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By Root 1075 0

He never spoke to their women, for the Yaquis knew him for what he was, and they knew he was already in love with them, and they knew what his love would mean when the nights came and the girls walked to their homes. They liked him too much to kill him now, yet they liked their women too much to allow them to marry a Yori, even a rich one. So they had sat with him and told him of their lives. Of the destruction of their homelands, of the Yori invasions and the starvation that twisted their children and weakened their old ones, of the massacres and hangings, the tortures and assaults. Of whole villages emptied by Mexican troops, of families marched into the sea, of children pierced by tree branches and left to rot, fed to sharks, trampled by horses. Of scalps collected from lone wanderers and sold to the state for bounty. Of fear.

After he understood them, and after he had secured the release of his hostages, he decided to bring a few of them back to Cabora so they could make their case before the ranks of his People. But as for Tomás himself, he would not try to make his own case. Who would listen to him? Who among them would understand?

With a gesture, Tomás directed the Yaquis to dismount. They got down and stood, flat-footed in the dust. The old man stepped forward. Tomás slipped off his horse and stood with the old one.

The People fell silent. Teresita pushed forward, leaned against Huila’s hip, and watched. The old leader of the village looked at the girl and said, “I know you” in the old tongue. “I saw you when the old woman was flying.” She raised her eyebrows at him.

The old man cleared his throat, and said, in Spanish, “We’re sorry we burned your ranch.”

The People all looked at each other: Huila looked at Segundo, Segundo looked at Aguirre, Aguirre looked at Teresita, Teresita looked at Tomás. Then Huila looked at Don Teófano, and Teófano looked at someone else.

“We thought,” the old man continued, “we were at war with you.”

He shrugged.

“We are at war with everyone.”

He crossed his arms. All this talk to half-breeds and mestizos and Yoris. Pah!

“We are at war with anyone who does not speak Cahita, you know. Some of you speak like real human beings, and we are not at war with you. We would not kill you if we came back to burn the ranch again.”

“That’s a relief, cabrones!” blurted Huila.

Everyone laughed, even the old Yaqui leader.

“We thought we were at war with the Sky Scratcher here,” he said, gesturing toward Tomás. “We had not seen him, but we had seen him coming in dreams. All these Yoris. We thought they were the same.”

Tomás offered him a cigar. He took it and lit it from Segundo’s match. He nodded a gruff thanks.

“Why did you raid us?” Aguirre asked.

“We were hungry.”

“Cows,” said another.

“Cows!” said Segundo.

“Hungry,” the old man repeated. They thought he was surly. Some of them thought he was stupid. But he just didn’t feel like wasting too much breath apologizing to Yoribichis.

“Aguirre,” said Tomás, “how much do priests demand from us in tithes?”

“They recommend you give ten percent of your earnings to the poor, my dear Urrea,” Aguirre said.

“Ten percent,” Tomás repeated. “From now on, Cabora will provide ten percent of its harvest and its livestock to the Yaquis. If we have one hundred cows, you take ten,” he said.

The old man looked at his people. They nodded. He took his cigar out of his mouth and said, “Bueno.”

“Your people will not go hungry as long as we are here,” Tomás continued. “And the grounds of the Urrea ranches will always serve as refuge to you. Here at Cabora, at Aquihuiquichi, at Santa María. You will protect us from Indian attacks, and we will protect you from soldiers.”

The old man nodded. He and Tomás shook hands.

“I want to show you something,” Tomás said to the People.

One of the Yaqui group was a woman. She was quite beautiful, in Tomás’s opinion, but he thought almost every woman he saw was quite beautiful. She rode at the back of the group and had never said a word to him. She wore her hair long and straight, and it covered the sides of her face.