel horse stood quietly as Shorty got up into riding position. “I’m hungry as a bear and we don’t have nothing but salt pork and the tortillas Missus Lujan gave us. “And beans, I s'pose — they’re soakin’ but they’ll take a long time to cook.”

“When we get back, I’ll hunt around in the truck garden and see if I can get us a tomato or two,” said Doran, as Redboy’s hoofs began slowly pounding down the familiar sandy roadway toward the homestead.

Click here to go to Part 9