The Hummingbird's Daughter_ A Novel - Luis Alberto Urrea [70]
Watching the sky, he tried to pray, but felt like a hypocrite.
Riding the trail the next day, he came upon the gates of a hacienda, La Paloma. DON WOLFGANG SIEBERMANN, PROP., the sign said. CATTLE, MAGUEY, HENEQUEN, COTTON. He ventured under the tall crosspiece over the road, upon which was nailed a cow skull. Horseshoes were arrayed down the vertical poles. Tomás had heard Don Miguel mention the Siebermanns—Don Wolf was known behind his back as El Alemán.
Tomás saw a group of vaqueros in the distance, gathered in a blinding patch of bare ground surrounded by dispirited horses.
He rode to them.
They turned and regarded him.
Ten men. Six of them held shovels. Between them, a mound of fresh dirt, and beside it, a second mound next to a deep hole.
“Buenos días,” Tomás called. “I am Tomás Urrea, from the hacienda de Cabora.”
The men looked at him and rested their arms on their shovels.
“Don Tomás,” one of them said, and nodded.
Tomás thought them oddly surly.
“I was tracking renegade Yaquis,” Tomás said.
They all looked at each other.
“Yaquis?” the leader said. “That’s very bad business.”
“They burned my ranch,” Tomás said. “You might warn Don Wolf to be careful.”
“Thank you for the warning, señor.”
They stared.
“We haven’t seen any Yaquis, though.”
Tomás looked in the hole.
“Anything else?” the foreman said.
“No . . . no.” Tomás squinted. Something moved in the hole. “Gracias. I will be on my way.”
“Good day,” the man replied.
The diggers took up their shovels again and bent to their tasks.
“May I ask what this project might be?” asked Tomás.
“Don Tomás,” said the foreman. “We have been digging since dawn.” He wiped his brow. “You’re a patrón. You know how it is. If the patrón orders it, we all obey and don’t ask questions.”
“Commendable attitude,” Tomás noted. “And what was your order, if you don’t mind my asking?”
The foreman dropped his shovel and went to his horse. He took a canteen from its saddle and took a sip of hot water.
“Well,” he said, “it’s a labor issue. These never cease.”
“Ya lo sé.” Tomás nodded. “No end to labor issues!”
“Sí, señor. Well, you see . . .” He wiped his mouth, took another sip, sighed, corked his canteen. “Don Wolf is strict, as one must be with these people. They are shiftless and untrustworthy. If your grip loosens, there is nothing but trouble.”
“That’s right,” added one of the diggers. He threw in a shovel-load of sand: a great puff of dust rose out of the hole.
“Two workers fell in love,” the foreman continued. He shrugged. “They rut like animals, these peones. But Don Wolf is caring for the herds—cows and horses and his workers, too. So when it’s time to wed, Don Wolf is looking out for the healthiest pairings, you see. He has an infallible eye for selecting mates.”
“Breeding!” the digger called.
Dirt fell in the hole.
“These two were denied permission to marry. But, ni modo, señor. They got married anyway.”
Tomás felt cold slide down his spine.
The foreman gestured toward the far mound.
“That’s her in there.”
“Don Wolf,” the digger said, “wanted him to see her buried first.”
“Before we buried him.”
Tomás saw it then: one foot kicking weakly as the dirt fell into the hole.
“You buried them alive?” he said.
The men all stopped working and looked up at him blandly.
“Sí, señor.”
“She went in first. He fought like a dog,” the foreman said. “But we were too many