The Hummingbird's Daughter_ A Novel - Luis Alberto Urrea [174]
As the People fled, the warriors drew closer to Cabora and watched.
Fifty-seven
THE SHADOW OF THE MESQUITE that extended onto the road a few feet beyond the shadow tucked between the three boulders spoke:
“Do you remember the crippled girl at Cabora?”
The shadow between the boulders raised its head.
“Rubén,” Cruz said. “You know better than to talk.”
“I was just thinking.”
Cruz lay back down.
His twenty-eight gunmen remained invisible. He could have spotted many of them from the road. But even knowing where to look, he could not have seen them all.
“So?” said Rubén. “Do you remember her?”
“I remember.”
“We never saw her again.”
“Yes.”
“Do you think Teresita healed her?”
“Of course.” After a while: “I know it by faith. She healed José, didn’t she?”
“That old goat.”
They chuckled.
“She will bless us. We must do this out of loyalty to her. She will care for us, but we must protect her the way we would protect our own wives.”
“Amen!”
“Now be quiet,” Cruz said.
“I was just thinking,” Rubén repeated. “Just thinking about that girl at Cabora.”
“Think about soldiers,” Cruz said. “Think about soldiers arresting Teresita. Think about soldiers entering our church, taking down our saints.”
“I am.”
“Think about soldiers in Tomóchic.”
“I am.”
“Think about them shooting Teresa. Shooting your mother. Your wife. They will do it if we allow them the chance. That girl in Cabora? Think of your daughter instead!”
“I’m thinking about Indios in the trees, Cruz.”
“Yes.”
“We have all seen Indios hanging.”
“Yes.”
“Bastards.”
“Yes.”
Cruz heard the cold sound of Rubén’s hammer being pulled back.
From far above, where the buzzards and the turkey vultures now gathered, turning slow circles, the entire landscape seemed alive with movement. The tides of pilgrims aimlessly wandered around Cabora, around and around. Waves of brown bodies broke away this way and that—trailing toward Alamos, toward Hermosillo, toward the sierras, toward the far American border, down the arroyo and the Río Yaqui toward Guaymas and the sea. The cavalrymen and the Rurales cut through this human flood, surrounding the main house and dismounting. And a column of horsemen set out at a fast trot on their way to the mountain road, planning to climb into the sierra and police the insurgents at Tomóchic. Dust like smoke and smoke like clouds of dust carried in all directions with the whipping wind. Yaqui warriors flitted through the dry hills, attracted by the doings at Cabora, ready to fight the cavalry, and the thieves along the roads made ready to attack the fleeing pilgrims. The empty land was full: wagon trains, herds, neighboring ranches alive with cattle, the mining mule trains, American outlaws raiding a string of horses, vaqueros. And two small figures racing between foothills, small and lonely on the vast land—and behind them, coming from the bosques beyond Cabora, a wedge of horses, fast riders bent low over their necks, tattered standards snapping behind them, the quickest attack squad of the cavalry—racers and killers—cutting the trail of the fugitives, reading the signs as they sped, not yet in sight of Teresita or her father, but running full out, gaining, gaining.
The cavalry moved smartly up the foothills road. The riders maintained order, riding in two tight columns, their bright metalwork flaring in the sun, their uniforms clean and their hats shining. Their saddles, rifles, saddlebags, swords, lances, flagpoles, spurs, reins, bits, trumpets, iron horseshoes all rattled and clanged, raised a musical jangle that could be heard for a half mile. The soldiers’ brass buttons were nearly blinding, throwing sparks.
Ahead, a group of old women appeared. The women seemed to rise from the soil itself, materializing, the way Indians always seemed to, out of nowhere. They were dressed in black—long dresses, and shawls over their heads.
The lieutenant riding at the head of the column had been put there by Major Enríquez personally. He saw the old ladies and said, “Are they going to Mass?” to his assistant.