The Hummingbird's Daughter_ A Novel - Luis Alberto Urrea [172]
“She is very tense,” Segundo offered.
The major smiled. He barked out a laugh. “Pinche Urrea!” he said. “Qué cabrón eres.” He laughed again. “You are sly, I’ll give you that.”
Tomás puffed his cigar and squinted. “I love my daughter.”
The major scratched his chin. “I have two daughters,” he said.
“What, no boys?”
“God hasn’t graced me yet with boys.”
Tomás made a sound like Uf!
“You should live longer,” he said. “Have sons.”
The major took the cigar from his mouth, studied the coal at the end. “We had fun in Los Mochis, didn’t we,” he said.
“We drank beer,” Tomás reminded him.
The major turned in his saddle and gestured to his men. They put their arms down. “All right?” he said.
Tomás waved at his people, and they lowered their rifles.
Enríquez spun his arm around once, over his head, and pointed at the gate. The men slid their rifles back in their scabbards and turned their horses and trotted back toward the exit of Cabora.
“For the children,” he said.
Tomás flicked his little cigar away.
“Gracias.”
“I understand your . . . situation,” said the major. He glanced at the house. “It will probably cost me my head. But I will give you some time to, ah, speak to your daughter. We will camp outside the ranch, near the creek there. I will call a meeting of my officers. We need to discuss our plans. And you . . . you can do what you must. I can give you two, possibly three hours.”
Tomás put his hand out. The major took it. They shook.
“You are a gentleman, my friend,” Tomás said.
“I am a soldier,” the major replied. “Nothing more.”
He backed his horse away, but before he turned to ride out alone, he said, “Be careful.”
“We will.”
“Be fast,” the major said. And, “Happy Easter.”
“We missed Easter this year,” Tomás said.
“Pity.”
Then Enríquez rode out of the ranch, nodding to the pilgrims and the vaqueros as he went.
Fifty-six
THEY TOOK LITTLE WITH THEM. Tomás wrapped some food in a blanket, and he took his weapons. Gaby cried as he embraced her.
“Don’t weep, my love,” he said. “No one can catch us—we’re the fastest riders on the plains.”
He kissed her feverishly, hard enough to hurt their mouths.
“I’ll have her in Aquihuiquichi tonight,” he said. “By morning, we’ll be rested enough to get things ready for you. A few weeks in the country, and we can all return home.”
“And if there is trouble?” Gabriela said.
“Listen, Enríquez is a good man. You saw that here today! We’ll slip away to the mountains. I’ll take Teresita to Bayoreca, or into Chihuahua. We’ll seek asylum there! Then I’ll get her to Texas, and Aguirre will shelter her. Don’t cry! I will be back here with you all in a month at the latest.”
Gaby hugged Teresita.
Segundo already had two strong horses saddled and waiting.
Teresita took nothing. She left her rosary behind. She left her herbs and her wooden crosses. She was beyond religious symbols now. What she had of God, she carried within her, and there was no totem that could give her comfort or strength anymore.
She held Gaby in her arms.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“I will come to you,” Gaby said.
“I love you.”
“And I love you.”
Segundo offered Teresita a small silver pistol. She shook her head.
“Please,” he begged.
“I cannot.”
She put her face against his chest. It was hard. The wool of his chest hair scratched against the cotton of his shirt.
“I wish I could go with you,” he said.
“You must defend the ranch.”
He put his hand on her hair.
“Bless me, then,” he said.
She kissed him and held him and whispered, in the old