The Hummingbird's Daughter_ A Novel - Luis Alberto Urrea [83]
Cantúa shrugged.
“A wagon. That crazy old woman. The witch.”
“Huila? On a wagon?”
“Oh yes, that very one. Huila.”
Tomás glanced at Segundo.
“How odd,” he said.
“They took the Alamos turnoff,” Cantúa said.
“You must be mistaken, maestro,” said Tomás. “We came that way and saw no one.”
“Oh, forgive me. I meant to say they went north.”
“What!”
“Toward Arizona.”
“Ah cabrón,” said Segundo.
“Who was with Huila?”
“An old man driving.”
“Teófano,” Segundo guessed.
“No sé,” said Cantúa. “I did not know him. And a girl. And two vaqueros.”
“She took two vaqueros to Arizona?” said Tomás. He rubbed his face and threw his hands in the air. “Yes, well. Who knows why Huila does what she does. I cannot worry about it right now.”
Cantúa waited.
“What have you got?” Segundo said.
“We have a tasty cosido.”
“Good,” said Tomás. “And bring plenty of tortillas.”
“Claro.”
Cantúa gave them a small bow and hurried to the kitchen. Tomás craned around and caught a quick glimpse of the young woman’s bottom before the door slammed.
“What’s a cosido?” Buenaventura asked.
“Soup, buey,” said Segundo.
“Don’t call me buey!”
“Pinche buey!” Segundo said.
Tomás added, “Pinche buey pendejo.”
Buenaventura fumed.
“I don’t like soup,” he said.
“It has meat and potatoes,” said Tomás. “You’ll like it.”
“I don’t like soup.”
“Carrots! Onions! Corn on the cob!”
“I hate it.”
“Oye, baboso,” Segundo said. “Stop being ignorant.”
“I like being ignorant!” Buenaventura proclaimed.
Tomás drummed his fingers.
“Huila took a wagon,” he muttered.
“Women,” said Segundo.
Cantúa came out with a clay pot of coffee.
“Say, Maestro,” said Tomás. “Who is that in the kitchen?”
Cantúa smiled.
“In the kitchen, señor?” he said.
“Come now. You know who I mean.”
“In my kitchen?”
“The girl, yes. In your kitchen.”
“Oh . . .” A nervous smile.
“Ay, Señor Cantúa. I was only asking her name! I intend no disrespect.”
“Old man,” blurted Buenaventura, “you don’t think Tomás Urrea knows how to talk to ladies?”
“Open your mouth again,” Tomás said, “and I will horsewhip you.”
Señor Cantúa wiped his brow with his little white towel.
“That girl in the kitchen would be my daughter, Gabriela.”
“Gabriela!” Tomás enthused. Then he called her: “Gabriela! Could you come out for a moment?”
Señor Cantúa sighed. Don Tomás was very famous in love. He pasted a smile on his face. It was in the hands of God now.
She pushed open the door and said, “Papá?”
“It is all right, Gaby,” Cantúa said. “Come out for a moment.”
She stepped into the room, wiping her hands on a towel tied around her slim waist. Buenaventura whistled, and Segundo nudged him with an elbow and shook his head.
“You are Gabriela,” Tomás said, rising and bowing slightly.
“I am.”
“An angelic name,” he cooed, “for an angelic young lady.”
She regarded him and did not smile.
“I am Tomás Urrea,” he said.
“Yes, I know.”
“You do?”
“We all know you, Don Tomás.”
“And why did I not know you?” He wagged a finger at Señor Cantúa. “You have kept this angel a secret, Maestro.”
“I have been away,” she said. “Studying.”
“You went to school?” Tomás said.
“Yes, Don Tomás. These are modern days. Women attend college.”
She smiled a little.
“Delightful,” Tomás murmured.
“Excuse me,” she said. “I have work to do.”
Tomás bowed again. Buenaventura and Segundo rose as she left the room.
“Chingado, Cantúa,” said Segundo. “Qué guapa!”
Señor Cantúa nodded, and he sighed again.
“I will bring your soup,” he said.
And he did.
On the long ride home, Tomás would occasionally state: “Gabriela!”
Segundo and Buenaventura, wisely enough, only nodded.
Twenty-six
HUILA SAID: “Allí viene el hechicero.”
She had led them north, into the Pinacate desert. The two armed riders were baffled the whole time, but they were happy to get away from hammering nails and building fences and hauling dead cows into the stinking rendering vats. They had almost forgotten what made them buckaroos in the first place. Don Teófano had steered the wagon where Huila had commanded him to go. They