The Hummingbird's Daughter_ A Novel - Luis Alberto Urrea [171]
Enríquez shook his head.
“Not today,” he replied.
“Have a smoke,” Tomás said, offering the major a thin black cigar.
The major spurred ahead and stood his horse beside Tomás. He bent down. They shared a match. He had dust on his whiskers.
He said, “I apologize, Don Tomás. We have been sent to stop the turmoil here, as you know. Your daughter has preached liberal doctrines. Anti-Díaz in nature, no? And now she has been charged with consorting with armed rebels.”
“Una pendejada!” Tomás scoffed.
“I had hoped you would have left last night.”
“No! We were under house arrest.”
“True, but then you would have been someone else’s problem.”
The major gestured at the scarred Rurales glaring at Tomás. He felt as if he was seeing them for the first time. Ugly brutes, dark men, eyes like flat buttons, thin Chinese whiskers at the corners of their mouths, horrid ancient knife wounds running their cheeks and chins.
“We have troops with us come from Huatabampo to interdict the Tigers of the Sierra. Men are riding from Cocorit, from Hermosillo, from Guaymas, and Guerrero in Chihuahua.”
“Tigers?” asked Tomás.
“Come now.” The major puffed his cigar. “We have reports of their being here, armed. Talking strategies with your daughter. We know you spoke to their leader on your porch.”
“I speak to many people.” Tomás shrugged.
“We received a report that they’re coming back to confer with her.”
“Why?”
“Armed revolt, Don Tomás. Armed revolt. They have recognized your daughter as a saint. Only she can express God’s plan to them, you see. They’re coming to seek her counsel.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Tomás said. “Teresita doesn’t care about politics.”
“Orders are orders,” said the major.
“And what are your orders?”
“We are to stop the Tigers,” the major replied. “And Miss Urrea.”
“Stop her how?”
Enríquez looked at him sadly.
“I suppose that is your choice,” he said. “Either she dies, or she goes to prison.”
Tomás stared at him.
He looked at each of the military riders.
“Not acceptable,” he said.
“Oh? Do you believe you have a choice?”
Tomás smiled.
“A free man,” he said, “always has a choice, my dear Major Enríquez!”
Enríquez blew air through his lips.
“How do you like that cigar?” Tomás said.
“Very rich.”
“One takes small pleasures where one can.”
Tomás raised his right hand.
“For example, I,” he said, “dearly love to shoot my guns when given the opportunity.”
Juan Francisco stepped out from behind the wagon, levering a round into the firing chamber. Segundo and his men pulled their rifles and ratcheted their rounds. Don Teófano pumped a round into his shotgun. His niece raised her gun. The soldiers raised their rifles. Pilgrims scattered. Buenaventura worked the lever on his rifle. It was a small symphony of metallic snicks and clacks.
The cavalrymen jumped at their weapons.
The major raised his hand.
“Hold your fire,” he yelled.
The apocalypse was deferred.
“You are making me raise my voice,” Enríquez said. “This is bad form.”
“Leave,” Tomás said.
Enríquez looked down at him. “You are hurting my feelings,” he said.
Tomás offered Enríquez one of the sayings of the People: “If one doesn’t feel like it, two can’t fight.”
Enríquez looked at him.
Tomás dug in his vest pocket, produced a key ring.
“My dear Major,” he said. “My daughter is sitting in her bedroom, as any chaste Mexican lady would. Her room is there, on the second floor.”
He gestured to the main house.
The major glanced at the shuttered windows.
“Her door is, of course, locked. There are rough elements here who would not honor or respect the safety of a young lady. I am sure you understand.”
Tomás offered the keys to him.
“Our front door is also locked. One never knows these days. But here, take the keys. Do enter my home, and do open her door and take her from us.”
The major looked at the keys.
“But kill me first,” Tomás said. “I would become very emotional if you invaded my home, so I suggest you try to shoot my right-hand man over there —” He waved toward Segundo.